Punk 57 (42 page)

“Take your time.” He plants a kiss on my forehead and takes a towel off the shelf, setting it on the counter for me. “I’ll go make us some sandwiches.”

I stare at him as he leaves, and despite the height and muscle of a man, I’m finally seeing him as the kid I envisioned so many years ago who I became so attached to and loved. The one I pictured as kind and gentle and caring.

After my shower, I dry off and pull the T-shirt back on, finding a brush on the counter and tugging it through my ratty hair. Thankfully, Lyla’s assault missed my head, so I didn’t have to wash my hair.

Walking into the hallway, I hear the soft hum of music coming from down the hall, and I step quietly, following it—but carefully, in case it’s his dad.

I find Misha in his room. He’s walking around, picking up a few clothes, and on the bed sits plates with PB&J sandwiches and sprigs of grapes, with juice boxes sitting next to them.

I hold in my laugh. I don’t think I’ve had that lunch since fifth grade.

P!nk plays at low volume, and I feel my chest warm at the gesture. He knows I like her, too.

But then I gaze around his room and see four office boxes, complete with lids, stacked on top of each other up against the wall.

I walk over. “What’s this?” I ask, lifting the lid.

“Oh, uh…”

But I widened my eyes, taken aback, and drop the lid on the floor.

The box is filled with black envelopes. With silver writing.

“Oh, my God.” I reach in and fan the envelopes, seeing my writing on every single one.

He kept them.

He kept them?

I don’t know why, but I guess I never thought he actually saved them. Why would he? Thinking back, I can’t even remember what they said. Couldn’t have been too interesting if I can’t recall.

The other three boxes are probably filled with letters, too.

“I can’t believe I wrote you this much,” I say, a little horrified. “You must’ve been so bored with me.”

“I adored you.”

I look up, seeing him stare at the floor. An ache weaves its way through my chest.

“I adore you,” he corrects himself. “I’ve read them all at least twice. My favorites, a lot more than that.”

His favorites. And then I recall. The letters I’d found at the Cove. When he stayed there—away from home—he took those with him. The rest stayed here.

I feel guilty now. “They’re in my desk,” I confess. “I lied. I didn’t burn them.”

He gives me a little nod. “Yeah, I hoped so. I have mine, too, that you threw all over the place at the Cove. In case you want them back.”

I give him a small smile, grateful. Yes, I do want them back.

I replace the lid, kind of curious to open a few letters and relive all the embarrassing things I shared with him over the years. Kissing with tongue the first time, the music I suggested that I thought was so epic but realize now it was kind of lame, and all the arguments we got into.

Remembering back, I was pretty hard on him. I mean, using an Android phone doesn’t make him an introverted burner who probably won’t ever have a job or a valid driver’s license at the same time. I didn’t mean that.

And I’m sure he didn’t mean what he said when he called me a Steve Jobs cultist who worships inferior technology because I’m too much of a bubblehead high on apps to know the difference.

On second thought, no. I like the truce we have going on today. The letters can wait.

I walk over and sit down on his bed, bringing up my legs to sit cross-legged. He kicks off his shoes and lies down sideways on the bed, supporting his head on his hand.

I take the sandwich and peel off the top crust while he pops a grape in his mouth.

I stare down at the food. I’m hungry, but I’m also tired and suddenly feel like I don’t give a shit. One of us has to start talking.

He wants something true? Something he doesn’t know?

“I didn’t have many friends in grade school,” I tell him, still keeping my eyes down. “I had one. Delilah.”

He’s quiet, and I know he’s staring at me.

“She had this shaggy blonde hair that kind of looked like a mullet, and she wore these frumpy corduroy skirts,” I went on. “They looked thirty years old. She wasn’t cool and she didn’t dress right. She was alone a lot like me, so we played together at recess, but…”

I narrow my eyes, trying to harden them as the image of her comes to the forefront in my mind.

“But I got tired of not hanging out with the popular kids,” I admit. “I’d see them hanging on each other, laughing and surrounded by everyone, and I felt…envious. Left out of something better. I felt like I was being laughed at.” I lick my dry lips, still avoiding his eyes. “Like I could feel their eyes crawling over my skin. Were they disgusted by me? Why didn’t they like me? I shouldn’t have cared. I shouldn’t have thought that kids who shunned me would be worth it, but I did.”

I finally raise my eyes and find his green ones watching me, unblinking.

“And in my head,” I continue, “Delilah was holding me back. I needed better friends. So one day I ran off. When recess time came, I hid around a corner so she wouldn’t find me, and I watched her. Waiting for her to go off and play with someone else so I could do the same and she wouldn’t look for me.

I swallow, my throat stretching painfully.

“But she didn’t,” I whisper, tears welling in my eyes. “She just stood against a wall, alone and looking awkward and uncomfortable. Waiting for me.” My body shakes, and I start to cry. “That was the day I became this. When I started to believe that a hundred people’s fickle adoration was worth more than one person’s love. And for a while it felt kind of good.” Tears stream down my face. “I was lost in the novelty of it. Being mean, slipping in a quick insult, making a joke of others and of my teachers…I felt respected. Adored. My new skin suited me.”

And then more images creep in, still so vivid after all this time.

“But months later, when I’d see Delilah playing alone, being laughed at, not having anywhere to belong…I started to hate that skin I was so comfortable in. The skin of a fake and shallow coward.”

I wipe the tears, trying to take in a deep breath. He’s looking at me, but the heat of shame covers my face, and I’m worried. What does he think of me?

“And when I started writing you a year later,” I go on, “I needed you so much by that point. I needed someone I could be the person I wanted to be with. I could go back. I could be the girl who was Delilah’s friend again. The girl who stood up to the mean kids and didn’t need a spirit animal, because she was her own.”

I close my eyes, just wanting to hide. I feel the bed shift under me and then his hands cupping my face.

I shake my head, inching away. “Don’t. I’m awful.”

“You were in fourth grade,” he says, trying to soothe me. “Kids are mean, and at that age, everyone wants to belong. You think you’re the only one who feels like shit? Who’s made mistakes?” He nudges my face, making me open my eyes and look into his. “We’re all ugly, Ryen. The only difference is, some hide it and some wear it.”

I slide the food out of the way and crawl into his lap, wrapping my arms around him and burying my face in his neck, hugging him close. He gently falls back onto the bed, lying down and taking me with him.

Why didn’t we do this ages ago? Why was I so scared to meet him and change things? We’ve been there for each other during his grandmother’s funeral, lengthy summer camps with hardly any communication to each other, and even a couple of girlfriends of his who I never told him I was really jealous of.

Why did I think that all the words and letters and the friendship would fade so easily?

His arms hold me tight as I lay my head on his chest, hearing his heartbeat and the light tapping of rain against the window. This is new for me. I’ve been comfortable in places, but I think this is the first time I’ve been anywhere I never want to leave. My eyelids fall closed, sleep pulling at me.

“I have a question,” he speaks up, causing me to stir.

“Hmm?”

“When you write on the walls at school, you sign the messages as Punk. Why?”

I keep my eyes closed, but I breathe out a weak, little laugh. “Do you remember the letter you wrote about your first tattoo and your dad saying you looked like a punk?”

“Yeah?”

“So it was a tribute to you,” I tell him. “A shout out to the ruffians and rule breakers.”

“But why not use your own name?”

I pinch my eyebrows together. “Because I don’t want to get caught.”
Duh
.

“Okay…” he says. “So what you do is hide in the dark to share words anonymously, because you want to be heard but not mocked. Is that it?”

I open my eyes, thinking. Is that what I do?

“You want to be loved without risking consequence, so you reach out to get the attention you need while enjoying the luxury of taking no responsibility for those words.”

I start to shrink into myself. I don’t like what he’s saying or the fact that he’s saying it, but I can’t deny that he’s right.

I don’t want to hear feedback, because if they knew it was me, their reactions would be different. But it’s not exactly fair to throw things in their faces and hide under their noses, either.

“Alone, Empty, Fraud, Shame, Fear,” he murmurs, holding me tighter. “Don’t you get it yet? You don’t have to be afraid or embarrassed. No one does you better than you. You can’t be replaced. Not everyone will see that, but only you need to.”

He kisses my hair, and I wrap my arm around his torso.
No one does me better than me.

I close my eyes again, hearing what he’s saying. I changed, because I didn’t think what I brought to the table was worthy enough. I let them make me believe that, but who made them authorities? I may no longer be adored, but I might not be so miserable, either.

And I may eat alone, but that’s not such terrible company, is it?

I feel him move under me, and then a blanket covers my legs and body, locking our warmth in under the covers. I slowly drift off to sleep to the sounds of the rain and his heartbeat.

A velvety tickle glides across my skin, and I strain to lift my lids. The room is darker, the sun having set, but the soft glow of the lamp on the bedside table illuminates the bed, and I glance over at the window, seeing that it’s now dark outside. The rain pounds hard, echoing through the roof, and thunder rolls outside.

Misha is bare-chested and propped up on his side next to me, his head down by my ass.

Which is bare, because he’s pulled up my shirt.

“What are you doing?”

“Shh, don’t move,” he orders, moving a pen over my skin. “You’re the closest thing I have to write on.”

I snicker, closing my eyes again. He’d better not be using a Sharpie. That’ll take days to get off.

The peaceful noise of the rain outside lulls me back into relaxation, and I fold my arms under my head, feeling the felt tip move quickly over my skin, stopping every so often to dot an “I” or poke a period.

“I wish we could stay here forever,” I muse.

“Oh, you’re not moving anytime soon. Your ass is too nice to look at.”

I cross my legs at the ankles, teasing, “Is that all a Thunder Bay boy can do with a girl’s ass?”

A light slap hits my right cheek, and I laugh.

But then, after a pause, he stops writing. “Have you ever…” he asks, drifting off.

It takes me a moment to connect the dots, but then I realize what he’s asking.

“Anal?” I clarify. “Well, considering I’ve only had sex once before you, I’m sure you know the answer to that.”

I certainly wouldn’t have done
that
the first time, no matter how naïve I was. And since Misha and I haven’t done that, then of course, the answer is no.

“So we’re virgins then,” he says, his tone making it sound like he’s kind of enjoying that idea.

“Yeah, virgins,” I grumble. “And I plan on dying one, because there’s no way you’re sticking
that
in
there
.”

He snorts, breaking into a laugh.