Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
She has no idea how idyllic her life is. None. But I do.
Because in addition to the perfect typecasting of her family, I also noticed the way they all made sure to include me in the conversation over lunch, making me feel like I was more than just a visitor. And when Hope’s hand slowly crept up my thigh under the table, I wasn’t the only one noticing, but no one commented on it. In fact, they were downright welcoming, asking what brought me to Maple Creek and where I’m from. I’d had to remind myself that they weren’t trick questions, but rather normal get-to-know-the-guy-taking-my-daughter-home questions.
I’d given my usual answers—vacation and the suburbs outside Los Angeles. And when they’d asked what I do for a living, I’d gone with my prepared standard answer then, too, saying I’m a business consultant. It’s the perfect cover because nobody ever asks follow-up questions, not wanting to seem stupid for not automatically knowing what the vague phrasing entails. It’s a story I’ve told countless times before to keep my alter ego a secret, but it felt wrong to lie this time, especially to Hope.
I didn’t feel bad enough to tell the whole truth, though. It’s too dangerous—for me and them.
Yet there are some things I can safely share, and I want to tell Hope as much as I can without breaking my contract or endangering my role with Midnight Destruction.
“I grew up basically feral, along with the other kids in my neighborhood. Parents, if you had them at all, worked long hours and sure as shit never had time to sit down to a meal with us,” I explain to her, hoping she can see my truth. “There was no dining room table, we didn’t pass food around, and there was never enough for seconds. Most of all, no casseroles that took an hour to prepare after a long day at one, or sometimes two or three jobs.”
“That sounds awful,” she says more seriously.
“I didn’t know any different,” I reply with a shrug. “Mom and I were a team. An unconventional one, I guess, but it was normal to me.” I frown, thinking back. “Fuck, I was such a pain in her ass. I don’t know how she put up with me. She begged me to stay out of trouble, said she couldn’t leave work anymore to talk to principals, teachers, or the cops, or else she’d get fired. I knew that meant we’d lose our apartment.”
“So you quit misbehaving.” The fact that she makes that optimistic assumption like it’s a given highlights how far apart our childhoods were.
I smirk wolfishly and shake my head a little ruefully. “No, I got better at not getting caught. This was before the gas station shoplifting days, so it really was stupid shit at school, mostly. And then playing guitar did what Mom couldn’t—get me to cool it. For a while, at least. I still wasn’t a saint by any stretch, but I started working when I was fifteen to help with the bills. In some ways, I think I hoped it would keep Mom from looking for a savior in the form of the worthless guys she’d bring home, which was misguided on my part at best, naive at worst. She was looking for more than paychecks from them; she wanted a connection. I was too young to understand that, but between school, work, and guitar, I started to appreciate all the hell my mom had been through to get me to that point, and I forgave her for a lot.”
“Are you close to her now?”
Distracted by the question and this trip down memory lane, I turn down the wrong street. Coming to a stop, I mutter, “Shit.”
“It’s okay. Go past the stop sign, and then you can turn around,” Hope advises. “You and your mom?” she repeats, not letting the question go.
Talking about my past is weird. I’m usually so tight-lipped about everything because I’m afraid that someone will put one and one together and come up with Midnight Destruction. But my past and my present are far apart—in years, experience, and searchability, thanks to AMM. Plus, I don’t want to shut Hope down. After seeing her with her family and listening to them openly spill their hearts without worry, it feels good to connect with someone.
That’s what Mom looked for, too, and you know how that turned out.
“We talk sometimes, but it’s . . . complicated.”
“Parents always are,” she agrees sagely, and I almost laugh because her parents are the least complicated people I think I’ve ever met. They want one thing: for their kids to be happy.
I swallow thickly and tell her a story I swore I’d never share. “Remember how I said she dated losers?” Hope nods slowly, her eyes filled with trepidation like she can tell by my tone that this isn’t going to be a happy tale. “One of them got her into some trouble, and then I got dragged into it too. When it went off the rails, he tried to pin it all on Mom like she was some criminal mastermind, when all she really did was fall in love with the wrong asshole. I had to talk to some suit-types and explain what really went down. In the end, he got prison time, Mom got probation, and I got a sealed juvie record. That’s the B and E I told Marcus about. Because I snitched, we had to move out of the neighborhood, but by then Sean and I thought we were grown, so we struck out on our own.”