The funny thing was that even though I knew everything she was telling me, it sounded like brand new information coming from her mouth. Like the way her eyes lit up when she spoke about her friends, Nikki and Dave.
Nikki and Lexi were roommates in University. Dave happened to attend the same University and worked at the campus coffee shop. Dave being gay was hassled on a daily basis, and one day spilled coffee on a male customer. Not thinking, Dave grabbed a handful of napkins, and apologizing, started to wipe the coffee off the customer. That was when the customer called Dave a faggot, knocked him to the ground, and started laying into him. Lexi and Nikki watched in horror for all of ten seconds before they took their book bags to the man and managed to knock him out cold. Smiling, she explained, “We were arrested, but the charges were dropped. Dave came to visit us the next day in our dorm, and started the conversation with ‘well, aren’t you all just a bunch of crazy bitches!’” She laughed openly, “And we’ve been friends ever since, even though Nikki and Dave have this stupid rivalry going on.”
I was about to ask her about her family when she blurted out, “So, Happy, huh? He’s like, gay or bi-sexual or something?”
That threw me off. “What?” I was confused.
She just played with my fingers, and I asked through narrowed eyes, “What do you know, Angel?”
“Just that he’s enjoying the company of Dave. And Nikki. So I just assumed he was gay, but he’d definitely be bi then, wouldn’t he?”
I told her pointedly, “He’s not anything. He’s just Happy.” She looked at me like I was crazy when I reminded her gently but firmly, “You know how I feel about labels. Happy likes what he likes. He doesn’t need a label.”
Her brows rose in thought. She nodded once. “Okies.”
“Okies?”
“You know? It’s like okay, but cuter.”
Staring into her laughing eyes, I muttered, “Okies?”
She burst into laughter, and I watched the way her face bunched in delight; her full lips framed her straight, white teeth, and it was then that I knew I was a goner.
Which brings us to now, chilling in my bed, watching TV with my girl.
“Why are you like this?” Lexi asks softly, as she reaches for my hand in the subtly-lit room. She entwines our fingers and whispers, “Something bad happened to you.”
No shit, Sherlock.
A minute passes and we remain silent, but her thumb strokes mine so gently that the urge to talk overcomes me. “Had a shitty childhood. That shitty childhood turned into a shitty adolescence. I met someone when I was just a kid who made me believe it might get better. In my head, I told myself that I had to make the most of what I had to make things better, so I did what I could. I ran away from said shitty childhood and lived on the streets for a few years. Things got better in some ways. But other things just got worse. Ended up in bad places, doing bad things to make a buck to live. Eventually bad – in my mind – became good.” A look of confusion crosses her face. I try to explain, “What I mean is that those bad things, I didn’t see as bad anymore. It was just my life. So I guess you could say I’m desensitized to a lot of bullshit. Most shit that would shock and disgust a normal person doesn’t shock me at all. And bad doesn’t seem so bad anymore. In my mind, most bad things are good.”
Turning, I take in Lexi’s semi-lit silhouette, which watches me with wide eyes, clearly in shock over me revealing so much of myself. I’m shocked too. The only two people who really know about me – I mean really know about me – are Happy and Julius. Happy, Julius, and I all met in bad places. We get each other.
Turning the tables on her, I ask, “What made you who you are?”
Lexi shrugs. “A whole bunch of things. I don’t know really.”
I tut, “Bullshit. I asked you a question, girl. I expect an answer.”
She lies on her side, resting her chin on her upturned hand. “Okay, smartass. Well, I guess it started at home with me too. Things weren’t good. Mom was working all the time. Dad was a mean old bastard. Mom would work most nights because it was better money, and the dropkick I called Dad would spend most of that money on weed and booze, drowning out the mess that was his life. Me and my brother looked after each other as much as we could. But I couldn’t protect him the way he protected me. I was small and fragile. Whenever Dad got mad, my brother would shove me in my room and lock the door from the outside. They’d tussle, but nothing too bad. Eventually, my brother turned to drugs because Dad was…”
Her eyes lose focus, and something churns in my gut. An unfamiliar feeling.
Protectiveness. I feel protective of Lexi.
I don’t know what to do with that.