Lay Me Down

29. Bare.

{Cary}

Cary sat through the last song in a daze. His hands were sticky, and he could still taste the tang of grape juice in the back of his mouth. He had watched his mother take a cracker dipped in wine dozens of times—he had never dared go up to do it himself. In the darkness of his closed eyelids, he saw the man with his mouth full of blood from his split lip and his hands held out, open, scars denting his wrists. Those hands would not strike Cary back, would not trap Cary and hold him. Instead, impossibly, his body was broken, covering Cary.

He took a slow breath as that sunk in. He thought he would feel sorry—that feeling of tearing and not being enough was familiar—but he didn't feel sorry. He felt like there was something expanding inside him, until all the hot, red space was full, and nothing was stretched or torn or empty. Whatever this was, there was enough. He opened his fists, spreading his palms flat on his legs. What did you say to the person who was broken and poured out—for him? For his worthless skin and all the shitty things he'd done?

A touch on his elbow dropped him back into the present. "Cary."

Cary looked at Pete sideways. Jon's dad smiled like there was something he saw in Cary that pleased him. Cary's heart fluttered in his throat—he was in a room full of people he didn't know, but he'd let enough of himself leak into his face that Pete could read it there. He was losing the ability to hide, and he didn't know what other way there was to be safe.

"It's going to take me about 40 minutes to work through the people who want to talk after service," Pete said. His smile slipped crooked a little. "This is Jon's least favourite part of my job—I'll probably be the last to leave. You can wait for me, or the house is close enough for you to walk back. There's a side exit just through those doors."

Cary relaxed, and he felt his face almost make a smile in return. "I'll walk. No stopping in the ravine."

His legs felt long and loose as he walked with his head up, the sun warm on the bare skin of his arms and face. The feeling inside him buoyed him up, making his body light. He would have to ask Pete what it was called.

As he came up the street to the Whites', there was a shiny BMW parked in front. His mother's car. His stomach flipped, and his feet sped up.

Beverly was coming down the steps from the front door, her keys in her hand and her face tight and closed. She was wearing the dark suit and pumps she wore to church.

"Mom."

She startled back, staring at him like he was a stranger.

He made his face smile—something was pulling on him inside, wishing he could see her smile back. "What are you doing here?"

Her eyes darted away from him, her fingers brushing over her cheek like a hair had strayed. There had been a bruise there. He thought it was gone, but she was so good at covering them up that he wasn't sure. "I'm dropping off your things, Ciaran. Since you have clearly made your choice."

He took a step closer, almost between her and the car, trying to get her to look at him again. "It's good to see you." He clasped his hands together tightly. "How are you—and Liam?"

She flipped her hand so quickly he flinched, and held it up like half of a shrug. "How can you ... ask me a question like that?" Her voice sounded thin and strained. "My husband is living in a hotel. I am alone in our house, alone in bed at night. If you think I ever wanted this, Ciaran—" She bit off the thread of that, her nostrils flaring white.

Cary tried to duck under the cold wall of her defenses, speaking softly. "He was hurting us, Mom. I couldn't let him hurt Liam—like that."

"Your father would never hurt Liam." She sounded pressed and hurt as Jon with Cary's knee on his chest. "He never did the things you told them he did. Where did you even come up with those terrible stories?"