Bad Son (Wild Men 3.50)

Anyway, that last bit is what gives me the courage not to flee, but to stick around until he’s done with his task. I wait until he turns off the machine and goes to grab his T-shirt from a bench by the house, disappointed when he pulls it on, hiding his tattoos.

Now he’s looking at me, at last, and I’m not missing my chance to fix this.

I walk over to him, open my mouth and what comes out is... “Why don’t you ever talk to me? Do you even listen when I tell you things? Do you even care?”

His brows shoot up.

Oh God, that’s it, I’ve lost it. I blink, put a hand over my mouth, then turn around and walk away as quickly as I can, my face burning and heart racing.

What am I doing? Accusing him of things when I was only going to apologize for asking private questions and invading his private space and...

“Gigi, wait.” His deep voice startles me, but I keep going.

I don’t even know what’s going on in my head. It’s like an explosion. My thoughts spin uselessly. I just know I need to leave, hide somewhere until things make sense again.

“Gigi.” His hand closes around my arm, and I come to a stop, panting. “I said wait.” He turns me slowly until I’m facing him. “I listen.”

I shake my head, not sure what he’s telling me.

“Your best friend is Sydney,” he says. “Your favorite subjects at school are music and history. You like your fries with blue cheese dressing or ketchup. You used to live in a town called Destiny, and you don’t like living here much.”

He talks some more, but I’m gaping at him. I can’t believe my ears. He’s been listening all along, all these days and weeks when I’ve been babbling at him, vomiting every thought and feeling, thinking he ignored me.

And yet I can’t face him now, can’t chat. I don’t know why I still want to flee.

But he won’t let me. His grip on my arm gentles, but never releases me. “What’s wrong?”

I could swear there’s concern in his voice. “Merc... he’s sick,” I blurt. “And I’m worried about him.”

He nods, and finally lets go.

I don’t want him to let go. Merc wasn’t even the real reason for this panic attack.

But Jarett steps away. He heads over to the lawn mower and drags it into the garden shed, and I wonder if I imagined all this.

His hold on me, his voice, this connection between us.

Until he returns with his sweater in his hand and gestures at the garden gate. “Wanna take a walk?”

It makes me smile.

He’s wrong, though, about me not liking it here.

Sure, I didn’t like it before, but since I met him, everything’s changed.

Since I met him, I like it here just fine, and wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.

***

Walking beside Jarett down our street feels natural. His usually slight limp is a bit more pronounced today. I asked him once why he limps, but he never replied. Glancing at the shape of his broad shoulders against the backdrop of trees and old houses, seeing the way his biceps bulge when he lifts a hand to shove hair out of his eyes... it’s familiar to me by now.

Dear to me.

He’s fascinating. A gorgeous riddle. He takes my mind off everything else—Merc, school, the past. He demands and occupies my whole attention. My whole body is attuned to his every word and move, my every nerve sings when he’s near.

I’m happy.

His strides are long, despite the limp, but like every time he checks himself and slows down when he realizes I’m starting to lag behind.