He pauses, eyes still glued to the ceiling.
“Being late meant bad things. Not for Quinn. He was a good kid. Always did what he was asked, followed the rules, didn’t give anyone a hard time. We lived in a nice part of town. We had a big house and nice clothes. My parents drove expensive cars, and we had private education with uniforms. I took it for granted a lot; I still do. But there was an area close to where we lived that wasn’t so nice, a lot of poverty there. That’s where some of the gang kids came from. Sometimes they’d graffiti our school walls, hang out and threaten some of the mouthy kids, stuff like that.”
Lance pauses again. He picks up my fingers, studying them, and I wait, because the end of this story is devastating. It marks a loss that I’m positive changed this man in a lot of ways, and will fill in so many missing pieces of the puzzle that is Lance.
When it seems like he’s struggling to continue, I finally ask, “Did you get mouthy with them?”
He shakes his head.
“What happened, then?”
I get another headshake, more playing with my fingertips. His voice cracks when he finally speaks again.
“We were gonna be late ’cause I’d played hockey too long. Quinn, he’d just sit there watching, ’cause he was good like that. Real patient. He’d read a book sometimes if he was bored, but that day he told me more than once that we needed to go, and I ignored him, told him five more minutes. I just wanted to beat the other guys, and I did.”
He swallows hard. “By the time we left, we only had fifteen minutes to get home. It usually took at least twenty, and that was keeping a good pace. Quinn had asthma, so he wasn’t great at running, and he had puffers. I said we should take the shortcut. He didn’t want to at first, ’cause my mum said never to go that way. But then I reminded him we’d be late, and I’d get in trouble. He knew what that meant when Mum was having one of her bad spells.”
“So you took the shortcut?” I ask.
Lance looks out into the darkness as he nods. His glassy eyes are glued to a spot on the wall, and his throat bobs.
“There was this alley we had to go down; once we were through there, it wasn’t so bad. There were stores and stuff. But that alley, it was dark. I’d gone a couple times with some friends, but never my brother. We got about halfway before we were swarmed.”
He sounds so tortured. “Back home they make their own weapons.”
My heart lurches.
“They’ll take off their socks and fill them with rocks. Then they beat you with them. Usually you come out with bruises and shit, but it fucking hurts like hell. They tried to take Quinn’s bag, and he knew if he came home without it we’d get in real shit with Mum, so he tried to hold on to it, and they went at him. Hit him right in the temple. One second he was screaming, and the next he was just…gone.”
Lance’s haunted gaze finally lifts to mine, fear and regret making his eyes shine. “It’s my fault he’s dead. I took him away from her. I broke her.”
The her he’s referring to can only be his mother. I see clearly that the blame has become a blackness inside that he can’t erase.
I curve my palm around his cheek, his sadness my own. “Oh, baby, that’s not your fault.”
“I took him there. I was the reason we were late.”
“You were a child.”
“I knew better than to go that way. I should’ve just dealt with the beating I’d get, but I didn’t want to, and then they fucking killed him, and I lost everything.” A choked sound leaves him, and he closes his eyes, fists clenching as he tries to control the shudder that passes through him. When his eyes open, there’s a vast emptiness that makes my heart ache. “I shouldn’t have told you any of this.”
I don’t ask why. I already know. It’s same thing he said the last time he gave me insight into his past. He thinks I’ll do what it seems like everyone else in his life has. I push up so I can look at him, even though he’s focused elsewhere. I touch his cheek, and he turns toward my hand.
“I’m so sorry the people who should’ve helped you through this weren’t able to cope with the loss. I’m so sorry they made you feel like it was yours to own.”
“It is mine.”
“Lance, look at me.”
His eyes shift, wary and afraid.
“How old were you?”
“Eleven.”
If my heart wasn’t breaking before, it certainly is now. To watch someone you love die, helpless to stop it, would be devastating to such a young child. To have your family fall apart and leave you believing it was your fault would be emotionally crippling. That Lance is as well adjusted as he is seems to be a miracle. I imagine his aunt is the reason for it.
“Oh, baby.” I push his hair back from his forehead.
He brushes tears away from my eyes, frowning at the dampness on his fingertips. “Why’re you crying?”
“Because I’m so sad that someone took your innocence from you like that, and that you believe it to be your fault when it was a horribly unfortunate situation out of your control.”
“I made a mistake, and it cost me my brother.”
“You made a mistake out of self-preservation. I’m sorry your mum didn’t know how to love you without hurting you.”
He traces the contour of my face. “I’m messed up, Poppy. I think there are parts of me that can’t be fixed.”
Loving this man isn’t going to be easy, but I still want to try. “I don’t need to fix you, Lance. I’ll take you as you are. I just want you to be happy.”
He kisses me, and I can almost taste his fear. He wants to believe me, but I can’t blame him for being afraid. All the people in his life who were supposed to stand by him have abandoned him in some way. I don’t want to be another.
The night before Lance’s next away series I wake at four in the morning to an empty bed. He was here a few hours ago when I fell asleep on his chest, so I assume he’s gone in search of a snack. He seems to have the same nightly pattern, which explains why I don’t ever get a full night’s sleep.
I pull his T-shirt over my head and pad out into the hall, sure I’ll find him scarfing down a bag of gummy bears in the kitchen. He stocks my cupboards something fierce. Lance eats a lot of candy despite it not being on his meal plan.
When I reach the landing, I can hear his voice, low and aggravated. I descend a few steps and pause again.
“No. That’s not happening. I don’t want to see you. There’s nothing to talk about.”
There’s a pause, and I can see him pacing the length of living room. “I’ll block this number like I did the last one… No—I will never fucking forgive you if you—why can’t you let me have this? Why do you want to fuck this up for me?”
He runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “Stop fucking with my head. I told you I was done.”
He drops down into a crouch, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Goddamn it. You made it this way. Not me. You. Stop calling and stay away from me.”
He hangs up the phone and drops it on the floor. It starts buzzing again almost immediately. He makes a low, deep sound in his throat and grabs his hair with both hands, pulling hard. It can’t feel good.
I take another step down the stairs, hitting the one that creaks on purpose. He drops his hand and unfurls from his crouch, spinning around to face me.
“Who’s calling in the middle of the night?” I look to his phone, lighting up on the floor.
“Fucking telemarketers,” he lies. He snatches it up off the floor and powers it down, then tosses it roughly on the coffee table. I wonder if it was DO NOT FUCKING REPLY. I should ask, but I’m afraid to know.
“I thought maybe you went looking for gummy bears.” I try to make my smile even. I’m not sure how successful I am.
“I’m not hungry for gummies any more.” His hands ball into fists and then open as he stalks up the stairs.
His eyes are full of pain and fear. I feel it cracking open my heart.
“I need to be in you. I need you to let me get inside you.”
“Are you okay?” I should demand the truth, make him open up and give me more, but I’m also scared of pushing him too far when he’s like this.