Remember My Name (22 page)

Ben

Hours have passed when I
hear a creak in the hallway and the soft protest of the door’s hinges. As
Jackson’s darkened shape moves toward the bed, I roll over. He jumps backward,
exploding with a whispered exclamation. “Holy mother of hell!” His breath reeks
like booze. He must have had more after I left him. But where? With Matt?

“Sorry,” I mumble. “I just
wanted to know that you were home safe. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Well, you did.” He moves
back toward me. “Scoot over if you’re gonna stay,” he says, his words running
together.

“You’re not kicking me out?”
I ask, untangling myself from the blankets and making room for him. His only
answer is the rustle of fabric and denim as he strips down to his underwear
before climbing into bed beside me. Now that he’s under the covers, I can smell
the alcohol even stronger.

“How did you get home?”

“Matt,” he says.

“What were you guys doing?”

“Had a few drinks in his
truck.”

I’m wide-awake now. “Of what
exactly? You smell like a distillery.”

He tries to laugh but
interrupts himself with a burp. “I dunno… vodka I think.”

Tension flares in my chest.
“He drove you home after that?”

“Yeah. We didn’t fool around
or anything, so don’t act so grossed out. Jesus, Ben…” his voice trails.

“I don’t care about that,
dumb ass. He drove you home drunk?”

Jackson doesn’t answer me at
first. When he speaks, his words are barely more than a whisper. “Why are you
always mad at me?”

“I’m not mad at you,” I say,
keeping my own voice soft. It’s easy to do, because what I’m saying is true.
The one I’m mad at is
Matt
. If Jackson’s level of intoxication is any
indication, Matt should definitely not have been driving at all, much less
endangering my brother while doing it. But if I go off about that, Jackson will
just freak out on me.

Instead, I apologize. “I’m sorry,
for what happened tonight.”

First a pause, then he sighs
but still doesn’t respond.

“What’s going to happen
now?” I ask.

His voice is heavy in the
darkness. “I don’t know.”

“At least you’re graduated
and about to get out of this town.”

“Yeah.”

I’m tired, but I don’t want
tonight to end with those words. My teeth nibble on my lip. “I was worried
about you,” I admit.

He shifts beneath the
covers, then pushes himself up to a sitting position and turns on the bedside
lamp. Squinting in the sudden illumination, I sit up so I’m leaning against the
headboard beside him. What does he want?

As if in response to my
unspoken question, he reaches over and runs a hand through my hair just like he
always does with his own. It happens so abruptly and unexpectedly that when the
moment is over, I think I may have just imagined it.

Jackson looks at me, and I
look back. His face has a crooked grin that I recognize as alcohol induced.
Seeing him like this makes me want to grab a hold of him and never let him go.

It’s possible that I’m
channeling the same chord of spontaneity and lack of restraint that he just
acted on, or maybe I’m just doing what I want to. Stretching out my hand toward
his face, I let the tips of my middle and index fingers lightly touch his
cheek. He doesn’t flinch or pull away, instead letting his bright eyes –
somewhat dimmed by the alcohol but nevertheless brilliant blue – continue
to hold me captive.

He lets me simply touch him
as I run my fingers across the freckles at the tops of his cheeks. I love them,
and I have no idea why. Jackson and I had something special once, and at its
heart was our sameness. So it doesn’t make sense that the thing I appreciate
most about him is one of our few differences.

Maybe it’s because
physically, it’s the only thing that I can love about him that is him and only
him. If I admire his biceps or his hair or his eyes, I’m inadvertently
complimenting myself at the same time. But those light brown spots just below
his eyes, those are Jackson’s alone.

Dropping my hand, I try to
interpret his expression. Part of it is wistful, but its composition includes a
darker aspect, too. He clicks off the light and slides down until his head
rests on the pillow.

Now that Jackson is home,
the exhaustion from the day finally settles over me, dragging my eyes closed.
With the steady breathing of my brother beside me, I quickly slip toward a
peaceful sleep. My last thought before disappearing into unconsciousness is how
at home I feel.

Ben

A swift rapping noise drags
me awake. The door opens at the same time my eyes do. “Jackson, where the hell
is–” Dad stops midsentence. “Oh, Ben, you’re right here.”

“I, um,” my brain struggles
to find a plausible explanation why I’m wedged in bed next to Jackson when my
room is just ten feet down the hall.

Dad holds up a hand, shaking
his head. “I don’t want to know.” I expect him to laugh away the bitter note in
his voice, but instead he turns and walks out of the room. The only sound
louder than my thumping heart is that of Jackson’s beside me.

My eyes scroll to meet his.
He looks scared. “He’s not really upset is he?”

Jackson tugs the blanket up
a few inches so only his neck is exposed. “I don’t know, but you should
probably go.”

A half hour later I head to
the bathroom to take a piss. Jackson is taking a shower, but with frosted glass
on the enclosure, co-usage of the bathroom is nothing new to us. When I try the
handle, the door is locked. Sighing, I turn away with no choice but to hold it
and wait.

Hair wet but fully dressed,
Jackson shows up at my door a while later. “I’m going over to a friend’s today,
but I’ll see you tonight,” he says. I know better than to ask who he’s
visiting, since it’s probably Matt, but it’s still nice for him to tell me that
he’s going somewhere. He’s never done that before, so maybe the conversation
last night actually connected with something inside him, despite its ending.

 “Thanks for letting me
know. Have a good time with… your friend.” I try not to look annoyed that he
won’t admit to who he’s seeing, and I do a pretty good job at it.

“Sure,” he says, lingering
only a moment before leaving me alone.

With Jackson gone, I try to
pass the time by organizing my stuff, but there isn’t enough of it to really
organize, so I settle for stacking my clothes into a neat pile in the corner.
The activity makes it obvious that I’m acutely lacking in the furniture
department.

Long after the sounds of
Jackson’s feet on the stairs have faded into silence, Dad comes to my door.
“Ben,” he says, his earlier ill temper gone. “I’m going to visit Cherie and see
if I can help out with anything over there. You’ll be fine here while I’m
gone?”

“I’m eighteen, Dad. Of
course, I’ll be fine.”

“Right. See you this
afternoon then.”

I listen as he moves down
the stairs. When the screen door slams closed, I toss myself back onto my bed.
It’s one of the few times I’ve been home alone without either of them. A
familiar impulse slinks through me, tapping the back of my throat, the tips of
my fingers, and my midsection all at once. I might as well take advantage of
them being gone.

Lying on my back and propped
up against a pillow, I take my time, stripping off my shirt first. I run a hand
across my chest and another lightly over my stomach, tucking my thumb into the
waistband of my shorts. I push everything out of my mind. There is no Jackson
or Dad or Matt or working at the greenhouse or being sent away for the summer.
Even Katie is banished along with the rest of it. This is about me, about
finding my center, a release, and bringing back balance where I’m losing my
grip.

When I pull my shorts down,
I’m already hard. Closing my eyes, I wrap my fingers around myself. With the
movement up and down, I let the waves of relaxation and pleasure build and roll
into me, swelling like a secret tide. Not wanting to rush, I drop my hand and
take deep breaths until my arousal just begins to fade. Starting once more, I
find myself quickly back at the brink and have to pause again.

Holding my breath steady, I
resist the urge for as long as I can. For a third and last time, my hand begins
to glide up and down. Slowly at first but moving faster as I ride the feeling
escalating inside me. Forcing out my breath, I tug down a final stroke, holding
my hand at the base. Quivering with uninhibited enjoyment, my stomach tenses,
pulling me forward as I come on my chest. “Holy shit,” I breathe.

Not bothering with my
clothes, I saunter to the bathroom and clean myself at the sink. I never used
to be this comfortable being naked, and I’m not sure when that changed. Maybe
it’s because of Jackson and how he’s always so confident. We have the same body
more or less, so if he can wear it proudly, then I can too.

Leaving the bathroom, I
glance into Jackson’s room. Through the window, movement outside catches my
eye. Doubling back, I cross his room at a crouch. It’s Dad, walking across the
yard from the woods toward his truck. I guess I should have made sure he’d
actually left before I…

Stealing back to my room in
case he comes inside, I dress quickly, but the sound of his truck starting
shows there was no need. This time I listen carefully until the noise of Dad’s
truck retreats completely before concluding that I’m alone. Pulling out my
phone, I send Katie a text.
Hey, sorry about last night, I was upset about
Jackson and not thinking clearly. What are you up to today?
I stare at my
phone for a full two minutes before setting it on the nightstand beside my bed.

One physical need has been
satisfied, but another is calling me now. It beckons me toward fields and dirt
roads. I need to run, more than anything right now.

*     *     *    
*

I’m watching TV on the couch
when the front door opens. I expect Dad to come in, but instead it’s Jackson.
“Hey,” he says.

Sprawled out with my legs
stretched across the cushions, I mute the show about out-of-control teenagers.
“How’s Matt?”

“Fine,” he says. A moment
later his eyebrows scrunch. “I mean, I wasn’t…”

I roll my eyes but aim a
sincere look at him afterward. “Jackson, it’s cool. Don’t be embarrassed. I
don’t care what you do with him, as long as he’s not driving you around drunk.”

“That was a one time thing.”
He stays standing for a few seconds, finally gesturing toward my feet. Bending
my legs at the knees, I make room for him and unmute the TV. We watch without
talking as the show’s host tries to mediate between the screaming, frazzled
mother and her equally bratty child. Jackson laughs when the kid kicks his mom
in the shin and she falls back into her chair.

I’m not quite as impressed
with this show as Jackson is. “How did Dad end up running a greenhouse?”

Quieting himself, Jackson
explains, “He always wanted to, I guess. A few years ago, he just went for it.”

“He’s really into the
plants, huh? I thought it was just a failing business he happened to fall
into.”

“Nope, he runs a garden store
because he likes that shit.” Jackson stares at me for several long seconds.
“You know that he has a master’s degree in botany, right?”

My eyebrows rise. “You’re
serious?”

“Absolutely.”

It’s weird that I had no
idea Dad has a graduate degree. It takes a minute for me to process. “If he
loves it so much, wouldn’t you think he’d try a little harder to make it
profitable?”

Jackson looks back to the TV
with a shrug. “Heck if I know.”

Reluctantly I let go of my
curiosity and enjoy the Saturday afternoon for all that it is – namely,
hours spent with my twin brother. We laugh and make fun of the people on the
show, and time is a concept both of us forget about.

After coming back from the
kitchen with a glass of water, he even begins to talk about Matt. He only
shares little things and definitely no specific details, but it’s enough to
imply that they’re together, in some way at least.

“You really don’t like him,
do you?” Jackson asks me.

Before answering, I take a
drink from his glass, but he doesn’t seem to care. “He’s all right.”

A dejected gleam forms in
his eyes. “I figured as much. He’s not a bad guy. I wish you two got along.”

After that, Jackson stays
quiet for a long while, letting the TV do the talking for us until Dad’s truck
rolls into the driveway.

Something about the way the
front door opens, or maybe just a subtle shift in my brother’s bearing, but the
foreboding feeling coursing through me is unmistakable. The door shuts harder
than necessary, like it was meant to be slammed but Dad just didn’t have the
strength to do it.

The expression in his face
is impossible to decipher as his eyes jump between us. Ultimately his gaze
lands on Jackson. “Turn off the TV.” A hot current of fear tightens like a
constrictor around my chest as I press the power button on the remote.

Muscles twitch at the base
of Dad’s jaw. “After I left Cherie’s, I stopped by the hardware store.”

Jackson tenses beside me,
but I don’t understand why for another few seconds. Dad continues, his words
plodding toward an unspoken conclusion. “I talked to Tyler’s father, and he
shared something upsetting.” My mind races back to the night before.
Tyler
,
the jerk pissing outside who caught us talking. Jackson sits up straighter,
which must be difficult because the couch is so lumpy.

“Is it true?” The syllables
echo in the room like thunder tumbling across farmland.

Jackson’s voice is subdued.
“Is what true?”

I shift to a sitting
position. It’s not right what’s happening. Confident, indomitable Jackson,
reduced to the timid boy beside me.

Dad’s voice crackles with
anger. “Don’t screw with me, Jackson. I was humiliated today, and I’m pretty
sure you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

As much as this accusation
bothers me, it’s nothing compared to the emotions on Jackson’s face. He looks
like he’s about to cry, and he won’t meet the eyes of his interrogator. He
nods.

Dad runs a hand through his
hair, turning away from us as he releases a breath so deep I expect his chest
to collapse into the vacuum created inside. He brings his hardened gaze to bear
on us again. “Why?”

“What do you mean?” asks
Jackson huskily. “It’s not like I did this to piss you off or something.” A
tear slides down his cheek.

Dad drops into the chair
across from us, looking like he’s had the wind knocked out of him. “How long has
this been going on?”

Jackson shrugs, unwilling to
look up. “Always, I guess.”

I’m staring at Dad, who’s
staring at Jackson, who in turn is staring at the floor. “Ben turned out
normal, so I don’t understand what happened.” Dad hesitates, finding his words.
“I want you to see a therapist.”

I’ve enjoyed getting to know
Dad again this summer, but if he thinks I’m going to watch him tear down my
brother like this, he’s got another thing coming. Before Jackson can respond, I
break my self-imposed silence, staring Dad down. “There’s nothing wrong with
him. He doesn’t need to get
fixed
.”

Dad looks between Jackson
and me, shaking his head with a mix of resignation and frustration. Almost a
minute passes before he speaks. “Fine. You’re both adults now, you can live
your lives how you want.” Directing his attention back to me, he adds, “But
that doesn’t mean I agree with any of this, and I sure as hell don’t want to
ever see you boys sleeping in the same bed again. Ever.” I can’t tell if that’s
a threat or not, but it sure sounds like one.

With a last look at me, he
walks out of the room, slamming the front door for real this time. Jackson gets
up too, moving silently toward the stairs. As I watch his retreating form
disappear up the steps, the nearly incapacitating apprehension I felt during
the conversation gives way to outrage at how Dad is handling this. My brother
deserves better than that. The man might be my father, but my loyalty will
never lie anywhere else but with Jackson.

“Jackson,” I call after him,
but he doesn’t respond. Sprinting up the stairs, I catch him at the entrance to
his room. “Jackson,” I repeat.

He stops and turns. “Don’t,”
he says. “Just… don’t.” His eyes sink toward the floor as he closes the door.
The click of the latch snaps into place with a certain finality.

Pushing my way out the front
door, I run from the house. I want to leave it all behind. I want to go
somewhere that I can forget it all. And that somewhere is a huge flat object
that marks the tip of the property. Laying myself onto the cool stone, I stare
up into the sky. The days of stifling humidity have abated, leaving sunny
afternoons and cool breezes that remind me of home. Why can’t I help Jackson
through this? I want to be there for him however I can, but he doesn’t seem to want
that at all.

Staring up through the gap
in the trees above me, I watch the clouds drifting past, wishing I could jump
aboard and just sail away with them, to let them take me somewhere life is
simpler. But only if I could bring Jackson with.