“You deny having an accent,” Brock says, reeling in his line a little, “but seriously, which West Coast state are you from?”
Persistent—I can’t deny I like it . . . sometimes. I sigh. “Washington.”
“I knew it.” A triumphant smile stretches his lips. “So why Maryland? Did your parents insist on Hadley U?”
The question flares old wounds, opening the levee guarding my memories. “My parents are dead,” I say flatly, my attention honed in on a canoe pulling up to a dock. I watch a couple stumble out, their laughter thundering over the sound of ducks fighting for their next meal.
“That blows,” Brock notes without a hint of solemnness.
“What? You’re not gonna go into the whole sorry for your loss, I understand what you’re going through, and if you need someone to talk to I’m here spiel?” I bite my lip, realizing what a bitch I sound like.
Shock jumps over Brock’s face, but he sobers. “To answer your first example: Yeah. I’m sorry you lost them, but I told you I’m not a pity-giving dude, and that seems to be what you want. You’re closing yourself off to me; I can feel it. I sensed it the moment we met. So fuck pity, right?”
I open my mouth to speak but snap it shut. I can’t form a coherent thought. Nothing’s there. I’m blank.
He continues. “To answer your second example: No. I’m not gonna say I understand what you’re going through because I don’t. I’ve never had anyone close to me die, but I know I will one day. When that happens, then we can live bitterly ever after.”
Wide-eyed, I just stare, swallow, and listen to the rest of what he says.
“And to answer your third and final example, my beautiful, mysterious Ber, who I will eventually piece back together no matter what the hell I have to do: I have ears, and if you ever decide you wanna talk, I’ll listen. I’ll listen to everything you need to get out. But for now, the only thing these ears wanna hear from your pretty lips is my name being called out while I fuck away every bad pent-up memory and twisted shit you’ve ever seen right out of your mind. Cool?”
I’m sure I just fell in love for the first time in my life. I nod. Jesus, the only thing I can do is nod.
“Cool,” he repeats, reeling in and recasting his line. He looks at me, his eyes soft with curiosity. “So do you live here with extended family?”
Like the first time we met, in those clear peridot pools of warmth, I see something familiar yet unfamiliar. All the same, I feel as if we’ve met in a different space and time. Somewhere along the ragged edges of my sweetest dreams and darkest nightmares, I’ve talked with this boy. He’s told me his secrets, and I, mine.
Still, I’m nervous about revealing too much in fear that I’ll scare him off. I’m sure it’s not often that he comes across a girl who watched her parents rot away into nothing but pale flesh covering bones under their heroin addiction. Add that spectacular picture to the same girl witnessing her father take out her mother with one bullet reserved for the back of her skull, and the second reserved for his mouth, and you’ve got yourself a chick no sane parent would approve of their son dating.
Murder-suicide makes for some great evening news. It also scares most decent families away from the one who was left in the aftermath of its destruction.
Nauseated, I decide to let Brock in on just enough that he no longer feels like I’m trying to push him away. “Can I just give you a summed-up version of my past so we can talk about something else?”
“Absolutely.” He nods.
I pull in a shaky breath. This is the first time I’m about to spill my story, even a little bit, to someone I barely know. “I live here by myself and don’t have any extended family members who I speak to. They ditched my parents after I was born, so I never met them, only know what they look like from old photos my mother showed me. My foster parents were set on me going to Hadley because they both graduated from there. They live in Florida now, and out of the three or so foster parents I’ve gone through, they’re the best I’ve come across. I still have a relationship with them.”
The curiosity in Brock’s eyes thickens.
I’m aware I’ve already said too much, but the sutured scars have ripped wide open, and there’s no turning back. Might as well keep going. “I have foster parents because my . . . my father shot and killed my mother, then turned the gun on himself in front of me when I was eight.”
Brock’s face clouds over with the shock I’ve come to know.
I brush it off, hoping to push him away from the subject for good. “Six therapists in three different states, spread over the course of eleven years of intense counseling, couldn’t get me to talk. Neither could those three or so sets of foster parents, including my latest. Before them, the others couldn’t take my mood swings, depression, or anger issues, so they handed me back to the state. Cathy and Mark were the only ones who held on to me.”
Looking at the water, I think about how much Cathy and Mark have done for me. How much they’ve endured with me over the last two years. A knot of emotion wraps around my heart. Though I’m what most would consider a walking tragedy, a complete mental mess, I owe any sense of normalcy I’ve had to them.
I sigh and bring my eyes back to Brock’s. “Fake friends at several schools talked behind my back and eventually ditched me the second I had a meltdown. I mean, shit. Even my last remaining living grandparent ditched me. Her great excuse when the state of Washington’s Child Protective Services contacted her to notify her of her son’s suicide?” Though there’s nothing funny about what she told them, I can’t help but let out a light laugh. “She couldn’t fathom taking care of a grandchild who she never considered hers to begin with.” I blow out a puff of air, a shrug lifting my shoulder. “I guess I’m unlovable. So, please, don’t try to get me to talk about any of this again because . . . I won’t. Cool?”