THE MINUTIAE OF MIDFIELDING STRATEGY
Wednesday afternoon, after practice and another carefully executed avoidance of Chip—courtesy of Jaden, who had noticed things were kind of weird and made a point of dragging Chip into a conversation about the minutiae of midfielding strategy—I took the bus to Rose City with a swarm of stellar remnants in my stomach.
I had to do something.
I still couldn’t reach Sohrab, and Dad was still depressed, and things with Chip were weird.
But Landon was there, and we needed to talk.
Besides, Mom needed some Earl Grey (regular, not nitro) and I was running low on Moroccan Mint since Grandma and Oma were drinking so much.
When the bus stopped, I grabbed my bike and walked it toward Rose City. It had been a long time since I used the customer entrance.
Alexis was at the register and waved when I walked in. I waved back and headed to the shelves.
It was weird, pulling tea off the shelves instead of stocking it.
“Running low?” Alexis asked when I took it to the counter.
“Yeah.” I glanced toward the tasting room. “Um. Is Landon around?”
Alexis nodded. “I think they’re almost done.”
“Cool.”
I stood against the wall and sucked on my tassels.
* * *
“We’ll probably do two cases. Maybe three,” Mr. Edwards said over his shoulder. He turned and saw me. “Oh. Darius.”
“Hi.”
“Good to see you,” he said.
“You too.”
He gave me this sad, closed-lip smile.
“He’s inside.”
“Thanks.”
I knocked on the door frame.
“Hey.”
Landon turned around, and nearly dropped the gaiwan he was holding.
His cheeks colored as he set it in the sink.
“Hey.”
We looked at each other for a long time.
When the silence between us became unbearable, I stepped inside and closed the door.
Landon’s shoulders slumped. “I kind of messed up, huh.”
“I don’t know. Maybe we both did.”
“I’m sorry I left you at the dance.”
“Not as sorry as my grandmother was when she had to get out of the house at ten p.m.”
Landon grimaced.
“I’m sorry I kept pressuring you. I didn’t mean to. I just wanted us to be close. Physically.”
“I know. I’m sorry too. I wasn’t good at being honest with you about what I wanted.”
“I never meant to hurt you. It’s just . . .” He sighed. “I love you. I should have said it sooner. And sometimes it feels like you don’t love me back.”
“I . . .”
Did I love Landon?
I wasn’t sure I knew what that meant.
It didn’t feel like it did with my family. Where I knew that no matter what, they were part of my life forever, in my veins and in my heart.
And it didn’t feel like Sohrab either, who felt like the kind of person I could count on for anything. Who knew me inside and out. Who accepted all my flaws and still made me wish I could be better.
“I don’t know,” I whispered.
Landon let out a low breath and sank into a chair.
Now I knew what it was like, when you’re the one who hit a guy in the balls.
“I’m sorry.”
Landon shook his head and wiped at his eyes.
My own were weirdly dry.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you. I never wanted to hurt you.”
Landon sniffed.
“Well. I better finish up.”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
I let myself out of the tasting room and slipped out of the store. Unlocked my bike and headed for the bus stop.
I wondered why I wasn’t more upset. If it was because I was depressed. Or because of my medication. Or because deep down I was still mad at how Landon had treated me.
No one had ever made me feel as small as he had that day. Not even Trent Bolger.
But no one had ever made me feel beautiful before either. Not until Landon. No one ever held my hand or kissed me or smiled the way he smiled when he saw me. No one ever came and made soup for my sick sister, or held me tight until our breaths synced up and I could just lie there, with my mind turned off, enjoying the way it felt to have a warm body curled up next to me, happy and content.
I made it all the way to the back of the bus before I started crying.
HOLDING HIM UP
Here’s the thing: This wasn’t the first bus ride I’d spent crying.
That kind of thing happened when you lived with depression. Some days you just had to cry.
It was good to cry. It excreted stress hormones.
And here’s another thing: Everyone leaves you alone if you’re crying on a bus. Most humans are averse to other people’s stress hormones, as if they were a communicable disease.
I don’t think I had ever hurt anyone in my life the way I hurt Landon.
I hated myself for that.
And I hated myself for not regretting it.
There was probably something wrong with me.
There were a lot of things wrong with me.
* * *
When I opened the garage door, Dad’s car was in its spot.
I had never been so happy to see Dad’s Audi in my entire life.
I kicked off my Sambas without untying them and ran through the door.
“Dad?”
But the kitchen was empty. Laleh was in the living room, curled up against the side of the couch, with a huge book in her lap.
“Hey, Laleh. I saw Dad’s car in the garage.”
“He’s upstairs,” she whispered.
I knelt down and whispered back, “Why are we whispering?”
Laleh didn’t look up at me. Her lip turned down and quivered a bit.
“I don’t know.”
It wasn’t like Laleh not to say what was bothering her.
Not to me, anyway.
“I’ll go check on him. Okay?”
“Okay.”
I padded up the stairs. Mom and Dad’s door was shut.
I knocked. “Hello?”
After a moment, Mom opened the door wide enough for her face. “Darius?”
“Hey. Is Dad here?”
“He’s in the shower.”
As soon as she said that, the water turned on.
“Oh. Okay.”
“He’ll be down soon.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Everything is okay,” she said, but I wasn’t sure if she was talking to me or to herself.
“I got the tea you wanted. Should I make a pot?”
Making tea seemed to be the only thing I was good for in a crisis.
“Sure.”
* * *
After about ten minutes, I finally heard the shuffling of footsteps on the stairs.
Stephen Kellner never shuffled.
I nearly knocked my chair over as I ran into the living room.
“Hey, son.” Dad pulled me into a hug as soon as I was within range.
I wrapped my arms around him and rested my head on his shoulder.
There was this thing, though. His shoulder felt bonier. Like he’d lost some weight or something.
For as long as I could remember, Stephen Kellner had been the same weight and size.
I kind of hated that about him. My own weight seemed to be in a state of constant flux, always on the heavy side.
Dad’s beard had grown out even more. It was properly brown, much darker than his head hair, which looked dark gold now that it was long and shaggy enough to brush the tips of his ears.
Whenever I hugged my dad before, I always felt like he was holding me up.
But this time, I was holding him up.
“Dad?” My question was muffled against his shirt.
He brought his hand up to rub the back of my neck and kind of rock me back and forth.
“I’m glad you’re home.”
“Me too.”
* * *
I studied Dad as he drank his tea. Really studied him. The dark circles under his eyes. The slump in his shoulders.
“It’s getting worse. Isn’t it?” I asked.
He sighed and nodded.
“It’s just hard. Being away from you and your sister and your mom.”
“You don’t have to keep doing that,” I said. “You can come home.”
“I can’t. We need the money, son.”
“I’m sending out applications. And I’ve got money in my savings. Let me help.”
“No. It’s our job—me and your mom—to take care of you and Laleh. Not the other way around.”
“But . . .”
“We’ll get through this.”
“But we’re not getting through it. You look like hell. And I need you.” My voice cracked. “Please.”
Dad looked down at his teacup. He rolled it back and forth between his hands.
“I need you too. You and your sister and your mom.” He let out this shaky breath and cleared his throat. “You’re my whole world.”
“Then you can stop. Really. We’ll be okay.”
Dad sniffed.
“Remember what you told me, when we were in Iran? That you can lose people to depression lots of ways?”
“I remember.”
“Well, I don’t want to lose you.”
“You won’t. I promise.”
“Okay.”
He slurped his tea and took a deep breath.
“I missed this.”
“Yeah.”
We sat together. The silence between us wasn’t exactly awkward, but it wasn’t particularly comfortable either.