The Next Saturday - John Bender

10.

John awoke the next morning to the smell of bacon and the sound of heated, hushed, one-sided arguing. He crept downstairs, careful not to alert Mrs. Simms, who was trying to be as patient as possible with Chuck Bender, who had called them as soon as he woke up to find that his son had not come home. 

"S-Sir. Sir. If you would just-" Angie ran a hand down her face as she struggled to get a word in edgewise, "You don't need to worry about that. No, I'm not trying to get any money from you, having John here is a pleasure."

Guilt washed over the boy on the stairs. Of course it wouldn't be that easy. Of course his father would hound them. He'd been here a day and already he was causing them trouble. 

"John is perfectly grown up enough to decide whether or not he wants to remain at home, Mr. Bender. If he wants to stay with us, we are more than happy to have him." She was silent as she listened, "Please do not call him a burden. He is exactly the opposite of that. He-"

Mrs. Simms cut off, apparently interrupted by the man on the other end of the line. John caught sight of her eyes for a second, though she didn't see him, he saw them flash in a moment of anger at the words she was hearing. She wound the phone cord tightly around her finger.

"We don't know him? We don't know him? Mr. Bender, - no don't you interrupt me. You've done enough of that. I. AM. SPEAKING." she let out a huff, "My daughter and I have come to know your son in the week since we've met him better than you've managed to understand him in the seventeen, no, nearly eighteen YEARS he's lived with the two of you, and we certainly love him a great deal more. Yes, Mr. Bender, we love John, and we'll only love him more the longer he's with us."

She paused to take a breath, "The worst part is that he feels like he doesn't deserve any of this. That is the kind of damage you've done -"

Angela Simms continued her conversation with the man on the phone, but Bender found that he was having a hard time paying attention to it. His ears were ringing and it seemed as though the walls weren't staying where they were supposed to. Still, he became aware of the fact that there was someone behind him, who put a hand on his shoulder and turned him around.

The hand slid down his arm until it was in his own. Laura pulled him back up the stairs, aware of John's ever-growing panic as was evident by his wide-eyed stare. This had happened before...the last time he'd heard her mother speak with his father, but it was somehow worse this time. 

She led him to her room and shut the door before pulling him down to sit on the bed, slightly worried that he wouldn't make it much longer on his own two feet. He seemed to be well and truly panicked, eyes darting around the room and hands trembling, fidgeting with whatever they came into contact with, breathing shallow.

She sat on the bed too, facing him. Laura tried reaching for him, but he flinched away from her. 

John's thoughts were a mess of fast-paced worries and jumping to conclusions and utter self-deprecating insults. Why did he have to ruin everything he touched? Was he really that fucked? 

Trick question. 

Of course he was. 

All those things the Simms women had said to him...kind words...he knew they believed them too. The problem was that he knew they weren't true. He knew he was beyond help, too broken to be fixed.

And now this. Out of control again. In front of Laura. Again. What the hell was happening to him.

Laura was worried. His breathing had become harsh, still shallow, but very quick. He was on the edge of hyperventilation, and she wasn't sure what to do. This was new to her. All she knew is that he needed to calm down. 

"John. John!" Laura almost yelled at the boy, "Look at me. Look. At. Me."

Her hands came up to rest on either side of his face, and it was only then that he met her eyes.

"Breathe." she commanded him, "You're okay. It's alright, John, just breathe. You gotta calm down, okay?"

Her thumbs brushed at his cheeks out of instinct, and his hands circled around her wrists, tightly, but it wasn't painful. It was like he needed something to hold on to. They sat there like that for a while, long after Angie had finished her phone call downstairs, just watching each other and breathing together. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to usher out the last of the ringing in his ears. 

"...I'm sorry," he finally said.

Laura pulled away to look at him, shocked, "For what?"

"That wasn't...you shouldn't have had to deal with that," he muttered, finally opening his eyes.

Her expression was one of utter confusion, "John, you don't ever need to apologize for that, okay? You don't have to do this crap by yourself anymore."

He shook his head. He'd love to believe that. He really would, but she'd get hurt the closer she got. Her and her mother both. 

Suddenly it hit him, though he'd already apologized for it, it registered that Laura was there for...that. She'd seen him freak out. She knew once and for all how fucking terrified he was of his sorry excuse for a father. She knew exactly how fucked he was. She knew. She knew.

She knew.

On any normal day, this would be the part where John got real angry...real defensive. Maybe he'd shove her away. Maybe he'd storm out of the house and never come back. Maybe he wouldn't even say goodbye to either of the Simms ladies. Today, though, he just didn't have it in him. All he could do was sit there and stare at the pretty pattern on the quilt on Laura's bed, ashamed. 

It certainly didn't help that the petty desire he'd had to make her seen when he'd first met her had turned into a real friendship, and it really didn't help that those friendly, grateful feelings were morphing into something else...something new...something...real...and completely out of his control.

He'd never felt so small.

"...It's not your fault, you know," Laura said quietly.

His eyes shot up to meet hers, only to find that they were staring down like his had been, "What?"

She looked at him, a little misty-eyed, "It isn't your fault. The shit you've had to put up with. Those bruises and scars and the asshole that gave them to you and a mother who just...stands there and watches."

She found that he was staring at her as though that thought never occurred to him. Maybe it never had.

"It's not right. It's not okay. It's not your fault," she told him softly, pulling him in for a hug, and whispering the last part of her declaration in his ear, "You don't deserve any of that shit, John."

He wrapped his arms around her tightly and pulled her close to bury his face in her shoulder, doing his damndest to keep himself from crumbling. Still, he couldn't help the tears that leaked out of his eyes and onto her bare skin. She didn't mind, and only hugged him tighter.

Screw walking out.

There was no place in the world he'd rather be.