Reagan
Sometimes I wake up with the weight of my memories draped over me like a heavy, wet, woolen blanket. One that weighs me down and makes it impossible to get out of bed. But today, I blink my eyes open and there’s no sticky blood on my fingertips and my lashes aren’t matted together from waking up with screams trapped in my throat.
Today, I wake up…hopeful. I don’t even know if that’s the right word for it. It kind of feels like Christmas morning. The one you experience even after you know Santa’s not real, but you anticipate the warm and fuzzy feelings that come with the holiday. You rip open your presents and watch your parents exchange gifts that mean something to them. That’s how I’m feeling today. And I’m not completely sure I like it.
The girls were here for camp last month, and I didn’t feel this giddy because of them being here, so I don’t think it’s the camp that made me want to rush outside today. It’s Pete. And I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to like him as much as I do.
In a perfect world, I could date him. But my world’s not perfect. And it hasn’t been for quite some time.
I get dressed and pull my hair into a ponytail. We’re going to be working with the horses today before it gets too hot. The boys love to take short rides around the paddock. Some of these kids have never been on a horse before.
I walk outside, and I can smell the aroma of bacon on the griddle. My dad tried hiring a catering service, but he really likes cooking for the kids, and it seems to work better when he throws some bacon on a skillet, scrambles eggs, and offers fruit, yogurt, milk, and cereal to everyone. There’s something for every kid, even with some of the boys’ bizarre dietary restrictions.
The men from the prison are acting as waiters right now, and they’re doing a good job at it. Pete’s working in the middle of two tables. He’s signing to some kids and joking with others. He’s really good with the adolescents. Gonzo says something to him, and I see Pete hold up his hand to block everyone else from seeing it as he shoots Gonzo the middle finger. Gonzo laughs, and I force myself to close my jaw.
Pete looks over and catches my eye. My heart trips a beat. “Morning, princess,” he says quietly, his voice lazy and uncomplicated. But that’s a lie. Everything about this man is complex. There’s nothing that’s not complicated about this man.
“Morning,” I say back. I squeeze Gonzo’s shoulder as I walk by him, and he beams at me. “Sleep well, Gonzo?” I ask.
He grins and signs something to Pete. “What did he say?” I ask Pete.
“You don’t want to know,” Pete says with a grimace. He glares at Gonzo. “Watch your manners, Karl,” he warns. His voice is stern, and Gonzo hangs his head. That’s the first time I’ve heard Pete call him by his real name. Pete stands up and goes to get a fork for one of the other boys. He’s still glaring at Gonzo, and now I’m dying to know what he said to earn such disfavor from Pete.
“What did I miss?” I ask, looking back and forth between them.
“Some adolescent humor,” Pete grumbles, looking at Gonzo from beneath lowered lashes. Pete reaches for a salt shaker for another of the boys. “Which wasn’t amusing.”
Gonzo signs something quickly to Pete. “I know that was meant for me,” Pete says quietly, staring into Gonzo’s eyes. “But she’s sitting right here, and it’s rude to talk in front of her unless I can tell her what you said.” He grumbles something and then says, “And I wouldn’t repeat what you just said for a million dollars.” He holds up his hands as though he’s saying what the f*ck. “You don’t talk like that in front of girls, dude.” He jabs a fork at Gonzo. “When we’re alone, you can talk all the shit you want. And it might even be funny.”
Gonzo taps me on the shoulder so I look at him. He signs something with his fist close to his chest. The color on his cheeks is high.
“He said sorry,” Pete grumbles. Gonzo signs something else and then blinks his eyes at me, batting his thick lashes. “He wants to know if you forgive him.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say. I still don’t know what he said, so I don’t know why I should be offended. But Pete’s so serious that I feel like I need to play along.
“Gonzo, go ahead and get suctioned or whatever it is you do so we can be ready for the first activity,” Pete says.
Gonzo grins and signs something. But he leaves. Pete shakes his head. More boy humor?
One of the caregivers rounds up the rest of the boys at the two tables Pete was in charge of so they can get the kids ready for the morning. Pete sits down and heaves a sigh. “That kid reminds me of my brothers,” he says, but a grin tugs on the corners of his lips.
“You that tough on your brothers?” I ask.
He chuckles. “I’m the youngest. So, it’s usually me saying something inappropriate and them trying to make me shut up.”
“What did he say?” I ask. I’m dying to know. But something tells me he’s not going to tell me anything.
His gaze is hot, his eyes hooded when they meet mine. “If you must know, it had to do with morning wood.” He raises a brow at me, and I choke on my own spit. He laughs and raises a brow. “Should I continue?”
I hold up a hand to stop him. “I could go a lifetime without knowing any more about that conversation.” I think about it for a minute, though. “Is that something boys talk about?” I ask quietly, just because I’m curious.
He pulls his chin toward his chest and looks down at me. “Don’t go there, princess,” he warns, his voice suddenly husky.
“I was just curious,” I murmur. But I feel the need to explain myself. “My brother’s has autism and barely speaks, so I don’t know how boys behave.” I lay a hand on my chest, slightly abashed at what I’m about to admit. “When girls get together we talk about everything.” I look into his eyes, and they’re suddenly half-lowered and smoldery. My heart thumps. “About men, mostly.” Heat creeps up my cheeks.
His voice is barely a whisper when he says, “Go there, princess.” His eyes twinkle.
“Well, apparently, Gonzo wants to talk to you like I’d talk to my girlfriends.”
“And he can, when we’re alone. Just like I told him.” He isn’t smiling anymore. He turns to face me. “I’m not going to hurt the kid. I won’t even hurt his feelings. But I’m also not going to treat him like he’s made of glass. He’s had enough of that.”
“Okay,” I say quietly. I’ll drop it. For now at least.
Pete smiles. He nods his head toward where my dad’s taking up the last piece of bacon. “Breakfast?” he asks.
“Have you eaten yet?” I ask him.
He shakes his head. “Too busy so far.” He looks at me. “Join me?” He leans close and whispers, “This would be our second date.”
I roll my eyes and walk toward my dad, who hands me a plate heaping with food. “I can’t eat all that, Dad,” I complain.
Pete eyes the plate, licking his lips, and my dad shoves it toward him instead. I go to get a bagel, some cream cheese, and a chocolate milk. Pete sits across from me and starts to unroll his plasticware. He eyes my chocolate milk. “Do you want one?” I ask, and then I take a sip of my milk, looking at him over the top of the carton.
He waits until I set it down and reaches for my milk. He says, “Thanks,” and then tips it up to drink from it. His lips press where mine just were, and my belly flips. I look away because I am afraid of what I’ll see if I look into his blue eyes right now.
“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he says. He gets up and gets another milk, opens it, and hands it to me. I look directly into his eyes and reach past his outstretched arm to take back my original milk, lifting it to my lips. “Jesus Christ,” he breaths quietly. He looks over his shoulder to where my dad’s standing, talking with some of the men from the prison program. “If your father has any clue what’s going on in my head, he’ll chop my nuts off for sure.”
I clear my throat because I can’t talk past the lump in it. “What’s going on in your head?” I ask quietly.
He stares at me and shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.” He looks down at his plate and takes a deep breath, and then starts to eat. He chews for a minute and then leans forward like he wants to tell me a secret. He pulls back and shakes his head.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.” He keeps eating.
“I hate it when people do that,” I say, more to myself than to him.
He heaves a sigh. “What’s going on in my head is even more f*cked up than what’s going on my pants, if you must know my innermost thoughts, princess.” He taps his forehead with the tines of his plastic fork. “F*cked up.”
I swallow so hard I can hear it. “F*cked up how?”
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.
I repeat myself, in case he didn’t hear me. “F*cked up how?” I set my bagel to the side.
He leans close to me and crooks a finger, beckoning me to do the same. I lean toward him.
“You got me so f*cking turned on I couldn’t stand up if the place were on f*cking fire, princess.” He points toward my chocolate-milk container. “And all you did was touch your pretty little lips to a f*cking milk carton.” He rubs his forehead as if he wants to rub the thoughts away. He looks into my eyes. “All I know is if you ever touched me with that mouth of yours, I would go off like a cannon, princess. I’d be the happiest man in the world, but ashamed of myself, because I have no control when it comes to you, apparently.” He grimaces and looks down toward his lap, adjusting his pants as he wiggles his hips. “Our situation is messed up for so many reason that I can’t even think about going there with you. But all I can think about is going there with you.” He groans and shoves a piece of bacon in his mouth. His eyes don’t leave mine, though. “I got up this morning thoroughly prepared to ignore you today. But then there you were, and you were smiling at me.” He looks down at my mouth. “I couldn’t ignore you if I tried.”
I take a deep breath, trying to rationalize my thoughts. But I can’t. I have never, ever felt like this before. My girlfriends have talked about it, but I have never felt it. Even when I go on dates, it’s like some part of me shuts down. But with Pete, nothing shuts down. Everything wakes up.
He goes on to say, “I don’t want to want you.”
My heart stutters. I get it. I don’t like it. But I get it. I nod. Nobody likes damaged goods.
I get up from the table and pick up my plate.
“Wait,” he calls.
I can’t wait. If I wait, he might see the tears that are brimming in my eyes.
“Princess,” he calls again. Suddenly, my shirt jerks and I can’t walk any farther. I look back and see his hand twisted in the tail end of my shirt. He leans over the table and presses his lips together. “Don’t walk away,” he says.
But all I see is the hand fisted in my shirt. My heart stutters, and my breaths freeze in my chest. I can’t get away. I turn back and punch him directly in the face with the heel of my hand. He jerks, his eyes closing as he winces and snaps his head back. I chop his wrist with my fist. One, two… Next, I’ll go for his eyes.
“Reagan!” Dad yells as he drops what he’s holding and rushes in my direction. He tackles Pete, who is still stunned from my punch to the face. They drop to the ground, with Pete rolling to the bottom. Dad flips him over and pulls his hands behind his back. “Reagan,” Dad grunts. “What happened?”
Pete lays there on the ground. He’s not even putting up a fight. He just winces, his eyes shut tightly as a slow trickle of blood streams from his nose.
“Stay down,” Dad warns.
Pete nods, and he doesn’t move. But his eyes finally open, and they meet mine. I don’t how to interpret that look at all or what to say. So, I turn and run back to the house. I run like the terrified little girl I am.
I burst through the back door and land in my mother’s arms. She grunts when I hit her in the chest, but it doesn’t stop her from hugging me tightly. “What in the world,” she breathes as she rocks me. She holds me close, stroking my hair until I can breathe. Then she pulls back, takes my face in her hands, and forces me to look at her. “Tell me what’s wrong,” she says.
“I think I made a mistake,” I sob.
“What happened?” she asks as she leads me to the kitchen table. She points to a chair, and I sink into it.
“Nothing,” I squeak, finally able to catch my breath.
I can’t believe I did that. I just assaulted some poor man who did nothing but flirt with me and then tell me he didn’t want to want me. I can’t tell my mother that.
She puts her hands on her hips. “It’s not nothing,” she insists.
The back door opens, and the evidence of my shame walks in behind my dad and Link. I wince and look everywhere but at Pete. “Can you get Pete some ice for his eye?” Dad asks my mom. Her brow arches at me, and she shoots me a glare that would drop a full-grown man in his tracks.
She starts to fill a zipper bag with ice. “And just why does Pete need ice for his eye?” she asks flippantly.
Dad points to me. “Your daughter hit him in the face.”
Mom gasps. “Reagan!”
Mom crosses to stand close to Pete. She looks him over, pressing on the bone beneath his eye with her thumb. He hisses in a breath. One side of his face is dirty, probably from where Dad rolled him into the dirt. Mom passes him a damp cloth, and he wipes gingerly at his face. When it’s clean, Mom presses his eye socket with the pad of her thumb. He winces and jerks his head back.
“I think Reagan did enough damage,” Dad warns. “Stop torturing the boy.” He glares at me, too. I want to hide my face in shame.
Suddenly, I notice the way that Pete is holding his left wrist in his hand. My gaze shoots up to meet his, and I don’t see anything but curiosity. He should be fuming mad. He has every right to be. “Is your arm hurt?” I ask quietly.
The corners of Pete’s lips tilt in a small smile. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” Dad gripes. “It might be broken.”
“Oh shit,” I breathe.
“Reagan,” Mom warns.
“Oh shit,” Link parrots.
Shit again. Now Link’s repeating me.
“Oh shit,” Link says again.
I bury my face in my hands. My parents are going to kill me when they get me alone.
“Reagan, I want you to take the truck into town and take Pete to Urgent Care,” Dad says.
I lift my head. He can’t be serious.
“Oh shit,” Link chimes in. Mom grits her teeth.
Dad motions for me to get up and tosses the keys to his truck at my head so that I have to catch them. “Dad,” I complain.
“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t particularly want to be in an enclosed space with you any more than you want to be in one with me,” Pete says. He gingerly touches his eye, his face scrunching up.
I deserve that. I really do. I heave a sigh. “Let’s go.”
Pete follows me to Dad’s truck, and then he opens the driver’s-side door for me to climb in. “Thanks,” I grumble. He goes around the truck and gets in the passenger side. “Are you sure you’re injured?”
“My heart’s broken,” he says.
My head jerks up. “What?”
His voice drops down low. “It absolutely kills me that you think I would try to hurt you.” He turns to face me directly. “I remember the way you looked that night. I would never, ever do anything to hurt you like that.”
I start the truck. It’s easier to avoid this conversation if I have something to occupy my hands and a reason not to look at him.
“Never mind.” Pete grunts, turning away from me. He faces the window and lays his temple against it. He cradles his wrist in his hand and doesn’t even look my way.