I want to argue with him, even though he’s right, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t want to kiss anyone, and the scowl on his face went away when I said it.
Could he be like me? Could he like me like I like him?
His driver waves at us as he picks a free parking spot. As usual, I walk Mik to the car.
“Can I take you home, Tyler?” Mr. Stevens asks.
“Nah, it’s okay. I like taking the bus.” Then I turn to Mik. “I’ll catch you later.”
He smiles his straight white smile that I only ever see directed at me. “Like I said. Race you there.”
I roll my eyes. “You can’t race me to your own place when I need to stop at mine to get my guitar and my swimming trunks first. It’s not fair.”
He shrugs again and gets in the car.
It only takes me two seconds to decide to forgo the bus and run home instead. Even in this heat, I’m sure I can beat my personal best and be home in less than twenty minutes.
I’m eager to get to Mik’s place and jump in the pool, so I keep running even when I pass another bus I can easily jump onto for the rest of the way.
When I turn the corner to my street, my dad’s car is in the driveway. My legs burn from running, but I love it. Almost as much as the memory of Mik’s expression when he thought I might want to kiss Bernadette.As if.
Seeing my dad’s, well, technically foster dad, car at home so early in the day isn’t normal. He works two jobs to keep a roof over our heads, so he’s never home when I get back from school.
“Dad,” I call, practically crashing into the hallway when I enter. I don’t even bother taking off my sneakers. Just drop my backpack and look for him.
He’s sat on the couch hunched forward with his elbows on his knees. He’s holding what looks like a letter on thick paper. It must be something official.
The adoption court date!
5
TYLER
NOW
“Wanna talk it out?”
I raise my gaze from the drink in front of me to meet Levi’s friendly expression. The bartender and photographer can sometimes be too insightful for his own good. It’s as if his two jobs give him special powers to look into people’s eyes and figure them all out.
“Nothing to talk about,” I say.
He grabs a cloth and starts wiping the bar in front of me.
“You sure about that?”
“Do you get special bartender classes on how to get customers to bleed their hearts onto the bar so you have a reason to keep wiping?”
“Yeah, they’re just after the class on how to stop yourself from punching people by throwing the towel over your shoulder and crossing your arms. Facial Expressions is a whole module in itself and counts as double credit.”
I run my hand up my face and through my hair. “I’m sorry, man. I’m not great company right now.”
“It’s okay. I’m just saying, if you want to talk, I can listen.”
If only it was as easy as that. I’ve become so used to keeping my life to myself that I wouldn’t even know where to startifI was to open up about anything.
Would I start withDid you know when I’m not running the soup kitchen for the homeless;s and poor of Stillwater, I am a successful songwriter?Or maybeI miss my dead husband so much that sometimes I can’t breathe?Not to mention the playground shit has me reeling every time I think about it. Which is why my fucked-up brain likes to think about it a lot.
My friends worked so hard to save the playground from being turned into a parking lot, and we would have done it on our own. I don’t know how none other than Mikael Nilsson, Sr., the man who was hell-bent on controlling my life years ago, knows where I live. Or why he cares about the playground.
