“I know… but I’d really like it if you came. I want you to meet my family, and I want them to meet you.”
Taking a bite out of his burger, he shakes his head. “It’s not a good idea,” he repeats. “What the fuck would I tell them when they ask me what I do? That’s what parents do. You want your parents to know how I live? Have you told them?”
“Well… no. Not yet. I thought if they got to know you first, I could eventually tell them. By then they’d already like you, so it probably won’t bother them as much.” I don’t entirely believe that, to be honest, but we have to start somewhere.
“No.”
“We can just avoid the questions for now and give vague answers. Or I can tell them just not to ask you stuff… I can tell them you’re a very private person. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“No,” he says again.
“Stop saying no.”
“No.”
“Blue… please. It would really mean a lot to me if you came. I want you be a real part of my life.”
His jaw clenches, and he lets out a sigh of clear irritation. “Do I look like I want to be a part of someone’s life, Piper?” he asks in a low voice. “I don’t even want to be part of my own fucking life right now. If I wanted to sit around with family and rock around the Christmas tree and open presents, don’t you think I’d go back home? I can’t do it. Not with them or with you.”
Leaning back against the stiff fake-leather chair, I stare down at my plate, afraid if I look at him, I’ll burst into tears right here in the middle of the diner. I never expected him to jump up and down with excitement, but I definitely wasn’t expecting his reaction to be so cold and mean.
He reaches for my hand again, but I pull it away, which gets me a head shake in return when I peek at him. “Piper, come on. Tonight was supposed to be nice. Don’t ruin it with all this.”
“I didn’t realize I was ruining it,” I reply, pushing my plate away from me. The smell of the chili suddenly makes me feel nauseous.
“That came out wrong. I’m just not ready to be meeting your parents. If you want to come over after your thing with your family, or on Christmas Day, that’d be great.”
I’m starting to worry about the way he says come over. Like the shed is a permanent home. None of this is making me feel very confident about suggesting we stay at Ditra’s or get a place of our own, but I’m still hoping I can eventually talk him into that.
Sometimes, though, too much hope leads headfirst into the unexpected brick wall of reality.
I wait until we’re back at the shed to approach Blue with the idea of getting off the streets. Or out of the backyard, as the case currently is. He immediately lights up a cigarette and starts to pace around the tiny area, as if I just asked him to do something so outlandishly impossible that he can’t even comprehend it.
“You need to just chill,” he says between hand-shaking inhales.
“It was just a suggestion….” My voice sounds much calmer than I feel inside. “I just got a big year-end bonus from work. I was saving for an apartment before I even met you. What’s the big deal if you move in with me? I’m not asking you for anything else—”
He whips around to face me. “Aren’t you, though? Look around, Piper.” He swoops his arm around in a grand gesture. “Look what you’re sitting on. An air mattress and a down comforter. Look at the dog.” He points to Acorn in the corner. “Sleeping on a dog bed with ceramic dishes next to him. There’s a curtain on the goddamn window. I’m standing on a wool throw rug from Bed, Bath, and fucking Beyond. There’s a tiny cabinet of snacks over there with a plant on top of it. There’s a battery-powered space heater keeping us warm. What next?” he practically yells. “A mini fridge and a microwave?”
Okay. So maybe I slowly started to make this space a little more comfortable for us. But could anyone blame me? “I-I just wanted you to have some nice things. And Acorn loves all his new stuff. Look how happy he is.” The dog wagged his tail so hard when I bought him dishes and toys that his butt wiggled for almost an hour.
“I don’t want nice things. Or any things. Why can’t you understand that?”
I bow my head from his yelling and manic expression. “I don’t know. Why should we sit here and freeze and have nothing? I guess I don’t understand any of this.”
“No. You don’t. Stop trying to. Stop trying to fix me or change me or save me or whatever crazy needs you have in your head. Those are things you want, not me. I told you weeks ago. Take what you see or leave it. But don’t try to dress it up in curtains and blankets.”
“Okay. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want you to be sorry, Ladybug. I want you to just accept. I’m not going to live in an apartment with you and get a job and have a bank account and meet your family and build dreams together. It’s not happening.”
My heart jackknifes at his words. “But why?”
He stops pacing abruptly and stares at me with a look of sheer torment on his face. “I don’t know.”
When my sisters and I were young, my father would never allow us to “I don’t know” as an answer to anything. He told us it was unacceptable. Lazy. A ploy to hide the truth from others and, sometimes, from ourselves. My initial instinct is to tell Blue he has to know, but the remorseful tone of his voice tells me he truly, honestly, and genuinely doesn’t know. And the little voice in my gut tells me I should be very worried about that, but I ignore it because ignorance is the path to delusional happiness.
“So when I get my own apartment, are you and Acorn going to at least come over? Not move in, but come over at night and on weekends and hang out and watch TV with me and let me cook us dinner? Instead of us being here?”
“I don’t know,” he says again. “I guess. Maybe.”
My father would be having fits over these answers, and I’m on the verge of it myself, but I summon up all my inner strength and stop myself from throwing a sobbing tantrum or demanding real answers because I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have anything remotely resembling answers or reasons. Forcing both of us to face that fact doesn’t seem like a very good idea right now. Not when he’s back to pacing and biting the inside of his cheek and acting all twitchy.
I switch gears like an Indy race car driver. “Evan, come sit down with me. We don’t have to talk about this now. We can play cards… or we can cuddle and talk about music and books.” None of my suggestions seem to be appealing to him, even though those are his favorite things to do. “We can fool around,” I add as a bonus, in a flirty voice, because that’s something he always wants to do.
“I need to walk.”
“Walk?” I repeat, glancing at my watch. “It’s eleven o’clock.”
“Don’t care. I just want to go for a walk.”
My nerves ignite with panic. This can’t be good. He’s turning down sex to walk aimlessly around town. What if he keeps walking?
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“No. I think I just need a few minutes alone.”
My heart and my hope pitches like a pile of rocks straight into my stomach.
“Oh. Okay.”
He reaches for the latch on the door but turns, his eyes softer. “You could stay here with Acorn. He’d like that. And I can see you when I get back.”
“Are you sure? Will I be safe here alone?”
“Hell yeah. Nobody ever comes down here. And there’s a hunting knife under the mattress.”
A knife?
I suppose the knife is hidden in the event he ever needs it for self-defense, but I wish I had known it was there. Random hidden weapons make me feel a little nervous.