It wasn’t your fault. I love you.
~Mom
“Bas,” I called cautiously. “You might want to—”
He came up behind me. “Leave it,” he ordered flatly.
“It’s for you,” I argued, turning toward him.
“Come on, let’s go,” he ordered, leaving me behind as he walked toward the front door.
I nearly pocketed the note for him but decided against it. He’d have to come back to the house at some point—he could deal with whatever it meant then.
The walk back to the truck was silent.
“You wanna check if Noho’s is open yet?” he asked once we were inside and he’d started the engine.
“No,” I replied. The thought of eating anything after the emotional upheaval of the last hour made me vaguely nauseous. “Let’s just head home.”
With a nod, he pulled out onto the street. The houses in the neighborhood were all small, clearly built in the last century, and well kept. Old-growth oak trees peppered the front yards, their leaves spreading out onto the sidewalks. Windchimes blew on small front porches, and children’s toys sat abandoned next to garages. It was idyllic. Add in a few vintage cars, and it could’ve been a neighborhood from any period in the last fifty years.
Bas was silent as we got onto the freeway, and I wasn’t really sure what to say. He was clearly reeling from all he’d learned that morning, and I didn’t know of any way to make it easier on him. I realized in that moment that I’d felt a little superior, knowing that Bas was spending most of his time with me. Like I’d gotten away with something—especially since everyone believed that he was in love with Lou, and I knew that wasn’t the case.
But as the silence lengthened, I started to understand that I didn’t really know him, not the way my cousins and Lou did. I’d had his attention for the past week, and we’d started something that I thought might last—but they’d been his best friends for years. They probably knew why Bas hadn’t been home since he was seventeen. That he’d had foster brothers. That his foster mom had died.
They would’ve known what to say to him.
Hell, they’d probably offered to go with him to Portland, and he’d turned them down, but he hadn’t felt comfortable telling me no when I was sitting outside his house like an absolute idiot.
I felt out of place, sitting next to him in the truck. Like I shouldn’t have been there. Like I’d witnessed something that he didn’t want me to see.
A lump formed in my throat as I stared out the windshield.
“I’ll go back in the next couple of weeks,” Bas said half an hour later. “Go through the house and the garage, decide what to get rid of and what to save.”
“Good idea,” I replied, barely able to keep my voice even. “There’s no rush, right?”
“Sorry we didn’t get lunch.” He glanced at me. “You wanna stop somewhere on the way back?”
“No, I’m good.” I wrinkled my nose. “Not really hungry yet.”
“All right.”
We barely spoke for the rest of the two-hour drive. I turned the radio on but hardly heard it. I wasn’t sure how to get back to the ease we’d had before. Bas was uncomfortable—maybe embarrassed by what I’d witnessed or annoyed that I’d been there at all—I couldn’t tell. I just wanted to be anywhere but stuck in a truck with him or, alternately, sitting on his couch while he brought me a beer, all of the awkwardness forgotten.
“If you just go to your place, I’ll drive the truck home,” I told him as we pulled into town. “That way you’re not stranded at my parents’ house.”
“I can get a ride home,” he offered.
“No, it’s okay.”
We parked in a spot a few yards from his front door, and he glanced at me before leaving the truck running and unbuckling his seat belt.
“Thanks for coming with me today,” he said after a moment. “Probably not what you signed up for.”
“I didn’t have any plans,” I replied with a shrug. “I was just there for whatever.”
He nodded and leaned over to get his stack of clothes and paperwork off the floorboard.
