“Oh, fuck you.”
Tense silence falls between us, the diner's sounds seeming to grow louder with each moment.
“Why'd you wanna talk, Cillian?”
I shrug. “Wanted to check in.”
“So you can tell my sweet sister how great I'm doing?” Bitterness drips from his words.
“What the hell, Joseph?” I can't pretend that shit doesn't sting. “I've never?—”
“I know,” he waves me off. “That kinda day—” He sighs. “Month, year...life for me, too.”
That wasn't true. For several years after he got out, Joey seemed good. He got a job and a house—did the dad and husband thing. In comparison to the absolute dumpster fire that was my life after discharge, his was what most of us dream of—a vision of stability.
But at some point, the wheels started to come off.
“You talk to anyone?” I ask, eyes on the tea bag floating in my mug.
He scoffs. “What, so some PhD can tell me how fucked up I am? No, thank you.”
“Plenty of therapists don't have a PhD,” I say into my mug. Unfortunately, my tip had done nothing to improve the quality of the brew.
“Smartass.”
“Thought I was a crayon eater.”
“You can be both.”
I could keep this going. Settle into the easy, if shallow,back-and-forth—nothing but me and my cousin shooting the shit. But Joey’s bloodshot eyes and gaunt figure won't let me.
“I wasn't talking about that, anyway. There's a group?—”
“Cilli,” he groans. “I'm fine, man.”
Bullshit.
“I'm not.” I didn't admit that to many people, it was easier than worrying them with shit they couldn't fix. Even saying it now, to someone who would understand more than most, feels like turning my back on a firing squad.
Concern knits his brow as he studies me with a fresh intensity. “If you're using again, I?—”
“Fuck no.” I shake my head. “I'm good there. It's just...” I tap my temple. “Loud. Louder than usual.”
“It's the fuckin' weather.” He takes a swig of the coffee, grimacing, before reaching for the sugar. “Always makes shit worse.”
“Yeah,” I agree. The thing is, as a kid, I loved the cooler months. They ushered in the joyful chaos of Halloween, holiday breaks, snow days, and my birthday. But ever since I was 17, it felt like this time of year was cursed or something.
“That's why I wanted to ask you to come with me,” I say.
“Since when have you needed me to go with you to shit like that?”
“I didn't say need. Just thought it would be better than going alone.” I don't add,for both of us.
Joey lets out an exasperated sigh, the kind you'd direct at an annoying kid. “Cillian, if you wanna sit in a circle and listen to a bunch of guys?—”
“There are women there,” I interject.
“Veterans,” he corrects with a bit of snark. “Bitch about their feelings, more power to ya. It's not my thing.”
