As the days begin to pass, Dream slips into July. It welcomes him with pink sunsets and grilled meals and ice gently tapping the side of tea-filled glasses. Humid nights drag him away from his screens and stuffy room, and onto his mother's back patio for frequent conversations over dinner.
His call had ended with Sapnap and George after they'd grown heavy-eyed, and parted ways with timid goodbyes. The separation felt strange, somewhere between empty and full shared in one space. He'd been too exhausted to cry, too wordless to think. He felt the urge to text George once he'd fallen into his cotton and sheets, but for once, he knew they truly had nothing left to talk about.
He slept for a while. He woke with ease.
The days—quiet, hurting, healing—pass. He spends hours opening letters from his P.O box, in silence. His tears drop onto the pages of a letter when his mind can't lift the sentences from the paper and place them in constructive memory. He breathes, takes the nearby landline in his palm, and makes three phone calls.
One, to the therapist he hadn't seen since he was young and gangly and brooding.
The next, to his mother.
The last, to the local taqueria for an extra-sized steak burrito.
July sets warm, yellow hands on his shoulders as he slides the phone back into the receiver. His chest aches, and his eyes burn.
He lets himself move forward.
During late-afternoon meals at his family's home two hours away, a buzzing sound carries onto the concrete deck from the muddy creek sitting deep in the backyard. Bugs hover in the damp swamp, and occasionally meander in search of food through the light that lowers itself on the crowded horizon.
Seated at the glassy table, Dream swats away curious gnats from his plate with one palm, while the other is outstretched and resting on napkins. His sister peers over his fingers carefully.
She's painting the nails on his left hand purple, to match the bright-colored hair that falls in front of her face, before she hastily tucks it behind her ear.
"I'm really glad to hear that, Clay," his mother says from the head of the table, reclined in her chair with a gentle smile. "Have you scheduled an appointment?"
Dream chews on the remains of his burger, covering his mouth with his free hand as he nods.
"When?" His sister asks curiously.
He swallows, then wipes the grease from his face with a napkin. "Next Sunday."
"You might miss the barbecue," his mother points out.
Dream shrugs with indifference. "I'll try to make it."
His sister carefully nudges away a stray drop of nail polish on the table. "Didn't you used to go on Tuesdays, though?"
He frowns with skepticism, watching as she screws the purple bottle shut and brings out a clear sealant. "How do you remember that?"
He'd been forced to attend weekly sessions with Dr. Lauren several years ago, when his questionably rebellious behavior had raised one too many red flags for his family and local authorities. He'd detested them at first, but found towards the end of their time together, some part of him thrived in expression and guidance.
Too young to admit it was something he needed, he declined the offer to continue as a client, but was told "the door will always be open."
He and his mother hadn't shared much of those terrible months with his siblings, yet his sister smiles at him sharply.
