“Sorry, I…” I rub at my forehead. I’m shaking. I’m not the right person to hug and comfort him right now, the tug in my head telling me to go back to cleaning so strong it almost throws me back to my knees. “Had to clean. Come on.”
“Where’s Nate? And Syd?”
“They’ll be back soon.” I grab his arm and pull him out of the bathroom and back to the sofa. I sit him down and pull the blanket over his legs. “Just… rest, okay? They’ll be back any second. Watch some TV.”
“West…” He’s giving me a strange look, but I don’t want to look into it too deep, don’t wanna interpret it.
“I need to clean,” I tell him, more gently. “Call me if you need something.”
But no sooner have I returned to my knees and to my ritual, he’s back, standing at the door, gripping the fame in a white-knuckled hold.
“West. Come sit with me.”
“Goddammit. Kash, don’t… don’t do this. I can’t take care of you.”
“Yes, you can.”
But I can’t. I can’t. “Gimme a sec, dude. I just need to finish here.”
“You’ll never finish, West.” He says it sadly. “Don’t you see? Not without getting to the bottom of what’s hurting you. Not without help.”
He comes to kneel beside me, breaking up my thoughts. I lift my soapy hand to his face, and I feel I could shake out of my fucking skin.
“What is wrong?” he asks again. “You can tell me, West. I’m so sorry.”
“What for?”
“For leaving, when you needed me, even if it wasn’t by choice. But I’m here now.” He puts a hand on my shoulder, and I’m not sure if he’s trying to comfort me or steadying himself so he doesn’t keel over. He looks way too pale, and I should be getting him to bed, but I can’t move. “You can talk to me.”
“You’re back, that’s all that matters. I’m the one who’s sorry.”
“But what the hell for? What triggered this today?”
“I dunno. Stress gets my mind in a twist and you showed up and..”. I wince. “Damn, that’s not what I meant. I’m so fucking happy you’re here. But I can’t turn off my mind and…” I don’t fucking know how to stop it. The rituals. The obsession. “You’re back. You’ll take care of Nate and Syd. You don’t need me. I fuck things up. I get people killed. I’m no good.”
“No way, West. You can’t leave. I won’t let you.”
“Kash—”
“I can’t do it without you,” he says, voice cracking. His face twists as if in pain. “Without all of you. I came back, fought with all I had to come back even when I could barely remember my own name. You don’t get to walk away without a fight, man. And if you don’t fight, then I’ll fight on your behalf.”
I can’t say anything, his words making my eyes sting.
“Why do you feel so guilty?” Kash asks quietly. “Is it about your mother’s death?”
I jerk.
“I knew it then. We were supposed to talk about this. Tell me, West.”
A dim room. Della, lying in a pool of vomit.
Grandpa yelling at me, spit flying from his lips.
His belt slithering out of its loops, cracking at me, on me.
Guilt. So much guilt, a boulder of it crushing me through the floor.
Movement out of the corner of my eye, a different image superimposed on the memory. It’s Nate and Sydney entering the bathroom, sitting down beside us. Nate’s arm comes around my back, and Sydney takes my hand.