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I draw a teenager reading under a tree.
A dad kicking a soccer ball with his two daughters.
A young couple watching their kids the way Mr. Huntington watches Deanna and Lexi—with that mix of pride and expectation.
Do the poor kids feel it already? The weight of the expectations. The pressure.
For all of Mom’s faults, she never put that on me. She never expected anything of me. When things were good, that was good. I got to be a kid. Then things weren’t good, and—
She didn’t expect me to take care of her, or fix my own dinner, or get myself to school, but she left the responsibility in my hands.
When I first moved in next door to the Huntingtons, I cursed Lexi and Deanna’s luck. A father who loved them enough to give them everything in the world, to expect the world. From far away, it looked like a gift.
Now?
It’s obvious it’s a curse.
I’m not supposed to be here, thinking of Deanna, but I am. I can’t think of anything else. I can’t feel anything else.
Only need. Desire. Affection.
A need so deep and pure I can barely breathe.
She asked for magic.
I promised magic.
Only I’m the one feeling it. I’m the one overwhelmed by my desire to drag her to my bed, my home, my life.
I watch the sunset. I leave the park. I sit in the driver’s seat of my car and turn over my texts from Deanna.
Deanna:Are you really skipping drinks tonight?
Deanna:The outfit Lexi picked for me is beyond extra. Do people still say extra? Probably not. But it’s the best way to describe this. It’s a lot.
Deanna:You should come to the bar, after dinner. Since we were interrupted before we could finish.
In any other circumstance, I’d assume she means sex. The thought is tempting—so tempting it heats the car by twenty degrees. I see it already: the two of us in the too-cramped back seat, struggling into a position, laughing at the awkwardness, then falling into it.
Her lips on my neck.
My hands on her thighs.
Her groan in my ears.
I need that groan. Here. There. Everywhere.
Deanna:We’ll be there at eight.
I need to say something honest. But Grandma swore me to secrecy. The four people who absolutely, positively cannot know about her condition are the Huntingtons and Mom. She doesn’t want anyone close to her, physically or because of blood ties, to know.
She didn’t want to tell me, or Fern, or North, or Aunt Briana. If she had the choice, she wouldn’t have told me. I don’t like it, but I understand it.
I hate the looks of pity I get when I mention my situation with my mother. I never tell anyone. Not friends or girlfriends or teachers.
Like grandmother, like grandson.
River:Show me the outfit.
