Like the shirt I’m wearing of a Sumatran tiger, which isnotstolen from anyone. We listened to a documentary on tigers a couple of months ago, and I decided then and there that they’re my new favorite animal. They’re the smallest breed of tigers, and there are only four hundred of them left in the world. I tried to hide the fact that it made me a little emotional, but Mickey must have seen right through it because, a week later, he gave me this t-shirt with theWWFtag still on it and a card that said,Thank you for your donation.
It was probably the first and last charitable thing Mickey will do in his life.“You get youractualpresent tonight.”
My heart soars. He’s spending less and less time with me at night. He always has some kind of excuse relating to work for why he has to leave early or not see me at all. He also seems to be perpetually bruised and tired. Case in point: his purple knuckles and the patchwork of yellow and green on his cheek.
Mickey told me he’s working so much because he’s saving up for when I graduate.
That makes sense, but the problem with his argument is that he’s a mechanic, and mechanics don’t normally work night shifts. Or get bloody knuckles and bruises.
I never knew him to be a liar, but he can be tricky, mincing words so they’re only half-truths. All it takes is for another half to disappear, and it’s a full lie.
I nod, and the slight twitch of his brow is the only sign he’s displeased with my response. If I weren’t so woozy and awestruck, I would tease him and say it’s because he forgot to get me something or joke that I made plans with Jeremy and he’s not invited.
It’d make him all angry and jealous, then he’d throw a little hissy fit and tell me he’d throw me over his shoulder and whisk me away. Then he’d say, “Tradition is tradition. I wasn’t asking.”
Mickey is big on his traditions, even though he only has three of them that I know of.
One, we celebrate every birthday together, because even though there’s two years of difference between us, we promised to never leave each other's side.
Two, I can be certain I’m going to receive something to do with Mickey Mouse as one of my gifts. Every birthday, without fail, I’ll have another item to add to my ever-growing collection.
Three, rain, hail, or shine, Mickey will be there to take me to and from school. Before I left for a year, he’d sometimes miss a day or two because he woke up too late. Since I got back, I’ve had to wake up earlier just so he doesn’t need to wait outside for so long.
He saunters toward me—well, he’s walking normally, but I can’t stop staring at how his hips move, so he might as well be sauntering. I watch him through my lashes as he towers over me and tilts my head up with a calloused finger under my chin.
“Happy birthday, beautiful,” he whispers.
Beautiful. Not cute or pretty. He thinks I’mbeautiful.
I move my head to the side and hide my face with my hair to stop him from noticing the blush tinting my cheeks, but it’s useless. Especially when I stop breathing because he moves my face back and his lips descend against my forehead.
“Another year of you and me.”
The chain around my neck tugs, but I stay completely still as I feel the heat radiate through the cotton as he checks the pendant. He makes a sound of approval that practically melts my insides.
I don’t miss how his eyes drop to my chest every time I see him, like he’s checking it’s still there. The corners of his mouth tilt up, and he does a little nod that I’m not sure is meant for him or me.
But I get it. I have that feeling whenever I see the bracelet around his wrist—a new one because he seems to break it every two years.
Thanks to the advancement of technology and since Mick started working full time at the garage, we both have phones and a decent camera. This means that he spends all day, every day, taking photos of everything but himself, and I have half a million selfies with him. Now, on one side of the locket, I have something to remember Ma, and on the other side, there’s a picture of Mickey and me.
“Did you eat breakfast? What do you have for lunch?” Mickey asks.
I stiffen. These questions are worse than random tests at school because at least I have a chance of passing them. Mickey’s questions, on the other hand, are an instant fail. Straight to detention (also known as Roman’s blistering glare and his huff of disapproval).
If I could sink into the grass, I would. He should just hand me a shovel now if he’s planning on asking any follow-up questions.
He shakes his head, reaching for something behind him as he mutters, “Signore, dammi forza.”
Lord, give me strength.
I bite the inside of my cheek because I can deal with his anger, but not his disapproval.
“I have crackers.” I wince the second the words are out of my mouth.
“And?” He cocks a brow.
Please, no more follow-up questions.
