“I know, I know, but sometimes there aren’t any words but curse words to get a point across.”
He commiserates with a rub to his chin like he’s rubbing a beard. “True.”
“Anyway, Violet’s pissed. I hurt her feelings ’cause I’m a dumbass, so I don’t think we’ll be seeing her or Summer for a while. Not until I can figure something out.”
“What happened?”
“I, uh, wasn’t nice to her in front of my friends. It made her feel sad.”
He scrunches up his face distastefully. “Why’d you do that? I thought you were friends.”
“I don’t know, because I’m an idiot, remember? I think I freaked.”
Admitting that out loud makes it that much worse, because clearly, the more self-reflection I engage in, the more I’m convinced I’m actually just a giant pussy, not the badass I originally thought.
It’s sobering.
“My mom says you clearly have abandonment issues,” Kyle says so casually I have no idea how to respond. “Hey Zeke?”
“Yeah buddy?”
“What are abandonment issues?”
My hands tighten on the steering wheel as I consider my answer. “It means…a person thinks if they keep their heart closed, then no one in their life can abandon or reject them.”
I rattle off a definition I read on Wikipedia just last night, after my little girl talk in the kitchen with Oz when he told me I had issues.
The problems associated with abandonment are typically wrong, one article read. Abandonment, in simple terms, is essentially a heart that’s been closed off.
A broken heart.
“What does a heart closed mean?” Kyle innocently wants to know, and now I’m sorry I started this fucking conversation.
“It means…” I pause to think. “It means not letting people in your life—like not telling them shit. Not getting to know people even if you’re hanging out with them.”
“Do you do that?”
Do I? Uh, yeah.
“Yes.”
“Why? Is it because of your parents sucking?”
I laugh at his unexpected choice of verbiage. “Yeah, I think so. Remember how I told you they were never around? Still aren’t?”
He nods.
“Well, I really missed them when I was little. I cried a lot, and the people taking care of me used to get really mad and yell a lot, which just made me cry more, and all I wanted was for my mom and dad to come home.”
But they rarely did.
“Did you have a home?”
“Lots of them,” I admit. “But I lived with aunts and uncles. Once my parents were home for Easter. We took a trip down to Florida and I played in the ocean while they sat on the beach.”
I remember it like it was yesterday; I was twelve. My parents had been in Greece for a month and thought it would be charming to celebrate Easter as a family. While I blissfully swam in the ocean, my dad spent most of his time on his laptop, and my mom drank wine while supervising a photographer for a magazine, sent to photograph the beach house.
The real reason they’d come home.
So her fucking beach house could be in a damn magazine. She squeezed it in before moving on to the next city on her world tour. City, town, island—wherever the hell they went next, they sure as shit couldn’t be bothered to take their son.
“I guess you could say I was inconsolable, you know? Cried a lot. That sadness turned to anger, because by the time I was in middle school, I couldn’t tell people how I felt. I couldn’t put a label my own emotions because I was so young.” I glance over to find him watching me rapidly. “We call that articulating our feelings.”
He’s soaking up every word like a sponge.
“Do you think I’m going to be like you when I grow up since my dad’s not around?”
My throat contracts and I find it hard to swallow. “What do you mean, be like me?”
“You know, mad and stuff.” He turns his head and stares out the window, watching the buildings and houses and trees roll by. People on their way home to their families. On their way home from work or running errands.
I slow for a woman in the crosswalk.
“I don’t think I’m mad and stuff—not all of the time.”
Kyle glances over. “Just most of the time?”
Am I?
“Is that what you think? That I’m mad most of the time?”
His slight shoulders give a shrug, and now he’s looking down at his sneakers. “I think it would be cool to be like you when I grow up.”
“Why?”
My blinker goes on, and I hang a left at the stop sign, racking my brain for a way to respond without sounding callous and bitter.
“Because you’re big and good at wrestling and nobody tells you what to do.”
“Violet tells me what to do sometimes,” I point out.
“True.” His head bobs up and down. “Why do you let her?”
“Why do I let Violet tell me what to do?” I clarify the question.
“Yeah,” he says with a comical scowl. “You’re always letting her boss you around.”
“Well…I definitely wouldn’t say she was bossy—she’s too sweet.” Suddenly it’s hard to swallow. “But I guess I let her tell me what to do because I like her.”
“Like boyfriend girlfriend?”
“Uh…sure.”
Kyle’s head hits the headrest and he quirks one of his puny little eyebrows, giving me a look I myself have made at him a thousand times.
Shit. The scrappy turd is mimicking my behavior.
“What do you mean sure. You either do or you don’t.”
“Uh…”
He taps his fingers on the center console. “It’s not a difficult question you know.”
“Yeah, but now you’re confusing me because you’re eleven and you sound twenty-four.”
“I’ve had a rough life; I’ve picked up a thing or two.”
“You know Kyle, you might have had a rough life, but there’s always someone who’s worse off than you—remember that.”
“Okay, I will.”
“I mean it, kid. If there’s one thing I’ve learned through all this bullshit with having to hang out with you—”
“Hey!”
Now we’re both rolling our eyes. “You know what I meant—no offense.” I continue, “Anyway, if there’s one thing I’ve learned being your Big, it’s that even if the things you have are shitty—your clothes suck or you have to eat peanut butter and fucking jelly for every meal, there’s a kid out there starving.”
I cannot believe I’m giving him a pep talk. What do chicks call this? A life chat?
“It took me a long time to figure it out. I think I’m starting to be a better person. Maybe.”
Jesus Christ I sound like a sap; thank god no one else can hear me but the kid.
“Do you think it’s because you met Violet?” He wants to know, and I turn my head slightly to get as good a look at him as I can while driving. A good, long look at the kid.
His hair is shaggy and still needs a cut. His t-shirt is wrinkled and needs to be washed. His shoes are new but need to be cleaned. He’s a mess, but an honest, hopeful one.
“No. I think it’s because I met you.”
“Me?” His voice is full of wonder.
“Yeah kid. You.”
Kyle has nothing to say to that, so we sit in silence, the radio playing soft rock in the background. Finally, a smile lights up his scrubby face, and he’s grinning from ear to ear.
“Cool.”