“You think you have the right,” Regan whispered, like she could read his thoughts. “You think you have the right to take someone’s life.”
She waited for his response. He knew what she wanted to hear. If he gave it to her, she would know he was lying. Better stick to the truth as much as possible.
“I do think I have that right,” he said finally, and she gasped. “In my fantasies.”
She relaxed some.
“I’m sure you have fantasies,” he said, trying to steer the conversation away from his journal.
She nodded. “I don’t fantasize about killing, though.”
“You’ve never wanted to kill anyone in your anger?”
“No.”
“I’m sure you’ve fantasized about hurting someone,” he suggested. “Someone who wronged you.”
She glared at him. “Yes.”
“He was mean to you? He disappointed you?”
“Yes.”
“So what did you wanna do?”
“Strangle him,” she said before thinking. She slapped her hand over her mouth.
“There,” Jeremy replied triumphantly. “Now, if you wrote that down, and I found it, do you think I’d believe for a second you really wanted to kill that guy?”
“It’s not the same thing at all!” Regan cried. “Mine’s a figure of speech! You go on for pages and pages—”
“Wake up, Regan!” Jeremy shouted. “I’ve been dealing with bullying for years! You don’t think that warrants a lot of goddamn pages?”
She flinched then opened her mouth to argue. But there was nothing to say because he was right. His experiences warranted more than “a lot” of pages.
Jeremy tipped backwards until his butt hit the ground. He groaned softly as he stretched his legs in front of him.
A long bout of silence. Rustling leaves. Some bird conversations. Honking horn.
“I get it,” Regan said finally. “I understand.”
Hope. The first he’d felt it since he discovered his journal was missing. That seemed like ages ago. But there it was now—a tiny sprout still curled into itself, nestled snuggly in the soft, warm tissues of his heart. It wasn’t sure of opening completely. It needed more sunshine words from her lips—assurances that she trusted him.
“I would never do those things,” he whispered. A gentle lie. He realized he needed to treat her like a skittish horse. Lots of cooing and verbal petting.
She thought a moment, watching the ground as she drew crude stick figures in the dry dirt: one female, one male. She fought a gender battle in her heart—the feminine part of her wanted to trust him immediately. After all, she pitied him. But the masculine part of her fought against those supple emotions, demanding she scrutinize the evidence and keep feelings out of it.
She glanced at the journal once more, then at Jeremy who sat pulling weeds.
“Why not tell a therapist?” she offered. She immediately regretted the words.
Jeremy snorted but said nothing.
“I . . . I just mean, maybe they could help you work through some of this.” Her face burned. Shut up, already.
“So telling someone all of this instead of writing it down would have changed what exactly?” he asked, looking straight into her eyes.
She wanted to blurt out, “I would have never read it! I wouldn’t be responsible! That’s what would have changed!” But she shook her head instead, keeping her mouth sealed shut.
He knew her thoughts.
“You didn’t have to read it, Regan. If you would have just minded your own business, then you wouldn’t be dealing with this enormous moral issue.” He paused a moment then added, “Moral issue that you completely made up, by the way. I’m not planning on shooting people. They were just words. Words don’t mean anything.”
“Words mean everything,” Regan countered. “What’s the point of them if they mean nothing?”
Jeremy chewed his lip.
“When my dad tells my mom he loves her, does that mean nothing?” Regan persisted.
Jeremy shrugged. “How should I know?”
“If I told you I trusted you completely, does that mean nothing?”
He had no choice but to shake his head.
“You filled an entire notebook with your thoughts and feelings about how those assholes treated you. The things they said to you. Their prejudice. Your hurt. Do your words and their words mean nothing?”
A strong wave of heat rippled through his muscles. She could have stopped at the “I trust you” argument.
He clenched his jaw and hung his head.
“Words matter,” she said decidedly.
“So what?” Jeremy said. “So now it’s my job to sit here and try to convince you with my words that these—” He waved his notebook in the air. “—don’t mean anything?”
“I don’t know.”
“What the fuck do you want from me?” he barked.
“I don’t want anything from you,” Regan shot back.
He knew he was making a mistake, but the anger rose up fresh—one very pissed off Lazarus whose bones still ached, whose knees buckled and jerked when he tried to walk.
Jeremy stumbled over his next words. “Y-you c-could have given . . . sh-should have left me . . . had no r-right . . . !”
He jumped off the ground and towered over her.
“You could have given it back! You could have left me alone!” he roared.
Regan scrambled backwards once more, grimacing at the feel of a sharp stick that pierced her right palm. She thought absurdly that he might hit her, and she thought even more absurdly that she’d deserve it—deserve to be punched in the face by a boy twice her size.
“I don’t think you’re a killer!” she cried.
He said nothing.
“I don’t,” she insisted. “I believe you.”
“Because you’re afraid of me,” he replied.
“No! No, I’m not!”
He looked at her, unconvinced.
“Well, you hovering over me like that doesn’t help,” she confessed.
He backed away.