Twisting her lips, she tucked her head beneath his chin and lifted her thigh higher. It brushed the base of his semi-hard shaft. Of course, his erection withered a bit when she asked, “So why didyoubecome a movie buff?”
He could have evaded the question, he supposed, kept the tone light and flirty. But he didn’t. “Desperation,” he told her.
She pushed up on one elbow to stare at him. Her eyes were soft and warm, like summer storm clouds swirling in a hot sky. “What doesthatmean?”
“It means I started sneaking into my local movie theater ’cause it was a warm place to sleep in the winter and a cool place to sleep in the summer. After my parents died, and after I ran away from my third foster home because the middle-aged, chain-smoking woman there kept trying to come into my bedroom at night, I took to the streets.”
“Good Lord, Bran.” She searched his face.
“It wasn’t as bad as you think,” he assured her. “I couch-surfed in the homes of friends. I worked odd jobs and spent time in the library studying for my GED. Sleeping at the movie theater was always a last resort. And I found I actuallylikedwatching all those movies. At night, after closing, I’d go into the storage room and shuffle through the old reels. I think I watched every one they had fromDoctor ZhivagotoThe Matrix.”
She smoothed the hair back from his forehead. He closed his eyes and leaned into her hand, loving the feel of her. Lovingher.
When he opened his eyes, it was to find a question burning in hers. He knew what it was before she asked it.
“Murder-suicide,” he told her and watched her throat work over a hard swallow. They were just two words. Alone they were awful. Put together they were reprehensible. “After a month in the shelter, Dad convinced Mom to come and talk things over.”
And why did you go, Mom? Why?It was a question he continued to ask himself even though he already knew the agonizing answer. She’d gone because she couldn’t stay away. As sick as it was, as perverse as it was, she’d loved his father. Lovedallof him. The good, the bad, and the ugly.
But she hadn’t known justhowbad and ugly Dad could be.
Branhad known. Even then, he’d known because the same badness, the same ugliness lived in him.
“Remember that shotgun I told you I borrowed from Joey Santorini’s father?” He watched Maddy nod jerkily. “Well, my father used one barrel on my mother and the other on himself. And you wanna know the crazy thing?”
She swallowed, a lone tear sliding down her delicate cheek.
“She washappy. Before she hopped on the bus, she was wearing herLittle House on the Prairiesmile.”
Maddy blinked, not understanding. And as he explained, the memory of that day, the last time he ever saw his mother, washed over him…
“Don’t go, Mom,” he pleaded, grabbing her hand.
Spring had arrived early, and even though the leaveshadn’t bloomed on the trees, the sun was warm and bright.It reflected in his mother’s dark eyes when she smiled at him.
He grimaced because it was herrealsmile. Not her fake one. And it wasn’t for him. It was for his rat bastard of a father. To make matters worse, she’d put on her best dress and had splurged on new lipstick for the occasion.
“Bran, baby.” She pulled him into a hug. He was taller than she was now. Bigger too. But he still felt like a child in her arms. “I hafta go.”
“Why?” he demanded, bitterly pushing out of her embrace. “Why do you have to go?”
She shook her head. “I know you don’t understand, but the bad parts of him don’t outweigh the good. I love him, Bran. And if there’s a chance…” She drifted off, not finishing the sentence.
Frustration and fury were twin fires in Bran’s chest. They licked flames into his face. “What’swrongwith you?” he demanded hoarsely. “How can you still love him after…after…” He didn’t finish. He was too busy angrily wiping away tears that made his eyes feel like they were filled with fine-grained sand.
His mother placed gentle hands on his cheeks. “Because that’s how love works,” she whispered. “No matter what, it doesn’t go away. It remains part of you. Forever. Someday you’ll understand.”
“No, I won’t,” he swore, disgusted when his voicebroke and more impotent tears filled his eyes. “Because iflove is what you say it is, if it makes a man beat his wife—”
“Brando Pallidino,” she tsked, glancing around the bus stop. “Keep your voice down.” But they were alone on the sidewalk, the garbage truck across the way and the lonely sparrow chirping on a nearby limb their only audience.
“If it makes a woman stay with a husband who calls her names,” he went on like she hadn’t spoken, “and is so eaten up with jealousy that he can’t help but hurt her, then I want no part of it.”
“Don’t blame that on love, baby.” Her expression was sad. “That doesn’t have anything to do with love. It has to do with…” She paused to drag in a deep breath. “Your daddy didn’t have it easy growing up. There were things that…” She didn’t finish, just shook her head again.
“And that makes itokay?” He blinked at her, realizing just how…crazyshe was, how deluded. Andblind.She didn’t see. She’d never see.
“It doesn’t make it okay,” she told him. “But it should give you comfort to know that when you fall in love, it’ll be different for you becauseyou’redifferent from him. Different from me too.”
