Folding her arms over her chest in defiance, she cocked her hip to the side with a shit-eating grin on her face.
Not holding back, I spoke another truth, “You’re cute when you’re angry.”
Her hard expression quickly softened, and I realized I was getting to her by just being myself. It was the reality check I wasn’t expecting, and the worst part was, I liked that I didn’t have to pretend to be someone I wasn’t just to get her to talk to me. I was starting to think that the key was to let her get to know who I was, and that alone was a daunting thought.
This should have been my warning. This was when I should have known better… Nothing simple comes easy, and I learned that the hard way.
Specifically, when it came to her.
Feeling a sort of truce, I extended my hand out for her to shake. “How about we try to get along, yeah?”
She took one look at my gesture, grabbed a piece of paper, and wrote:
What game are you playing?
I met her eyes, debating, “Why? Afraid you’ll lose?” Adding insult to injury, I joked, “It’d make Julius happy, and that’s what you want, right?”
She didn’t hesitate to call me out.
Are you trying to manipulate me?
“Why?” I grinned. “Is it working?” Extending my hand again, I suggested, “Truce then?”
She swallowed hard, her chest rising and falling, making me catch my breath. She was obviously struggling with my intentions,and I couldn’t blame her—she was far more jaded than I initially assumed.
“Come on,” I insisted. “Can’t you just meet me halfway?” Speaking another fact, I confessed, “We’re not that different, you and me. Sometimes I go silent too… but if I don’t speak, I’m not heard, and if I’m not heard, I let them win.”
Her lips parted, taking in what I just admitted for the first time out loud.
As soon as our hands connected, this suffocating silence filled the small space. It felt as though there was a sudden shift in our dynamic, where we truly saw eye to eye. She was a lot more perceptive than I thought. I was starting to see why Julius was drawn to her. There was far more to her than met the eye. She was like a piece to this massive jigsaw puzzle that I couldn’t stop myself from wanting to piece together.
Not only that but I wanted her to trust me. It was the only way I’d get answers out of her. At least that was what I kept telling myself. The last thing I needed was to get emotionally involved with my brother’s girl. Besides, he asked me to do this. If he wasn’t going to ask her questions, I sure as hell was.
Trust was such a foreign sentiment for me. I’d never experienced the desire to have anyone confide in me. Not even Julius, and he was my flesh and blood. It came with too many strings attached and emotions I refused to waste time on.
I didn’t care to have anyone’s trust. It never bothered me, seeing as I didn’t trust anyone either. How could I demand that from someone when I wasn’t willing to give it out myself? It was the way I’d always been, and there was no changing that.
It didn’t take a therapist to understand it was trauma from my parents being selfish bastards. I had more memories of the bad than I ever did of the good. The number of times they left me somewhere or with someone to do or get drugs was unforgivable.
I learned at far too young an age what drugs looked like. At one point, I thought everyone’s parents were always high. I didn’t know until I was about seven or eight that it wasn’t normal to see yourfather stumbling around belligerent or your mother depressed or extremely happy.
She was either up or she was down.
There was no in the middle.
I often thought about her mental health and whether she wasn’t suffering in silence. However, when that notion was acknowledged, I’d wonder if I had it too. I’d spiral, thinking something was wrong with me.
Constantly being self-aware of any triggers that would keep me up at night was just the consequence of trying not to lose my shit on a daily basis. Which was another reason to become cold and detached. If I didn’t care, I didn’t get hurt. Having two parents who were junkies didn’t help my anxiety. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, and I never forgot it as much as I tried.
Right when the stillness was becoming too much, I reminded her, “You have an hour.”
She grabbed the paper, writing:
The only clothes I own are black.
With that, she gestured to the closet, and there in the corner was a pile of pitch-black darkness. Most of it looked old and tattered, and for another reason I couldn’t explain, it pulled at me. My gaze shifted to the stuffed animals that were on the floor in the corner of the closet. I recognized them immediately. They were comfort items from CPS.
Did she run away from them?
