Page 8 of Always You

“Most of the time.” I shrug with a big smile.

“Your standards must not be very high.”

“I might have to raise them after today.”

“You’re so full of shit.” She chuckles.

It’s a sight that melts my heart, and it instantly has me addicted, wanting to put more smiles on her face.

“But I’m entertaining, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, you are,” she admits.

The corner of her mouth raises in a grin as she gets up, brushing off any dirt that might have stuck on her shorts.

“I need to head home.”

“Where do you live?”

“Just to make it clear”—she lifts up a reprimanding finger—“I’m not inviting you over.”

“Fine.” I roll my eyes at her as I push off the ground on my side, helping me to stand.

“Right down the old road. It’s the first house when you walk onto the street.”

“The one with the huge garden?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll walk you,” I state as I put my feet in action, not waiting for her response.

“Scared I might get attacked, tattoo boy?”

I casually shrug my shoulders.

“I don’t want to risk it.” The truth is, she will probably be fine without me, what with it being broad daylight and all, but I don’t want this conversation to end. I don’t want to go back to my lonely life, so I’m going to stretch this out as long as I can.

“So, your mom drinks too much?” she asks, as we walk down the road, side by side. I know she’s prying again, but I don’t mind it. And that alone is fucking with my head.

“She’s an alcoholic. You can say it. I’m used to it.” A comforting feeling washes my soul as if we’ve been doing this our entire life. I don’t usually talk about my mother. In general, but certainly not about her addiction. Yet, she manages to get me to blurt out exactly that after five minutes.

“Sorry you have to deal with that. Got any siblings?”

Most of my friends know the situation that is daily life for me, even though I never talk about it, but never have they asked about any of it with the interest she’s giving me.

“My father and my brother died in a car accident four years ago. That’s when it got worse.”

She gasps, and for a moment there, it sounds like a moan, a sweet, torturous sound, doing crazy shit to my body.

“Fuck, that’s what you get for prying,” she states awkwardly.

“It’s okay.” I suck in a deep breath before I exhale loudly, hoping to get rid of the weird feeling in my stomach I can’t seem to shake.

“You must really miss them.”

“Every day,” I admit without hesitation.

“Is that why you fight? Because you’re angry at the world?”

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