“It’s alright, pup. You were scared.” I stayed in James’ arms for a few minutes longer and took multiple deep breaths. “It’s alright for you to be emotional as you look at pieces of your past, Brandon. You were so young when your world was flipped inside out. At eighteen, you were still developing and changing from a teenager to a young man. You were sold within a couple months of graduating high school, and you lost your voice.”
“I don’t want to be fucked up forever. I’m tired of crying at random things,” I said and took another deep breath.
“Listen to me, Brandon. There are horrific events in your very young life that have impacted you greatly. There are things that will affect you for an undetermined amount of time, and you have to understand that you cannot control that. You need to give yourself time to heal.”
I nodded against his shoulder and took another deep breath.
“I’m sorry again about Saturday and the tears and shit this morning. Another setback.”
“Brandon, this isn’t a setback.” James pulled us out of our embrace, and he took hold of my jaw with his strong hand. “This is progress, Brandon. Walls are coming down, pup.”
I thought about it some more, and I supposed he was right—this was progress. By admitting to him that I had been sold, I was opening up more. James seemed happy about that, which made me feel good.
“So, pup, if you still feel up to it, I’d love to sit with you and look at the pictures you wanted to show me,” James offered.
I nodded, and we sat down on the couch. James leaned back against the cushion, and I leaned part way against his chest and shoulder and the cushion. He draped his arm across me and curled his hand around my side.
“I wanted to show you my goofy socks,” I boasted and opened to the most recent picture of some Albert Einstein socks. I was at Eli’s house in the picture. I kept scrolling, showing off my footwear. James would laugh at some of them here and there.
“How did you get started on liking funny socks?” James asked after we had gone through my high school pictures of wild socks.
“It’s a lame story,” I warned as I continued to scroll.
“I don’t care. It’s your story, and I’d love to hear it, pup.”
“When I was really little, under the Christmas tree there was always a present that was wrapped in a different paper than what my mom and ‘Santa’ used. The tags were always different too. They’d say, ‘To Brandon, Love Dad.’ I paused to swallow and take a slow breath to keep my voice in check. “They were always a funny pair of socks. And I loved them because I thought they were from my dad.”
“Were they?” James asked as he narrowed his eyes. I was sure he recalled me telling him that I never knew my father.
“No. I was in middle school, and things were getting weird for me around that time. I begged her to give me my dad’s phone number so I could talk to him. She said that it wasn’t possible because she didn’t know who my dad was. I called her a liar because her story didn’t add up. Obviously, he knew where we lived because he sent the socks. She told me that she had her agent wrap a pair for me each year. I was crushed. That was when I started cutting. But that year for Christmas there was still a gift of socks from ‘Dad’ tucked under the tree. I started telling myself that my dad really did exist. When friends would ask, I said he was in the military overseas.
“After Christmas, even through high school, my friends and I would always show off whatever crap we got. All of our parents were loaded, so you can imagine the gifts were really ridiculous. I’d show my crap off too, but I always showed them my goofy socks from my dad.” I paused and took a deep breath after I revealed how pathetic my life really had been. I had slouched down during my story, and my head rested somewhere between his stomach and lap. I looked up at him and sighed. “See, lame story about my socks.”
“It’s not lame, pup.” James lowered his head and kissed my forehead. “Needing something to believe in isn’t bad, Brandon. I think you were hungry for attention and love.”
“But kind of shitty of my mom to lead me on like that for all those years about them being from my dad, huh?”
James raised his eyebrows, and his lips formed a tight line for a moment as he gave some thought to my question.
“Your mom probably felt extreme guilt for not knowing who your dad was, on top of the circumstances under which she had you.”
“The drug addiction?” I asked while looking in his eyes as he nodded.
“Children born with that weight already against them will often have an uphill battle through school and behaviorally. It’s not their fault, of course. It’s a shitty hand of cards they were dealt.”
“I did okay in school,” I said proudly.
“I can see that.” I scrolled to my high school graduation pictures. “Is that an honor’s sash you have?”
“Yes. I wasn’t smart by any means. But my brain works weird. I can glance at something or read it, and I have it memorized. So lots of times, I didn’t study. I’d cram the night before exams. I limped my way through high school doing just enough assignments to get by, and then I’d cram.”
“Photographic memories are quite the gift.”
“Yeah, school wasn’t too much of a problem for me. I was a terror behaviorally, though. I guess maybe that’s where my born drug addiction came into play.”
He rubbed on my chest and stroked my hair while we looked at more of my pictures. I showed him all of my track awards, ribbons, and soccer trophies. He saw my beautiful black BMW.
“So, you had your very own dream car,” James said as he smiled.
