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"No." His voice gets soft. "But that was too much of it. She wanted that for all of us. For me and Em too."
"Yeah?" I press my lips together. Brendon never talks about his late parents. Ever. And his expression—there's a softness to it. That's rare. I want every drop of it.
"Yeah. She wanted me to be this guy who wore Dockers and drove a BMW to high school."
"And you wanted to tattoo punk lyrics on your skin?"
"Basically." He takes a step forward. "I was never gonna be the kind of guy she wanted me to be."
"But you... you are a great guy. You know that, right?"
He says nothing. Turns back to me and looks me in the eyes. "Let's say I give you a grand to buy whatever you want."
"You will not."
"It's a hypothetical."
"I prefer actual cash."
"Don't we all." He chuckles. "Say I give you a grand. Say you have to spend it here. What will you buy?"
"One very expensive designer purse."
"Bullshit."
"Em would buy one."
"Em is Em."
"Still... I don't think it's wrong. Your mom was into a certain image, yeah. But you are too. It's just different." I drag my fingertips over his sleeve tattoo, tracing the lines from his wrist up to his bicep. "How much did this cost?"
His tongue slides over his lips. His eyelids flutter together. He's soaking up my touch.
But only for a second.
Then he's looking at me like he can control every one of his senses. "More than that purse."
"How much more?"
"More than you make in a month."
"A summer month?"
"Yeah."
Damn. I'm not exactly rolling in it, but I work a lot in the summer. And summers are busy. Tips are good.
"Don't give me that look."
"What look?" I stare into his deep eyes, trying to find... something. I'm not sure.
"I'm not like my parents." Hurt flares in his expression.
"I know. Just... we all care about how we appear to others. I know I do. I want people to think I'm strong and smart."
"You are."
I bite my lip. I'm not arguing this point, no matter how much I disagree.
