Touch the Sky (Free Fall Book 1) (4 page)

“
W
e need groceries
, which means you need to get your ass dressed,” Ezra says to me on the other side of the door. I’m currently strewn across my bed wearing only a pair of raggedy sweats. He hits the right tone to sound exactly like an annoying older brother. “Can’t carry everything back by myself.”

“Coming,” I say, pressing the end button on the YouTube video I’m watching about flying a single engine prop plane. I’ve pretty much been in this same position all weekend long.

We make small talk about the rain that SoCal is surprisingly expecting this week as we trudge two blocks to the Whole Foods store where we normally buy our supplies for the week. It’s hard enough getting a parking spot anyplace in Hollywood so we walk everywhere we can.

Without saying a word, I recognize that wary look on Ezra’s face. He thinks I’ve been brooding too much, even though I know I’ve turned the corner. But it’s about more than that. He lives with me and recognizes my cycles, and even though I told him my fat lip was an accident from a two-by-four at the job, he probably thinks I’m somehow being careless again.

I run my tongue over my lip wondering if I should confide in him about Lucas. But honestly, I need to figure this out by myself. I’ve done everything in my power to resist showing up at his bar again and confronting him. What good would that do?

Whimpering like some snot-nosed kid into his neck, I already made a huge ass out of myself. I’ve always been emotional with my highs and lows but I’m a tactile person too. Sometimes I crave human contact; doesn’t everybody?

Maybe not.
Don’t fucking touch me.

I move down the fruit aisle, looking for the best value on apples and pears, while Ezra places some romaine lettuce in the cart. He definitely eats healthier than me, so I save my junk food obsession for work lunches with the guys.

“You want turkey?” I thump Ezra’s shoulder as I pass him on the way to the deli and he nods. At least
he
doesn’t cringe when I touch him. I’ve always been like this…needing contact. Who knows why? Maybe because I always feel so hollow inside.

I could blame my neediness on my parents rarely showing me affection and then I remember how significant Lucas’s mother was in his life. My mom only seemed to care about how my father was feeling—he always set the mood in the house. And when she had a string of miscarriages after using the best pregnancy methods money could buy, she fell into a funk that lasted for weeks. I was right in front of her face, but she never gave me the time of day. Except to harp on me about my grades.

Like I don’t have enough shit to deal with, I make it worse by throwing myself at the very guy I let down, the only true friend I had at the time. We may have only corresponded for a year of our lives but it felt like so much longer.

When I think of the way Lucas pulled away from me, damn, it makes me wonder if there’s something more to it. I hadn’t even considered the possibility that he was seeing someone and wouldn’t want me to touch him for that reason alone. Why does that twist me up inside? Haven’t I only wanted him to be happy?

You’ll just leave again like everybody else.

Had his boyfriend walked out on him? Did his mom fall off the wagon again? He’d been so concerned about her back then. Fuck.

I hadn’t known how I’d feel upon seeing him. I didn’t even count on being attracted to him. All I knew was that I had a friend who understood me and at the time, that was everything.

I don’t want this. I don’t trust you.

Would he finally understand if I told him what happened? Would he think I’m some kind of head case? That had been my biggest fear, back then. I had only wanted him to see the better parts of me.

What counts now is the truth, no matter the outcome. Even if he walks away. Maybe it will provide closure for the both of us.

That’s why I pulled up his old email, banking on the idea that he still used the same account.

But I haven’t heard from him, so it’s time to move on. Chances are the city is large enough that I’ll never run into him again.

“My sister’s visiting in a couple of days,” Ezra says on our way home as we each carry four reusable bags.

“Yeah? That’s cool,” I reply, struggling to make small talk. I’m so far inside my own head.

“Did I mention she finally got her psychology license?” he asks as if it’s only general conversation. But I know better.

“Nope, you didn’t tell me.” I glance at him in my side view, my jaw clenching.

“She sees a lot of patients who suffer from depre—”

“Stop right there.” Damn, my chest is tight. Not this shit again. “I already have a doctor, okay? Just haven’t been able to afford him or the meds.”

“But he’s back home right?” he asks, stepping around a group of young girls in front of a trendy boutique. “You need a referral in the city, and now that you finally have health insurance…”

Just fucking great. I don’t need somebody to micromanage my life again, no matter how well intentioned they are.

“Fuck, who are you, my dad?” There’s a good reason why I left my overbearing parents behind. I need to figure out my own damn life.

“I’m your roommate, and hopefully after a year of living together, your friend,” Ezra says, his voice softening. “I care about what happens to you and—”

“Maybe
you
need to see a shrink about all that pot smoking you do. Maybe you just think I’m depressed but really I’m stoned—contact high, dude.”

He rolls his eyes before he chuckles. Yeah, I realize my response isn’t realistic, but I didn’t know what else to say to get him off my case. “Fair enough. We’re all a work in progress.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” I mumble.

“Just…promise you’ll think about it?” he asks as he keys in the code to our four-story walk-up.

I know he has a valid point, but I’m doing okay on my own. I’m coping. “I will.”

After we put away the groceries, I lock myself in my room and log on to the Embry-Riddle site for my on-line aeronautical class. My dream is to fly, but lessons and courses are expensive. Except I also know deep down that no way in hell will anybody give me a license with my mental health background. Not unless it’s properly managed. And even then there’s a chance it’ll never happen.

So for now, I’m taking one class a semester on my own damn dime. And that feels fucking liberating.

I click over to my inbox and see an unread message waiting.

My heart thumps against my ribcage.

Gabriel,

You didn’t deserve my fist in your face.

I was wrong to hit you and you should never accept that kind of treatment from anybody. You didn’t deserve that. Never.

I’m sorry.

Lucas

I
write him back immediately
, feeling lighter than I have all week.

L
ucas
,

Thanks. I appreciate you saying that. It means a lot to me. And I don’t…or won’t accept that kind of treatment. I won’t be with anybody who’s like my dad. I promise you, okay?

Can we talk? I know you’re pissed and I understand that, but there are things you should know. Things you always should have known.

Gabriel

H
e replies with a simple word
, but one that feels anything but easy. “Yes,” followed by his address.

W
e set
up a time and day for Gabriel to come over to my place. I’m still not sure why I invited him over. Maybe I feel like I owe him for punching him. Maybe it’s because even though he was only in my life—if you can call it being
in
my life—for a year, so much of who I am feels entwined with him.

Or maybe it’s because I’m an asshole and I want to tell him what happened when we stopped talking. There could be a part of me who wants him to feel some of the guilt and pain I’ve felt since then.

The knock feels loud, almost like he’s banging on the door when I know he’s not. I grab my sketchbook and shove it under my pillow. He knows I want to make buildings. We used to talk about that, how he wanted to fly and I wanted to create the world’s tallest buildings. He’s the only person in my life besides Mom who ever knew.

When he knocks a second time, I force myself off the bed. Most of the time I use it as my couch. It’s more comfortable than the lumpy thrift store special that I call a sofa.

My stomach feels like it’s been lined with cement, making it hard and heavy, but I try not to focus on that as I take the short journey to the door.

I pull it open and see Gabriel standing there wearing jeans, Vans checkerboard sneakers, and a black hoodie. This time he’s dressed the way I always imagined him, instead of in those worn work boots and that flannel shirt from the bar.

I can’t help but notice how thin his fingers are as he pushes his long bangs out of his face. His nails are clean, dull, and it looks like he has a couple callouses on his hands. There’s a little spot on his lip that’s still puffy and red from where I punched him, and my cement gut gets heavier. “Hey…thanks for letting me come over.”

I shrug and then stand aside so he can come in.

“It’s a nice place,” he says, and I can’t help but chuckle at that.

“No, it’s not. It’s a piece of shit, but that’s okay. I don’t play well with others so the roommate thing wasn’t a good idea for me. The only thing I can afford on my own is this place.” I close the door behind him, possibly a little too hard because he flinches. Guilt burns through me. Is he always this skittish, or is he just nervous? Hell, he could be scared of me. I wouldn’t blame him. Not after his past and what I did.

“Shit.” I move my hand to adjust my beanie before I remember I’m not wearing it. Messing with it is a nervous habit for me. “You didn’t deserve for me to punch you,” I tell him again, “no matter what, and I’m pissed as hell at myself for doing it. You should hit me back.”

Gabriel’s fair brows pull together. “I’m not hitting you back.”

“You should.”

“I’m not.”

“I would.”

“I’m not surprised.”

And then we both sort of laugh and I wonder if he’s thinking talking with each other feels natural, the way I am. “Have a seat.” I nod toward the couch. “It’s not very comfortable, but it holds me up, so that’s all that matters.”

Gabriel sits down, but I don’t. I can’t. If I do, I don’t think I’ll be able to keep my leg from bouncing like crazy, and I don’t want him to know I’m nervous.

We’re both silent. He’s the one who asked if we could talk and he’s the one who said there are things I should know, so I’m waiting for him to start. Or maybe I’m just being weak and making excuses.

“Did you do it?” he asks. “Did you tell your mom back then or did you wait until later?”

It’s the worst place he could start and automatically all my walls come up. I’m an impenetrable fortress that no one can tear down.

I don’t want to tell him that even though in my head I knew my mom wouldn’t care, I didn’t have the balls to tell her until I knew he told his parents. That I wanted to let the guy with the asshole dad spill his soul before I did, the dude with the mom whose biggest problems were being poor and unable to keep herself from getting lost in a bottle.

It was for her, I’d always told myself. She had enough on her plate that she shouldn’t have to worry about a son who was gay but didn’t have the balls to admit it. She shouldn’t have had to worry about what it would have been like for me if people in our neighborhood found out, because in our shitty neighborhood, it would have fucking mattered.

They were excuses and I hate myself for them. “No, I didn’t tell her. We should hurry up and do this. I have to work later tonight. What do I need to know, Gabriel? You said there was something I need to know.”

He fidgets, and for the first time I notice he has circles under his eyes. He looks tired, like he didn’t sleep very well for a few nights.

Gabriel lets out a deep breath, wrings his hands together and then rubs them on his pants. I stand there watching him, trying to figure out what he’s going to say, what could have possibly kept him from never messaging me again. It wouldn’t have mattered if he wasn’t ready to tell his parents. I would have understood. I’d just wanted his friendship. I’d needed it.

Gabriel pushes to his feet, walks around the small room, and then stops with his back to me. “I didn’t message you because I couldn’t. I was locked away.”

“Pfft.” I can’t help the scoff that falls out of my mouth. What would he have done to get locked up? I was the troublemaker, the fucked up kid, not him. “Why would you have gone to juvie?”
Like me…

He pauses. His breath hitches. “Not that kind of locked away. I was institutionalized against my will, Lucas. They found me hovering on the edge of a fucking bridge, a manic episode due to bipolar disorder.”

My stomach is all cement now, a heavy wrecking ball, pulling me under. My hands tremble. Maybe my heart does too. Gabriel has bipolar disorder? I have to admit, I don’t know a lot about it, but I know enough to be worried. “What? How? Why? And what do you mean, hanging from a bridge?” I can’t settle on what to say or what to ask. Did he try to kill himself?

Gabriel takes the decision out of my hand when he turns around and says, “Why didn’t I tell you? Because of the look on your face right now. The pity mixed with fear in your eyes. I just wanted to be like everyone else with you. I didn’t want to be different. I wanted you to just know me as Gabriel, not the guy who gets manic highs and devastating lows.” He shrugs. “Stupid, I guess.”

But it’s not stupid. Yeah, there’s a part of me that’s hurt by it, when I don’t have a right to be. We were each other’s rock. We told each other things no one else knew. He was the first person in the world to know that I’m gay and the only person I’ve ever talked to about my mom’s drinking. Still, I get where he’s coming from. “No…no, it’s not stupid. I…”

There are too many thoughts in my head to sort through. I don’t know how to let them out, which to choose first. What I do know is nothing is what I thought it was. And as much as I thought I wanted him to feel bad knowing what happened with my mom, now I know I can’t tell him. Not all the details at least, because somehow, for some reason, he was dangling from a fucking bridge and they locked him away.

This whole time I’ve been angry at him about it.

Gabriel has bipolar disorder.

Gabriel was institutionalized.

His tired blue, almost gray eyes hold mine, try to penetrate me, and I suddenly need more. I want all the answers, want to make sure he’s okay. “Tell me, Gabriel. Tell me everything.”