Fissures and Faults
Zac
It’s the next day, and I’m sitting at a booth in the back of the cafe, sipping on a cup of tea and waiting for my patron. I realize I never got his name from Fenley; I guess it doesn’t matter, since I’ll learn it soon enough anyway. I look up at the clock; it’s only twelve thirty. I consider ordering a hookah, after the business meeting; maybe I’ll offer to share, if he seems interested. It’s a pleasure I don’t partake of all that often; I prefer to smoke my herbs in private, and usually from a pipe.
Every time I hear the bell above the door jingle, I turn around to see who it is. I watch every guy that comes in, but they all head to the bar or to another table without looking around. Minutes pass; one o’clock comes and goes, and I start to think I’ve been stiffed. I grumble to myself, mad about losing the sale and being stuck carrying around my painting all day. I must not’ve heard the door, because the next thing I know I’m being tapped on the shoulder. When I turn around, all the blood drains from my face in an instant.
“Taylor?”
“Hey Zac.”
“What the hell are you doing here?”
I look around, hoping against hope that someone else, anyone else will come in and tell me they’re there for my painting. But I know, somehow I just know that it’s Taylor. Questions start flooding my brain. Did he know it was mine? Of course he knew, it’s not like I use a fake name. How long has he known I’m here? Has he been stalking me? How many paintings has he bought? Am I really successful, or has he just been playing me again? Why is he showing up now?
I take a deep breath, quelling the threatening panic. I don’t know how he found me, but I’m guessing our older brother had something to do with it; while I never specifically told him not to disclose my new address, I thought I’d pretty damn clearly implied it, but apparently not. I remind myself that I’ve survived, hell I’ve thrived on my own, and I’ll be damned if I let him take that away from me. I look at Taylor again, and make a decision. I’m not looking at my brother; I’m looking at a potential buyer, nothing more. I put on my best professional smile and nod towards the painting.
“So I guess you’re here for this? Just so you know, you’re paying full price. Two-fifty, cash or check only. No returns. And no autographs.”
Taylor
I should have known that seeing Zac again wouldn’t magically fix anything. Somewhere inside, I did know that. But I’m a fool. Everyone knows that. I didn’t think that everything would be fine between us, but I didn’t think he would be so… unfeeling.
I know he could be so much worse, though. Even though there’s a sarcastic edge to his words, there’s no discernable malice. His smile is fake, but I can’t tell if anything else about this empty, emotionless version of my brother is.
Unsure what to say in the face of his sarcasm, I decide to just sit down and start scanning the menu. There’s no reason not to be casual, especially since Zac is being so casual that anyone who glances at our table wouldn’t even know we had met before this moment. I can feel his eyes on me but I keep mine trained on the menu. Without letting them flicker upward at all, I ask, “So, what’s good here?”
Zac’s smile disappears; he stares at me for a moment, shakes his head, and looks at his own menu, quietly sighing and muttering something under his breath.
Choosing to ignore the fact that he hasn’t answered my question, I continue, “I’m thinking Turkish coffee, but I’m just not sure what I should have with it…”
“Have whatever you want,” Zac replies, his voice still so calm, like I’m no one at all to him.
“Maybe the lentil soup,” I say. “What do you think I would like here?”
“Are you really doing this?” Zac asks without looking up.
I lower the menu and look up at him. “Am I really doing what? Trying to have a civil conversation with you? I guess.”
His head snaps up and he glares at me. “Acting like this is completely normal. Like it’s okay for you to just waltz back into my life as if nothing happened.” His eyes burn, his nostrils flare; but then he seems to reign himself in, closing his eyes and sitting back. He’s trying to keep calm, but I can see his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.
“I just… I mean…” I stutter out, then pause to take a breath and regain my composure. “So what if I wanted to see you? Is that so wrong?”
“What’s wrong is tricking me into this. You knew I’d never agree to meeting up, so you did whatever it took. Same old Taylor; nothing else matters as long as you get your way, right?” he asked with a mocking chuckle.
I shrug. “Well, it got you here, didn’t it? Isn’t that the important part?”
He balls his hand up into a fist and slams it onto the table; not hard enough to attract attention, but enough to show that he’s serious. “Yeah, it’s important; it’s important because it shows that you still don’t care about anyone but yourself. You know I didn’t want anything to do with you ever again, but here you are. Hell, you don’t just not care; you’re a god damned sadist.”
“Sadist?” I repeat, shaking my head in disbelief. Maybe at one time I was, but not now. If anything, I’m the exact opposite of that now.
“Yes, a sadist. That’s what they call someone who gets off on torturing people. You know, the way you tortured me? Since I was a fucking teenager?”
Something in the way he practically growls the words triggers something in me… something like a memory. My eyes are trained on his fist, knuckles white and trembling. Then I realize that I’m trembling, too. I know I should say something, but I’m frozen. I can’t look up at him. Whatever expression is on his face, I don’t want to see it. I can’t see it. Not with his words–one of them in particular–echoing in my mind.
“You really haven’t changed, have you? Is this your new way of getting your kicks? Becoming a fucking stalker? I thought moving halfway across the country, I’d finally get away from you, but I guess I underestimated how sick you really are. How long have you been following me? Am I gonna have to move again, to change jobs? To change my name? What do I have to do to get rid of you?”
Get rid of me? He’s the one who left. I’m the one who has been stuck, unable to move past the moment when he walked out of that room. The last few years, I’ve relived that moment over and over again, felt those emotions over and over again, but not like I am right now. With all of Zac’s anger pouring down on me now, it’s like I never left that hotel room at all.
I feel like I’m trapped in my own body. I can feel myself trembling harder as I struggle to speak, but still no words will come out. Zac’s lips are still moving, but I can’t hear a thing. My mind is screaming at me, feeling as though it might shatter my skull like glass. For a moment I wonder if I’m the only one who can hear it, but it’s more of a feeling than a sound. It’s pure terror, I realize. Once that dawns on me, I recognize the cause–it’s sitting right across from me.
I can’t breathe.