Page 47 of Avenged

She shrugged.

“You don’t know, or you don’t want to tell me, regardless of me being your husband?” I asked, trying the teasing again because it had worked the night before.

But it backfired a little, because she frowned. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“Call myself your husband and you my wife?”

“Yes.”

I thought about her response for a moment. Why did it bother her so much? If we were truly just friends and teased about it, it wouldn’t be a big deal. But, like Dawson had told me, it was a big deal for both of us because there was something drifting around between us. Whether it was lust or love or whatever the hell else, it was there. And it was always standing between us, waiting for one of us to acknowledge it. But I couldn’t say all of that to her, so I simply shrugged and said, “You disappear, and I joke. It’s my way of dealing with things in my life.”

She considered my statement for a moment, and instead of doing what she normally would have done, which was to turn away, she took a deep breath and then asked, “What did your parents think of that? You joking all the time?”

It was my turn to shrug. “Not much.”

I was rewarded with a tiny, little upward curve to her lips. “Who doesn’t want to tell now?” she taunted me.

I smiled—a real, full smile—but then told her the truth. “Honest, they really don’t think much. I don’t talk to my biological dad at all. He got my mom pregnant when they were both seventeen, so he was pretty much just a sperm donor. He lives in Idaho now with his family and was never a part of my life past sending some money and cards until I was eighteen. My mom, well, let’s just say she left us alone to develop into the people we were, quote unquote, ‘meant to be.’”

I was rewarded with an actual smile.

“What does that even mean?” she asked.

“She always said her parents, her teachers, and society in general had forced her into being someone she wasn’t supposed to be, and she had no intention of doing that to us. She never went to a single parent-teacher conference because she said she didn’t care what they said. If I wanted to get good grades, I would, and if I didn’t, I wouldn’t. If I wanted to be the class clown, then far be it from her to tell me not to be.”

At some point, Mom would have to realize her lack of direction was part of the reason Dawson made the choices he did. It was like he was screaming for her or Dick to finally be real parents. I held some of the blame, too, for pretty much abandoning him to do my own thing, but Mom was the real parent. She hadn’t shown up to do her job, and I’d had to pick up the pieces.

It was better this way. Dawson was better with me; I had to believe that. He’d slowly started to come out of his black mood the last week or so. I hadn’t really been paying attention to it. I’d been kind of caught up in the whirl that was Jersey. But it was true. I needed to let him know I saw it.

“What about you?” I asked.

“What about me, what?”

“What about your parents? What did they say about you being invisible?”

That had her frowning and worrying her ring again, but eventually, she responded. “When Mom was alive, she encouraged my nerdiness by buying me comics, Doctor Who paraphernalia, and Supernatural cardboard cutouts, so I don’t think she’d expect me to be the most rambunctious one in any group.”

My heart stuttered and then kicked back in at a fiercer pace. I knew her mom wasn’t in the picture; I’d thought maybe she’d died in the accident. But after Vi had told me she’d been in the car with their father, I’d known it wasn’t true. “I’m sorry you lost her. What did she die from?”

“Ovarian cancer.”

Her words caused my whole body to react, jerking the wheel in the wrong direction, as I looked at her in surprise. I straightened the vehicle at the same time I responded to her statement. “Jesus, this is really important then—you going to see the specialist.”

“It’s not cancer,” she told me, as if she was determined to make it true rather than knowing it for a fact. The thought that there was even the slimmest of chances she could have cancer at twenty-three made my entire stomach revolt. I wanted to throw up and was grateful we hadn’t had time to stop for coffee or food. I didn’t know how to respond.

She turned back to the window, but it didn’t feel like she’d withdrawn this time. It felt like worry. It felt heavy and thick as if the silence itself was actually speaking.

Jersey

CARRY ON WAYWARD SON

“Lay your weary head to rest

Don’t you cry no more.”

Performed by Kansas

Written by Livgren / Livgren

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