Can't Let Go(3)
“No, Dex, you go first.” I push his hand closer to him, and, ultimately, he accepts it.
“Thanks, Chrissy,” he says, giving me a huge smile before inserting it into the player.
12 years old
“BYE, MOM,” I mutter while allowing her to still hug and kiss me goodbye for the weekend. My eyes find Ted’s right behind her, smiling at our affection. He’s been dating my mom for a year, and they seem to be really happy. Usually he’s still around when my dad drops me off on Sunday, so she really isn’t fooling me, thinking he doesn’t spend the night.
“Call me if you need me,” she whispers in my ear. I’ve had a cell phone for three years because my mom wants to be able to text me and check up on me whenever I’m with my dad.
“I will,” I agree, trying to get out of her tiger grips. My dad’s horn honks again and I slowly backstep, giving a quick wave to Ted.
Running out the door, I climb into my dad’s new car. When I say new, I mean five-year-old used Cadillac, but new to him. He waves to my mom and I do the same.
“Ready, Edge?” he asks me, and I cringe from the reference of my nickname. My reaction has done a one-eighty since he first referred to me as that. Remembering the happiness that swelled in me the day he called me Edge for the first time, only disgusts me now. He said it with pride, but mostly it was because of the joy I instilled in him by making him money. Now though, I wish he’d say my name at least a few times. Edge comes with an expectation that I’ll continue to make the picks that gain him money, but leaving me with the fear one day I won’t. That I’ll disappoint him and the name will be stripped from me. As well as maybe my father.
“Yeah, Dad.” I sit in the car, listening to his rock ‘n’ roll music while watching his left foot tap to the beat of the music. The minutes ticking by until I see Chrissy. Since she doesn’t have a phone; I only have these four hours every other Saturday to spend with her. Although I’d never admit it to anyone, I love when our dads win big because they usually stay longer or the four of us do something together. She understands me, and we have a mutual understanding of our dads’ shitty recreational activities. “Dad?” I ask, and he turns his attention to me briefly before directing it toward the road again. “Do you mind if Chrissy and I go to the diner?”
“No, you’re old enough. Shit, when I was your age, I went all over my town,” he agrees, and I’m glad because I saved the money my dad gave me last week so I could take her out.
“Thanks,” I say and he just smiles over to me.
Chrissy deserves so much more than her shitty life with her shitty father. In the four years I’ve known her, she’s never shown up with anything new. She puts on a good front with me, but it’s obvious they don’t have money; her clothes are always really worn and a little too small. After I heard her stomach growl that first day I met her, I made sure to grab some snacks from my mom’s before my dad picked me up the next time. Now four years later, it’s our routine. We eat, play games, and never talk about anything important, even though I’m sure we have plenty in common.
When my dad parks his Cadillac behind Chrissy’s dad’s Caprice, my stomach gets this foreign, anxious feeling. I fear I’m getting sick, especially since the feeling grows more intense as we make our way through the run-down grocery store and down the steps. When we reach the bottom, I swear the fruit scent of her soap conceals the usual mold and sour food smell. My eyes find her sitting in the same chair every time, and my stomach bursts into a zillion little fireworks. She looks up at me, a smile already in place. “Hi, Mr. Prescott. Hi, Dex,” she greets us, and my dad says his usual while my voice embarrassingly cracks.
“Um … hi … Chrissy,” I say, sounding like a complete moron. What the hell is wrong with me?
Placing my backpack on the floor, I sit there facing the cracked cement wall, trying to calm myself before I puke all over the stained floor. “Hey, Dex.” She picks her head up so she can look at my face. I muster up a smile, which seems to make her own smile widen. “Are you feeling okay?” she asks, and then her hand touches my forehead and all those damn explosions go off in my stomach again.
I inch away at her contact, and she drops her hand, a frown replacing her smile. “You don’t feel warm, but you’re kind of sweating.” She rubs her palm across her pants, causing my eyes to fixate on her bare knee peeping out from the tear on her jeans. For the first time, I itch curiosity about what it would be like to touch her.