“I told you I have—had problems controlling my temper. It started after I quit competing two years ago. Instead of getting depressed, I got angry.”
He squeezes my hand tighter. Between this and the look Jo gave me when she offered to take my shift, I’m beginning to understand that we all must be walking around with secrets that eat away at us, driving us to do foolish things in the name of keeping those secrets buried.
“I caught my ex making out with some guy outside her apartment,” he continues. “I went there to surprise her when she thought I was in class and I saw her pinned against her front door with this guy’s hand in her crotch. I fucking flipped. I just kept pummeling the shit out of him. I couldn’t stop. I took court-ordered anger management classes then I moved here. Some crazy idea that being closer to the water would help.” He’s squeezing my hand too hard now and I wriggle my fingers to loosen his grip. He brings my knuckles to his lips and kisses me as he looks up. “I can’t even imagine what it must have been like to lose your mom that way.”
Something about the way his eyebrows crinkle together makes me lose it. “I didn’t know she was dead. Well, I didn’t want to accept it. I convinced myself that she was just sleeping… for more than thirty hours. The neighbor, who my mother had led me to believe was my grandmother, came by to drop off some food and found my mom. The cops found me hiding in the nook between the refrigerator and the wall. That was where my mom always told me to hide whenever her dealer came over or when she left me home alone so she could score a fix. That was where I felt safe.”
He wraps his arm around my shoulder and I slump over, burying my face in my hands. I wish I could tell him everything that happened since that day; everything up until the day I moved into this apartment. Maybe he would understand. No, he couldn’t. It’s been months and even I don’t understand.
“Every night, when I go to sleep, there’s one memory I hold onto and relive in my mind—every single night.” I look up and into his face, willing myself not to cry. “The week before she died, she invited a man over—not to have sex or anything; he was just a friend she invited over once in a while. They were sitting on the sofa talking while I was watching cartoons, pretending not to listen to their conversation, and the man said something I’ll never forget. He said, ‘Life is only as hard as you make it, Kell. You have to let go of the past or keep carrying it on your back like a fucking pile of bricks.’” I take a deep breath as I remember how seven-year-old me had smiled when he cursed. “Redneck wisdom, but I took it to heart.”
“So that’s why you moved here? To let go of your past?” I nod and he smiles at me. “I guess we both had to lose something to find each other.”
I stare at the sweet smile on his face for a moment before my gaze falls to the tattoo on his chest. Then I glance at the glass of ice water on the nightstand and back to his face. He followed the direction of his compass to the water and it brought him to me.
I don’t want to feel this way about Adam. I don’t want to move on from what happened so quickly. I’m supposed to wallow in self-pity or denial for a long time. That’s how these things work. This feels wrong and fast, like I’m barreling down a hill in a car with no brakes. I’m going to crash and body parts are going to fly—in particular, hearts. I can feel it.
But I don’t care.
I grab handfuls of his hair and pull his face toward me, mashing his lips against mine as I climb onto his lap. His tongue searches my mouth as his arms wrap around my waist pulling me against him. I reach down to pull my dress up and he grabs my hands.
“Wait,” he whispers as he rests his forehead against mine and pulls my hands together in front of his chest. “I don’t want you to do this if you’re not ready.”
“I’m ready,” I respond quickly, but he doesn’t let go of my hands.
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Claire, I’m stoned and even I can see that you’re not ready.”
He lets go of my hands and my fists fall softly against his chest. He kisses the tip of my nose and I press my lips together to hide my smile.
“This is pretty,” I say as I bring my fingertip to the top of his tattoo and trace the circular compass.
He draws in a sharp breath as his skin prickles with goose bumps. “That’s what I was going for. I told the tattoo artist, ‘Give me your prettiest tattoo,’ and it was either this or a pink butterfly. The butterfly’s on my ass.”