“I know how to take care of myself, if that’s what you’re asking.” My face heats up to a thousand degrees. “It’s just Blake was never really…”
“Satisfying?” he finishes.
“Caring,” I revise. “He only cared about himself. I don’t think he ever even tried.”
“You’re fucking with me.”
My silence answers him.
“And you stayed with him for six months?” He’s appalled.
Uncomfortable, I nod, nibbling at the inside of my cheek.
“Fucking hell. Six months with a guy who can’t get you off. You’re some other kind of saint, control freak.”
I answer with a small shrug, hoping a change of subject is near. His disapproval hits me a lot harder than I’d like to let on. So, this isn’t normal. When I first told Zoey about the situation, she said, “Big deal. Most guys can’t get you there. Join the club.” I spent the whole day afterward convincing myself I was being difficult.
But right now, with Will lying next to me, telling me how much of a selfish bastard Blake was, I realize our sex was one-sided. There weren’t two of us in that tent the night he took my virginity.
Blake was the one having sex.
I was just… there.
I can’t seem to forget the pit in my throat when he pulled out, rolled off me, and went right to sleep. It made me think that maybe I’d never find the guy my mom’s been going on and on about since I was old enough to date.
The right guy.
I’m relieved when Will changes the topic, rescuing me from a dark place. We spend the next several hours talking, bickering, getting on each other’s nerves. We watch a show, discuss how Kendrick and Zoey would be a match made in hell, and forget all the reasons why Will shouldn’t be in my bed.
Two hours later, we’re still talking, although barely keeping our eyes open. Just as I’m dozing off, Will brings up the painful memory I spent all night pushing down.
“You still haven’t told me why you were sad earlier. What happened?”
“That’s because I wasn’t sad. You just assumed for whatever reason that I was.”
He scoffs, not buying it.
“Yeah, let’s try that again.” He inches forward, as if to make sure he has my undivided attention as he repeats, “What happened?”
I draw a sigh.
“My dad happened,” I cave.
He waits for me to elaborate.
“I called him earlier.”
“And that’s a bad thing?” he asks.
“It is if some random woman picks up.”
Understanding flashes in his eyes. He already knows my parents are getting a divorce. He is still Kendrick’s closest friend.
“Ouch.” He winces.
“Tell me about it.”
“And he didn’t tell you he was seeing someone?”
“That would require any form of communication. He hasn’t called once since he walked out on us two months ago.” I flip on my back, staring at the ceiling.
He does the same.
“What an ass.”
I laugh at his blunt remark.
“He isn’t. Or, he didn’t use to be. He was a good dad… before.” I tilt my head to look at him. “How much do you know about what happened anyway?”
“Just what Kendrick told me.” He shrugs. “That your folks got into a huge fight and your dad took off. Don’t know why though.”
“Well, that makes two of us.”
“You’re telling me you don’t even have one idea?”
“My guess is he cheated on her. It’s the only thing that makes sense. But why wouldn’t they just tell me that? If they felt they had to keep it from me, it must be worse. A lot worse.”
“Maybe they’re just trying to protect you,” he points out.
“I don’t need their protection. What I need is the goddamn truth,” I snap, instantly berating myself for taking it out on him.
He doesn’t so much as flinch.
“I’m sorry.” I exhale.
“Don’t apologize.” He couldn’t care less if he tried.
“The weeks after he left, Kendrick was extra nice to my mom, and you know how he is. Kendrick being a kiss-ass can only mean two things: either he wants something, or he feels guilty. There’s more to the story. There has to be.”
“Ever tried asking him about it?” he asks.
“Yeah, but he always denies it.”
“The truth will come out one way or another. It always does.” His heavy eyes shutter closed.
Mine follow.
“Hope you’re right.”
He lets out a deep, rough laugh.
“I’m always right, control freak.”
I can picture his stupid, sexy grin and sleepy face without looking at him. A short moment of silence ensues, but it’s not uncomfortable. We simultaneously glance at each other.
Damn you, Martins.
Why is it so easy with you?
“What about you? Got any bad parenting stories for me?”
He scoffs. “How much time you got?”
I know he’s joking, but his voice drips with truth.
“That bad?”
“Worse. Trust me, you don’t want to know.”
“What? Now you have to tell me. I don’t make the rules.”
“Man.” He drags a long sigh. “Where do I begin? Dad took off with every penny we had when I was eight, spent it all at the casino, and left my mom and I to live on the street.”
I’m left speechless. I did not see that coming.
“I’m… I’m so sorry” is the only answer I can come up with.
“Don’t be. Bastard got what was coming to him. They found him dead in the parking lot the next day. Shot in the head. But not before he’d gambled away every last cent.” He speaks as though it doesn’t affect him, like the story he’s sharing belongs to someone else.
“That’s awful. Did they ever find out who did it?”
“Nope. They think he just messed with the wrong guys. Or maybe he owed someone else money. Who knows?”
I remember the rich neighborhood we drove through the night Will took me to his tree house.
“That’s why you knew the neighborhood we went to so well, right? Because you used to live there before he…” I press my lips together. I could slap myself. Way to be insensitive.
“It’s fine. You can say it.”
“Before he died.”
“Yeah. We had to leave the house my mom spent years saving for after he took everything. She’d just quit her job to start her jewelry business, too. We were finally in a good place. She could afford to chase her dream. A week later, we were moving into a one-bedroom dumpster. Then into a homeless shelter. She had no one. No relatives. No friends. My toxic old man had isolated her for so long. I was in denial. I was eight, you know?”
My heart bleeds for him.
“The worst part is, he was always a good dad to me. He was the kind of dad to build you a fucking tree house just because you asked. That’s why I couldn’t hate him. I couldn’t believe he was dead, or that he’d emptied all of our accounts and left us with nothing.”
“What did your mom tell you?” I can’t possibly imagine explaining this to an eight-year-old boy.