Page 59 of Proof Of Life
Of course, I can always count on West to ask what everyone else is thinking. The guy has no filter whatsoever.
“You two have a history?”
“Do you have a death wish?” McCormick hisses.
“Nah, it’s fine,” Pharo says. “Just some people shouldn’t go making heroes out of head cases.” His yellow eyes follow Jax out of the room.
That’s cryptic as fuck, and I don’t know what it means, but apparently they do have a history, and he clearly doesn’t want to talk about it.
“Alright, gentlemen, let’s get started,” Riggs says, bringing the group to order. “Speaking of the Reserves, don’t forget that I won’t be here next week, or the week after. But Brewer Marx from the addiction support group will be taking over for me.”
The Bitches bitch for forty-five minutes, and just when we’re about to run out of time, West surprises me by speaking out.
“This week I realized that it’s okay to have bad days. I’ve had some good ones, too. And the bad ones aren’t all bad. Sometimes there are moments where I can smile or laugh, or feel some kind of emotion besides self-hatred. I’m learning some things about myself I never knew before.” His dark eyes land on me, and I can feel the weight of his thoughts. “Confusing things. Good things. Things that give me hope. I guess I’m not the man I used to be, and I need to stop searching for him, stop looking over my shoulder in the past, and start looking forward.” West clears his throat and refocuses on the group. “I’m trying. Sometimes it feels like it’ll kill me, but I keep trying. Just for today, I’m grateful for the people in my life that won’t let me give up.”
His voice cracks on his last words, and I can see him struggle not to tear up in front of the group. I want to reach for his hand, or touch his leg, to reassure him, and lend him my strength, but I’m afraid the simple gesture will make him fall apart completely.
When the meeting wraps, some of the guys linger, and for once West isn’t beating feet out the door like his ass is on fire. He takes his time packing away his yarn and needles, long enough for McCormick to mosey over.
He scratches his thick orange beard. “So, you two want to come over to my place? Hang out for a couple hours? We can boil a package of hot dogs and fire up my laptop. Betty Beasley just dropped a new video.”
It blows me away how someone who looks so confident and tough as nails can be so awkward and just… fucking bizarre. McCormick looks like an intimidating guy until he opens his mouth, and then you want to run for other reasons.
West snorts and stares at him like he’s grown two heads. “Who invites people over to eat boiled hot dogs?” He looks to me for confirmation, but I’m not getting involved. “Something’s not right in your head.”
McCormick’s face falls. “Hey, we don’t make fun of people's injuries around here.”
“Dude, whatever is wrong with your head was there long before your TBI,” West swears. “No wonder you can’t get a woman, and it’s got nothing to do with your fucking leg. Did you offer boiled hot dogs to the last chick who came over?”
“No,” he defends, but from the way his voice hitches, I'm not sure I believe him.
“Are you sure you’re not into dudes? Inviting a couple of guys over to eat phallic shaped meat while you sit around in a circle jerk watching knitting porn? I don’t know, McCormick, sounds pretty gay to me.”
Of course Stiles can’t resist the chance to get a dig in. “Might have better luck with the guys than you do with the ladies,” he adds with a smirk.
“You’re just sore because I didn’t invite you,” McCormick huffs.
“Last time I came over, you fed me boiled hot dogs and I shit for three days straight. No fucking thanks. You can shove your boiled meat up your ass.”
I can’t hold it in any longer. I’m laughing so hard my sternum hurts, and West falls into my shoulder to bury his face as he falls apart.
“Fuck all y’all.” McCormick says as he heads for the door, but then he turns. “I’m going to get a beer. Are you coming?”
“This is a hell of a lot better than boiled hot dogs, wouldn’t you say?” West asks as he shoves a fully loaded potato skin in his mouth.
“That’s not setting a very high bar,” I tease. “I’d rather eat MREs than boiled hot dogs.”
McCormick doesn’t find it funny. “Fine, Chef Wardell. What are you going to serve me when I come over?”
“I don’t recall inviting you over.”
With a smirk, I throw him a lifeline. “I’ll invite you over, McCormick.”
“You’re a gentleman, Aguilar,” he quips with a smile and a wink. “So, you two live together?”
“Brandt moved in after my… you know. I needed the extra help.” His eyes land on me and they soften, and heat licks through my gut. “I guess it worked out so good he’s just gonna stay.”
“That’s great. I wish I had someone around to help me after my accident. I had to go to a long-term rehab center until I was able to do more for myself. How long have you two been friends?”