I checked my phone for the time, and an unwelcome pain cinched around my heart when I also noticed Noah hadn’t called or texted. My finger pressed against his number and after half a ring it dumped—purposely—into voicemail.
“Hey. It’s me. I … wanted to check if you were okay. I’m not home right now, but I’m thinking about you.”
A pathetic laugh slipped past my lips.
“I’m always thinking about you when I shouldn’t be.” I stared into the wind, and a tear gathered in the corner of my eye. “You must think I’m horrible for going with him last night. It’s complicated. Life has gotten so much more complicated. Anyway… I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”
I ended the call. I couldn’t think about him in this place. I couldn’t think of anything beyond getting the fuck out of here and washing the residue of grime away. I needed to get back to the train station by dusk, or I’d end up sleeping here, something I swore I’d never do again.
Lingering on the front lawn, I stared at the empty road. My feet carried me down familiar paths, and I was rounding the block before having the sense to grab my coat.
Everything looked the same or worse. The pen where the mean old pit-bull lived was now empty. A metal chain and empty bowl sat in a collection of fallen leaves. I hated that dog, as it tried to bite me on more than a few occasions, but I was sad to think he was dead. What a sorry life, trapped in a pen in Blackwater with nothing but sorry lives to bark at.
Even the dogs here deserved better. The people here could at least try to leave, but most chose to settle for shit. That dog didn’t have a choice. Poor thing.
I knew where I was heading, but I wasn’t prepared to find the rusted shell of my past sitting untouched, eerie, as if I was just here yesterday. I’d assumed Gavin’s lot would have been sold to someone else by now, but there his home sat, frozen in time, a forgotten husk of life corroded by seasons and memories no one cared about enough to put away.
I cared. I cared, and I still couldn’t bring myself to come home for his funeral.
A faded pink slip was taped over the door where the screen met the frame. I walked the perimeter and picked up a rock. When I reached the back of the trailer where the bedroom was, I whacked the rock against the rusted lock and shimmied the window open.
Hoisting myself over the frame, I tumbled inside. The air was cold, about ten degrees lower than outside. His furniture was empty and free of clutter, but his blankets were still on the bed.
Lowering to the mattress, my hands rested at my sides, curling into the cold comforter as I stared. This room used to be my sanctuary, the one safe place I could go to escape the madness at home.
My vision blurred as I recalled how many days I’d spent here, learning who I was and realizing I needed more than Blackwater could ever offer.
* * *
Gavin’s fingers combed through my hair as I sucked in a shuddered breath, my face pressing to the tear-dampened front of his shirt. My brother Drew was gone, and I’d never felt so abandoned.
“He’ll visit, Avery Dean.”
Maybe we both had to tell ourselves such lies to cope with the finality of his goodbye. Gavin had been Drew’s best friend, and I knew he was as sad as I was, but guys hid their emotions better than girls.
There was an old nursery rhyme that said boys were made of frogs, snails, and puppy-dog tails but young men were made of sighs, leers, and crocodile tears. Where were his tears now? I needed to see his emotions to believe they were real.
I sniffled, trying to get ahold of myself. I was being a baby. “Why don’t guys cry?”
“We do. In private.”
“What happens when the pain is too much and there are people around?” Didn’t they ever just … break?
“We figure out a way to swallow back the pain and save it for later.”
That old rhyme also claimed little girls were made of sugar, spice, and everything nice, but I was more along the lines of an unsweetened tea that attracted flies. And I’d never fit the bill of a young lady made of ribbons, lace, and a sweet, pretty face. Puberty had really botched that deal for me.
Pretty people got pretty things. I was awkward, poor, and a victim of my upbringing in the worst possible way. If I could just look like the pretty girls, the ones on the cheer squad who caught the attention of all the boys, maybe I could get somewhere better than this.