Page 37 of Better Watch Out

“W-why do you think that’s not what I was doing?” I ask, cringing around the words. There’s no way I’m not caught now. No fucking way he doesn’t know I’m lying to him.

“Well, for future reference so maybe you can learn to be better at this…” He spins my phone around so he can read the screen, and swipes upward so that he can see all of the apps that are currently open on my phone.

Including my social media.

“You wouldn’t be acting nervous over looking for flights. You’ve made it clear that you don’t want to be here, and you aren’t quiet about it. So that’s pretty obvious.” Naturally he taps right on the app I’m trying to hide, and the page of a girl I went to SIU with pops up. Right on top it’s a picture of her in front of the admin building, with a caption stating the name of our school and the year out class graduated.

Suddenly I’d rather be swimming in Lake George than here.

He huffs a smaller sigh this time, shaking his head as he swipes to close the app. “You really are incorrigible, aren’t you?” Fletcher chuckles. He stands straight, but when I move to grab my phone he takes it, shoving it into his pocket.

“I was just browsing my phone. What the hell, Fletch?” I’m not sure digging myself into a deeper hole is wise, but I’m not willing to admit?—

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Boone murmurs from his spot on the couch. “But maybe I can give you something else to be curious about, yeah?” He’s full of good humor as he rolls off of the couch, shoving Fletcher gently out of the way to sit in front of me on the floor. It’s an awkward position, and with his dark eyes and thick, tousled hair, he reminds me of a puppy.

A very feral and unfriendly puppy.

“Curiosity killed the cat, until satisfaction brought her back,” I snap automatically, my attention on him as Fletcher just walks away with my phone, heading into the kitchen. “If you throwmy phone in the blender you’re buying me a new one. Like anactualnew one,” I threaten, though I only have the nerve to do so because I can’t see him.

“Whatever you say, princess.” His voice drifts back to me and I hear the fridge open and close before Boone moves to wrap his fingers over my thigh.

“Want to hear a story? The one youreallywanted to hear when we were kids?” he murmurs in a quiet voice, like it might be a secret. Screaming from the television makes me glance up, and I have enough time to see someone getting dragged away by something before I look back down at Boone.

“What story?” I’m distracted enough that I’m not sure what he could be talking about, since I can’t exactly recall a story I’d wanted to?—

Oh…

Shifting uncomfortably, I bite my lip. “No, Boone, you don’t have to do that. I’ve always said, even before I decided you’re the second worst person on earth, that you don’t have to tell me. It’s your business, and your life. I would never?—”

“Oh, shut up.” He swats at my hand, shifting to lean his chin on my lap. “I don’t mind telling you. I’m older now, and you’re my snow bunny. What are you going to do with the information, when you’re still so worried about calling me names, even when you’re terrified of us?” He has a point. No matter what they do to me, I’d never use Boone’s really shitty past against him. What little I know of it, anyway.

All I was ever told is he had lived with a few different families, and that he’d beenrehomed. Though I’ve never found out what the context of that is. And he was sensitive to being called a freak because of something that had happened. Past that, I could only assume and make my own guesses, which I’ve given up on since I cut contact.

“Publish it in the local paper, clearly. I’ll tell all the news stations. Maybe I’ll write a book about you.” I flop back against the arm of the recliner, wondering where Fletcher has taken my phone and if I’ll get it back this year.

His fingers tighten on my leg, causing me to look back down at him, eyes narrowing. “You wanna know or not?” he asks, looking at me flatly.

I do. And that’s the problem. Ireallywant to know. I’ve always wanted to know, but he’s never been willing to divulge those secrets to me. “I want to know if you want to tell me.” That’s as close as I’ll get to asking.

“I’ll even tell you Fletcher’s past. But his is less interesting. He’sboringcompared to me.” I wonder if his flippant tone is to keep himself from remembering it badly.

I wonder if one day I’ll be able to talk about what happened to me that way as well. Certainly that day isn’t today, and I can’t imagine it’ll be anytime in the next few years.

“Don’t tell me something that’s going to piss off Fletcher, please.” I fight the urge to card my fingers through his hair, and wait for him to start. Even though he acts so flippant about it, I can see the way he’s hesitating and focusing on moving his hand over my thigh.

I’m just about to tell him he really doesn’t need to tell me that I’lll find a way to survive without knowing. But before I can find the words, he sighs out a long breath.

“I don’t remember my birth parents; they left me in one of those safe place things. Then I was in foster homes, being ping ponged around in our oh so wonderfully thought out system.” My hand inches towards his face, until I can’t help sinking my fingers into his hair. He groans appreciatively and leans into my touch sort of like a dog.

Like a big puppy.

“It wasn’t great, but that’s not unique. Lots of kids have shitty stories to tell you about their time in foster care. I was adopted when I was seven. This couple adopted kids from ‘troubled situations’ so they could help us.” He shakes his head, face curling in remembered disgust. “They expected us to love them and be grateful for what they did for us. No matter how small. I…” he trails off, tapping his fingers against my leg.

“I had attachment issues. I guess if we’re being honest, I still do. Not that you can tell. I hide itverywell.” His tone is dry and he rolls his eyes up at me, humor glittering in their dark depths.

“They didn’t like that. Didn’t like how I couldn’t attach to them like their other kids. But they put up with it for a couple of shitty years, not hiding their dislike well.ThatI won’t give you the details of.” He shakes his head, and I certainly don’t press him for an answer.

“So…They found a rehoming kids page on Facebook. Dressed me up and had me take some cute pictures. Then posted me online to get a new family. It reminded me of a shelter dog ad. You know, how they make them sound all cute and lovable and gloss over their flaws?” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it.

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