Rules of a Rebel and a Shy Girl(71)

Blood roars in my eardrums as all my fears and worries pour through me simultaneously. Panic strangles my throat. I’m about to fall off that cliff. A fall that I think has been coming for months now.

“Calm down and take a deep breath, Wills. Everything’s okay.” He squeezes my hand. “I’m going to let go of your hand. I need to get something out of my pocket.”

I obey, inhaling and exhaling as he reaches into his pocket. I expect him to take out his phone, so when he sets a folded piece of paper onto the table, confusion pierces through my storm of anxiety.

“What is that?” I ask as he slides the paper across the table toward me. “Is that the list I gave you?”

He shakes his head, his eyes fixed on me. “It is a list, though, of all the reasons you should move in with me.”

When I don’t pick the paper up, he takes my hand and sets it in my palm.

“I knew that talking to you probably wouldn’t work,” he says. “You need to have something you can really look at and think about.”

I fold my fingers around the paper as tears threaten to pour out of my eyes. How can he know me so well? How can he see me?

What else has he seen?

I hold on to the paper, too afraid to look at the list, afraid of what’s on there, of what’s not on there. Afraid I want what’s on there.

“Beck, I really love that you want to help me—I do,” I say, trying to breathe and think straight. “And taking care of me all these years when you didn’t have to … There aren’t even words that can express how grateful I am. You’re my hero. Seriously, I don’t know where I’d be without you … if I’d even be alive. Which might sound dramatic, but I’m not kidding. There’ve been so many times when you’ve picked me up and saved me from sleeping in a car and getting harassed by drug dealers. Or that time my mom dropped me off on a street corner near a crack house because she wanted me to go buy drugs for her, and when I wouldn’t, she got pissed and kicked me out of the car. You came and picked me up, and I was so scared because there were those people who kept trying to convince me to come into their houses … And I really thought they were going to kill me …” I trail off as the tears start to fall. “But you don’t have to take care of me anymore. Trust me, if you knew the whole story, you’d stop trying so hard.”

“You’re wrong.” He grabs my hand as I shake my head and start to pull away. “Maybe you should tell me the whole story and let me be the judge of that.”

I can’t tell him.

Won’t.

I won’t risk losing him.

I can’t handle letting him look at me differently.

I want him to always look at me like he’s looking at me now.

With compassion.

And need.

Want.

And something else that scares me half to death, something I’m pretty sure might break rule number three on the list.

But, as my lips part, all of it spills out, foul, ugly words that sum up the bad choices I’ve made over the last couple of months. My job. The lies I told him. How much I hate myself. My dad showing up. How much I think I might hate him and my mom. That all I am is hate anymore. And how he can’t want something so ugly and messed up?

When I finish, there’s only silence. No one moves. Breathes. Even when my name is called to come get our order, neither of us budge or say anything.

Really, is there anything left to say?

“I can’t breathe,” I whisper, staring at the table, unable to look at him.

I want to take it all back, but I can’t.

My chest splinters apart as the silence goes on.

Pressure builds inside me.

Hold it back, Willow. Do not lose your shit.

“Wills, I didn’t even realize it was that—”

He gets cut off by chair legs scraping against the floor as I push to my feet.

I dash away from him like a coward and run into the bathroom, locking myself in a stall. Then I slide to the floor, clutching Beck’s list while sobbing my heart out. Just. Like. My. Mom.

I don’t know how long I cry, but by the time the tears stop, my eyes are swollen and my chest hurts. I think about getting up, but moving means facing Beck, and I don’t think I’m ready yet. That is, if he’s even still out there.

Does it matter? You have to pull yourself off the bathroom floor eventually.

Swallowing down the shame and agony, I reach for some tissue, but then I note the list clutched in my hand. I unfold my fingers from around it. Do I dare read it? Can I handle what’s on it?

Does it even matter anymore?

Knowing Beck will probably never talk to me again, I take a deep breath and start reading.



All the reasons you should move in with me: