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“Sort of. She doesn’t ever get dirty now. Unless it’s the beach.”
I nod. Emma is different than she was before the accident, but I’m not sure how much is her growing up and how much the ache of losing Mom and Dad.
“Mom saw me coming into the house. Asked about the tat in that why would you do that voice. I told her Ryan had done most of it. She’d met him once or twice.”
“And she hated him?”
“She never said as much, but yeah. She grabbed Emma and made up some excuse about how they had somewhere to be. Then she found me and told me she didn’t want me around her daughter. Not if I was going throw my life away.”
“Oh, Brendon. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It was—”
“That’s your mom. It must have hurt.”
Like a knife in my chest. But that was how it had to be. “Not everyone deserves to be in your life.”
“Still. I know how much you love Em. How much you… well, you really are a family man.”
“You could say that.”
“It must have killed you, that rejection.”
Maybe. I’ve always been angry. I think about it and I see red. I see injustice. I see bullshit. Sadness doesn’t seep in.
“Your dad too?”
“He always followed her lead.”
“And you… did you not see Em for all that time?”
“I still did. Just not when Mom was around.” I’m good at keeping secrets, I guess.
“Oh.” Kaylee takes another step forward. Another. Another. She stops in front of the building. Looks to her phone then to the stone sign. “This is it.”
“First stop tomorrow.”
She nods. “It looks good. Traditional.” She gives the tall brick building a long once over. “Were you… were you hanging out with the kinds of people Em shouldn’t be around?”
“Sometimes. I wasn’t choosy about my friends. Or the way I spent my time.”
“You mean…” She presses her lips together.
“You can ask.”
She looks up at me. Runs her fingertips over my jawline. “You mean drugs?”
“Sometimes. It was never my thing.”
“You’d rather be in control?”
“How the fuck did you know?”
It’s strange. I never want to share anything. And certainly not with Kay. The way she looks at me—like I’m a guy worth loving—is too intoxicating. I can’t bring myself to convince her otherwise.
But I want to tell her this.
I want her to know how many people I disappointed.
How many people I continue to disappoint.
It’s still fucking heavy.
“Brendon?” She tugs at my t-shirt. Her eyes meet mine. Are you okay?
“What’s next?”
“Oh.” She looks to her cell. Taps the screen a few times. “The English building is this way. I think… It would be stupid, majoring in English.”
“No.”
“Yeah. Reading and writing aren’t jobs.”
“They are. But even if that’s not what you do—so what? All jobs are communication. That’s English.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I think… I think my parents expect more.”
“They just want you to be happy.”
“How do you know?”
“You’ll get it if you have kids one day.”
“Is that what you want?”
“I don’t know. I’m Emma’s dad as much as I’m her brother.”
“You’re good at it. Whatever it is.”
“Maybe.” I try. It would be fucking amazing, having a family of my own. One day. But I’m not sure I’m the kind of guy who should be a dad. Or a husband. “Do you want kids?”
“I don’t know. It’s hard enough taking care of myself. That’s so far off… I want to figure out this semester before I move on to the rest of my life.”
I follow her along the concrete path.
The campus is beautiful this late. Big green lawn. Dark blue sky. Yellow streetlamps. Brick and concrete everywhere.
Every few minutes, we pass a student. Half are heading to or from the library. The other half are on their way home from a night of over indulging. It’s in their messy steps and their habit of staring too long.
We go past every building in her schedule, even the one where her adviser is.
Finally, we stop at the building where Kaylee is taking her creative writing class.
She stares up at it. “I never would have taken this if you hadn’t pushed me.”
“Is that a thank you?”
“We’ll see how it goes.” She turns back to me. “I remember when you were younger.”
I raise a brow, incredulous.
“There were times when you stormed to your room, all pissed off. But most of the time, you were sitting on the couch, scribbling in your sketchbook. You were a good guy.”
I wasn’t. That’s what she doesn’t get.
A good brother, maybe.
But not a good guy.
I used friends for drugs or booze.
I fucked women then threw them away.
I lied to my parents.
“I wasn’t.” I stare back at Kay. At all that trust in her eyes. I don’t deserve it, but I still want every fucking drop of it. “I was an asshole. I treated people like shit.”
“Even if that’s true… does it really matter?” She presses her lips together. “Things can get better. People can get better.”
