She bit her bottom lip and replied, “Just a boy.”
“Bo?” I stated as a question.
She closed her notebook, setting it to the side of her to look down at her feet that were now splashing in the water. Ignoring my question.
“Half-Pint, why do you do this to yourself?”
“What do you mean?” she retorted, still focusing solely on her feet.
“Hurting yourself. Wanting someone you know you can’t have?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes you do.”
That made her glance at me.
“He kissed me,” she revealed out of nowhere.
My eyes widened, surprised.
“Like… really kissed me,” she emphasized, nodding to get her point across like it would change something.
When in reality, all it did was piss me the fuck off.
I didn’t hesitate, viscously spewing, “Before or after he fucked around with Stacey?”
She gasped, shocked. Hurt was apparent all over her face by my response. Now, I was no better than the other boys. I did the one thing that I had avoided up to that moment.
I hurt her.
“They’re making love?” she innocently questioned, her big brown eyes showing more emotion than I’d ever witnessed before. All glossy eyed.
“There’s a lot more to fucking around than just sex, Half-Pint.”
“Oh…” she paused for a few seconds. “So, they’re doing the other stuff you’re talking about then?”
I shook my head, annoyed with I don’t know who. “Never mind.” I closed my notebook and stood, wanting the conversation to be over. She immediately followed my lead.
“No! Don’t do that. Answer me. Are they doing those things or not, Austin?”
“Ask him. Ask your Bo,” I mocked.
Her eyes filled up with tears. I wish I could tell you that I felt bad, that I regretted telling her the truth she was so blind to see.
I didn’t.
At least not that time.
“She’s just a girl, Half-Pint. She’s just a fucking girl.”
She jerked back like I had slapped her across the face, and then she took a step toward me. Invading my personal space, the same one I wanted that day. She gazed deep into my eyes for what felt like a lifetime.
My truths that I hid…
From her.
From the boys.
From the world.
Especially…
From. Me.
Stared her blatantly in the face for the first time in our short complicated lives.
“Would you hurt me like that, Austin? Would you hurt me like Bo hurts me, just for a girl?”
I watched how her hair blew in the wind. How new freckles had formed on the bridge of her nose from the sun. How her lips were parted and her body slightly trembled, waiting on pins and needles for my response. The smell of her sunscreen and cherry lip-gloss assaulted my senses, leaving a sense of longing for the little girl in pigtails. The same little girl that would follow her good ol’ boys around everywhere we went.
I took in every last detail we loved about her.
“Yes,” I lied.
That was my first and biggest mistake.
<>Briggs<>
I was almost twelve years old and settling into my new life. Another three years had flown by. The life and memories I once knew went right along with it. Everyday I remembered my parents less and less. Everyday another piece of my heart went missing, disappearing and leaving me with nothing but the hollow, empty space that formed in its place.
I read and I wrote a lot.
I had a huge collection of books. My otherwise neat room was filled with stacks of novels. Stories that were poured out of someone’s heart and soul onto a piece of paper for another person’s enjoyment. These books were my freedom.
Sometimes the books were about epic love and other times they were deeper than that, life lessons on yellowed paper. My collection was quite impressive thanks to my uncle who spared no expense to indulge me. I loved getting lost in the fictional worlds of the author’s creations. It took away the pain from my own.
My way of escaping.
My book friends.
Where I was loved, cared for, and cherished. Where there’s always a happily ever after and the hero always ends up with the heroine. Those were my favorite kinds of stories.
Except, my story wouldn’t be one of those, and I knew that even then.
I’d been writing in a journal for the last few years. At first it was memories of my parents so I wouldn’t forget them, but then somewhere along the way I began writing about my feelings and emotions.
My journal became more therapeutic than a remembrance of the people I tried to keep so deeply in my heart.
Esteban caught me writing a few times, and to my surprise, he never asked to read what I wrote. He never even asked what I was writing.
He just called it, “The window to your soul.” Which was all he ever said about it.