Page 7 of Pieces of Me

Rylan noticed the way Scott clutched the bag holding his new Nikes to him, like he was afraid they’d disappear, and he instinctively knew Scott was thanking Bob for them in the way that mattered most to him…by trying to protect him from being hurt at the hands of a woman Scott knew better than anyone.

The whole situation made Rylan’s heart ache, but what was there to do at this point except see it through?

CHAPTER 2

Scott placed his new sneakers down next to his bed almost reverently, resisting the urge to pet them again. They were a bright blue with pristine white laces, almost too pretty to wear. Rylan wasn’t paying any attention to him, fussing with some of his own stuff while sitting on his futon, so Scott drifted his fingers again over the shoes in a brief caress. Although the transparent charity had rankled him at first, the sincere delight Bob had taken in buying them for him had gone a long way toward soothing him.

“You like them?”

Rylan’s voice startled him, and Scott jerked his hand away from the shoes like he’d been burned, feeling stupid.

“Yeah. They’re okay, I guess.”

Scott forced himself to leave the shoes and went to sit next to Rylan on the futon. “How do you like your camera?”

Rylan stroked it with unabashed enthusiasm. “It’s great. It’ll take me a while to get used to using digital, but I can’t wait to learn.” He waved toward the box of pictures and cameras sitting by the dresser. “No more of that disposable camera bullshit, and trying to find a place to develop the pictures. Now I can play with lighting, filters, and mediums.” He practically hugged the camera to him, and Scott rolled his eyes.

“That’s cool. Whatever floats your boat, man.” He stole a glance toward the shoes again and turned back to see Rylan watching him.

“It’s okay to be happy about the shoes,” he said softly. “Getting something new is always fun.”

Scott gave a bitter snort. “I wouldn’t really know, Rylan. I can’t remember the last time I got anything that wasn’t a hand-me-down or someone else’s castoffs.” The sudden word vomit surprised him, and he clamped his lips shut; it wasn’t any of this guy’s fucking business.

Rylan gazed back at him with steady eyes, and they were eyes devoid of judgment despite everything he’d seen of Scott’s home, his mother…the things he’d heard from those assholes at the mall. As Scott searched Rylan’s face, he could see that all it held was sincere and open interest. It made Scott want to respond to it, and the words came easily.

“Heather gets decent money off welfare, and she tends bar sometimes down at Mason’s. But what she makes, she drinks most of it up, or buys cigarettes and drugs. There’s not much left.”

Rylan grimaced, but it was in sympathy, not disgust, so Scott went on, “There’s a big-ass Christian college over in Pensacola, and they have these do-gooder groups that go all around the area. They used to show up on our doorstep with green garbage bags full of donated clothes and other shit, and all we’d have to do to get them was listen to a Jesus talk.”

Scott got up and paced a little, his fingers laced behind his head. “Heather was always nice to them at first, until they handed the bags over. Then she’d say something like, ‘Jesus fuckin’ Christ, I need a goddamn drink to wash my mouth out,’ and believe me, those people couldn’t wait to leave.”

“Damn, that must have been embarrassing.”

Scott barked a laugh. “Oh, that was nothin’. Sometimes one of them tried to stick it out and keep preachin’, so Heather would bring out the big guns: ‘Get your smelly cunt off my property before I call the motherfuckin’ cops.’”

Rylan gasped and choked out, “Classy.”

“So it wasn’t long till we didn’t get no more donations.” Scott’s tone was dry as a bone.

“I can’t imagine why. Crap.”

“And that happened with the T-shirt at school, the one where Steve Lassiter saw me wearin’ something he’d gotten rid of. So now I don’t buy nothin’ from Goodwill other than the most generic shirts that could be anyone’s. Blue, red, black. That’s it.” He swallowed. “I can’t remember the last time I got something that hasn’t been owned by God only knows how many people before me.”

Scott could tell that Rylan didn’t quite know what to say, so he appreciated it when he didn’t say anything.

“I’m not lookin’ for pity,” Scott blurted out, flopping down next to Rylan again, and Rylan glanced at him, surprised.

“I didn’t think that for a second,” he said with sincerity. “We’re talking here, getting to know each other.” He flushed and looked down at his camera again, mumbling, “It’s kind of nice.”

It was nice, Scott realized. He didn’t ever let people get too close to him, because they’d want to know stuff about him. Or want their parents to meet his mom. Or want to come out to his house. No. Goddamn. Way.

Having Rylan as a sort of built-in friend could be really fucking awesome, someone to―to have his back, maybe be on his side for a change. Scott cleared his throat against a sudden rush of unexpected emotion.

“Well―” he rasped. “If you wanna put some of your own posters and shit up in here, you can. That wall can be yours.” He indicated an empty expanse of paneling on the opposite side of the room. “Put some hot girls in bikinis up, dude. Whatever you want. It’s your home now, too.”

He was surprised when Rylan, instead of looking pleased, flushed with obvious discomfort.

“I―I―uh―” he stammered, and Scott felt embarrassment shoot through him. He was such an idiot. Why would Rylan want to feel at home here? All he was going to do was bide his time in this shithole until he could―