LIZA + THATCHER WARD. @goblinkingg
He’s fine most days. That’s the line he feeds everyone who asks about his father. Somedays it’s because he really is fine, others it’s because he knows his father wouldn’t want everyone in town knowing what state he’s really in. When he tells Ari that Jim is okay, it’s because he doesn’t want her to worry. Most of the time though, it’s just because he’s too tired to talk about it. For Liza though? She gets the truth of it. As soft as he can make it, but still the truth. “It’s not lookin’ good, Lizard.”
Her accusation catches him off guard, mid inhale. His throat tightens and thick smoke hits his lungs too fast. And before he knows it, Thatcher is doubled over seized by a coughing fit. “Don’t,” he chokes out, alarm clear in his voice. “Just don’t.” How Liza knew something that Thatcher has never once admitted to out loud, Thatcher will never know. A magazine tucked under his bed, discovered by a snooping sister? An app alert on his phone with an icon she recognized? Maybe she could just tell that there was something more they had in common than their last name.
It has always made Thatcher feel closer to her, even if he’ll never admit to it. But it’s also made him just a little terrified of her. “Whatever you think I am, keep it to yourself.” He wants it to sound like a command, but between the anxiety in his chest and the smoke in his lungs, he knows he sounds like he’s begging. “Sorry it’s not as good as whatever wild shit they got in the city. Out here we just gotta make do with what we got.” Hopefully it’s clear to Liza that he’s not just talking about the pot.
“Besides, you took one hit. You gotta give it a minute. I know you’re not new to this.”
The nickname ‘Lizard’ makes her recoil, like she’s twelve again and failing to be taken seriously, just like when Jim takes it upon himself to call her Lizzie just to make her feel small. Usually it makes Liza absolutely feral, but there’s comfort in hearing it from Thatcher right now, while they’re sitting in the still silence of the evening and connecting over their father’s eventual downfall. She makes a noncommittal noise of understanding, subconsciously huddling into the swing and closer to her big brother, as if he might be able to shield her from all the shit that’s going on in their lives. As much as Liza likes to pretend she’s big and bad and needs no one to protect her, it’s nice to think Thatch might be there to do it anyway.
His instant alarm at her innocent comment has her snickering, watching him while he doubles over himself. “It’s been kept, Thatch. Doesn’t make it any less true.” Liza has never felt the need to hide her sexuality, nor has she felt the need to define it. She fucks who she fucks and that’s it, but Thatcher has always treated his preferences like a dirty secret. He’s ashamed, she’s sure, and afraid and Liza would feel bad for him if she didn’t find it so goddamn annoying. She gets it, though — because she’s sure Jim would have a cow if he figured out that his golden boy was anything other than straight and narrow. “But I’ll shut up.” Maybe, but she leaves that part off.
Liza plucks back his flimsy little joint, takes another hit and feels for a minute like she’s sixteen under the bleachers at Forest Hills instead of openly smoking weed in her father’s backyard, and she takes a moment to appreciate the balls she’s grown. The fact that Jim’s practically senile and doesn’t scare her nearly as much anymore has nothing to do with it, she’s sure. “You don’t have to just make do, y’know,” she comments, inspecting the joint before handing it back. “Should come out and visit me in the city. You’d like it.” He wouldn’t like it at all, Liza knows that for a fact — Thatch is far too country, and the confines of the skyscrapers would send him into an orbit — but she’s steadfast in the thought that he could use a little culture.