I turn his face toward mine. I plan on saying yes, I’m sure, I’ll take all your shit and then some if I get to be with you. But what comes out is: “My family is not as normal as you think.”
I take a deep breath. I have to tell him. He’s going to find out eventually. “I knew about your dad. About the accident and jail and all that.”
His eyebrows go up in surprise, surprise at my change in topic, surprise that I know.
“Your mom told me,” I explain.
“My mom? When?”
“Saturday. I came by to see you and had coffee with her.”
“Oh, God.” He moans.
“But that’s not …”
Something in my voice makes him sit up. His full attention is always disconcerting. I have no idea how to do this.
“I don’t know how to say this. It may seem like I’m all over the place, but bear with me.” I clear my throat, take a sip of water, clear my throat again. “My parents are not my real parents,” I blurt out. “They are my aunt and uncle.”
He nods slowly, looking confused, but he stays quiet.
“My brothers and sisters are actually my cousins.”
“Okay …”
“My parents died.”
He inhales. Exhales. “Oh,” he says. “I’m sorry.” His voice is sincere, sad, not even a little bit suspicious.
I don’t mean to diminish their death, but I wave my hand in a way that probably does. “I was just a baby. I don’t remember them. So although it’s tragic in theory, it’s all I’ve ever known.”
I hope maybe this is enough for him to make the connection, but why would it? He nods, still clueless. He thinks that’s all there is: dead parents. I reach into my pocket and pull out the flat, rectangular orange stone that I found when I visited their grave on Saturday. I take his hand and press the stone into his palm.
He looks down at it, confused at first, but then something clicks.
“They died in an accident.” I pause before delivering the final punch. “Eighteen years ago.”
He recoils, like I’ve actually punched him with my fist. He shakes his head again. I let it sit for a minute, not wanting to overstate it or spell it out if I don’t have to. But I don’t have to. He knows.
I fill the silence with words.
“I know it’s insane and bizarre that somehow we met and didn’t know any of this. It is. But I think that connection also has something to do with why you don’t give me fractals.”
I think I’ve already lost him. He’s pulled his hand away from mine.
“We were both there that night. It must have something to do with that.”
He’s not really listening anymore. “My dad killed your parents?”
I nod. “But, Zenn … I’m okay. I know it was an accident.”
“But your last name is Walker.”
“Yeah. My aunt and uncle adopted me. Changed my name.”
He stares at me for a minute, letting it sink in and then he looks away. I can tell he’s shutting down, going numb.
“I’m fine, Zenn. I don’t miss what I never had.”
“You are? You don’t?” I can tell he misses everything he’s never had because of that accident: a dad, a normal childhood, a happy mom, money, a stable life.
“I mean —” I start, but he stands up and paces the room. I stand up, too, and never figure out how to finish my sentence.
No matter what I say, it feels like I am downplaying being orphaned just so I can hold on to a boy. It sounds flippant even to me.
He stops by the small, high window seat that looks down over the driveway. He braces a hand on either side of the window. Finally he says, “This is just my fucking luck.”
I step closer but I don’t touch him.
“Just my luck that I meet someone like you, and this … this fucked-up shit is the backstory.”
“Zenn. It’s okay. We can get past this.”
“Maybe you can. But …” He suddenly sees something, not out the window, but in the puzzles he’s putting together. “Wait. When you hurt your head, when you were little, that was from the accident?”
I barely nod, and his head falls back. “Are you kidding me?”
“Zenn, I’m fine now.”
“No, you’re not. You have this fractal thing messing up your life. You never even knew your parents. You’re not fine. How could you be fine?”
I am fine. Aren’t I?
“You must hate him.”
“I don’t.” And I must put some kind of undue stress on the word I because he looks at me. “I don’t,” I repeat, changing the emphasis.
“Someone does, though. Your aunt? Your uncle?”
My silence is my answer.
He sighs heavily, his eyes on the floor.
“Don’t you think it’s a sign or something that I don’t get the fractals from you? That you’re the only person?” I don’t tell him that it feels like we are meant to be together because that seems like too much, too soon. But I think it. And I feel it.
He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. When your family finds out who I am, how do they ever get past that? How does my dad? How does my mom? She was there, too, you know.” He gasps, remembering something else. “Oh, my God. She held you! After the accident she held you until the cops came. Oh, man. This is just too …”
I didn’t know that part, didn’t know that his mom held me that night. The knowledge leaves me with unsettling images that I don’t often indulge: my mom and dad, bleeding, dead or close to dead in the mangled car. And now: a very pregnant Cinde cradling me in the cold. Zenn and I were just inches apart that night. I shake my head to push the thoughts from
my mind.
I step in front of him, between him and the window, and force him to look at me. “Zenn. It’s going to be okay. We’ll figure it out.” His whole body sags a little. He doesn’t believe me. I don’t know if I believe myself.
What if this is it? Oh, God, this can’t be it. But he’s shutting down and I don’t have anything to say that will change
anything. I know he needs some time.
“I’m gonna go. But don’t …” I struggle to find the right words. “Don’t give up yet. Okay? There’s a reason we found each other. There has to be.”
Chapter 29
I sit at the computer, my hands frozen on the keyboard. I can’t concentrate. I can’t do anything, lately, other than think about Zenn. It’s been four days and I haven’t heard a word from him. Maybe I was foolish to think we could somehow forget our dysfunctional history and be together. Maybe some obstacles are just too big.
Since I haven’t been able to focus, I’ve distracted myself by hanging out with Josh and Charlotte. I tell Charlotte that Zenn has to work instead of telling her the truth: that our lives are like something out of a Mexican soap opera. She seems happy to have me with them, excited to share Josh with me away from his friends. Charlotte is right — he’s different. When he’s with his friends, he has to pretend to be something he’s not, and it has left him lonely and exhausted.