We Used to See with Wide Eyes

I reached out and took his hand, “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” he said, looking like a broken man, “Me too.”

In that minute, he seemed so fragile and so vulnerable I was afraid for him. This was one of those moments where the earth stops and everything outside of that moment stops holding any meaning. It was between me and Brendon would be monumental in our relationship. I could lose him tonight, or I could see him for what he really was, and maybe I could let him see me.

I squeezed his hand gently, for support, though who I was supporting was questionable.

He returned the squeeze but was back to staring out the window, but this time not to avoid me, just lost in thought. The normal little grin that covered his face was missing and instead a frown tugged down on the corners of his mouth. He was tired, I could tell, in the same way that I was tired. True, he didn’t have big bags under his eyes, but he felt that same bone deep exhaustion that was always lurking in me.

He was strong, stronger than me; because I had only seen his lose control of his mask a few times. And I was almost never able to keep it up, because I was weak, especially around him.

“You know, it’s my fault,” he said, the words rushing out of him like they had been bottled up inside of him too long. His face crumpled and his hands tightened around mine, “Because I told him to go to the fucking park.”

“The park?” I asked.

He wasn’t crying, but the look in his dark eyes was full of agony, “Where he died. He wanted to take her to some fancy restaurant, but I told him to go to the park. He could’ve been married now. But he’s dead.”

The pain laced in his voice hurt, and I wanted to help him but my mind couldn’t help going back to the conversation with that girl about her Spencer.

I didn’t know how to comfort him so instead I asked, “Do you know someone named Spencer?”

The second I said his name, I saw the flash of recognition in his face and the confusion set in, giving him a chance to think about something else.

“How…?” he trailed off.

I was then the one spewing out words, explaining about the girl and her worry over Spencer and the death of their friend in a park with the girl he wanted to marry. And with every word I spoke Brendon’s shoulders hunched more and more over as he drew inside himself until I stopped speaking, worried that he might literally fall apart.

“That was Hayley,” and breaking my heart, he added, “They broke up.”

“Wha – What?” I choked, surprised to find a large lump forming in my throat.

“What does it matter to you?” he said, quickly and harshly, so that my eyes burned with a hint of actual tears. When he saw my lower lip quaver, he took it back, “I’m sorry, I’m just…”

I blinked forcefully, swallowed my overreaction and nodded.

His eyes were fixed on me, his head cocked to one side, not looking sad but like he was seeing me in a whole new light, and in a way that clearly said that he didn’t understand me.

“Parker, do you know who I am?”

His question threw me off, was he being literal or looking for a deeper answer?

I went with a little of both, “You’re who I depend on.”

He smiled for a split second at that but was soon frowning again, “That’s not what I mean. It’s been a year that I have known you and I haven’t said anything.”

I was utterly bewildered and it obviously showed on my face because he continued, “Do you remember when you asked me about Panic at the Disco?”

I nodded, I did, vaguely. My memory of that purple room and my ex-best friend who had abandoned me after the accident was much clearer.

“I – I was in the band… I was the singer.”

I blinked. What a sledgehammer to the face, with one sentence, he told me more about him than he could possibly know.

Sure, I’m sure most people would’ve heard the fact that the guitarist, Ryan was his name, I think, of Panic at the Disco was murdered with his soon-to-be fiancée by a mob type henchman because that was something that certainly didn’t happen every day.

But I was not most people, with my accident happening just 6 months earlier I was going to doctors’ appointments almost every day when it all went down, and the magazines abundant in all the waiting rooms latched on the story like leeches, covering it for a couple months.

I connected to the story, I think because I liked someone else’s sorrow and tragedy to cling to instead of mine, or maybe because it was nice to know that I wasn’t the only one being fucked over. His girlfriend had to be tearing herself up inside. I can even remember the myriad of sniper shot pictures from the funeral or the personal photos of that skinny guitarist and that pretty girl, both of them smiling, happy, and alive.

And it was Brendon’s life. He was one of the ones crying in those encroaching funeral shots or in those somber photographs as paparazzi swarmed the band looking for a statement.

With faltering words, I began to tell him that I knew, but I stopped myself before I said anything coherent and settled with, “I am so sorry.”

“You and the rest of the world,” he said, rightfully bitter, and I didn’t begrudge him for it. The media turned the loss of his friend into some sick article in a gossip magazine.

What’s worse is that I could see that he really did believe that it was the reason his friend was dead, and that’s why he couldn’t move on from it. I knew exactly what he felt like, except, unlike me, he had no hand in his friend’s demise. He was innocent.

“Brendon, listen to me,” I started, confident that I was right, “It was not your fault that he died. You didn’t send him to the park, he chose to go there.”

He opened his mouth, but I didn’t let him speak, “From the situation his girlfriend was in it was only a matter of a time. No, I’m not blaming her either – she wasn’t involved in the mob or whatever. But it was not your fault.”

He went speak again, but stopped. Though his eyes were sad, he gave me a little smile, “You know. You should listen to your own advice because it’s pretty damn good. Hard to hear, but good.”

This was true. I always knew what the fuck was wrong with me but I let myself drown in those terrible feelings anyway. It was self-destructive and unhealthy, but I couldn’t seem to quit it, no more than I could quit him.

“I know…” I mumbled, “I – “

My cell phone rang, cutting me off, and instantly I knew something was terribly and awfully wrong.

The harsh standard ringtone blared throughout the diner, from where it was sitting in my coat pocket slung across a bar chair. It was God knows what hour in the morning and they never called my cell phone. I was either at home, or at Macs, or in between the two. If I was home, they called home and if I was at Mac’s they just used the diner phone. If I was in between it could always wait in a message on the other side.

Why were they calling? It scared the shit out of me.

Brendon looked really worried by the panicked expression I’m sure was frozen on my face, “Do you want me to bring it to you?”

I nodded. Reluctantly, I let his hand go.

He jumped up and was back almost instantly holding the phone out to me, which was still blaring. In the two years I’ve had it I’ve never set up a voicemail.

Taking comfort that he was still sitting on my side, I took it from him, my hand shaking, and I almost dropped it but managed to flip open the out-dated and hand-me-down Motorola Razr.

“Parker?” I couldn’t honestly remember the last time I heard my mother’s voice.

“Yes?” I said, my voice quavering.

“You need to come home now, we need to talk.” And without any explanation she hung up – making me slightly nauseous.

I set the phone down on table and stared at it, really, really not wanting to go. I was on the brink of completely and totally letting someone new into my life and now I don’t know if I will get that chance.

Brendon surprised me by reaching over and taking my phone, he messed around with it for a minute and handed it back, without commenting on its age. Instead only saying, “My number is in there. Will you call me if you need me?”

If I needed him? He should know by now that there wasn’t any chance of me not needing him. Like it or not, he had wormed his way into my heart and my life, and he was there to stay.

Instead, I only nodded, waiting for him to let me out. Surprising me once again he pulled me into a fierce hug, like he wasn’t going to ever let go. I was alright with that and I hugged back just as fiercely.

Soon, however, he did and slid out of the booth so I could as well.

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow?” I questioned timidly, searching his dark eyes.

“As always,” he said with a small smile, “Call me,” this time, rather than asking, he demanded it of me and it warmed my heart.

“I will,” I promised and turned my back on him and headed out the diner door, the bells clinking just as the sun began to turn the sky gray over the horizon, and I couldn’t help but wonder what this day would bring.