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XENIA
Iwish I could spendmy entire life wrapped in Hobo’s arms. I want to go wherever he does. I’m endlessly curious about how he sees the world. Not once during our afternoon together do I worry about the shop or where I’ll live when my lease is up.
I truly feel content. Even when the insane people set off Hobo, I don’t lose myself in doubts. The old me would have remained in the tent and allowed someone better—wiser or stronger—to handle the situation. Instead, my inner warrior princess knew Hobo needed help finding his way back to what mattered.
No way did those two women mean anything to him. They’re bad memories from his painful childhood. I don’t need to know the details to be certain they wronged him, but he’s moved on from their abuse. Hobo only flips out today to protect me. Or distract from me, maybe. Either way, I take charge. Somehow, my stubborn move works on Hobo.
I still see him struggling after we’re back in the tent. The women sing and dance around. Their shadows against the tent taunt Hobo, but I force him to pay attention to me.
While we eat the potato salad, he tells me how he doesn’t speak to his parents.
“What can I add that saying ‘fuck off’ hasn’t already accomplished?”
“They can’t hurt you,” I reply, and he frowns. “Not anymore. You’re strong now. Walking away was smart.”
“Where would you be if you walked away from your parents?”
“Depends on when I made the leap,” I reply, shrugging at a question that should gut me with disappointing memories. “I once planned to go to college. Then, I wanted to attend culinary school. Then, I just wanted to travel the world, cooking in different kitchens. Then, I wanted to find success in the same town as my parents so they might value me.”
Hobo’s icy blue eyes study me before he mutters, “If they were alive, you wouldn’t be here with me.”
I hear the emotion behind Hobo’s words. He’s thankful I’m here. Despite how his neck muscles flex and his jaw clenches whenever the women get too close to the tent, Hobo’s happy to sit across from me, sharing bites out of the potato salad container.
“Were your parents always, um, insane?” I ask after realizing there’s no sugarcoating what’s happening with those women giggling and dancing outside the tent.
“Since before I was born. They really believe in the nature-is-alive crap. My father had a vision about a doorway in the forest that would bring him to a magical world. He convinced my mother who wants to believe she’s special. Her life before him was drab and miserable. My grandparents are those really unhappy religious types who think smiling will let the devil in.”
Hobo pauses to look at the container. “Can you put olives in this the next time you make it?”
Grinning at how he’s already seeing us together again, I nod and make a mental note of another food he likes.
Once I nod, he shoots a nasty glare at the shadows passing by the right side of the tent.
“My mom isn’t special,” he mutters, trying to settle himself. “She was pretty when I was young but nothing remarkable. Same with my dad. They’re just regular people with screws loose. These other dumbasses are also losers, searching for meaning.”
“They did wrong by you. That’s all I need to know. It’s why I don’t want to waste time engaging with them.”
“They think I’m a lock,” he says and chuckles bitterly. “Well, I used to be the key. Then, I told them to fuck off. Now, I’m the lock. My son will be the key to open the door to their fairy world. I wish that place was real, and I had the power to shove their asses through a magical door. I’d lock them out from this world, so shit like today wouldn’t happen.”
“Do they bother you much?”
“Rarely. They avoid Kourtney when she’s around, too.”
Considering the cult’s logic, I say, “Since I’m supposed to give birth to the key, they had to show up and provide mood music for our fucking.”
Hobo’s dark expression cracks when I start laughing. The words sound so stupid once I say them out loud. Yet, they mean something real to the people outside.
He grins and nods. “They’re bound to bother you around town.”
“Though elderly people aren’t harmless, I’m not particularly scared of them. I mean what can they really do?”
“Mostly, they’ll try to touch your womb,” he says and chuckles angrily. “I come from garbage people.”
“Yes, but you aren’t garbage. You’re the best person I know. And your sister graduated from law school, which is no easy feat. Unlike your parents, you are special.”
My words sound so uplifting as if I’m unbothered by our current situation. However, I feel tremendous disgust by the women outside. Hobo didn’t get all his scars as a man. Did those women stand by while he was hurt as a child? Or did they join in with his abuse?
