My phone rings and vibrates. I'm currently in the car with Orion. He's driving, looking good in a pair of sunglasses and a light weight jacket.

"Hey dad," I say.

Orion cocks an eyebrow and gives me a glance.

"Hi Tristan," my dad greets on the other end. "What's up?"

"Just out with Orion."

"Yeah, what are you guys up to?"

I resist the urge to sigh. "Is there a reason for your phone call?"

Orion looks at me sharply.

"Oh, sorry, if you're busy we could talk later--"

"No it's fine, sorry," I reply in a low and guttural voice.

"Okay well, you sound busy so I'll make it quick. I was wondering if your fiance would be okay with me stealing you for away for a day?"

"What?"

We're at a red light, so Orion has the opportunity to look at me fully, scrutinizing my face.

"Yeah," my dad continues. "I'd really like to spend some time catching up. You know..."

"Look," I say immediately, "if this is about what I said in the hospital, just forget it--"

"Tristan, you can't run away from me forever."

"I'm not--" I gape. "I'm not running away from anything."

Orion snorts and looks back at the road. I scowl.

"So then you'll see me this weekend?"

I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. "Where?"

"You could either come out here, or I could come to you--if it's not imposing that is."

"It's not imposing," I say, my words like citrus peels. "Was there anything in particular you wanted to do?"

"No, not really. I thought we could hang out."

"Since when do we hang out?"

"We don't--that's the point, Tristan. I would like to."

"Hey," Orion says quietly, "ease up, yeah?"

"I'll come to you," I tell my dad.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah--what day works for you?"

"Whatever day works for you."

I try not to birth an angry sigh. "Saturday would work, but I know that's your busy day at the shop--"

"God damn it Tristan, fuck the shop."

My eyes go wide.

"Seriously. If Saturday works for you, I would like nothing more than to see you on Saturday."

I pause. "I'll talk it over with Orion...but maybe Sunday?"

"That'd be nice. If you're sure."

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Alright. I'll see you Sunday."

"Okay."

We hang up. As soon as the phone is in my lap, Orion looks at me.

"Wow, Tristan! Way to be an ass."

I glare. "If you were any other person."

Orion looks to the road. "He's making a concerted effort to connect with you, and you're being difficult."

"Were you behind this?"

"No. Your dad and I haven't talked since the hospital honestly." There's a tinge of offense coating the next words. "I'm a little surprised."

"I'm not."

Orion rolls his eyes.

"It's just weird, okay?"

My moon looks at me. "It's weird that your dad wants to spend time with you?"

"Yeah."

"Man. Your definition of weird and my definition of weird are two vastly different things."

I look at him. Beneath his dark shades I can see his eyes tapering. He shakes his head. I can't help but notice how white his knuckles have become.

"What I'd give to have my dad give a shit about me."

The words were a cloy whisper. I swivel my head, looking out the window, my soul suddenly soiled in guilt.

~

"Woah. Where are the cars?"

I'm standing in the thick Texan heat. The garage I've known my entire life is open. I'm standing, hands tucked into my jeans pockets, gawking at what's before my eyes.

"I got rid of them."

"You what?"

My dad chuckles.

"Those were your pride and joy!"

My dad merely shrugs, running his hand along the smooth beams of the huge boat. The painted boat. The boat that he's, evidently by all the supplies strewn about, built.

"I got rid of them three years ago. You'd know that if you came around."

I swallow a smart ass snap back. Instead, I walk forward, running my hand along the bow of the ship. "This is impressive...I didn't know you knew how to make a boat."

My dad laughs. "I don't."

I raise my eyebrows at him.

"I researched how, and bought the materials, but I don't know if it's any good."

"It looks good," I tell him.

"Looks don't mean fuck all, Tristan."

I look at my dad who is smirking. Shaking my head chuckling I move around it, scrutinizing. When I speak I'm out of sight from my father. "So you have no idea if this thing will float?"

"Not a fucking clue."

I come back around. He's holding two beers, offering me one. I take it, taking a swill before talking. "It looks pretty done to me."

"Yup. I was thinking maybe we could bring it out on the lake?"

I bark out a laugh. "Ah, so now you're trying to kill me, huh?"

My father gives me a look. I frown.

"I was kidding."

He doesn't respond. I sigh and drink more beer.

"How're we gonna get this thing to the lake?"

"I thought we could rig it up to the truck. I have a flat bed."

I nod, so that's exactly what we do.

The car ride is an uncomfortable silence.  We have a lake house, a timeshare property my parents had won ages ago. It's a bit outside of Amarillo, down a long, snaking dirt road, before it opens up to a cul-de-sac filled with beach houses sprinkled around the lake. It's quaint, it's peaceful. I have so many good memories from this place.

Barbecuing with neighbors. Swimming in the lake. This was where I gave a tearful confession to my brother that I was gay. This was where he hugged me, and laughed at me, and told me it didn't matter. Fireworks on The 4th of July.

Ah. I didn't realize how much I missed this place until I clambered out of our old red truck and stepped on the dirt of the land. Everything was just how I remembered it. It was frozen in time. It smelled the same, it looked the same. Perfection.

"You look happy."

I look over at my dad. Before he can say another word I shrug, cramming my hands into my pockets and walking to the boat. I help him detach it from the flat bed wordlessly. It's a big boat--not huge, but it's also not exactly small. I'm genuinely impressed.

He's painted it white, a thick blue line as the trim. We hold our breath as we carefully push it into the water. It floats! I look at him and grin. He smiles back.

"Alright, now the real test," he tells me. "Here--hold my beer."

I take his drink and he climbs in without any hesitation. When it holds his weight, I can't help but grin wider. For a moment he walks back and forth, inspecting the floor, making sure it hasn't sprung any leaks. Once he's sure he turns to me and smiles.

"Well, c'mon on board!"

I do as I'm told. My father cranks the motor--once, twice, three times--and then we're off to the middle of the lake. We come to a stop; we're the only ones out here. It's nice.

"I have plans for this boat," my dad tells me. "Gonna get some nice chairs in here, padded, not just these shitty planks."

"Would that make it too heavy?"

"Nah, it shouldn't," he replies. I hadn't noticed the cooler until he opens it, grabbing me another beer. "I'll look up the specs and ask around, make sure this baby can handle it."

"Since when have you been interested in building boats?"

"Since I decided I needed a hobby."

I laugh. "I thought working on the Chevelle and the Mustang was your hobby?"

"That was my escape."

For a while we sit in silence. I look at my bottle, picking at the label. My father is staring out at the lake, arms outspread comfortably along the side of the boat. Occasionally he drinks.

"Orion is nice."

I snort.

"What? He is--isn't he?"

"Of course he is. I wouldn't be marrying him if he weren't." I think back to the car ride a few days previous. "You should talk to him. Get to know him."

"I'm afraid to."

"What?"

"Yeah. I don't want to fuck it up like I fucked up our relationship."

"Dad--argh! You didn't fuck anything up."

My dad leans forward, his elbows on his knees. "Really? This entire day has been nothing but awkward so far. Just...Fuck me."

I watch him get to his feet. He moves to the bow of the boat, one hand on his hip, his back to me.

"Then let's make it not awkward," I tell him quietly. "You obviously brought me here with a purpose so, out with it."

"I never liked Tyler better. I did all that stuff with him because we didn't have anything in common, and I was trying to connect to him."

My lips part.

"I was so desperate to find a common footing with my child I sort of...forced myself on him."

Words escape me.

"I was trying to overcome my own fears and insecurities as a father that I guess I went a little heavy-handed with Tyler."

"Why didn't you do the same with me?" My words aren't filled with malice.

He leans against his boat, taking a swig before he replies. "I was fucking exhausted from trying with him I didn't want to do the same with you."

"That's--that's kinda shitty."

The smile slips off his face and he looks at his feet. "I know. I'm sorry."

I lean forward and grab another bottle of alcohol. I look at it instead of my father. It's not until I feel his weight on the seat next to me do I open the bottle.

"I love you," my dad tells me quietly. "You know that, right?"

"Yup."

"Tristan, come on. I'm tryin'."

"Yeah, I know." I look at him. "And it's weird, okay? It's weird you're trying to fill a void by shoving me into it."

He looks like a fish flopping on the deck for a moment. "What?"

"Come on. Mom's a mess. Tyler's dead."

"How is mom a mess?"

I roll my eyes. "Don't act like you haven't seen her drinking."

"There is nothing wrong with her drinking."

"God!" I snap, "you're so ignorant!"

"No I'm not."

"Yes, you are! You alienated your son and you didn't even realize it, your wife is an alcoholic--"

"Hey!"

"What dad?" I snap, glaring at him. "What? She is. The first thing she does every morning is make herself a mimosa--I mean 'orange juice'." I make air quotes. "Do you think I'm stupid on top of everything?"

"I never said you were stupid!" he screams. "I never said you were a replacement for your brother! Fuck, Tristan, where do you get this shit from?"

"From you!" He wants to scream? Fine, we're screaming. "Tyler died and I spent every single fucking day in my room. No one came to check on me. No one came to talk to me! Why the fuck do you think I went out so much, huh? Why do you think I slept around so much!"

The rage on my father's expression is starting to slide off.

"Because at least I was doing something. I wasn't going to be like you who just moped around the shop, came home and slept! I wasn't going to be like mom who pretended everything was fine, all the while nursing a bottle! Fuck, dad! I'm not Tyler, I'm not you, and I sure as fuck am not mom! I'm Tristan, your son."

"And that's all I ever wanted you to be! But you became a ghost, okay? You became a God damn ghost after your brother died." He points at me, voice taking on a vibrato. "You'd leave at all hours of the night, stay out 'til whenever...You'd come home, barely say a word, barely even look at us in the face. And then off to your room you'd slither!"

The last sentence was said with such malcontent I'm taken aback. We stop, just looking at each other. The waves lapping the side of the boat is the only sound that can be heard.

I look to the side. "Sorry."

"Me too."

There's another longer pause where the whispering lake is all that's heard.

"Are we ever going to be okay?" he asks me with trepidation.

I don't say anything.

"Do you want us to be okay?"

I really hope he doesn't see the tears I'm trying to conserve for a later date. "It was so hard after Tyler died. I never had anything against him; I was never jealous of him and his relationship with you. I never held that against him. He was my best friend."

My dad clasps my shoulder.

"I miss him. I miss him, and you guys never talk about him, and fuck dad, I miss him."

"I'm sorry," my father says, voice going to a range I've never heard before. I look at him, and his eyes glisten against the light bouncing off the water. "I'm so fucking sorry, okay? I screwed up--I screwed up real bad. I was the head of the household, and I should've been around more to keep the family together--"

"Oh cut the crap with your masculine bullshit," I snap. "It doesn't fucking matter what role society pigeon holes you into. You lost a son. You lost your first child, dad. You're allowed to grieve."

It's with my words that my father finally does what he's been so afraid to do. It's a moment that's tender and ugly. It's raw. It's one of those things that's embarrassing and scary all at once because of how real it is.

The vivid memories come to me then, seeing my father in his current state. The memories are holding hands with smells from long ago, like memories do, coming to the forefront of your mind. You can hear them, transported back into the mists of time. For just a little while, the real world slips away. You're down the slide of your mind, slipping and tripping and falling.

The worst part of it is not the memories themselves, but when you start to clamber your way back up the steep slide...and the light, and the sights and sounds of the memory become dimmer and farther away until the familiar hardens around your senses, encasing you in reality. And you look over your shoulder, and the memory is just a pinprick now. You grasp frantically for that pinprick, because it's soft and warm, and safe and secure. But there's no returning because it's just a memory, and you can never go back to it.

That's the worst part. How the mind is so cruel, holding your dead brother captive, taunting you with his image, his sight, his sound, his smell. Only for you to blink and have him disappear.

And when I blink, I realize that I never gave my brother a proper burial, either. I never moved on. All that grandiose bullshit I fed Orion like a turkey sandwich wasn't me coping and moving on. It was me running away.

My brother was dead and there wasn't anything I could do about it. That was a fact. Sure. But it also was a fact that any time I got the urge to go into Tyler's old room, the room that's been left intact like a shrine, I'd instead go into some man.

The sun was setting, a brilliant explosion of amaranthine purples and pumpkin oranges. When we arrived at the dock, the sun was in our eyes. I watch as my father runs back to the truck, grabbing three more items that weren't disclosed to me. I looked at the can of blue paint, a paintbrush, and the champagne bottle. When I lift my gaze, his eyes are smiling at me.

"What should we name this bastard, Tristan?"

"Tyler."

"I was thinking Tristan, honestly."

"No dad--name it Tyler."

He lets me do the honors of painting the boat with my brother's name. I add my own little flourish, making a swirl beneath the name and putting a small heart as a period. Afterwards my dad and I take the bottle of champagne by the neck, hand in hand, and smash it against the boat's side.

It's one of my favorite memories of my brother now.