I fold the suit into my backpack gently, careful not to crease the delicate fabric. I swing the backpack over my shoulder and gently push open the bedroom door. For an old home, the stairs don’t squeak much when you walk on them. Quietly, I make my way to the front door and out into the yard without Peyton noticing.
Even after two years apart, this town is all too familiar. I navigate using Brandon’s directions, walking down the sun-stained sidewalks. Packs of dead leaves roam the streets, blowing against the concrete. There’s a sharp chill in the air, but it keeps me invigorated as I walk.
Now, the next few events happen rather quickly. But this is how time works with Brandon. One thing leads to another; soon enough, you’ve lost track of how or when you got there.
First, I arrive at the concert venue, a giant drain pipe hidden out in the forest. The pipe is an enormous cavern of cement. It was mostly used by teens to make out or smoke, but tonight Brandon is using it to shred on his guitar. The music echoes down the pipe, reverberating in the concrete. It’s terrible. His fingers are sloppy on the cords, and the guitar screeches more than it sings. But all the same, I am ecstatic.
But then there’s an encore. And after the encore, there’s a speech. And once the speech is done, I am swept away to an after-party. And now I am sitting in Brandon’s living room, chatting with people I’ve never met before.
My plan was to leave the concert by 6:15 and be at the interview by 6:30. A few excuses later, and I wouldn't have let Brandon think I was lame while also scoring a job. But then I look down at my watch, and it's 9:00. I reach over and take out my phone: ten missed calls from Peyton.
I jump off the couch, instantly getting lightheaded and stumbling back. The party begins to distort into a colorful haze of people and lights. Brandon struts up to me, holding two plastic red cups.
“Wow, where’s the fire?” Brandon laughs. “Here, have a drink,”
“I don’t drink-” I begin, but he shoves the cup against my lips. I cough on the alcohol as it burns my throat. I smack the cup from Brandon’s hand, sending the beer splattering across the pale carpet.
“What the hell, man!?” Brandon snaps.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, trying to head for the door. Brandon grabs hold of my jacket, holding me back.
“Nah, nah, you’ve got to clean this up, man,” Brandon mumbles drunkenly, pointing down at the brown spot soaking into the carpet.
“I’ll come back later, ok?” I snap. “I have to go,”
Brandon balls his hand into a fist and takes a swing at my head. He misses by a significant amount and falls forward. He crashes into a wooden stand holding up his record player, knocking both over. Many of the party-goers laugh or cheer, gathering around him. I stare at him for a moment. As a child, I had seen Brandon as a mature, anti-authoritarian who held all the confidence in the world. But now he’s a sniveling, drunken mess lying on the carpet by the beer stain.
I reach the door and let myself out. I race down the road just as the street lights begin to flicker on.
. . .
It’s hard to go inside. I find myself wavering on the porch, my hand limply holding the door knob. I take a deep breath and push open the door. Peyton’s waiting for me, sitting at the dining room table.
“So, what happened?” he asks, exhausted.
“Funny story,” I try to play it off. “Brandon was throwing this farewell concert for his band. It’s not like I wanted to go, but he pressured me, and I-”
“You know you lost the job, right?” Peyton says sternly, glaring me down. “I almost lost my own job because I kept vouching for you.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, walking toward him. “You know how Brandon is-”
“I do. And that’s why I stay away from him. I admired him in the fifth grade, but I know better now! And you should too!” Peyton says.
“Whatever,” I spit, walking toward the stairs. “I’m going to go read the last letter,”
“Why do you even care about those old letters?” Peyton grits.
I go to speak, but the words get lost in my throat every time I do. My body feels hot with embarrassment, and my face is red with anger.
“I know why, even if you don’t,” Peyton says. “It’s a distraction. Because, for some reason, you refuse to live in the real world. You always have. And somehow, by reading these letters, you get to live another life-to judge someone else’s actions, so you don’t have to look at your own. It’s because you’re selfish.”
“Then why did you even help me in the first place?” I snap. “If I’m so selfish, why did you let me live here!?”
“We were friends. And I wanted to be friends again.” Peyton says, holding himself.
“Bullshit,” I swear. “We were hardly friends. We were Brandon’s friends.”
Peyton refuses to meet my eye, staring down at the floor. He’s trying not to cry.
“Is that how you remember it?” he asks. “Because that’s not how I remember it. I remember looking forward to seeing you, not Brandon; I remember thinking about you, not Brandon; I remember my best friend being you, not Brandon,” he says, sobbing. “I liked you, not Brandon.”
“...Like?” I repeat with an awkward grin. Peyton gives me a tired, knowing look. Suddenly the blood runs cold through my veins.
“...Did…I did like you.” Peyton corrects himself, wiping the tears from his eyes.
"But you…you dated Claire. You like girls. You’re not-” I chuckle but am cut.
“Yes, I am. And I have been for a long time.” Peyton sighs. “But yet again, you were too selfish to ever notice. Claire and I never even dated. We were just friends. You came up with that little subplot all by yourself, just like you’re doing now with these letters.”
“But why me? Why would you like someone like me?” I ask.
“You have good qualities, Will. You just choose to bury them beneath all of your bad ones.” Peyton explains. “When I saw you stepping off that bus, I really thought that maybe leaving had changed you. I thought that maybe, with a little help, you could become the person I always knew you were.” Peyton drops his head to his chest. “But I’m done helping. I want you out of the house by next week.”
“What?” I snap. “But what about the letters?”
“Really?” Peyton says, his voice hoarse. A stream of tears falls down from both of his eyes, meeting at his chin. “I say all of that, and all you can think about is the damn letters?” He goes to speak but chooses to shut his mouth. Instead, he tosses something onto the table and trudges upstairs.
I walk tentatively up to the table and look down at what he threw. It’s a Captain Kaboom action figure, still in the box. There’s a sticky note stuck to the front of the box, “Congratulations. I knew you could do it”. The text is written in a speech bubble to make it look like Captain Kaboom is saying it himself.
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