Shift by Ginger Scott
9
Having a secret like ours is a tantalizing burden. I get why Dustin was afraid. What we’re doing—what we’ve done? It redraws lines. We will never go back to just being the three of us. “The kids,” as my parents used to say. As much as Tommy thinks of Dustin as such, he’s not like a brother to us. At least, not to me. He’s like a fire, a dare that has tempted me since the day I let him cry in my arms when we were kids and his dad showed up to further ruin his life.
Dustin and I will never go back to merely being friends. We simply can’t. More than the fact I don’t want to, I don’t think I could stand having him in our house without the knowledge that we could slip away somewhere or outwait the rest of the house at night to be together. As it is, this simple act of watching a movie with Tommy and my dad on a Sunday afternoon is torture.
My brother sits between us, which is nothing new. But somehow now it feels purposeful, as if he knows he has to chaperone. Dustin must feel it too because he’s extra cautious reaching in the popcorn bowl propped on Tommy’s knees, careful never to dive in for a handful when my hand is there so our fingers never touch. Our chemistry is too rich. I’m convinced any interaction in front of my brother would be sniffed out in an instant.
Tommy picked the movie, one of those heist films with an ensemble cast of actors he says I should know but I don’t. My brother is way more into movies than I am. Even now, I’m sure this movie is good, but it’s not as good as the thoughts running through my head about the guy sitting to my brother’s left.
My brother leans forward, rests the half-eaten bowl of popcorn on the coffee table, and hits the pause button on the remote before standing.
“I have to piss,” he says, and my dad tosses a throw pillow at him from the other sofa.
“Language. Your sister is still a lady,” Dad chastises. My mom’s been on Tommy’s ass about his words lately, which is the only reason my dad is reinforcing it. I don’t care how my brother talks in front of me.
“Sure she is,” Tommy chides, picking the pillow up from the floor and stuffing it into my face.
I laugh it off but there was an edge to the way he spoke. Or at least, I think there was. Maybe it’s my heightened paranoia. The second my brother leaves the room, my dad stands and stretches his arms above his head with a big yawn.
“I’m brewing coffee. Anyone want in on it?” My dad points a finger to me first then to Dustin.
“Actually, I’ve got to run to my house soon and check on my mom. She wasn’t doing so good when I left this morning.” Dustin plops his hands on his knees and tenses his shoulders as my dad offers a sympathetic nod and smile. Last night was one of the rare nights he spent at his own home, and only because his mom seemed genuinely sick. I can tell he’s worried, but we haven’t been alone enough to ask many questions.
“Let me know if I can do anything for you, Dustin. We’re always here. You know that, right?” my dad offers.
The two of them share a silent stare that softens both of their eyes. Dustin looks away first, probably before he feels too much from my dad’s genuine love for him. He nods as he stands.
“I do. Yeah, thanks,” he says.
“I can come with you.” I stand about half a second after he does, a move that would probably jack up my brother’s suspicion but to my dad seems utterly normal.
“You don’t have to,” Dustin says, but his eyes connect with mine and relay the exact opposite.
“I’ll let your brother know it’s an extended pause. Maybe he’ll spend the time wisely and clean out the garage like I asked him to a week ago,” my dad mutters on his way to the kitchen.
“You sure?” Dustin mouths. As much as he wants to spend time with me, he doesn’t like exposing me to his house. As much as he’s over being embarrassed by his family, he’s never quite gotten past being ashamed.
I nod and glance over his shoulder then behind me to make sure our coast is clear. I turn back to him and lean into his chest, pressing my palm over his heart while I rise up on the tips of my toes to dust his lips with a soft kiss.
“Positive,” I whisper.
He leans down to let his forehead rest on mine, our noses touching as his eyes shut and he exhales.
“If I mess this up, promise me you’ll kick my ass,” he says.
I chuckle as I step away before we’re caught then cross my heart with my finger and wink.
“I promise.”
“You’re a little too enthused about kicking my ass,” he jokes as he fishes out the keys from his pocket and heads to our door. We’ve almost escaped to the front porch before my brother pulls the door wide open behind us.
“Where you guys goin’?” Tommy’s eyes shift from Dustin to me.
He knows.
“I have to check on my mom. Hannah was gonna come, be a witness or whatever,” Dustin says with a shrug. He plays it off so naturally, I’m impressed. I wonder if he’s calculating every word he says in front of my brother as much as I am.
“Oh, hang on. I’ll come too,” Tommy says, dashing back inside to grab his shoes.
Dustin lets out a full breath in my brother’s absence as his gaze falls to mine.
“Sorry,” he says.
I shrug.
“It’s fine. Just means I can’t hold your hand in the car and call you my boyfriend is all,” I say, lifting a shoulder. His eyes flare a little at the boyfriend part.
My brother busts through the door before we have a chance to delve further into that topic. Probably for the best. What we are is a lengthier conversation, one shrouded in pinky promises and covert intimacy. Even if we can’t publicly declare it, I still want to know exactly where we stand—where I stand, with him. I know exactly what Dustin is to me.
When it’s three of us, we never ride together in Dustin’s car. It has nothing to do with my brother wanting to keep me safe. In this case, it’s a matter of logistics. Three people of average size fitting in a Supra is, well, fucking impossible. As limber as I am, I don’t want to fold my knees up to my neck just to drive a few miles to the north. We all pile into my brother’s car, and I slip into the back seat, letting Dustin have the passenger side. It all seems so normal, as if we’re making a run to the convenience store for snacks, only I’m acutely aware of the remaining scent of Dustin’s cologne, and the way the back of his hair curls at the base of his neck because it’s in need of a cut I secretly don’t want him to get.
My brother pulls out of our driveway and I turn my attention to the stream of photos on my social media apps on my phone, lurking on the ones people took at the Straights Friday night. Someone caught a shot of Dustin and me sitting in his car. We’re wordless, staring at one another. This is just before my brother tore Dustin a new asshole. This moment was true bliss. I capture a screenshot of it.
“Hey, so . . . about Friday night,” my brother begins. His forehead is wrinkled. I sit up tall to catch his eyes in the rearview mirror, instantly panicked that he’s bringing up Friday.
“Forget about it,” Dustin says, leaning forward and turning up the music. I smirk to myself. He’s not going to give my brother a chance to rehash me being involved in the race, their ensuing fight about it, or my brother getting shitfaced and leaving us with his messy-ass self to get home.
Tommy continues on for the next mile, seeming to drop it as Dustin asked, but when we get to a stoplight he turns the music down and rests his hand over the stereo controls, almost as if guarding them from Dustin turning the music back up.
“Just . . . let me say this,” he grits out, frustrated and maybe a little embarrassed. My brother likes to talk with his hands when he’s uncomfortable, and right now, he’s pretty much all hands.
Dustin sighs.
“Fine.”
My brother’s jaw works, a trait he exhibits when he’s trying to spit out something he doesn’t want to say. He’s going to apologize; I can feel it. It won’t be obvious, like an “I’m sorry.” Tommy Judge doesn’t put words out there that might be used against him in the future. But he’ll be frank enough.
“I was a dick,” my brother says.
Yeah, that’s spot on.
“Like I said, forget—” Dustin begins, getting cut off by one of my brother’s gesticulations.
“I got piss-ass drunk because I knew you would resent it. To hurt you, really, because I don’t like my sister being put at risk. That wasn’t cool. And thank you for cleaning up my vomit,” my brother says, never making full eye contact with Dustin. His eyes shift over his shoulder to me and dim when he catches my smirk.
It’s sweet that he worries about me. But I was never in danger. I knew I wasn’t. Now’s not the time for me to say that to him, though. Now’s the time for his sorry-less apology to be accepted.
Dustin reaches over with a fist, holding it out for my brother to land his own on top of. He does with a breathy laugh of relief.
“We’re cool,” Dustin says, and my brother relaxes back in his seat. “I didn’t clean up your vomit, though.”
Tommy’s head slingshots to the side. He definitely vomited. A few times.
“Yeah, saved it for you. Not gonna tell you where, either,” Dustin deadpans. My brother deserves this.
“Shit,” Tommy mutters under his breath.
We all bust out laughing about it after a few seconds, and for a moment, we’re those three kids we always were. Maybe this can work after all. Maybe, eventually, my brother will accept what my heart needs.
Any morsel of comfort is swept away the second we pull in front of Dustin’s family’s trailer. Flashing lights glare brightly, even under the harsh noon sun. The back of an ambulance is wide open, doors slung out on either side.
Dustin flings his door open and takes off in a sprint before we’re fully stopped, his voice breaking as he yells out, “Mom!” Tommy abruptly halts the car, choking us with our safety belts before we’re thrown back into our seats.
“This isn’t good,” my brother says.
I unbuckle and pull the handle of my door, but before I get out, my brother spins in his seat and holds up a palm.
“Just wait. Let him deal with this. It might be bad in there.” The crease in my brother’s forehead is deep. I meet his worried eyes with what I’m sure are terrified ones of my own.
“That’s exactly why I need to go in there, Tommy!” I shake my head and continue my way out the door. My brother gives in, following me as we take cautious steps around the side of the trailer to the oil-stained driveway. It’s littered with abandoned car parts and pans from work Dustin’s done here, and things Colt left behind. At least six cats huddle underneath the home, their eyes glowing from the daylight while they hide in the shadows. I wonder if Dustin’s mom has been feeding them.
“County, we’ve got a nine-oh-one N coming in, code three,” a voice says from just inside the door. Dustin and I remain at the bottom of the small set of porch steps, and I wrap my right hand around my throat out of fear for what’s happening inside.
“Can I go with you? Or do I need to drive myself? What do I do?” Dustin’s voice displays rare panic. It breaks me, and tears well in my eyes. Tommy’s mouth is a hard line, and his chest stopped moving. He’s holding his breath.
“Do you know what your mom took, son? Anything you can get us will help. Anything,” someone says to him.
Unable to let Dustin navigate this conversation alone, I pass by my brother and jog up the steps to enter the messy living room that I’ve never been allowed to see before. It smells of burnt plastic, chemicals, and cat piss. How Dustin ever survived a night in this place is lost on me. This is the kind of place people cultivate to slip away from the living, which seems is exactly what his mother has done.
Dustin is standing over his mom as she lays on a rolling stretcher that paramedics are about to carry through the door. His hands fist his hair and his eyes dart around the floor as if the answers he needs are written on the matted carpet and vinyl.
“It could be anything. Fentanyl, oxy . . . I don’t know. I—” Dustin’s gaze meets mine and his skin turns gray. I move to him and reach for his hand, not giving a shit about anyone seeing it or what Tommy will think when he does. I grip his hand tightly and force him to look at me.
“It’s okay,” I say, my voice low at his side. He squeezes my hand with enough strength that my fingers grow numb. I let him.
I don’t have to ask. His uncertain words are more than panic over finding his mom limp on her side, body twitching while medics hook up her IV and monitor her oxygen. Sadly, this isn’t the first time Dustin has walked in to find his mom overdosed on the floor. What has him truly worried is that Colt isn’t home, but he has been—recently. The half-drank bottle of beer on the coffee table is still cold, the glass beaded with sweat. The living room TV is on, though muted, and it’s showing basketball. Dustin’s mom is not the kind of woman who gives a shit about sports. To be fair, she doesn’t give a shit about much.
But the biggest sign? That’s coming from the vent swinging above the bathroom door, held on by a single screw. No, Colt isn’t here right now. But he was. And he left with something he didn’t want anybody to find. Something he kept behind that vent. Something more important than the woman who birthed his only son, who’s lying on the floor, seconds from death.