Movin' Out

Home : Stories by Mick : Movin' Out

Summary: I don’t understand how he can be so happy about this when it’s obviously tearing me apart.

AUTHOR: Mick
EMAIL: mick@cryptoffic.com
RATING: PG-13 for cussing.
CHARACTER: Dale Earnhardt Jr/Josh Snider, Dale Jr POV
COMPLETED: February 29, 2008
WORD COUNT: 2,543
DISCLAIMER: If I owned them I’d be too busy to write this stuff. Just fiction, folks! I own NOTHING and am affiliated with NO ONE mentioned here. Not the drivers, not the teams, no one. This is all fiction and fun. In other words...NOT REAL, NOT REAL, NOT REAL. ;-)
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I can’t believe this. I can’t believe he’s leaving. He’s moving out and he’s not coming back and he’ll be living across town in some new house that has no history and isn’t within walking distance of my house. He’s leaving me high and dry and his only response when I asked him why was that he wanted more room to grow. He wanted a place that’s his and not just a rental. Like that’s all I was to him this entire time, just a landlord. I was just the guy lending him a triple wide-turned house-turned home while he saved up enough money to walk out on me and not look back. After all I’ve done for him, all I’ve sacrificed for him, this is how he thanks me. By leaving. By packing up all of his things, all the gifts I gave him, all the furniture I leant him, every last memory shoved into some box, wrapped in bubble wrap, crammed into packing peanuts.

My stomach is tied in knots as I watch him take down pictures off the walls and wrap them in newspaper before placing them into a box marked Fragile, This Side Up, with the words “Living Room” scrawled on every side in his chicken scratch handwriting. The knots get tighter with every memento wrapped up, every memory crammed into a box he’ll probably even forget he has once it’s dumped into his shitty new house. The sick feeling in my gut grows as he hums happily to himself and packs things one by one. The bowling ball phone he’s had since he was in high school. The football trophies that he refuses to get rid of. The Hustler magazines he keeps out on the coffee table as “conversation pieces.”

I cringe when he gets to the picture frames on the entertainment center. I’m in every single one of them with him, our faces pressed together, flushed from alcohol or running around like idiots. They’re like a timeline of our lives together, from the party where we first met all the way to last weekend when he came out to Daytona and popped up in Victory Lane with me when I won the shootout. We’re smiling in every single one, arms wrapped around each other in a loving embrace that can never quite be described. Is it brotherly love? Best friends? Something more? No one can ever really tell with us and we’ve always liked it that way. We’ve always loved being the enigmatic duo.

I don’t understand how he can be so happy about this when it’s obviously tearing me apart. Doesn’t he care that I’m dying on the inside? Doesn’t he notice the fact that I’ve been forcing back tears for the last two hours while he flits around, shoving his whole life into boxes? Fuck, even Mo’s showing me more compassion than he is! Damn bulldog’s been following me around since I walked in the door, the same pathetic look on his face as the one that’s been planted on mine since two weeks ago when Josh told me he closed on a house.

The record breaking packing suddenly comes to a halt when Josh picks up one of the frames. He holds it in both hands, looking down at the picture with a sullen look on his face and I watch him from my perch on the arm of the couch to his left. Maybe he’s having second thoughts and he’s about to tell me that he’s changed his mind and he’s going to stay after all. Maybe he finally realized what a mistake it is to leave the Acres and go live all by himself across town, so far from me and all our friends.

“We had us some good times, huh June?” He looks over at me, showing me the frame in his hands. It’s from my 30th birthday party a couple years ago. Me and him sitting on the steps of my back porch, beers in our hands and stupid party hats on our heads. We’re both three sheets to the wind, but the look is still there. That look we always get when we’re together like that. The look of unadulterated love and affection that we just barely manage to hide, especially when we’ve had a few. I swallow down the nausea rising up in my throat and nod weakly, unable to speak. I don’t understand how he can be so…noncommittal about this. About us.

He turns back to his task, a soft smile on his face as he continues to pull down the frames and package them up so they won’t get ruined in the moving process. I think I might throw up. I told him I didn’t want him to leave. I even refused to let him use my realty company. Figured if anything, that would get the hint to him that I’m not okay with this. I’m not okay with him disappearing. What the fuck is so bad about living here? What’s wrong with Dirty Mo’ Acres? Everything he could ever possibly need is here. Our friends are here, we’ve got plenty to keep us occupied…I’M here.

The vice-like twisting in my stomach tightens and I can feel the burning in my throat as the sick feeling grows tenfold. I wrap my arms tight around myself and blink rapidly to keep the tears from falling and without a word I jump off the couch and bolt out of the room, down the front hall, and bust through the front door out into the cool southern air. I collapse onto the porch steps and gasp for air, my face buried in my hands. I can’t handle this. I can’t take knowing that he won’t be here anymore. That if I want to see him I can’t just jump on my golf cart and zigzag down the path we cut between our houses.

My body shakes violently as the sobs I’ve been holding in all morning finally escape. I gasp for air between sobs, sucking in what little air I can as the tears rolls down my face, leaving little wet spots all over my shirt and jeans. I can’t control myself anymore. He’s my best friend. He’s my other half. And he’s leaving. He’s going away and he’s not coming back and his house is going to be empty and dark and-

“Junior? Junior, man what’s wrong? Are you okay?” Tense up when I feel him behind me, crouching down to put his hands on my shoulders, squeezing them lightly just like he’s always done to calm me down when I’m upset. Nice try, Snooter, but it’s not going to work this time. I’m broken beyond repair this time. And it’s all your fault, you heartless bastard. I bury my face in my arms and sob harder, trying to shrug him off when he sits next to me and wraps me in a strong bear hug but I can’t do it. As much as I want to hate him right now, I need him to hold me. I need to know that he hasn’t disappeared yet.

“C’mon, man. What’s wrong? I haven’t seen you this tore up in years. What happened to you? You were fine five minutes ago…” He rocks me gently and kisses the side of my head, pressing his forehead against my temple just like he’s always done. We’ve been here before, been in this same embrace dozens of times. When my daddy died, when Kelley was in the hospital, when my career was on a downward spiral and I couldn’t handle the pressure. He’s always been here for me, always willing to hold onto me and rock me until I calmed down.

“I hate you.” The words are out before I can even finish thinking them and suddenly his arms stiffen. His head moves from mine and I can feel his eyes locked on my face, what little of it he can see as he as he loosens his grip on me and tries to figure out if I really just said what we both know I did. I lift my head up and turn to glare at him, my eyes probably swollen and red, cheeks covered in salty tears, “I fucking hate you, Josh. How? Why? What is so bad about this place that you have to run away?”

The look on his face matches the feeling in my stomach right now. Pure disgust and confusion, laced with pain so deep it cuts right through the both of us. I can see the tears forming in his eyes and silently cheer the fact that he’s finally understanding how much I’m hurting. I don’t hate him. I never could hate him, couldn’t even fathom hating him, but he doesn’t know that. All he knows is that the guy who’s supposedly his best friend in the entire world just told him he hates him and lashed out at him in a way he’s never done before.

“You don’t mean that, Junior. You can’t mean that. You love me. You know you love me and you know damn well I love you just as much, June. You’re my best friend, you’re everything to me, god dammit. Stop trying to turn this into some personal vendetta against you. It has nothing to do with me being out to get you!” He’s getting defensive now. It’s dangerous when he gets emotional. He throws punches and I’m not near strong enough to ward him off.

“The fuck it’s not, Josh! You’re LEAVING me here! You’re fucking packing up your entire god damn life and moving away from me, leaving me and everything that’s ever been ours behind. How the fuck am I supposed to think that this ISN’T about me?! I gave you everything, you fucking bastard! EVERYTHING!” I shove him off of me with strength I didn’t know I possessed and get myself to my feet, glaring down at him, “Don’t you understand, Josh? It fucking KILLS me that you can just pack up and leave without even stopping to ASK me if I’m okay with this!”

All the previous emotions are gone from his eyes and now all that’s left is sadness. He pushes himself up and steps toward me, stopping when I’m within arms reach, “Dammit, Dale. It kills me to leave you behind. I fucking hate it more and more every day I get closer to leavin’. How can you not know that?” There’s desperation in his voice, like he wants so badly for me to believe him but he knows I won’t.

“Horse shit! That’s horse shit! If you meant that then you wouldn’t be leaving in the first place!” I kick hard at one of the railing posts and turn away from him, my hands pressed to the top of my head as I try to will away the headache that’s threatening to knock me down. Swallow down hard around the lump in my throat and squeeze my eyes shut, forcing back the tears.

“…June, please. Look at me. Let me explain.” His hand comes down soft on my shoulder and squeezes it gently, trying to urge me to turn around but I stand firm. I’m not giving into him that easily. I ain’t just gonna turn around and look into those big brown puppy eyes and let him give me some sappy little story and then kiss and make up. Tell him it’ll all be okay and we’ll make it work. It’s not going to happen. Not like that. His hand tightens on my shoulder, “Junior I have to go. I have to do this on my own for a while. Don’t you understand? It’s been me and you since high school. Since 11th grade I’ve always had you here, looking out for me, taking care of me. Whether it was a ride to school, finding me jobs, giving me a place to live…Shit man, I’m gonna be thirty this summer and I’ve never taken care of myself. I’ve never been out on my own. You’ve always been there for me, every time I needed something. My life’s been twisted up with yours since I was a kid and I just…”

His voice drifts off and I finally turn to face him. There’s tears silently dripping down his cheeks, his eyes locked on the ground as his hands twist up in the hem of his Charlie Daniels Band t-shirt. I stand stock still, staring at him while he decides on how to say whatever it is he’s thinking. After a minute he looks up and his eyes lock on mine, “Junior, it scares the fuck out of me that if I don’t have you in my life I won’t be able to survive. I need to know. I need to know that if you’re not around to watch over me every second of the day, I can do this. I can manage on my own. Without the handouts and perks. You’re so much of a part of me that I don’t even know who the fuck I am, man. Think about it. Since the day we met s’always been Junior and Snooter. Dale and Josh. And I love that, I do. But I just…I need to be Josh for a while. JUST Josh. Not Josh and whoever.”

I know he’s trying to make this easier. He’s trying to explain it to me so I’ll understand and…I do. I do understand, but it still hurts. It hurts so bad it’s like someone just cut my chest open with a rusty knife and tore my heart out. What’s so bad about it being us? About being Junior and Snooter? I never thought there was anything wrong with it. I always liked it, how we were always connected to one another. I thought it made us special. I guess I was wrong though. And that realization makes the sick feeling in my stomach come back and I have to get out of here. I can’t stand here and look at him knowing that he wants to throw it all away because he’s having an identity crisis.

“Junior?” He studies my face, trying to read my thoughts like he’s done so many times before, “…are we okay?”

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Mick - mick@cryptoffic.com