Page 168 of The Finish Line

I open the closest piece of folded construction paper to see it’s a drawing. At the bottom of the page is a label in a teacher’s handwriting, title—My Family—Dominic King—Age six. A lemon-yellow sun sits at the top right of the page finishing off a dark-blue sky. Inside of one of the puffy clouds dead center are two stick figures labeled Maman, Papa. Below stands Tobias and Dominic in the middle of light-brown colored mountains. Tobias is much, much larger in size. He might as well be a giant compared to the way Dominic drew himself.

They’re holding stick hands, and I can clearly see the dynamic in the relationship—so much trust, love, and adoration. Dominic spent more time on Tobias’s details than he did on any other aspect of the drawing. And it’s because he loved him, idolized him, because Tobias was his world, his brother, his teacher, his mentor, and in essence, his father. Eyes stinging, I gaze on at the clear picture of devotion of one brother for another.

As much as I thought I knew about these men, as deeply as I’ve loved them and understood them as they were when I entered their lives, Tobias was right—there was an evolution that took place long before me, that didn’t include me, and had absolutely nothing to do with me. And these are the times for which Tobias grieves most, for a relationship I only got a rare glimpse of before tragedy struck. The end to a history I was never privy to. Though Tobias has told me stories, I didn’t quite understand it fully until this moment, the meaning behind every action, every detail, because I’m holding the original blueprint in my hand.

This isn’t just my love story. It never was.

Carefully folding the drawing, I place it back into the box and walk over to the window, catching sight of Tobias just as he reaches the beach.

Beneath his purposefully constructed armor is the bleeding heart of an orphaned little boy who was forced to grow up way too soon. A heart that suffered years of neglect, of rejection—including his own. He kept it that way to protect himself and those around him until I retrieved it. And he let me discover him, knowing he would become his most vulnerable.

He told me once his admiration for me stems from the fact that I’ve always been vocal about my heart—while he’s carefully hidden his to protect those he loves. And it’s here, with me, where he’s finally unshackled himself from the obligation of being so selfless. It’s here with me that he’s freed himself to love the way he was meant to. I raise my palm to the window.

“You’ll never be alone again. You’ll never be alone. I promise you. It was never my heart, Tobias. It was yours.”

Tobias

Age Eleven

“Come on, Dominic, grab your backpack. We have to go.” Dominic doesn’t move. Instead, he kneels on his carpet pushing his car along a track he made from electrical tape on his threadbare rug.

“Did you hear me? Come on, or we’ll be late.”

“So what.”

“So what your red butt if you keep talking back to me, that’s what.”

“Why do we have to go to school for five days?”

“Because those are the rules,” I snap, reaching for the car in his hand.

“Who makes the rules?”

“People.”

“What people?”

“Dom,” I sigh as he pulls it out of reach. “We don’t have time for this shit.”

“Then tell me who makes the rules.”

“I told you, people.”

“Why do we have to listen to people?”

“Because they made the rules.”

“We can make our own rules. Papa said so.”

I pause. He hasn’t talked much about our parents lately, nor recalled his memories of them, but I always try to engage when he does to keep them fresh.

“Papa said we have to make our own rules, or the bad guys will win.”

“He said that?”

“Yes. School for two days.”

“It doesn’t work like that, Dominic.”