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I reach out to touch his hand, mindful that it must be difficult for him to open up to me. His expression remains fixed, barely asserting an emotion that will tell me how he feels about this happening.
“How did he, um—”
“He fell out of a tree, broke his neck, then went into cardiac arrest.”
A gasp escapes me, and quickly, I cover my mouth. “I’m so sorry.”
“Why? I didn’t know him. Just stuff my mother tells me.”
“The tree, on your chest, is that the tree?”
“Yeah,” he mumbles, less enthused.
I don’t understand why he would ink something on his skin, such a powerful image yet he has no recollection of his father nor does it seem like he cares.
“Why? I mean, what made you ink that image?”
“Because I want a reminder of how different life would be if he were here. How whatever fucked-up thing I’m going through, it didn’t have to be this way. That fate played a cruel part in my life.”
It’s obvious to me that whatever stuff he’s supposedly dealing with is largely influenced by his outlook. In ways, he’s a sadist looking for his next problem rather than a solution.
“And your bridge tattoo, the one of the Golden Gate?”
He smiles this time. “My favorite place. My best memories. Husband number two, Leonard, raised me for a few years there.”
“You lived in San Francisco?”
“We did, for about two years when I was ten. Most of the time we lived out here, you know, because that’s where the fame is at, and we all know what Gina is after in a husband.”
Back home, this kind of behavior is unheard of. Most people are still married aside from my mama and dad, though that was the talk of the town for a long time, according to Mama. I was oblivious to those whispers, busy growing up and enjoying my childhood. It’s only when my dad returned that it all went pear-shaped.
“I know she doesn’t have the best reputation. She was nice when I met her.”
“She’s nice to everyone… to their face. Trust me, Gina has her ulterior motives.”
“What do you mean?”
“What do I mean?” He laughs at my question, rather darkly. “It means that Gina cares for Gina… and whatever man is paying for her lifestyle. Gina doesn’t care for her son, nor what happens to him when she’s away, and husband uses Gina’s son as a punching bag.”
My heart descends from my chest into my stomach, aching for the little boy who was forced to deal with such violence at a young age. It explains his disrespect for his mother, his need to control the environment he’s in, and his careless attitude toward his life.
“Wesley, I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. You’re not the one who purposely went away on trips with your girlfriends because it was easier than facing your husband and son.”
He tears into a piece of chicken, though as much as he can laugh off this serious matter, his mannerisms reflect pain.
“Is that how you got the scar on your chin?”
“This?” He runs his fingers along the bottom of his chin. “Nah, this was me being high and trying to jump off a cliff.”
I’m left without any words. Suicide, or attempted suicide, is something I’m uncomfortable talking about. I can’t understand the mindset of being in that headspace.
How can someone be in such a dark place, and not understand how their death will affect their loved ones? But Wesley is different.
It makes sense, he doesn’t consider having loved ones. At least, not Gina.
“Why did we go to the party if you can’t stand your mother?”
