Rock Solid

Page 50

Trevor laughed humorlessly. “Not home. I got into an argument with Blake. Slept in my truck.”
Simon cursed. He got it. He hadn’t been there to experience the things Trevor had done. He’d never hurt Simon. He’d never lied to him, but still he saw red that Trevor’s brother struggled so much to support him.
“I can come to your place.” Trevor groaned again.
“No. Where are you? I’d rather check you out before you drive.”
“Because you want to make sure I really wasn’t drinking.” It wasn’t a question. He obviously believed that to be true.
And it wasn’t. Maybe it was naïve of Simon to believe in Trevor but he did. “No. Because I need to make sure you don’t have a concussion or something.”
Trevor took a few breaths before replying. “There’s a park just up the road from our house. I’m hidden at the back of the lot. Really, I’m fine, Dr. Malone.”
The name made him smile. A month ago, it wouldn’t have. “I’d rather be sure.” They were both quiet for a second before, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left. I just...” He just what? Was weak? Scared? All of the above?
“I know. Me too,” Trevor replied, knowing what Simon meant without him having to say it.
“But you wouldn’t have left.”
“Don’t compare your sins to mine. I’ll beat you every time. Come get me, Simon. We can figure out the other shit later.”
He wanted to, he realized. He didn’t want to walk away. For the first time, Simon wanted to do whatever he could to fix whatever was broken in his relationship with another person.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Trevor hadn’t slept for shit the night before, so it was the first thing on his agenda when he got to Simon’s. That was after Simon tried to decide if he had a concussion or not. He hadn’t wanted Trevor to drive either, so Trevor had texted Blake (who’d called numerous times throughout the night) to tell him he would be at Simon’s, and asked him to get Trevor’s truck.
His brother had replied with “yes” and “I’m sorry,” but Trevor still needed to figure out what he wanted to say to him.
And then, he’d slept. Simon gave him some Tylenol and he spent the rest of the day in Simon’s bed.
It was early evening when he climbed out. A note sat on the bedside table telling him that Simon had gone to get them dinner. You wouldn’t think it could be that hard to cook a good meal. Simon performed surgery and Trevor could build a house, yet neither of them could make dinner? Trevor chuckled.
As he made his way to the bathroom, his bones ached a little, probably from trying to sleep in his truck. He had a toothbrush there that he used, before jumping into the shower. His clothes were a mess so he grabbed a pair of sweats from Simon’s drawers before walking into the main part of the house to see him sitting at the table.
“I got dinner,” he said sadly.
“Thanks.” Food could wait, though. Something weighed heavily on Simon’s mind. Trevor could practically see the anchor there, pulling him down.
“Your eye and the side of your face is black and blue.”
Trevor shrugged, still standing a few feet away from Simon. “I’ve been worse.”
There was a short pause before Simon spoke. “My dad never really cared whether I was around or not. It wasn’t that he was abusive. I always had food to eat, and a roof over my head, but...I don’t think he ever wanted to be a father. He definitely didn’t sign on to be a single father. I always knew that—that she’d wanted me, so he’d given me to her, and then my mom died, leaving him to take care of the kid he didn’t know how to love.”
Trevor walked over to Simon, pulled one of the kitchen chairs in front of him, and sat. He didn’t speak, didn’t ask Simon to continue or what happened next. He let the man go at his own pace. He had all the time in the world to wait.
“He never picked out birthday or Christmas gifts because he didn’t know me well enough to know what I would want. I always got money or gift cards. He worked all day, and I went to school. We’d eat frozen dinners every night while he watched TV and had one beer. It was never more than that, just the one beer, and TV before he’d go to bed, and then we’d start over again.
“He didn’t go to parent-teacher nights. ‘You don’t need that, right Simon? I know you’re doing fine,’ was his excuse. I always told him it was okay, but I wanted him to go. I just wanted to know he cared that I was there. I did well in school because it was something I had that he didn’t. He’d dropped out of high school and told me he’d wished he’d gone to college. I always thought if I did well in school, and went on to do something with my life, then maybe I would matter to him.”