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CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Dear Candy Cade,
I’m gotta write until my hand cramps. Until I can put what I want to say to you in this journal but can’t say to your face. Not with how you look at me, right through to my soul.
I’m back in LA.
This new series I’m doing is fun. You’d love it. I’m a rock star. I know. Not a stretch. The hair, makeup, and wardrobe are killer—all 90’s grunge stuff.
I’m learning to play the guitar for the role too. It makes my days too short.
Because my nights are too long.
Because you’re not here.
Because big shock; I fucked up again.
Do you know how many times I’ve almost called you? Or dicked out and texted you?
But what can I say except “I’m sorry.”
And if that sounds pathetic and not good enough in my head, I know it will to your ears.
What I need to tell you is that I’m keeping you from getting hurt. But your smart Detective mind will ask the follow-up questions, so that won’t work.
Remember all the times I protected you? I need you to. Then maybe you’d understand. How protecting you made me feel like a badass with his gorgeous princess. I know you hate shit like that, but it’s true. I was my best when I was protecting you.
Even at thirteen.
We were at the bus stop with other kids. You were listening to my iPod and dancing around, and then suddenly, you grabbed my arm, freaking out.
You looked down at your white jeans, and I saw it too. You started your period. Your first.
I felt so bad for you. It was obvious. I mean, not like a crime scene, but there was blood. The bus was coming up the street, so we couldn’t leave without everyone knowing. So I took off my sweatshirt and tied it around your waist to hide it. All the way to school, you rested your head on my shoulder. You didn’t feel good. You said you wanted to throw up.
I was worried about you, but I whispered into your hair, “It’s okay. I’ll take care of you.”
Fuck, you wouldn’t let go of my hand that day, and I loved it.
Then I got into trouble in second block, remember?
That asswipe, Mr. Johnson, he made my life hell because I sucked at… well… everything. He called me out for wearing a wifebeater. (Whoops. Sorry. You hate that word. I get it.)
I had on a tank underneath my sweatshirt.
And Mr. Johnson said in front of the class, “Mr. Dean, are you aware that you are violating the dress code today?”
Well, fuck him. I was protecting you, and I’d go buck naked to do it, so I answered, “Mr. Johnson, are you aware that your wife loves my dress code?”
Yep, two days in suspension was worth it.
It’s our tragedy, Cade. I’d do anything for you. No matter how it hurts me.
I already have.
And still, I lose it when I get so close to you. Like I did the night I danced for you. You looked so damn cute in your shorts and bra, with your hair slicked back and no makeup on.
I love you like that.
