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He doesn’t say anything for a beat, simply studying my face. I paste on a sweet expression. Sweet and innocent, like I have no care in the world, like my bruises aren’t throbbing. But I don’t want to talk about that when we can talk about so many other things.
Sighing, he rests his head on the wall. “Nothing that people haven’t been saying ever since I got here.”
Oh. David and Delilah.
“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” His face is resigned, and a little bit hurt and a little bit angry.
I shake my head, immediately. “No.”
He barks out a short laugh. “You can’t lie for shit, Pixie.”
Something happens to me when he says that name. I feel both warm and excited and restless. “I, uh, I’ve thought about it. About them.” His face becomes hard and I rush to explain, “I mean, like, I don’t think what others think or what my mom thinks. I’ve never thought that they were bad or anything.”
“Yeah? You don’t think that they were insane? You don’t think it’s fucking weird and gross that they fell in love when for all intents and purposes, they were brother and sister?”
He spits out the words like they are poison. And maybe they are because it’s not… right or natural for siblings to ever fall in love with each other, and make a baby.
Monster baby.
Abel Adams is far from a monster, though. He’s quiet and he makes me feel warm and he’s… cute. Like, really, really cute, with his lopsided smile and messy hair, and even his black t-shirts. And he’s so tall. Gosh, I never thought I’d like tall people… or guys. I’ve never thought I’d feel about a guy the way I feel about him. It’s strange and exciting and inexplicable.
But going back to his question, I reply, choosing my words carefully, “It’s not ideal. But maybe they had a reason.”
“They had a reason, all right.”
“What was it?” I blurt out without thinking.
Gah, I need to think. He’s melting my entire freaking brain. Before he can get mad about it, I say, “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me. In fact, you don’t have to say anything at all. I’m sorry.”
I’m staring at my toes, trying to get my embarrassment under control, when he says, “They were lonely, I guess. I overheard them one time, talking about this town, and I insisted that they explain. Mom didn’t want to but Dad finally did. He explained how things were bad for them back home. They had only each other. How their father, my grandpa, was abusive. He’d…” He shakes his head, grimacing, his face on the verge of crumpling. “He was a drunk. He’d beat them, starve them, I think. I don’t know all the gory details but I put pieces together. They had no choice but to turn to each other. Dad said that Mom was the only spot of color in his dark life then. I fucking called bullshit. I called it for a long time. I hated them, couldn’t stand the sight of them. Took me a long time to accept that my parents were not normal or whatever.” He looks up then, his eyes red-rimmed, his jaw trembling. “But they’re my parents and I love them. And now they’re gone and I keep remembering what Dad said about Mom.”
Abel doesn’t give up, though. He doesn’t let his tears fall like I’m letting mine. He’s strong. So strong, and his story is true. Not like the other stories and gossip about them that I’ve heard over the years. Upstanding citizen, my foot. I can feel it. My own bruises tell me that it’s true.
That affects me so much. His non-crying crying affects me so much that I abandon all right and wrong, and crawl up to him. This time my hug is well thought out. I’m doing this with all my senses. I wrap my arms around his tall, big body and press my ear on his chest.
“Hey,” he whispers, wiping the tears off my cheek. “I didn’t say that to make you cry.”
I must look like a mess, running eyes and running nose, all red and splotchy. This can’t be a pretty sight for Abel. But he keeps wiping my tears off and shushing me.
How can I not be friends with him? How can I not break the rules for this boy? He’s nothing like what people think he is, and that makes me cry even harder.
Abel hugs me to his chest and I slobber all over his t-shirt. He rocks me, murmuring sweet, soft words.
“Stop crying, Pixie, all right? Go back to arguing with me about chocolate and fruits and how you’re not afraid of me even though I bite.”
My chuckle turns into a hiccup. “Chocolates are much better than fruits. Everybody knows that. And I know you don’t bite.”
