“It is. You have enough of your own, you don’t need other people’s.”
I hate me and my big mouth. I said that weeks ago, right when we first started working here, when someone asked me why I don’t have a boyfriend. I didn’t know how to say, “little to no trust in men, especially when I’m a trainwreck,” in a nice way to the people I’d just met, so I said the first thing that came to mind. Unfortunately, that happened to be about not wanting other people’s baggage.
“I want your baggage.”
“Aurora,” he says, harder this time, “I promise you, you don’t.”
He isn’t listening to me and I’m growing frustrated, but I know I’m just dealing with the result of my own words. I can feel myself becoming flustered as I struggle to verbalize my thoughts. “I do. I want it all. Pretend I’m the airport. Give me everything.”
I should be gagged, truly.
Russ’s eyebrows pinch together, showing he’s as confused as I am. “What are you talking about?”
“Airports? Baggage? I have no idea. I have no idea what I’m doing or saying most of the time, but I meant what I said earlier, Russ. I can take it.”
I’m in such unfamiliar territory and I hate it. He reaches out and tucks my wet hair behind my ear, his hand lingering a little longer than necessary and my entire body hums happily. “We should probably get out before we start to prune.”
I scream internally.
He doesn’t say anything as he helps me climb out of the water and we walk back toward the blanket. I throw myself onto the soft fabric, feeling a little defeated, and lie back to dry off.
I block out the sun with my hand, watching Russ awkwardly shuffle around, trying to get comfortable. “Put your head on my stomach.”
“I’ll be okay, I just need to fi—”
“You’ll be comfortable, I promise.”
Reluctantly, he maneuvers himself, leaning back and gently settling on my stomach. “If it becomes uncomf—”
“Emilia uses me as a pillow all the time. You’re gentler than she is. I’m good, I swear.”
I’m not sure at what point I finally become comfortable with the silence between us. But without the noise of my babbling, I get to listen to the sound of his breathing. Fifteen minutes of quiet passes before he starts talking.
“My dad was hit by a drunk driver.” I freeze as the relief that he’s finally sharing and panic that he’s finally sharing hit me both at once. “I don’t see or speak to my family very often because,” he pauses and I wait, stroking the top of his head gently so he knows I’m listening, “well, because my dad doesn’t make me feel very good about myself. He was my hero when I was really young. Never missed a hockey game, school fair, parent-teacher conference. By the time I graduated high school we barely talked.”
“What changed?” I ask softly.
“He did. It wasn’t an overnight change. It was little things, gradually getting more and more frequent over time, making him harder and harder to talk to. He got meaner and meaner and now I can’t stand to talk to him.”
“That really sucks. And I’m sorry about the crash, too, that’s a lot to process on its own. Was your dad okay when you got there?”
“He’ll make a full recovery. I’ve had to visit him in hospital a few times and it’s always been his fault. This one wasn’t technically his fault, but I still feel like he’s to blame, y’know?” My hand is still moving through his hair and I’m scared if I stop, he’ll stop. “Like if he wasn’t doing what he was doing, he wouldn’t have been where he was and then the car wouldn’t have hit him.”
“Yeah, I understand.”
“I didn’t want to go, but my brother told me he’d come here and drag me back to Maple Hills if I didn’t go voluntarily. I didn’t want to bring my home drama here; I came here to escape it. Turns out Ethan lied and isn’t even on this side of the country. Smart, really. He knows I’d have ignored his threat if I thought he was far away.”
“You guys aren’t close?”
“Ethan is mad at the world and I don’t understand why. My anger is because I feel like I can’t escape; he escaped years ago, so what does he have to complain about? Makes it hard to bond when I feel like he’s constantly yelling at me about something. He reminds me of dad sometimes. I should tell him that next time he’s shouting at me. We just handle things differently, I suppose. He thinks I’m selfish for stuff and I think he’s selfish for stuff and, well, it isn’t a great foundation for a good relationship.”
“I’m not close with my sister. We handle things in pretty similar ways actually, not exactly a compliment to either of us, but we live very different lives. So I sort of get it.”
“I was honest about how I feel for the first time today. It felt good to finally say what I needed to say. It feels good to tell you this stuff, so thank you for being patient with me.”
“You’re really brave, Russ.”
“I’m the opposite of brave. He’s told me that enough times for it to be imprinted on my brain.”
Word by word, who Russ is gets clearer and clearer to me and I feel honored that the man who shares so little, is sharing with me.
“You are brave. We live in a society that tells us our parents are the greatest thing we will ever have and will ever lose, and you just—I don’t even know. You’re putting yourself first anyway. That’s brave.”
“I learned a long time ago that if I didn’t put myself first, that nobody else was going to. Forgiving people who repeatedly let you down is like sticking your hand in a fire over and over and expecting it to not keep burning you.”
“Sounds like me and my dad. Except I’m singed to a crisp.”
“What’s the deal with you two?”
“Elsa thinks he hates us because we’re both terrible drivers, but I think it’s because I look like my mom and he really hates my mom.”
He moves onto his elbows and looks at me over his shoulder. “Hold up, your sister is called Elsa? Are your parents Disney adults?”
The number of times I’ve been asked something similar. “Shut up. I’m named after the Northern Lights, which disgustingly, is because I was conceived in Norway. Could have gone my whole life thinking I was named after a princess, but my mom decided to traumatize me instead.”
He’s laughing as he lies back against my stomach. “And Elsa?”
“Predates Frozen. It’s a really popular name in parts of Europe. My dad likes to pretend he backpacked around Scandinavia when he was younger, but in reality he stayed in fancy hotels and ate in fancier restaurants every night—not a hostel or backpack in sight.” Mom loves laughing at that one. “He owns a Formula One team called Fenrir, which is from Norse mythology, so there is a theme. Elsa used to tell people we had a brother called Thor.”
“Would it help you to know that I am named after a dog that my mom had when she was a kid?”
“Yes. I feel silly telling you about my dad after your dad has been so cruel to you. My dad isn’t cruel. He doesn’t outright say horrible things to me; he just makes me feel like his life would be easier if I wasn’t around. He’s always put work first, which I get because he’s got a lot of responsibility on his shoulders and because of it, I’ve had opportunities and been to places that people would kill for.”
“Nice things don’t make the bad stuff acceptable though,” Russ says.
“I’d give all that up to feel like he loves me. We’ve been stuck in this cycle where he ignores me, so I do something silly to get his attention. When I was a teen I shoplifted, knowing I’d get caught. I got a fake ID and went to places I was too young for. Pissed off my teachers. Posted a picture of myself on race day wearing the merch of his main rival, Elysium. The F1 pages reposted the shit out of it.”