I make sure that my face doesn’t look like a hot, sappy mess before I turn around. I stare at the envelope Fawnie holds out like it contains a great time. To me, that’s worse than poison, or whatever other nefarious shit someone might be able to stuff into an envelope.
Fawnie steps forward and shakes the envelope. Her lips tilt to the side in a silly little smile. She’s so excited that she can’t help herself. I was just the most obnoxious shithead, and she doesn’t even care. I’ve never felt more transparent in my life.
“Tickets to the symphony in Seattle. They have an outdoor candlelight show under the stars coming up.”
A sharp, mean laugh bursts out of me. “First, Preacher divulging information about what I told him when we were speaking as a sort of counselling session is probably illegal, but that aside, it’s a breach of trust that I sure as fuck don’t appreciate.”
Fawnie’s smile fades completely. Her hand trembles.
I have never hated myself more than I do right now. I cut myself off. Full stop. Destroying myself is one thing. Destroying another person? People? That’s not okay. I want to reach out and take the damn tickets. Put a comforting hand on Fawnie’s shoulder and thank her. Feel her hands slide up my body in response. As comfort, but then, as more. I want her to tuck herself in next to me, to hold me, to breathe right near my ear again. I want her lips on mine, the sweet taste of cookies and the hot stroke of her tongue to chase everything else away. I want her to take me apart and make it all make sense.
I don’t want any of that.
I can’t. I can’t let myself consider it even for a moment.
“You bought tickets to a symphony with candles for someone who was burned in a damn fire?” I tone down the asshole, but not by much.
Fawnie recognizes it for the Shadow shaped olive branch it is.
“The candles areelectric, but I didn’t think. I’m sorry… I- I asked Dad what you might enjoy. He tookdaysto think about it and came up with this.”
Ugh. The not feeling my feelings, pretending they’re not there thing isn’t working out as well for me as it usually does. Emotions are a luxury that I don’t want to have.
“You don’t have to go.” She snaps her hand back, hiding the envelope behind her back.
I don’t feel so much as an ounce of relief. What I feel is nasty. It’s ugly. I know that they’re both going to leave and I’ll be alone with my thoughts. My mocking, stupid, asshole, intrusive thoughts that never shut up.
Amanda makes a noise low in her throat, a pissed off mother bear sound that says she’d probably like nothing more than to kick me right in my ungrateful teeth, or right in the balls because that’s in kickable range while I’m standing here. Fawnie swallows thickly. She doesn’t look at her mom. She’s focused on me. As always, the intensity makes me want to squirm. It does something else to me too. Something I can’t start unpacking here for more than one reason.
“Dad said you used to play piano. That you talked about becoming a musician when you graduated.”
“Yes, but sadly my playing was only for the glory of God. My mother never would have allowed it, and I was never going to get into any college without proper instruction, testing, and the whole application process. I would have had to move and never would have been able to cover the cost and then what? Chances of employment if I did make it would have been relatively low.”
“You worked at that music shop though, before the fire.”
I make the fatal mistake of staring into her eyes again and finding them both warm and full andglistening.
“Preacher and I are going to havewords,” I grumble.
“I didn’t say ticket,” Fawnie clarifies. Her eyes go from glistening to sparkling in an instant, like she was about to give up all hope, but decided there should be some after all. “I saidtickets. What you need isn’t necessarily the music. It’s the family that goes along with it. We bought seats for all of us. Dad, Rita, the boys, Mom, me,andyou.”
“A family night out with the Phantom of the Opera,” I mutter. She doesn’t deserve this level of bullshit. I rub my forehead, but only because I’d much rather punch myself in my own face.
“It’s not the opera, and you can dress however you want, just as long as you come,” she says ignoring my snark.
“If I wanted to blow off stress, I’d go shoot guns at Bullet’s range. Have you been there? It’s invigorating to shoot a bunch of shit up. Maybe you should have got me a pass for that instead.” Not that that any of the club pays to go to the range.
Fawnie cared enough to want to do something for me. Something special. She asked her dad and he likely only betrayed my trust because she made him understand how important this was. He could see how much she cared. Doubt he liked it. He gave her the idea anyway. She cared enough to buy tickets for all of us and to come here, in person, to brave my wrath and one million percent fuckery, and give them to me herself.
“If you want to wreck things, Maverick and Loreena told me about this rage room they have in town for smashing dishes and old electronics and stuff.”
“So I’ve heard,” I choke, the urge to be a total dickhead fading fast in the face of Fawnie’s incredible kindness.
She refuses to leave me alone.
I should hate it. Ineedto hate it.
I don’t. I can’t.
