“Totally,” I agree, laughing. I’ve never seen the movie, but I think I know how it goes. “And I’m pretty sure Lady wasn’t normal. She was boring and didn’t know how to have fun. Tramp’s my kinda guy.”
“What, because he roams the streets the same way you do when you’re stumbling home drunk on the weekends?” She tilts her head to one side, those hazel eyes of hers sparkling as she gives me a teasing smile. I laugh again, and she glances around my room once more. “You play football?” she asks.
“Huh?” I look over my shoulder to see what she’s talking about. Dean’s varsity football jacket is hanging over the edge of the top shelf in my closet. It’s been there for like a year, and it brings back bad memories. I took a bad trip once. Last summer. I don’t remember much, but I remember waking up with Dean’s jacket on. Apparently, I’d been shivering too hard and they wanted to keep me warm. I’m much more careful now. “No,” I say. “That’s Dean’s. I’m not really the football type.”
“Dean plays football?” she says slowly, as though she’s surprised. “And you don’t?”
“Yeah. So does Jake.” I walk over to my closet, subtly kicking my boxers to the side as I pass. “I used to play when I was younger, but I stopped back in middle school.”
“Why?”
“According to some people, football is a waste of time.” My throat tightens. I used to love football. I couldn’t wait for high school so that I could try out for the team, but Dad never let it become a priority. “Why waste your time on sports?” I recall. “Throwing footballs around isn’t going to get you into Ivy League schools. Stay inside and study instead so that you can actually be successful.”
Eden is watching me closely. “Who told you that?”
“Just someone.” Someone she is never, ever going to know about. “So that’s why I wasn’t allowed to play.”
“Allowed?” She raises an eyebrow.
Crap. I really need to censor what I say sometimes. “I mean, that’s why I stopped,” I say, reaching up to push Dean’s jacket further back onto the shelf. I run my eyes over my clothes and decide that I need a fresh shirt after all the shit that’s happened today. I feel gross, so with my back to Eden, I quickly pull off the shirt I’m currently wearing and then swap it out for a new one. “I really have to give Dean his jacket back. He’s been bugging me about it for ages,” I say over my shoulder.
A few moments of silence pass, and then I hear Eden quietly ask, “What does your tattoo mean?” I spin around to look at her, confused, and she adds, “I’m going to ignore the fact that you clearly got it illegally.”
“My tattoo?” I only have one. It’s on the back of my left shoulder, and she’s right: Ididget it illegally last year in the basement of some guy Declan knows. “Uh, it saysGuerrero,” I answer, feeling a little awkward. I scratch the back of my head, and before she can ask, I say, “It’s Spanish forfighter.” I still don’t know why I chose that. I guess at the time, it was sort of afuck youto Dad. He used to always tell me to fight hard for success. So I decided, in that basement that stank ofweed and stale beer, that I was going to do exactly as he asked of me. I was going to fight for my own version of success, which is to not let what he did ruin my life. Though I haven’t exactly done a great job of that so far.
Eden is still staring straight at me, and she’s genuinely curious, which is sort of nice, I guess. Tiffani once told me the tattoo is stupid, but she doesn’t know the meaning of it. “Why Spanish?”
“I’m fluent,” I admit. “Both my parents are. My dad taught me when I was a kid.” I don’t speak it much anymore. It only reminds me of him.
“I don’t know any Spanish,” Eden says. She bites her lip and then gives me a playful smile. “I speak French. Like the Canadians,” she jokes. “Bonjour.”
What the fuck? Did that husky voice just become foreign? I didn’t know French could sound so good. “Me frustras,” I reply in Spanish, running my hand back through my hair. She looks confused, but it’s entertaining. “Buenas noches.That means ‘Goodnight.’” I don’t translate the first part for her. I don’t tell her she frustrates me.
She seriously does though. She questions me constantly, but she also pays attention to me. One minute she’s all shy and embarrassed, and the next she’s confident and challenging. She listens, but she also doesn’t put up with my bullshit. That’s sort of cool to me.
“Oh,” she says. The corner of her plump lips curves into a small, sweet smile and as she turns around and walks out of my room, I’m so glad to hear that mesmerizing voice of hers murmur, “Bonsoir.” Maybe it means goodnight in French? Whatever it is, it sounds amazing on her tongue.
My gaze remains glued to her until she disappears back into her own room. I’m smiling as I stand rooted to the spot, staring out into the empty hall. Something doesn’t quite feel right. I don’t know what it is,and I stand in silence for a few minutes, racking my brain and trying to figure out why I’m feeling so off. It’s not until I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror that it hits me.
My smile isn’t the same as it usually is. It’s not a smirk, it’s not challenging, it’s not cocky. My eyes aren’t as narrowed or as fierce. My heart sinks in my chest when I realize that for the past few minutes, I wasn’t acting. For the first time in a long time, I forgot to be Tyler Bruce.
I was just me, and that is the biggest mistake I could ever possibly make.
21
Five Years Earlier
I love it when Dad is out of town, because when he’s out of town, he isn’t here, and when he isn’t here, he can’t hurt me. He’s been in Seattle for the past two days, and I don’t think he’s coming home until tomorrow night. I wish he would stay away longer, but I’m hoping that by the time he gets back tomorrow, he won’t be so stressed. I’m hoping he’ll come home happy and play basketball with us out on the driveway again like he did a couple weeks ago. That would be real nice. It’s Friday afternoon, and I’ve been allowed to skip last period only because I have an appointment with Dr. Coleman. We’re sitting in his waiting room now, Mom and me, and I’m staring at the clock on the wall in front of me, watching it tick on. It’s been a while now since I got the cast on my wrist removed, and now Dr. Coleman wants to follow up and check how the fracture is healing. I’ve been constantly forgetting to do the exercises he asked me to, so in a last-ditch effort to make a difference, I quickly hold up my left arm and begin rotating my wrist in a full circle. It still hurts sometimes. “Isn’t it too late to start doing that?” Mom asks teasingly as she glances at me out of the corner of her eye. She’s been on her phone for the past five minutes, rapidly typing,probably because she’s been working from home the past couple days and needs to stay in touch with the office. She’s even taken the afternoon off to take me here, and she’s promised we’ll stop for ice cream down at the promenade afterward.
“It might still help,” I tell her with a shrug, but then quickly give up and drop my wrist back down onto my lap. I look at the clock again.
“Tyler?” I hear a voice say, and when I look over, Dr. Coleman is smiling straight at me from the door of the waiting room. He’s sort of old, with deep wrinkles and graying hair and a pudgy stomach, but he’s always super nice. It’s not enough to put me at ease though. “Come on in!”
Mom tosses her phone into her purse and gets to her feet. I try not to wince as she places her hand on my shoulder and guides me over to Dr. Coleman as he leads us down the hallway to his office. Dr. Coleman is a childhood friend of Grampa’s, and he’s been our family doctor since forever. Mom asks him how he’s doing, but I don’t listen for the answer, because now I’m nervous. I get anxious every time I have to see him. Despite the high temperatures outside today, I’m wearing several layers of clothes, including a hoodie. I don’t want him to notice the bruises, and I make it difficult.
“So, how’s that wrist doing?” Dr. Coleman asks once we’ve all sat down and are comfortable inside his office. He flashes me a warm smile and interlocks his hands in his lap as he watches me through the thick lenses of his glasses, waiting for a reply.
“It still feels sort of stiff sometimes,” I admit, glancing down at my hands. I just want to get this over and done with as quickly as possible.
