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Maybe a part of me—the fucked up part—is wishing she’ll say her mom is gone. Or is awful. Because then we’d be more alike. Two completely ruined kids. All alone. But then the sane part—the part that’s grown to really like Bria—wants her to say what comes from her lips next.
“She’s incredible.” She smiles. “Really, she’s…she’s the best mom anyone could ask for. Kye and I, we’re really lucky.”
I feel both sad and relieved that she has a mother who loves her. But when I really look at her smile, I feel happier for her than bummed.
“Speaking of Kye, his boy, Beau Bishop, hears enough about me, I’m sure. If he catches wind that we’re friends, he’ll probably tell Kye you shouldn’t be hanging out with me.”
“I’m two years older,” she deadpans. “And Kye isn’t really like that. Besides, did you forget that he’s with Beau Bishop’s sister? How well do you think that went down?”
“Wow, actually…I hadn’t connected the dots. That’s fucking funny.” I laugh before pausing. “Wait, Kye is a junior, like me. You’re two years older than me too. You old lady.”
“And you act like you’re twelve. So, I guess I’m really scraping the bottom of the barrel for friends, huh?” she teases.
“Guess so.” I cringe. “So, I might or might not have looked at your Instagram. But not in a creepy way. More of like a…you know,wanting to get to know my best friend bettertype of way.” I point to her. “You surf? Like…reallysurf? I saw the videos. I’m really fucking impressed.”
Her body language changes, and she shifts around uncomfortably. “I did, yes. I, uh…I haven’t in years.” Suddenly, she narrows her eyes. “Looking up someone on Instagram is viewing their profile super quickly and calling it a day. I haven’t posted anything of me surfing inyears. Yet, somehow, you saw them?” She widens her eyes. “Creeeeep.”
“Why don’t you surf anymore?” I push my luck further, needing to know.
Wringing her hands together, she sets her head on the back of the couch. “You know when you have a super-great memory and you don’t want to ruin it? Or maybe do anything that would make you forget any part of it?” She shrugs her slender shoulders. “Well, the best and last memory of surfing was with my dad and Kye. And I just…I don’t want to ever erase the memory of that day. So, for me, I don’t want to surf anymore.”
“Bria, I don’t think—”
“No. Don’t say it,” she cuts me off. “Don’t say I’m being crazy.” Pausing, she positions herself so that she’s facing me. “I shared my deep, dark shit with you. Your turn.”
I run my hand nervously down my neck. “Shit,” I mutter. “Fair is fair, I suppose.”
Swallowing, I force myself to talk about my shit. “Well, for starters, I don’t know where my mom is. Or if she’s even alive because she left when I was two. She’s probably a hooker or something. Or has a meth lab at some random hotel,” I try to joke, but I know Bria sees through it. “And my old man, well, he’s alive. But I don’t really go home to see him.”
“Why?” she says softly. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
I do mind. A lot. Because once you know, you’ll look at me like I’m weak. Because I am.
“He’s a drunk. And not a happy one either. It’s best if I stay away, trust me.”
“Sorry, Brody,” she says, leaning over and putting her hand on mine. “It sucks when our parents aren’t the people we deserve.”
“Well, that’s why I decided long ago that I didn’t want to ever put a kid in the positions I’ve been in.” I look away. “I’ve seen it in myself. That rage and fury that make me do the unthinkable. I’m not going to bring a kid into this world to get those same genetics. No chance.”
“Brody, you’re a good person though.” She smiles sadly. “You might have deep-rooted anger, as you should. But you’re not a monster.”
“Sweetheart”—I smile at her—“I love that you say that, but I have my father’s blood. So,…yeah, I don’t think I’m working with top-notch sperm. I’d just create more fucked up humans.”
She’s quiet for a moment, and I know she has no clue what to say.
“Have you ever been to Disney World?” I blurt out, wishing I could take it back right away when she stares at me like I’m crazy.
“Once.” She nods. “It was when I was eleven. Have you?”
“Nah. Probably too hot and crowded for me anyway though.” I shrug. “Enough with the feelings. How are these nasty feet feeling? Still hurting?”
“Who says they are nasty?!” She scowls, trying not to laugh. “Yes, they are sore. But they aren’t nasty.”
Taking one into my lap, I squeeze it. I have no idea why I’m doing this. And I sure as shit have never rubbed anyone’s feet before. All I know is, the thought of her feet hurting makes me feel bad. And that makes me want to help.
She tosses her head back on the pillow. “I love having my feet rubbed. I just want to tell you though, I’m ticklish. So, no fingernails, or I will kick you in the face.”
“I have no fingernails.” I hold my hands up to show her my stupidly short nails. “It makes sense—your feet hurting. Because like I said, you’re like an old lady.” I continue to work my hands on her tiny feet, impressed these little things carry her on her runs the way that they do.
