Page 2 of Keep Me

“Not the birds, silly,” he said as a breath against my cheek. “You. You’re my little hummingbird.”

I tried not to think about the beautiful, irony-flavored tragedy that was.

He pulled back, stood up, and stepped away, and finally our eyes met. For a second, we looked at each other, then my gaze dropped down to his lips, and the rich brown beard that framed them. He stood tall and strong in front of me, the sunlight landing on him in a particularly flattering way. He had filled out since high school, making him seem steadier. More secure.

And just like Zane pauses me, he floods me, too. With a golden peace so warm that for a second, I become golden too. My love for Zane always changes. It grows, it expands, it stretches, it compounds. My love for Zane always changes. But it is always the same.

Zane orbits me like a moon who chooses to remain in gravity instead of freedom. I see the beauty in that every day. But me? He is the sun and I am only earth, with mountains, seas, tragedy, and miracles. I have no choice. And I know. I know he should not be the sun. But like I said, I have changed but I am the same, and I am trying not to lie so much. To myself, or everyone else.

“Where’s your dad?” Zane asked me, his brown eyes drifting toward the windows, searching for a glimpse of him.

“Cooking,” I told him. That’s why we were here. Once a month, Zane drives me back to our hometown and we have dinner with my dad.

It was surprising how naturally that habit seemed to form. It was my dad that started it. When Zane and I first went to college, he would drive the two hours to our dorm, and then we would try to find a restaurant that wasn’t crowded with drunken college kids. I appreciated it. I saw the effort my dad was making. He was making a choice, like Zane, to love me. Not an obligation. Choice.

As nice as that was, I hesitated every time he came. Zane noticed it, of course, and I’m sure my dad noticed too. It just felt… off, in a way. Like he did not belong there. He was a part of this life. Not that one. This one. Here, in this town, where these memories live.

So, naturally, Zane suggested that we make the trip instead of him. He told me it was because he would be able to see his parents more often. That was both true, and nice. But I think it was really because he saw my hesitation and made the choice to take it away. As Zane does. As he always does.

“What are you kids doing out here?”

Zane and I both turned to look toward the sliding door. My Dad stood there, framed by the glass like a portrait of a man who had never known the meaning of the word small. In the city, in his glass-and-steel offices, he was a titan. A man whose voice could command a boardroom into silence and whose presence was felt before he even entered a room. He was all sharp edges and expensive wool. But here, in the soft, fading light of the porch, the silhouette was different. He was wearing an old sweater that hung a little too loose on his shoulders, his hair still damp and unstyled from the shower. He looked at us with a curious sort of tenderness that still felt new and constantly recalibrating, like a high-power lens trying to focus on something moving constantly, like a hummingbird. He was powerful, yes, but in this house, the power did not belong to him. I don’t think it belonged to anyone.

He was trying to parent a girl he just met. I was trying to keep my arms pinned against my sides instead of pushing him away. Neither was stronger than the other.

“Hey Tom,” Zane greeted him, loosely like they were old friends.

They weren’t, not really. They were polite and welcoming to each other. But there was bad blood there and it was silly to pretend otherwise. Zane would never forgive him for the role he played in the bad things. My dad was painfully aware that Zane was the only reason I survived the bad things.

My dad cleared his throat, his hand lingering on the handle of the sliding door. “Zane. You’re back early. Hope your folks are okay. I was just about to pull the steaks off.”

“Traffic was light,” Zane said, stepping toward the door with that easy confidence that always made the room feel smaller. “I don’t mind a medium-rare that’s sat for a minute.”

“Right. Good.” My dad stepped back, ushering us into the kitchen. The air inside was warm and heavy with the scent of butter and rosemary. “Seren, I got those potatoes you like. From the market on Fourth.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I said. My voice sounded steady to my own ears, something that felt more normal than not these days. “You didn’t have to go all out.”

“It’s no big deal,” he replied quickly, a bit too quickly. He turned to the counter, busying his hands with a set of tongs. “Zane, can I get you something? A beer? Sparkling water?”

“Water is fine, Tom. Thanks.” Zane leaned against the island like he felt at home here, and I’m sure in a sense, that he did more than me. Like I said, he was here a lot after the bad things happened.

I watched my dad hand Zane a glass, his fingers brushing against Zane’s in a way that felt like a passing of a torch. There was a look in my dad’s eyes, like a tired recognition. Like I said, he knew Zane had been the one to hold me together while he was busy pretending I was self-sufficient. He knew Zane was the architect of my current safety, and it must have stung to realize he only had limited access to the blueprints.

“How’s the drive been treating that car of yours?” my dad asked, his back to us as he plated the food. It was a safe question. A man question.

“Still good as new,” Zane said. He didn’t elaborate. He just stood there, painfully present. “Seren says you’ve been doing some work on your office?”

My dad paused, tongs mid-air. He looked at me, then back at Zane. “Just some shelves. Thought I would organize the… well, the things that have been sitting in boxes.”

He meant the things that belong to the ghost that lives here. The ghost that lives inside of him, inside of me and inside these walls. The ghost that never makes itself known but always haunts us anyway. My mother.

“That’s good, Dad,” I said, stepping in to bridge the gap before the silence became a moment. “It’ll be nice to have it finished.”

“Yeah,” my dad muttered, finally turning around with two plates. He looked at me, then at Zane, offering a tight, hopeful smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s a start, anyway.”

“So, how’s Austin?” he asked me once we had taken our seats at the table. “Is he doing good?”

The same remorseful gratitude that my dad held for Zane, he also held for Austin. The difference was that Austin didn’t hold the same undercurrent grudge as Zane did. When Austin first showed up at my doorstep, when our lives had just been flooded and blown over, dad found it hard to trust Austin. He did not trust any men around me at that point, but I was sure the tattoos, leather jacket and permanent marijuana odor didn’t help. He was always on guard, waiting for Austin to make a mistake. He kept pushing him away, hoping he would give up and leave me alone in my father’s caged version of false safety. But Austin never gave up, and he never made a mistake. Eventually, Austin and my dad had bonded like teammates on the bench together.