Man on the Inside

20

The last message is the one that was a mistake. Brontë knows it, but he was getting tired of waiting. He's already strung out waiting for Art to calm down- appreciating, still, Art's ability to be straightforward and to not let his anger cloud his judgement, but the waiting isn't easy. Nimm doesn't know this, and she's busy cleaning up the mess he's made- and he's let her know already that he appreciates that.

Are you in today? Brontë had sent to her, since it was Saturday, and Ricky was over at Jake's house, while Charlie was in her room playing video games.

I'm at home, Nimm had responded immediately, but I'm still busy. Sorry.

I know. I just thought I'd come see you, to talk about things, if that would help.

It's okay, Nimm had said, and it just felt like a distracted response, like she hadn't really thought about it. I've done everything I need to do for this job and so have you, so enjoy your time off.

Brontë had considered not sending the next message, but he did. Maybe I just want to talk to you as a friend, and not as a coworker?

I appreciate that, I do, and I'm not avoiding you. But not today.

So Brontë had sent the message that he was certain was a mistake. Are you sick?

Because Nimm had immediately stopped responding, and hours later, there was nothing.

So Brontë shelved his concern that one of his only friends was dying, and he let it sit in the back of his mind, festering. Brontë made dinner, dragged Charlie out to eat it, and they talked. She talked about the play, how the one they were doing was much better than previous years when Ms Shields was in charge, and now she'd asked him a question that had kicked over the other jar of bees currently stinging the inside of his mind. "Tell me about this guy."

Brontë doesn't know how to answer that. "It's complicated," he mutters, something he thought was relatively obvious. "He's... he's not talking to me at the moment."

"Oh." Charlie's eating her soup in the same specific way she has since she was a child, pulling the bread apart, dropping it in the soup, saving the crusts for last. Brontë's never once commented, since it's odd, but he'd never make her feel bad for being innocently strange. "What'd you do?"

Brontë smiles wryly at that. Arrested his mother, he wants to say. Didn't tell him I was a cop. Did I tell you he's the criminal I've been chasing down? The mastermind behind most of this city's fraud and counterfeiting? "It's far more complicated than I can sum up for you right now. I should've been more truthful, I think, or at least straightforward, and he could've done the same for me."

Brontë hasn't forgotten I cheated. He just hasn't figured out the obvious that he knows must be right in front of his face. His eyes are crossed, and it's blurry, but he can still see the answer- he just can't identify it.

"Have you spoken to him about it?" Charlie asks. "You know, apologised and such?"

Brontë shrugs. "He said he'd talk to me when he's ready. I'm confident he'll do that."

Charlie nods. "At least he can be that straightforward. Some boys can't."

Brontë leans ever so slightly closer. "Do you have a boy who's not being straightforward with you?"

Charlie scoffs. "No, not me. Do you remember what happened with Jenna?"

She starts telling a story about how her friend's boyfriend is messing her around, and Brontë listens intently, gives his own perspective on things, and he likes this, because he'd never bring up such a thing with his mother. When she asked him if there was a girl in his life, it was unprompted, expectant, and the truth was the wrong answer. He asked that question only because he thought Charlie was hinting, and she wasn't, but she felt safe to admit that completely, to tell a story that Brontë's mother would've told him to shut up about. Maybe Charlie will have boys in her life, or girls, or something else, or maybe everyone will be her friend and nothing different- but she feels she can tell him the truth.