No Saint (Wild Men 6)

I’m on my feet and down the steps before I realize what I’m doing. No, it can’t be Dad, no way, he’s in prison, and you know it, Ross, or you would if your brain wasn’t so damn sleep-addled.

If it’s Ed and his buddies, I fucking swear to God...

I’m casting my eyes around for anything to use as a weapon, because fuck if they’re gonna descend on me while I’m still half-asleep and disoriented, looking for a branch or something I can swing like a bat, when I see her.

Not my fan club of bullies, but the girl I’ve been missing and thinking about.

“Luna!” Forgetting about the damn branch, I walk to her, starting to jog half way through the front yard to reach her faster. My arms stretch out, closing around her, doing their own thing, and I sigh in relief when she’s pressed to me. “You came.”

“Yeah,” she whispers, muffled against my chest. “I couldn’t... had to talk...”

I can barely make out what she’s saying, all lost in that overwhelming goddamn respite from the nightmares and the strange misery that grips me sometimes, turning the world dark—but it’s not just that. The relief is deeper, going all the way to the marrow of my bones, to the pit of my mind, turning the black into gold.

After some time, she pulls back and I let her go, shifting my hands to her face, not willing to release her just yet. Maybe it’s the nightmare still playing havoc with my senses, but my scars still burn, phantom pains all over my body, and the fangs of irrational fear are still worrying at my thoughts, mad dogs determined to haunt me till morning.

Her cheeks feel cool under my palms, and as I drag my thumbs under her eyes it finally dawns on me that something’s not okay.

“What’s the matter? Are you all right?”

“I don’t know.”

“What happened?”

“I feel so bad, Ross. I’ve been so wrong about many things.”

I wipe more tears from her eyes. “Whatever bad thing you think you’ve done, you have the consolation that it will never be as nasty as the things I’ve done in my life. You’re a good person, Lu. Unlike me.”

“You don’t understand. All these years I was convinced it was all Mom’s fault—leaving, not visiting, not calling us and now... now it turns out she may have had good reason, and I spent my time so upset with her, and Josh was following my example and... God, Dad must hate me.”

“I bet he doesn’t.”

“Ross...”

“No, listen, sweets. Let me tell you what it sounds like when your Dad fucking hates you. He’d say, look here, my bastards are worlds better than you, you dumb fuck. Living in the same town, proving themselves, when I’m saddled with a fucking retard, lazy as hell, too. Did I have better luck with your Mom? Nah. I got better bitches than her, too. I should have gotten rid of you along with her. What goddamn use do I have for you? You’d better work your ass off at the garage or I’m gonna kick you out on the street and see if you like it.”

It’s become a rant, retold in Dad’s bitter, angry voice, and it’s not until she folds her arms around me once more that I realize I’ve upset her more.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” I mumble into her sweet-smelling curls and rub her back. “I’m a fucking idiot, that’s not what you needed to hear, I’m just...”

Still lost in the nightmare, in my past, dammit, and that bit of blank terror that tails my nightmares like the sting of a scorpion, hiding from my memories but waiting to strike—

“No, it’s okay,” she whispers, it’s okay, “God, you’re right. I’m so sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.” I frown, confused, seeing faces in my mind, hearing distorted voices. I glance around to make sure I’m not in prison but in front of Dad’s house. “I just open my fucking big mouth every time and say whatever—”

She cups my face, pulls me down and kisses me. “Not your fault,” she whispers against my lips, “I understand now, it’s okay...”

I realize I’m shaking, and I blame the fucking nightmare for it, because it can’t be her words. “Words don’t matter,” she said, but they seem to be weaving a spell over me.

“Will you stay with me?” I ask and what I mean to say is, I need you, I can’t breathe without you, fuck please, say more of those useless words that are changing the fucking world.

“I’m staying,” she says and there it is, the magic word, and the bright smile I’d give everything to keep on her face. “I want to stay, and I don’t... I don’t care about the rest of the world. I’ll stay if you want me here.”

“You have no fucking idea,” I mutter, and it comes out so fucking choked that I have to swallow hard before I speak again. “No fucking idea, sweets, how much.”

***

We fall on the sofa and lie together in silence, a hurricane lantern I found in a kitchen cupboard the other day the only light.