Everything's Fine

Winter Holidays Story Contest 2023 entry - don't forget to vote! My longest piece in a while. Hope you enjoy.

-T

*

What my father offers me isn't what I want, and I take it. Always have. It's just the way of things.

This time it's whiskey. We're in a corner booth at the back of the bar - the sort of place a Clint Eastwood character might fight an outlaw. Dim light shines from bright bulbs inside dirty fixtures. One wall is covered in old license plates, another in wagon wheels. Half the folks in here were old enough to drink during Watergate.

He pats me twice on the forearm before wrapping his fist around the handle of his glass. It's a beer, at least as far as anyone watching can tell, but I know he's mixed in something from the flask on his lap. I don't say anything about it. Our peace is fragile enough as it is.

"Your sister's back in town." He takes a swig, belches. "We're doing the whole holiday getup on Thursday. Think you can make it?"

It's a ridiculous question - we both know I don't want to be there. But I've learned to appreciate the small talk. I used to hate how superficial our relationship was; now I know how much worse things could be. The havoc true intimacy wreaks.

"I don't know," I mutter. "Got a lot on my plate."

"Of course." He looks stern and studies his glass. "Of course."

Pierce's Bar has a maximum occupancy of sixty-two, but there's at least twice that in here, not including the staff. I really ought to put a stop to it - I'm the fire chief, after all - but I can't be bothered with the drunk stomping that would ensue if I ended the party early. There's a desperate edge to the reminiscing and boisterous laughter. Five new bars and three new restaurants in town, but the old-timers pack in here every night like it's a lifeboat, and maybe it is.

"How's she doing?"

He nods thoughtfully, like he knows anything about what Londra's been up to, like he's ever paid her a lick of attention except to berate her for fucking up.

"She's doing alright," he says. "Got a big new job a while back, so, you know. Things are going pretty well with that, I think."

Londra was fired from that job months ago, but there's no point in going down that road. It would just make me angry.

"That's good to hear," I tell him.

He doesn't respond, just keeps swigging. Drawing up his courage. The nervous jerk of his meaty arms, the anxious scanning of his eyes, the shrinking volume of alcohol in his glass - the familiarity of him crashes into me like a rogue wave and suddenly I can feel how much of me he still holds hostage, how much I miss him.

Someone slams a glass down too hard and it breaks; stools scrape backward across the old floor and people start swearing. A few of them look over at me like they expect me to put the offender on time out.

"You really should come, Caleb." He drinks some more beer, five or six swallows worth. "To dinner, I mean. Things are different. And it's Thanksgiving - "

"Don't." I try not to sound exasperated. "Let's just leave things alone tonight, okay?"

"Sure, I understand that," he says. "Sure."

I look out the front window again. Kurt's waiting for me; I can see his silhouette leaning against my pickup. I told him to come in, to show his face around here, that I didn't care what people thought. He pretended to believe this, and I pretended to believe him when he said he'd rather wait outside.

"Your mom, she...we've been talking to someone, and things are getting better. I've been doing a lot of thinking, and I...well, you should come by. That's all."

"You've been talking to Mom?"

She'd hardly been around at all when we were growing up, disappearing for long periods before popping back up like a deranged jack-in-the-box. My father practically raised us on his own.

"Yeah," he says. "With a therapist."

"You went to see a therapist?"

"Up in Cleveland. Your mother insisted." He grimaces. "But it's been helpful. And you know I wouldn't say that if it wasn't true."

He's hanging on to his mug for dear life, and I can't help but feel a little sorry for him.

"Okay."

"Okay?" He squints at me. "Okay, what?"

"Okay, I'll come." I shrug. "I mean...I'll try to come by."

He lets out something between a sigh and a laugh and then takes another long swig.

"I'm happy to hear that, Caleb. I want to say that."

"You really have been going to therapy."

Ha laughs again, something I haven't seen him do since time out of mind. It's unsettling.

"It's not always easy." The shadows return to his face and he starts examining his drink again. "But he says we're all just works in progress. Not to rush too much."

"That's good," I hear myself say. "Sounds like you trust him."

My father doesn't so much walk through life as trudge through it, uphill, both ways, against the wind, even when there are a dozen easier paths right in front of him. None of this therapy business makes any sense. I wonder briefly if he's sick or something, but thinking about that makes me sick.

"So how are you?"

"Uh, fine. Just dealing with all this grant stuff, you know, the renovations."

The state got a big rural investment grant from the Uncle Sam after the big P; the Town of Greystone got a decent chunk. It turns out that being on the allocation committee is thankless work that nobody but me is interested in doing, so I've been up to my eyeballs in it, making sure the grant recipients meet all the code requirements. This is the first night away from begging the local septuagenarians to install smoke detectors that I've had in weeks.

"Pierce was complaining about that all last week."

I shake my head. "Dragging his feet like you wouldn't believe. This bar is one cigarette butt away from going up in smoke, but do you think he cares?"

My father starts to speak -

Hesitates...

Stops.

"Is everything okay?" I know I might regret the question, but I can't help myself. "You seem - "

"I am different," he muttered. "Thought that's what you wanted."

"It is," I say too quickly. "But - "

"Pierce says you been doing really good in the new job." There's a gentle slur to his words. "It's good. Didn't think it would work out so well in the beginning, you know."

"Dad - "

"I know you're still mad at me." He's gazing at a fixed point over my shoulder, nodding slowly. "I know that, Caleb."

"Please, let's just - "

"I'm better about that. Even your mother says so, and you know she doesn't say much."

"I really don't want to talk about this." I fight to keep my voice even. "Let's just keep doing what we've been doing. It's easier."

"Your mother misses you, too."

"I know." I'm suddenly very glad we're in a corner booth, a little away from the crowd. "I know that."

"We...we've hardly seen you around, hardly talked to you." He's staring at me, pleading, lips pressed into a thin line. "About who you been seeing, and all."

And it dawns on me, the reason he's bothered to meet me, the small talk.

Kurt.

He knows I'm back with Kurt.

"I'm not up to anything."

"Didn't say you were, I just - "

"Stop it."

"Come on - "

"It's none of your damn business."

"That whole family is nothing but trouble - "

"This has nothing to do with you. It's my life."

He sighs. "I'm just looking out for you. You've worked so hard to put it all behind you - "

"I have worked hard." My lips are pressed so tight they feel numb. "To make this place less of a shitshow than it's been in the past."

"So why throw it away?" His voice is scratchy, like he's about to cry, though I know he won't. Therapy or no therapy. "Why tear it all down over one - "

"Go to hell - "

"I just mean..." He shakes his head. "You can find someone else, can't you? There have to be others."

"It wasn't his fault!"

I'm loud enough that a few people turn to look at us, not bothering to pretend otherwise. My father's repressed smile returns to his face as he gives them a two-fingered salute; they go back to their drinks and chips and their own business.

"Kurt's not his brother," I whisper sharply. "Or his parents. About time people acknowledged that around here."

"I know I've messed up some," he says, "but you make things so damn difficult for yourself. I'll never understand it."

"I guess not." I get up from the booth and drop a twenty on the table. "It was good seeing you."

"Son - "

"I can't make it." I hate him and I'm desperate to see them all again, but I won't back down. Not again. "Give Londra my love."

He's still talking, but I'm already walking away.

This too is the way of things.

*

Kurt sees me storming toward him and tosses his cigarette to the ground. It glows briefly in the dark before he crushes it with his heel.

I climb into the cab, digging in my pockets for the keys. He leans against the driver door and reaches inside, gently holding my wrist until I stop searching and go still. His expression is softer than I can handle and I pull my arm away, though not hard enough to break the contact between us.

Kurt's six five and honey blonde and built like Jack Black with longer legs. He's got a character actor's face - one too broad for Hollywood but perfect for me. His hands are enormous, eclipsing mine, and I feel more secure in their grip than I'll ever admit out loud.

"Hey."

He leans in through the window and plants a slow kiss on my cheek, his stubble scratching against mine. I think about pulling away, saying something sarcastic to cut the tenderness. And then I just lean into it, resting the side of my face against his lips and jaw with my eyes closed.

"You want to go somewhere?" he says quietly against the skin of my cheek. "The lake?"

I like to park next to the marina sometimes in the private lot and watch the water. I'm surprised he noticed, but I shouldn't be. He notices everything about me now, and he's conscious about it, like he wants me to see him caring. I love it and I don't know how to take it.

"Hey," he says again. "I asked you a question."

I sigh and lean back against the headrest, eyes still closed.

He kisses me briefly on the temple. "What's going on in there?"

"Nothing," I bite out. "It doesn't matter."

"You said you were gonna stop doing that."

"I know, I just..." I risk opening my eyes, looking at him. "It seemed like things were getting better. A little bit. And now - "

"What?"

"And now it's back to the same old same old. Complaining about you. About us. He's still hung up on all your family shit."

Kurt lets out a short hum and then squeezes my hand. "So it's not perfect - "

"Let's just go," I blurt out. "To the lake, to the fucking moon, I don't care."

He gives my hand another squeeze.

"Alright then."

He gets in the slams the passenger door shut. He brings our hands to his lips and kisses the back of mine, then rolls down his window to let in a breeze.

He's old. That's what struck me most when he first got back. We're only thirty-five, but he could be fifty with the lines in his face. I'm only a little shorter than he is, a little fresher-faced, a little narrower, a little less imposing, but that little goes such a long way. I always did feel like a child around him, and now I guess I look like one, too. It feels crazy, resenting somebody for looking worse than me. But he's lived more of life than I have - it was true when we were young and it's still true. Now everyone can see it.

The road to the marina takes us southwest of town. It's one of those evenings that's so clear there's still light on the horizon at ten at night, a fuzzy blue strip between the dark sky and the hilltops. The black road clings to those hills like a ribbon of cassette tape, freshly paved and painted and lit by nothing but our headlights and the moon.

"I'm all moved in. Finished up this afternoon."

His mother had wanted him to move back in with her, said he needed to be with family after staying away for so long. Since Kurt's brother Andrew had gone to prison, she'd been isolated, and not just from Kurt.

"How's it feel?" The window is still down, and the wind blows his hair back from his forehead; I'd run my hands through it if they weren't occupied. "Finally having your own place?"

He doesn't answer right away, and I can hardly blame him. This is the first house anyone in his family has ever owned outright.

"I don't know." His face is impassive. "I just don't know yet."

"It's not a crime, you know. Even if she was upset."

He shifts in his seat. "Just didn't realize how much I missed her until I got back. It was easier when I was all over wherever, you know. Didn't have too much time to think about it."

"Must have been nice."

I didn't mean for it to come out so bitter and I start to apologize.

"Don't," he says.

"I - "

"I thought we agreed to be honest."

The parking lot is empty, as far as I can see, so I don't bother with finding a space; I just pull up to the edge of the pavement and throw the car in park. I can't see the water once I cut the headlights, but I can hear it, lapping against the rocky shore just a few feet ahead.

"I know, but - "

He opens the door and gets out. There are no lights on the marina - another thing the grant money can change, I hope - so he disappears into the darkness. I call after him, but he doesn't answer, so I get out with the big flashlight I keep under the seat.

It doesn't take long to spot him. He's standing by another pickup that I recognize as his after I get closer.

"What the hell was that?"

He's bent over the bed of the pickup, moving things around. "You're doing it again," he says.

"Doing what?"

"Lying."

"Lying?"

"Lying."

"What are you talking about?"

He drops something heavy onto the pavement and turns to face me.

"What the fuck are we doing here, Caleb?"

The words strike me with a force that's nearly physical and I take a step back. The lines of his face are sharpened in the harsh light, his face fixed in a tired scowl. I fight to keep the flashlight steady, to keep my hands from shaking.

"What kind of question is that?"

"I mean," he says pointedly, "that there's no point to this if we're just going to do the same old shit we used to do."

"What the fuck's that supposed to mean?"

He scoffs. "You don't say what you mean, what you're feeling."

"I tell you how I feel all the time, I - "

"You avoid things."

"I avoid things?" The flashlight is shaking now and I don't bother trying to make it stop. "I'm not the one who left!"

"And see, you told me you weren't sore about that."

"I'm...I understand why you did it, and I - "

"I came back here after no word for almost twenty fucking years and you're fine with it?"

"I missed you! I'm glad to see you again - "

"I left you here, all alone, to deal with the fallout. Ignored your calls, your friend requests, all of it." There's an ache in his voice that tears me up to hear. "You've hardly had two words to say about it."

"I don't understand you want from me!"

"The truth," he says.

"Fine!" The volume of my own words shocks me, but Kurt just looks resigned. "Everything went to hell, okay? Londra fled town! My own mother had to apologize to people when my name came up - "

"I'm sorry - "

"Had to go clear to Cleveland to do the grocery shopping for a while - "

"I loved you - "

"My dad wouldn't even talk to me..."

The ridges on the flashlight are cutting into my palms, I'm holding on so tight. With the light shining into his face the way it is, I'm shrouded in darkness, and that's where I stay, trying to get a hold of myself. For his part, he stands there, unflinching. So much has changed since the old days, but not that. He's still a boulder on a mountainside.

"He was already pissed enough I was seeing you at all, but after..." I shake my head, take a few deep breaths. "Thank god we were out of school."

"I loved you," he repeats. "I hope you know that."

We just stand there for a while. The light bounces all over the place as I shift the flashlight between my hands, throwing Kurt and then trees and then asphalt and then wood into high relief, like found-footage in a horror movie.

"People were...angry, you know." I sound small. "About what Andrew did, and..."

"And?"

"I made them see that it was mostly an accident - "

Kurt scoffs.

"It's the truth."

"He burned that place down. Folks died."

"He was a kid, shit happens - "

"Shit happens?" He shakes his head. "Is that what you said to people?"

"Not in so many words," I mutter, "but yeah. People got over it, eventually. And..."

He narrows his eyes. "What?"

"They put Andrew away, you were gone, your mom skipped town for a while too, so people just chalked it up to..." I shrug, wanting to crawl out of my skin. "Your side of town. If you want to call it that."

Back then, part of my attraction to Kurt had been my morbid fascination with his poverty and the life it afforded him. I felt bigger around him. It hadn't mattered that he had a better relationship with his mother than I ever would with mine. I hadn't had to feel bad or stupid or childish or petty that my father hardly seemed to know me, since Kurt hadn't had a father at all. For once in my life, it had felt like I'd had an upper hand. The truth was that people had been a just bit too kind after it was all over and there was something disgusting about the way I'd been positioned after that fire - like I had driven some corrupting influence from town and set things right again. And I hadn't argued with them. It hadn't seemed like there was any point.

He nods slowly and turns away, dragging more things off the back of his pickup and dropping them on the ground.

"I know it isn't right," I start. "Wasn't right. I should have - "

"You got back problems?"

"What? No. Kurt, I - "

He kicks off his shoes and climbs into the truck bed. There's some kind of mattress-thing under him, and he pats the space beside him.

"Come on."

I look around.

"Are you kidding?"

"Nope."

"I'm the fire chief."

He shrugs and leans back so that he's resting on his elbows. "So you can get me out of the ticket, then."

I climb awkwardly into the back of his truck, just the way I had when we had first started going around together. Not in an obvious way - I had been too much of a coward for that - but in an about-to-be-caught way that thrilled me. Kurt knew that - knew what I was like inside without having to ask. He'd do this thing sometimes where he'd ignore me in a group, mess around with others where I could see him. I'd have to catch him coming back from the bathroom or heading out to his car at the end of the night if I wanted any. He liked to force me to make the first move, knowing how much I wanted to do it and how hard I'd fight to keep my hands to myself. He might not have had a lot of power in his life, but he certainly had power over me.

"All grown up," he mumbles into my ear. I kick my shoes off and relax into him. "And still a boy scout."

He palms me gently through my jeans, chuckling when I thrust against him. It's embarrassing, how hard I am, but that just makes it worse, makes me hungrier for him. His mouth moves down my neck and into the hollow of my shoulder, his hands tracing the contours of my body under my clothes like we're seventeen again. It's all I can do not to cry out, in pleasure but also in recognition. He knows me - all the places I'm ticklish and all the parts I'm ashamed of and the places where, if he strokes me just so, I'll stop breathing and dig in my nails. I've had sex with a fair few people in my life, but with each of them I've had to map new terrain and learn new boundaries, figure out how to connect. But this isn't like that. Fucking Kurt is being remembered, over and over again.