Tell me to Fight Read online

I’m the one setting boundaries, or the lack thereof.

  “Why were you in my room?” I ask.

  My voice is soft but firm.

  This conversation isn’t going to be about me answering questions for once, it’s going to be about him.

  “I don’t know,” he says after a moment. “I guess I came here looking for something.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “I know.”

  “No, you don’t,” I insist. “Otherwise, we wouldn't be having this conversation.”

  “I’m sorry, okay?” Owen says. “What else do you want me to say?”

  “I don’t know, but it doesn't sound like you’re sorry. Not at all,” I say, shaking my head.

  I run my finger over the grain of the dresser. The wood is smooth and polished. On the surface it looks pristine. But when you look a little bit closer, when you touch it, you can feel it. Some would say that these kind of imperfections make it look real, but I would argue why does life have to be all about faults and deficiencies and mistakes? Or is that just my life?

  Owen and I talk for a bit but the conversation just goes in circles.

  He apologizes over and over yet none of his apologies feel genuine.

  Even if they were, I don’t care.

  I’m tired.

  I’m sick of being here with him.

  Even though I just got back from an arduous hike, I go out again. The sun is still high in the sky beating down on my already tired body. I take a few sips from my water bottle, but my thirst is only quenched temporarily.

  “What am I going to do?” I ask myself out loud.

  The street is deserted except for one car somewhere far in the distance.

  I keep walking.

  There is something about movement that clears my head.

  I want to go to my room and curl up in my bed but his presence in my room has tainted my sacred space.

  It’s not that I don’t love Owen anymore.

  He’s still my brother.

  It’s just that I can’t bear to live with him.

  It’s a two-bedroom house and yet when he’s home, which is pretty often, he seems to suck up all of the oxygen in the place.

  A lot of that has to do with his drinking.

  At first, we drank to celebrate.

  Then he drank because he’s bored.

  And now? Now, I suspect he drinks because he has to.

  My foot collides with the pavement in an odd way and I trip, nearly losing my balance.

  Suddenly, it hits me.

  We came all the way out here, three thousand miles away, to start a new life but neither of us has.

  Normal lives involve jobs and friends and some sort of regular rhythm to the day.

  Perhaps one of the reasons why he’s so bored and why he’s drinking so much is that he doesn’t have anything else to do.

  He likes to read and when he was in prison that was pretty much all he had.

  And now? He needs more.

  But what about me?

  I could try to get another content writing job or some other educational writing position.

  Or maybe I can work in a tutoring center?

  Despite all of my education, that was never really what I wanted to do and now having some money and no actual need to get that job, I don’t really want to do it.

  Still, I need to do something.

  But what?

  9

  Olive

  When he makes amends…

  I brace myself for more conflict when the sun starts to set and I have no choice but to come back home.

  I take a deep breath before I walk through the door and am pleasantly surprised to find Owen in the kitchen cooking.

  The table in the dining room is fully set for two including placements, wine glasses, plates, utensils, and napkins.

  I had no idea we even had placements or napkins.

  “Where did you find all this stuff?”

  “In the cabinet right here.” He points to the bottom row right next to the dishwasher.

  I look at the stove and see that he’s making salmon, cauliflower rice, and asparagus.

  “So, what’s the occasion?” I ask.

  “Just wanted to formally apologize for what I did and start again. Blank page and all.”

  I nod.

  After changing out of my dirty clothes, I come out to him plating my dinner.

  He pours me a glass of wine and tops off his own.

  I’m not sure how much he has had to drink today but he doesn’t seem as lethargic and intoxicated as normal.

  The food tastes delicious and I appreciate the effort.

  When he smacks his lips proud of his own creation, I laugh.

  “There you go,” he says. “I missed that.”

  “What?”

  “You laughing. I feel like we haven’t laughed in ages.”

  “We haven’t,” I agree.

  We take a few more bites.

  I take another sip of wine.

  “I’ve been thinking about something,” I say with hesitation.

  He looks up at me and waits.

  “We’re in this new place, new town, new coast to start our new lives. But we’re not really doing that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it feels a lot like we’re just here on…vacation,” I pause, waiting for the right word.

  He gives me a slight nod to keep going.

  “Doesn’t it?” I ask. “I mean, we don’t really do anything. We don’t work, we don’t have friends…I think that’s why we’re having these issues.”

  I intentionally avoid using the word “you” even though that’s what I mean.

  It’s not that I don’t have issues but my issue right now is mainly him.

  “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that myself,” Owen says, rubbing his chin. “It’s a little boring to not do anything all day, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, a bit.”

  “It’s not like we exactly need money but sometimes that poses even more issues. Like, suddenly, we’re forced to decide what it is that we really want to do with our lives.”

  Owen finishes one last bite and leaves his fork and knife on the plate.

  “What kind of job do you want to get?” he asks.

  I sit back in my chair trying to figure out what to do with my life.

  That question is so simple and yet I’ve never really given it much thought.

  Not in any significant way.

  It was always so important for me to get good grades and get into the right college and do the right internship and get the best job that I never really stopped to think about whether or not I ever wanted to do that job.

  I always defined myself so much in opposition to where I came from that it’s difficult to think of myself as someone outside of my past.

  Of course, I will never really be free of it, but I am no longer that person either.

  Having enough money to live on for a very long time sounds like an ideal situation.

  Yet, it brings up other issues, especially for me, someone who doesn’t go out much and doesn’t really like to party.

  What is it that I should do with my life?

  “I have no idea,” I say, shaking my head.

  “What about math? That’s what you went to school for.”

  “And I still like it as a field. But to teach it? Or to write inane test questions that conform to some standard? No, that’s not for me.”

  “You think you’d want to pursue a higher degree in it?” he asks.

  I tilt my head back.

  That’s what I used to want to do.

  I got my entry-level job to save up some money and pursue a graduate degree but I never got around to it.

  Hmm, that’s an idea.

  Maybe not a bad one at all.

  “What about you?” I ask.

  “I have no fucking clue,” Owen says after a long pause. “I used to think about all of these things I wanted to do when I wa
s in prison but with a record like mine, there was no way I would ever get hired in any of those fields.”

  “Well, maybe that’s what’s really good about what we did. You’re someone else now. New name. No record.”

  “No degree,” Owen points out.

  “Actually…you’re right,” I say, raising my eyebrows.

  He narrows his eyes trying to read mine.

  “Okay, hear me out,” I say. “We have money. You have a new name and identity. So, why not enroll in some classes? Why not get a bachelor’s degree under your new name?”

  “Whaaaat?” Owen says, laughing.

  “It’s not as ridiculous as it sounds,” I say. “I mean, you can study whatever you want and you’ll have about four years to figure things out. Besides, then you’ll have an actual degree that you’ve earned.”

  Owen gets up abruptly and walks over to the kitchen counter.

  I wait for him to come back but he doesn’t.

  After a few moments, I follow him.

  His shoulders are tense and moving up and down as he inhales deeply.

  I watch for a little bit until I realize what’s going on.

  He’s…crying.

  “Owen, are you…” I put my hand on his shoulder.

  He turns away from me trying to hide his tears.

  “It’s okay,” I whisper. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

  I wrap my arms around his shoulders and hold him until he stops sobbing.

  “I’m sorry about that,” he says, pulling away from me. “I’m such a fool.”

  “No, you’re not. But what’s going on?”

  “I’ve always wanted to go to college. While I was locked up, that’s all I ever thought about. But then I know how much tuition is here and it’s not even at the most affordable schools. So I could never justify it.”

  I shake my head, not understanding what he means.

  “Well, what was the point of wasting all of that money on school if I could never use that degree in real life? It was going to be a waste. With my record, I’d never get any job with real prospects. What company would hire me?”

  “But that’s the thing then, right?” I say, smiling out the corner of my lips.

  “Yeah, that’s when it first hit me,” Owen says. “That’s why I got so emotional. Now, with this new identity and the money, I can do whatever I want.”

  “That’s right, you can,” I say, patting him on his back.

  “Wow,” he mumbles to himself, looking down at the floor.

  A wave of relief washes over me.

  Maybe this is it.

  Maybe this is what he needed all along to get that excitement for life back into him.

  We collect the dishes and clear the table talking about everything that he could study and everything that he could be.

  I am still not sure how it would work if he, for instance, wanted to get a medical degree or anything that required a license, but for now I am just overwhelmed to see him be so happy.

  “This is going to be great, Owen. This is going to be so good for you,” I say, giving him another hug.

  “I think so, too,” he says. “Now, how about we celebrate with a bit of ice cream?”

  10

  Olive

  When we celebrate…

  Owen is a master at ice cream.

  To him, it’s all about the combination of flavors; a scoop of vanilla with a scoop of caramel, topped with M&Ms and chocolate sauce.

  “Are you sure you don’t want this?” he asks.

  I shake my head.

  I’m not eating dairy but I make an exception for tonight and for a little bit of ice cream.

  But I draw the line at his concoction.

  “I can’t believe you’re eating all of that,” I say.

  “It’s delicious,” he insists.

  I put one scoop of chocolate into my bowl and eat a spoonful before sitting down on the couch.

  When Owen plops down opposite me, the faux leather couch compresses pushing me upward.

  I put my bare feet up on the fluffy ottoman and relish its softness.

  I take the remote and start my latest Netflix binge.

  We watch for a little while enjoying both our presence and the silence.

  I just need to give him more of a chance, I decide. Getting out of prison is a lot like coming back from war, at least according to the articles I read online.

  People come out suffering from PTSD and anxiety and they have trouble adjusting to life on the outside.

  On top of that, he didn’t exactly come out into a stable situation.

  Instead of coming home to me, meeting with his parole officer and getting a job, following a curfew and a laid out set of rules, we went on the run.

  It probably saved his life but now it’s time to do what he was supposed to do.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask, turning to him. “About everything?”

  “Good. Relieved actually,” he says, licking his spoon. “I think I’ve just been a little lost. And I’m sorry that I have been such an asshole.”

  I nod.

  His apology is nice to hear.

  “I was thinking about what we talked about and maybe school is a good option. It will give me a schedule of what to do and some focus. Besides, I really love to learn.”

  “I know you do,” I say, putting my hand on his leg. “It’s nice to see this spark again.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, in prison you would always write me about what you’d been reading about and you had all of these ideas about philosophy and life. And when you came out…” My voice trails off.

  He waits for me to continue.

  “Well, when you came out you seemed to lose that.”

  Owen hangs his head and buries his fingers in his thick hair.

  It has grown a lot since he came out, and he no longer looks so much like a skinhead.

  “I was just lost,” he says after a moment. “At first, I was just trying to get over the coma and everything that happened—“

  “Yes, I’m sure it was so traumatic for you,” I say. “Please don’t think that I am writing any of that off.”

  “No, not at all. I’m just trying to explain what’s been going on with me.”

  Now, it’s my turn to wait for him to continue.

  “I wasn’t sure who I was supposed to be out here,” he says, exhaling deeply. “After all of those years on the inside, I knew who I was in there but out in the free world? I felt like I was walking in a vacuum. Like there was no gravity holding me down. That’s probably why so many inmates make bad decisions right after they are released. This feeling of weightlessness is exhilarating at first but then you start to feel sick to your stomach. Nauseous.”

  I’ve never thought of it that way.

  I mean, I knew that living in prison with all of its rules and regulations would be hard but I didn’t quite realize how hard it would be.

  “You got some ice cream on your cheek,” Owen says, turning toward me.

  I wipe something off, but I miss.

  He points to his face to show me where it is, but I miss the spot again.

  He starts to laugh.

  Scooting over, he leans closer to me and runs his thumb gently right below my lower lip.

  “Thanks,” I say, pulling away but his mouth is suddenly on mine.

  He doesn’t wait for me to respond before pushing his body against me.

  “Wait, what are you doing?” I mumble, trying to push him away.

  “I’ve been waiting to do that for so long, Olive,” he mumbles.

  It’s almost as if he hasn’t heard me.

  “No, stop,” I say louder this time, pushing him away from me as hard as I can.

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I love you, Olive.”

  I get up from the couch and straighten out my clothes.

  Those three simple words.

  They came out of Owen
’s mouth so easily.

  Why couldn’t Nicholas say that?

  Why couldn’t I say it to him?

  “What about that girl you slept with?”

  “What about her?”

  “I thought you liked her.”

  “I do. But I love you.”

  “Owen, you’re my brother,” I say, shaking my head.

  “No, I’m not,” he says, his voice getting deeper and more forceful. “The sooner you get that through your head the better.”

  “Don’t talk to me like that!” I snap back.

  I stand here for a second, at a loss as to what to do.

  Then I grab my bowl and bring it to the sink.

  I open the faucet to try to tune out this whole thing, both what he did and what he said. But then anger starts to rise up within me.

  “Why did you have to do this?” I ask, turning around. “We were having such a nice dinner and everything was good for once.”

  He glares at me.

  “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t you get it? Don’t you get that I have been in love with you for a long time?”

  “I don’t think about you like that, Owen.”

  “Why not? Because I’m not some con man that lies to you all the time and makes you feel like shit.”

  “It has nothing to do with Nicholas. You’re my brother and nothing is going to change that.”

  “Oh, yeah?” he says, taking it like a challenge.

  Before I realize what’s happening, he has me pinned against the wall, pressing his body into mine.

  His hands are all over me and down in between my legs.

  His tongue is in my mouth.

  I try to push him away but he doesn’t give me an inch to budge.

  “Get off me,” I mumble, squeezing my legs shut, but when he presses his forearm against my neck I struggle to breathe.

  I gasp for air as my windpipe closes from the pressure.

  “How about now? You still think of me as your brother?” he whispers into my ear.

  Cold sweat runs down my body.

  He releases his hand and I start to cough.

  He puts his lips on mine again.

  I push him away and this time it works.

  He takes a step away from me.

  There’s a sad puppy expression on his face as if I’ve done something that hurt him to his core.