“I’m not an easy person to be around.”
“That’s not true at all. Justice and Stone adore you, and I don’t think those boys are ones who just get in line and pretend, or do something that they don’t want to do. I’ve seen the way they watch you. They idolize you. Rita loves you. My dad? He doesn’t mind being around you at all. Half those guys at the club? They’d probably love it if you hung around the place or wanted to do something one on one.”
“They’re obligated.”
“Nope.” I mean that with everything I have.
“They humor me. And teenagers don’t have an ounce of sense.”
“Definitely nope.”
“They all want to press down on me.”
“That’s what love looks like, sweetheart.” He flinches at the term of endearment, but I don’t stop. “It’s caring. It’s wanting to make sure a person is doing okay. It’s beinginterested in them, proud of them, feeling what they’re feeling right alongside of them, or at least listening and offering comfort. They do love you. Properly. The way a person should be loved. As family should and as a friend should.”
“I don’t know if I like it or not. It makes me feel weird.”
“You can’t control how other people are going to love you. That can be both good and bad. I think that you can help them understand, though. You can tell other people what you need and what you don’t like.”
“I don’t like any of it.”
I can’t help my smile, but at least I don’t snort or laugh. He’s being so purposely stubborn, and I can tell he doesn’t mean a single word. “Is that the truth or a defense mechanism?”
“It’s society being shit for someone like me to live in.”
“You’re right. Society is shit. But we’re not society. I’m not. I’m me.” That’s about as close as I’m going to get to telling him how I feel. Already, I think I’m going to burst with it. How am I supposed to hold it in while it only grows and grows and takes me over? How am I supposed to wait for the right time, or even know when that is? “And I’ll always be here for you. I’ll follow you wherever you want me to go.”
Yeah. Alright. That probably did it.
His eyes widen, and I can tell that he’s had enough. He needs to work and decompress. He needs space and time.
“I can see myself out and I’ll make sure the door is shut tight and that it locks after me. Do you want to text me when you want me to come over? If you change your mind, it’s okay. Truly. Whatever you need.”
“Yeah,” he says tightly. “I’ll text.”
It’s not the least bit convincing, but I can smile at him, kiss his cheek, and walk out of the club without freaking out about everything, because I trust him. He said he’ll text, and I know he will.
I just hope that I can find the words he needs, when he needs them, or that I can listen with everything I have, while he finds the ones he needs.
Chapter 20
Shadow
Islam the door shut and lock it behind me as soon as I get home, then attack my leather vest like it’s suffocating me. I shed it and throw it to the floor, stumbling down the hall. I claw my shirt off, buttons raining down, pinging off the tiled kitchen floor. I burst into the bathroom so hard that the door smashes against the wall. There’s no doorstop and I probably just put the handle through the drywall. I snap the light on with so much violence that I just about break the switch off too.
I thrust my arms out, hands gripping the lip of the vanity. The house is outdated. Like I give a fuck. The vanity is so ugly that if I wrenched it out of the wall and threw it through the doorway, I could easily excuse it on remodeling.
I stare up into the mirror above the sink. Three panes, two of them the kind that open to store shit in.
I step back so I can see myself in it. All of me.
I wrench my shirt off and bomb it out the door.
My shoulders and chest heave hard as I rage breathe, staring myself down. My eyes are burning, blown out, the kind of thing that would scare any sane person. My lips twist into an angry snarl as I start at my collarbones and run my hands down my chest. It’s not so bad, really. Not this part.
I angle to the side so I can see exactly where all the devastation starts. The ringing picks up in my ears. The years ofbeing told I’m not good enough. My mom, or at least the woman who gave birth to me—she was never a proper mom—telling me that this was my punishment, I was now wearing the mark of Cain so everyone could see the evilness inside me. Bile splashes up the back of my throat, coating my tongue. I want to puke, to spew all this ugliness out of me, but it’s not that easy.
I go from breathing heavy to panting, sweat beading on my forehead and slicking down my temples. Beads of water stand out on my shoulders and trickle down my chest. My vision blacks out, then sharpens into a blinding white. It all gets painted a sickly red.
