And then his hands move in front of him. I grew up in foster homes too.
I’m in mid-bite and it’s a good excuse not to respond right away, but really I’m trying to pull myself together. This is a heavy subject, which I don’t like to talk about—my time spent being passed between families. “How come?” I finally ask after I swallow the bite and sit down at the table.
Parents couldn’t take care of me. It’s signed so casually but I can see the pain emitting from his eyes.
“But you’re with your dad now?” I pick some of the crust off the bread.
I know, but he didn’t want me until I was eighteen and could pretty much take care of myself.
I feel bad for him. I lost my parents and was forced to live with other people. Ryler’s parents gave him away by choice. “What about your mom?”
He shrugs. Lets just say she was never ready to be a mom… then again, quite honestly, I still don’t think my dad even is ready to be a parent right now. He acts like a kid sometimes and is hard to trust… sometimes I feel like the parent. He pauses, shaking his head at his own thoughts. What about you? Where are your parents?
I hesitate. God, how the hell did I end up in this conversation? “They died when I was five…” My voice cracks and I clear my throat.
I’m so sorry.
I shake it off and look for a subject change, getting so sick of hearing the word sorry. I know people mean well, but it doesn’t change anything. “I like this song,” I say, nodding at the iPod.
He gives me a questioning looking, noting my need to change the subject, but lets it go. Yeah, Taking Back Sunday is a good band. Great live too.
“I saw them once a couple of years ago,” I say and take another bite of the sandwich. “It was super badass.”
We continue on about our favorite bands, but my lips are moving almost robotically, my parents taking up most of my thoughts. I just keep thinking about what it would be like if I ended up with them again, like Ryler with his dad? Of course that can never happen, but sometimes it’s good pretending, like I did for the first year or so after they died. It’s actually the first time I’ve really thought about them without freaking out. Add the light conversation with Ryler and things are going pretty good. That is until my phone starts vibrating madly inside my pocket. There must have been a delay when the battery died because a stream of text messages comes pouring in, times varying from last night to only hours ago.
Unknown: Been thinking about u a lot and how badly I want to hurt you.
Unknown: U think ignoring me is going to make me stop. Think again.
Unknown: This shit is getting old u little cunt.
Unknown: U disgust me, being with the son of the woman who took your parents life.
Unknown: U f**king whore. Text me back.
Unknown: Fuck u.
Unknown: If u don’t text me back right now, something bad is going to happen.
Unknown: I know you’re in Vegas. Hope u have fun. I’ll be waiting for u when u get back.
They end, just like that. It’s not an ending for me, though, but a beginning of a panic attack if I don’t find a way to calm down. Because he knows where I am but the question is how? How did he find out, when hardly no one knows I’m here. The only people who know I’m here are the ones with me… and Greyson.
“Shit.” I jump from the chair, cutting Ryler off. He looks up at me worriedly, mouthing what’s wrong. But I don’t answer, dialing Greyson’s phone number. It rings four times and then goes straight to his voicemail, so I leave him a rushed message about calling me immediately. He could be just at work, but what if he’s not. What if something happened to him… what if unknown is with him. God, I don’t want to flip out, but I’m about to. Pins. Needles. Pins. Needles. They’re poking madly underneath my skin.
“Can you excuse me for a second?” I ask Ryler and when he nods, I dash up to the guest room, unsure of what I’m going to do. At first I’m only thinking about myself and about the many ways I could hurt myself, but then all my thoughts go to Greyson. I’m worried about him. Me. Violet Hayes. Worried about someone else besides herself. Actually, I’m worried about a lot of people at the moment.
So I dial Greyson’s number again, squeezing my eyes shut, and holding my breath, crossing my fingers he’ll answer. “Please, please Greyson, pick up.”
He doesn’t though, so I end up dialing him ten times, over and over again, becoming like a stalker myself. Finally he picks up, though, but is very, very grumpy about it. But I’m relieved to hear his voice.
“What the hell, Violet,” he hisses in the phone. “I’m at work, filling in for you. Remember?”
“Shit. Sorry, but it’s really important.” I sit down on the bed and lie down on my back. “Did you tell anyone that I was coming to Vegas with Luke?”
There’s some clanking and banging of dishes in the background. “Yeah, Seth. But that’s it.”
“Did he tell anyone?”
“Probably. He tells everyone everything.” He pauses and I can hear the manager of the diner hollering something in the background. “Wait? Was I not supposed to say anything to anyone?”
“No, it’s fine, but…” I waver, wondering if I should tell him what’s really going on. I hate telling my problems to people but it doesn’t seem like I have a choice anymore. “It’s not really a big deal or anything, I’ve just been getting these weird texts and they know I’m in Vegas with Luke, which is strange since no one really knows except you and I guess Seth.”
“Texts from that reporter again?”
“I don’t think so. I mean, it could be a reporter, but I don’t know.” I let out a loud exhale. “Could you do me a favor and call Seth and see who he told, just so I can maybe get an idea of who’s being a douche?”
“Of course,” he says, not pressing any further. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll take a break and go call him. Then call you right back.”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling the slightest bit lighter, the pins and needles not so potent and sharp. So this is what asking for help is like? I should really do it more often, but then again, getting to the point of asking feels like pulling teeth.
“You’re welcome,” he says, meaning it. “Talk to you in just a minute.”