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“When your bestestest friend in the entire world tells you he hates someone, or she hates someone, you hate them too. It’s how it works. So when Presley said you cost his father his job and his mother her health insurance, I was angry.”
“Why aren’t you anymore?”
“It wasn’t your fault. Myers brought it on himself. He’s always been a sadistic fuck. He…” He picks a stone up from the ground and throws it so far I don’t see where it lands. “It’s not for me to say.”
“You can trust me,” I throw back at him, albeit gently.
I see the war in his eyes, the need to talk, to vent, but also the need to protect his friend’s secrets. But when it comes to abuse and somebody shares that with you, is it still just the victim’s secret? Taking on the heavy truth that others so bravely carry, especially if you love them deeply, can be as detrimental to your health as theirs. Knowing that a loved one is being hurt and having no power to change it can be traumatizing I imagine.
“I swear I won’t say anything.”
He nods, sighing heavily. “Jim Myers, Presley’s father, struggles with depression and other shit and uses it as an excuse to smack his family around. He drinks all the time, even more now that he’s got no job, he’s a lazy fuck even when he does have a job. He became a cop because there’s no fucking crime here, you know what I mean? Presley’s mom is in the hospital with heart failure and Presley is looking after his four-year-old sister because he wouldn’t dare leave her alone with Jim.”
“Is he a pedophile?” I pray this isn’t the case even though I’m not a praying type of girl.
“No, nothing like that, at least I hope not. He’s just got no patience for her. Presley got into a fight with him a year ago because he slapped Paisley around the face for knocking over a cup of milk.”
My heart hammers in my chest. “She’s just a baby.”
“Exactly.” He pushes his hair back and smiles but there’s no happiness in it. “This job was the only thing keeping Jim busy enough to not drink and not be an ass. It’s the only thing keeping Mrs. Myers, Presley’s mom, alive. So even though you didn’t do anything wrong, you were the last straw. When Jim assaulted you, he forced the sheriff’s hand. Which forced Presley’s hand. Now he feels like he’s never going to get out of here and he sees you as the reason for that.”
“That’s so tragic.”
“Yeah.”
I hug his arm, pressing my temple against his shoulder.
“Why can’t he just blame his dad?”
“Because he can’t punish his dad. His dad doesn’t give a fuck. But he can punish you.”
I blink up at him. “Shit… dude… you should be a shrink or something.”
“Nah. I want to be a dancer.”
“Me too, there’s nothing I enjoy more. For me it’s dance or die. There’s nothing else. Without dance… I will die.”
He presses his lips to mine, startling me, but he pulls back just as quickly as he lunged. “Let’s dance, then.”
“Let’s.”
The following Wednesday, after an incredible weekend shopping for clothes with Lane, teaching Asher and Alice a few dance moves, learning to ride a bike with Carter, screwing around in church with Alice, learning to drive with Stanley, practicing the rather sensual dance with Carter, and handing in a mountain of homework to keep my grades above average, the third member of our dance group returns.
“You’re here.” My tone is one of breathy surprise as I observe Presley whose eye still looks really fucked up. There’s a purple, blue, and black bruise going all the way across his cheekbone but his eye isn’t swollen shut anymore.
“Yep.” He continues stretching, not even looking my way.
“How’s your eye?”
“Don’t fucking talk to me.”
“Charming as ever,” I mumble, dropping my shit by the door and taking my spot a couple of meters away from him.
“I said don’t talk to me.”
“If you don’t like me talking to you, there’s a door right there.” I shouldn’t provoke him, I feel bad for him after what Carter said, but at the same time I’m not about to be a verbal punching bag to help him heal. Fuck that.
He pushes his hands through his bleach-blond hair, it’s short on the sides and longer on the top. He’s such a teen heartthrob on the surface, but knowing what I know, and seeing what I see in his eyes… he’s terrified. He’s got an air to him that reminds me of a little boy on the verge of a breakdown from being powerless and unable to control his life falling apart around him.
“You’re back, then?” Carter asks, glancing between us as he enters the room, forehead and shoulders glistening with moisture. It’s raining outside, he must have biked here again. He looks so good right now and he has that fresh, clean air smell to him. I want to press my hot body against his damp one. “Took you long enough.”
