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“Welcoming.”
His gaze is direct as he says, “For people like me.” Then, he explains, “Wholooklike me. I stand out. My entire family stands out.”
He’s right.
He does stand out.
But not in a good way. Not in the way he stands out for me.
He stands out like people who have stood out through history for the color of their skin. Because we live in a world where your skin color determines your worth; your religion and your race determine whether you’re good enough; your sexual orientation tells you whether you are going to heaven after you die.
And Bardstown is no different.
There’s very little room for people who aren’t straight and white and thin and beautiful.
So of course with his olive skin and an exotic cultural background, he stands out.
Like me.
“Was it,” I clear my throat, unable to look away from him, “hard for you, growing up?”
“Sometimes, yeah,” he replies without hesitation. “When I was young and I didn’t know how to fight back if someone bullied me for my accent at school. Called my ma a bad name because she was a recently moved immigrant and a single mother of three small kids. And so she had to work two jobs, one of them as a maid. And then I grew up and learned how to fight back. So everyone from parents to teachers just assumed that I was the culprit, I was the one who started it, if there was ever any trouble in school, stuff like that.”
I swallow painfully, my eyes stinging.
God, I hate people.
And God, I love him even more now – despite myself – that even after all this, he still decided to live in Bardstown in order to keep Sophie close to his sisters and extended family.
“But then I found soccer.” He shrugs. “I always had soccer, but I realized I could make something of it. And so instead of fighting the long and hard fight that’s never really going to be over no matter what you do, I decided to focus on myself. I decided to focus on my game. Have my revenge by living my life fully.” He takes another sip of his hot chocolate. “Got the tattoo the day I was drafted. Well, the next day but same thing.”
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out, making him frown in confusion. “I just… I hate people. I hate how they are. How hateful and judgmental and just…awful. I’m… I’m sorry you went through that while growing up. No kid wants be to picked on and called different. Actually, forget kids. No one atanyage wants to be picked on for being who they are. All of us are just looking to belong and the world makes it so hard. When they don’t see you for you but as an outsider because of the color of your skin or the fact that you’re not thin and blonde and perky but fat and pasty and shy, and just —”
“Is that why tonight was your first date?”
I jump at his question.
Mostly because it’s not asked, but demanded, in a sharp, cutting tone.
And he has the expression to match as well.
While he was all laid back and matter of fact about his history, there’s nothing laid back about the way his eyes are flashing right now. Or how he’s gripping his hot chocolate, all tightly and violently.
“That’s not… That’s not important. I —”
“Isthatwhy?” he asks again, straightening up in his spot.
“I don’t really think that was the point of all this. We should just —”
“Because there are assholes out there who think you’re —” He snaps his jaw shut. “I’m not even going to say that word because I’m not in the habit of spewing bull-fucking-shit. But is that fucking why you were on a date with that asshat?”
I thought I knew how fast my heart could beat.
I thought I knew my limits.
But I didn’t.
I didn’t know how fast and hard my bloody pink heart could beat and pound inside my chest. Turning itself all purple and bruised.
