Page 85 of Reverie

I grab two bottles of water, situating them in the bend of my elbow.

Well, kind of my circus.

I decide to leave all of that for tomorrow.

Deciding to abandon my apple in the kitchen, I follow the sounds of dying zombies floating through the speakers and find August in a game room with Max.

Max wears a backward baseball cap and frantically clicks on the controller in his hand while August maintains a completely focused gaze on the screen.

A few taps later, Max throws his hands in the air, the controller tumbling from his right, and yells, “C’mon, man! Let me win one!”

August’s face goes from neutral to hysterical laughter, and he pops up from the chair.

Grabbing his tablet, he says, “Not a chance, sucker.” Then he drops his tablet on the table and skips around the room.

Despite the completely fucked situation we’re all in, I am such a lucky bastard. Because despite all this, August seems happy.

It’s the most I can ask for.

August makes half a revolution around the room before he sees me. When he does, he freezes, his hands going up to his head for a moment before tapping his cheek three times and going over to his tablet.

“Hello,” August says. “I did not know when I would see you next.”

Guilt eats at me. I’ve been so caught up in my own shit that I’ve set August aside again. While I’ve been absent, I’ve letother people keep him entertained. I’ve allowed others to spend significant time with him to assess his mental state.

But I haven’t done the same, and that’s fucked. Completely fucked.

August and I haven’t gone into the serious stuff: Rex’s death, being drugged, seeing Winter shot. He never wants to talk about those things—at least, he never wants to talk about those things with me.

But Winter has been spending even more time with him, and I know they’re working through this latest trauma together.

There has to be deep hurt he’s carrying, but he hasn’t felt comfortable sharing that with me. I haven’t wanted to push, even though Winter tells me that I need to open the goddamn door.

But when I woke up this morning, I realized I don’t have to push anything, but I do need to be there.

Atone.

It’s time for me to sack up and at least try to connect with my son.

“I’m so sorry, Augs. I should have come to see you sooner.”

He sways from side to side and holds his tablet to his chest. This is his usual position when he’s uncomfortable.

When he’s scared.

“Can I spend some time with you now?”

August’s head snaps up and he walks back and forth along the edge of the wall for a few turns before he stops and says, “Yes.”

He goes toward the oversized chairs where Max watches us. Before he sits, though, he taps his screen again.

“I need to use the facilities. I will be right back.” And he leaves.

Max and I take up the room in an awkward silence.

“He’s been okay,” Max says. Two figures bounce up and down on the paused game screen.

“How long have you been hanging out with him today?” I ask him.