We didn't say anything for a minute or so. We used to do this sometimes, when we were teenagers. When Bobby and I weren't fighting over something, or sometimes just after we did and had exhausted each other, we would just sit together. Sometimes we would talk, other times we wouldn't.
It seemed Bobby didn't want to pressure me to talk and so it was me who spoke the first words.
“So is it the heat?”
“Hmm?” he asked.
“Why you can't sleep.”
“Oh,” he replied, the steady creaking of the porch swing a backtrack to his words. “No, I don't mind it. I just sleep in the raw.” He winked.
I fought a smile and shook my head at him.
Bobby leaned forward, stopping the swing. The silence this created punctuated his next words. “It's um . . . before the war I used to sleep like a rock every night. After, well sometimes I do, other nights I don't.”
“Oh,” I replied, my arms crossed as I kicked at a dry leaf on the floor.
“Want some?” Bobby tipped his beer towards me.
“Oh no, I'm fine.”
“Come on, you've always loved some beer.”
“Things change.”
“Oh yes they do,” he leaned back and got to rocking, “but the taste for beer. That never does.” He raised an eyebrow playfully.
I glanced up at the little bugs dancing around the porch light, reminding myself not to become like them.
“You don't smile anymore?” Bobby remarked. It took me a second to focus my train of thoughts on his question. My initial instinct was to deny it, but even a cursory examination of the issue proved he was right. I hadn't smiled since he arrived, and even before that, I didn't know how long. I always found myself fighting back my smiles.
“You know why,” I replied.
He nodded. “You had the best laugh,” he said as his mouth curved into a smile.
You had the best smile, Bobby.
“It was so loud, and even when I didn't find whatever it was funny, your laugh made me laugh. And it would get us into trouble all the time. When we were supposed to be in bed sleeping and you would sneak into our room in the summer, and then giggle so loud.”
It was odd to hear Bobby reminisce about me almost as if I had died.
I hadn't thought back that far in a long time. It hurt to think of Bobby at all when I thought he was dead.
“Ah, there it is,” he pointed the bottle at me. “That smile. Maybe I'll get to hear that laugh soon.”
I snatched the beer away from him. “Don't get carried away now.” I took a swig from the beer that had gone lukewarm from the humid night air, but a chill ran down my chest as my lips touched the same spot that Bobby's had.
“When we went out tonight, Lil, I didn't know. He used to be just fine on his own. Never someone I needed to watch. It was usually the other way around. Big brother watching me.”
“Hmm,” I huffed sarcastically into the bottle. Bobby got up halfway and snatched it back. He didn’t care for the final sip of beer, it was his way of being playful.
“How long has he been like this?”
“I don't know. You don't just wake up to an alcoholic. It happened so slowly, I didn't even know I was losing him until he was gone.”
Bobby's brow furrowed. “Has he ever—?”
I felt security in knowing if I told Bobby that Rory hit me, despite his deep love for his brother, I didn't doubt he would wake him up in the middle of the night and kick his ass.
“No, it's not like that.” At times, it had felt like it could get there, but usually Rory would leave to cool off. I redirected the conversation away from my failures back to Bobby’s. “While you were off chatting with Rory, Julia called. I had to tell her and my mother you were alive. Thanks for that fun conversation.”
“Mama Jules,” he recited, his nickname for my rigid sister.
“Needless to say, they don’t know what to make of it. They were in total disbelief. But they seemed pretty upset with you,” I sniped.
“Figured,” his fingertip ran up and down the sweaty bottle as he studied it intensely. “I’ll call once they’ve had some time to absorb the news. Smooth everything over.”
“Ha,” I barked wryly. “Of course you think it’s that easy.”
He leaned forward. “Lil. It’s all I can do,” Bobby appealed earnestly.
Even that response seemed genuine enough to make me regret my previous jab. I didn’t know how long he’d be around, but I wondered briefly if it would always be like this. How many verbal barbs would suffice as punishment for Bobby? When would I feel satisfied? Because so far, none of it felt good. And would it become punishment for me after a while as the constant display of bitterness began to eat me from the inside?
“Rory filled me in on your family. I’m sorry to hear about your dad. He’s a good man.”
“Yeah, well, that’s life.”
“I sure hope there’s more to life than that.”
I shrugged my shoulders. I wasn’t convinced there was.
“Hey um, could I ask you something?” Bobby placed the empty beer bottle beside him on the ground.
“You've been asking questions,” I reminded him.
“No, this one is different.”
My gut clenched at what he might say next. I wasn't ready to broach the unspoken. The things we never got to say to each other. Not now. Not like this.
I nodded.
“Well, I've been on the road a bit and neglected to groom myself properly.” He pulled his hair tie and shook his head like a glamour model, his waves crashing side to side just past his ears and flirting with his neck. “Could you cut my hair?”
I was grateful for a lighter topic of conversation. I stifled a giggle at his luxurious locks and nodded. “Yeah. I think I can do that.”
“Cool, I'll get the beers, you get the scissors.”
By the time I made it back out, Bobby was standing outside with our beers in his hand.
“Here you go.”
“Are you sure you want me drinking while cutting your hair?” I jested.
“What can I say? I'm a risk-taker.” He flashed a dangerous grin.
I pulled a small table close to the porch steps to rest my utensils and drink.
“Ready?” I asked. Of all the things I thought I'd be doing when I woke up that morning, I never thought I'd be cutting the hair of a dead man.
Bobby nodded and grabbed the hem of his shirt. I held my breath as he pulled it over his head. How was I here, standing with Bobby shirtless in front of me, when I had just vowed to myself to never even have a conversation with him?
At this point, to acknowledge that his shirtless body fazed me was worse than to stop, so I gestured to the steps in front of me and he sat.
I grabbed the comb and gently swept through his locks. That's when I got the up-close view of his scar from the bullet. I reached out to touch the circular indentation and stopped myself just short of making contact. I couldn't touch his hot skin. I couldn't let myself go there. The reality of what he had been through came through like lightning, and I realized that these last few years had been cruel to him too.