Page 99 of Kings Against the World

“You want… you, uh, want me to help you into it?” I ask.

Again, she nods, gaze set on the floor, so withdrawn and sullen I’m not even sure I feel comfortable leaving her alone like this.

My hands, covered in tattoos and scars from all the times I’ve gotten into trouble, are slow-moving and gentle. I give her the time and space to reject my advances as I reach for the hem of her t-shirt and ease it off her. Our fingers meet as she tries to tug down the strap of her bra next.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ve got it. I’ll unhook it.”

It takes some maneuvering, but she lets me undo the rest of her bra and then we work on her jeans. In the end, I slide the sleep shirt over her head, failing to resist a soft caress of her cheek.

We’re so close that I can feel her energy. I can fucking feel the heartbreak.

My hands ache to pull her to me, wrap my arms around her, surround her in all the warmth and affection I can. All things she more than deserves.

I tamp down on the temptation and remind myself that I can’t overwhelm her. As much as I’d like to put my arms around her, this goes how she wants it to. It’s a miracle that she even let me back into her life, even if it’s just for tonight.

Whatever she’s thinking, she doesn’t draw away from me. But she still doesn’t look me in the eye, like she’s too ashamed. A small breath puffs out of her as she stares at the ground between our feet and mutters, “I just wanted them to love me.”

My throat tightens. I can relate more than she knows. It’s the same exact wish I had for my parents. “They’re your mom and dad. Of course you wanted that.”

“Ever since I was a kid, I had this fantasy that one day… almost like magic… they’d get clean. They’d wake up and realize they had two little girls to take care of, and they’d be the kind of parents you see in TV sitcoms. I guess a part of me… I don’t know… I never let go of that dream.”

“They should’ve. That’s what they should’ve done for you. Both you and your sister.”

She lets out a broken laugh. “But I never grew out of it. Not even when I should’ve. I just doubled down on it. They were all I had left after Zani…”

Zoe turns away from me and drops back down on the side of the bed, sitting forward with her elbows resting on her thighs and her hands covering her face. I lower myself down next to her, gradually touching my hand to her back.

When she doesn’t flinch or recoil, I start rubbing slow, circular patterns. It’s not much, but it’s some kind of touch. Something I hope soothes her.

“After Zani died, I convinced myself I could fix them. I could fix everything. I took the burden of everything—like always—and made it this… centerpiece of my life. Like if I could take Boone down and get my parents’ act together, at least I could find some peace after losing her. I wouldn’t blame myself for everything anymore.”

“Something tells me they didn’t help with that thinking,” I say. “It kept you coming back to clean up their mess.”

“They said I abandoned them… and I told myself they were right.” She speaks through her fingers, still covering her face. “I had my first real episode after Zoe passed. I… I lost it for a while. And I convinced myself that if I could hold it together, keep myself in check, basically fixate on being…”

“Perfect?” I offer.

She sits up, hands dropping from her face. From a profile view, her expression’s between a reluctant smile and pained grimace. “Perfect. You keep calling me that. I’ve never been anything close. I just mask for the world because everything on the inside is so… ugly. Such a mess. It was easier to pretend I had it all together.”

“At least you tried to have your act together. You didn’t let the mess all hang out like me. I’ve been a screw up my whole life and I started leaning into it. I figured why not if people thought Iwas one anyway? If my own damn parents were ashamed, might as well give them more stuff to be ashamed about. It seemed a whole lot more fun doing things that way.”

She snorts, shaking her head. “We’re so messed up. It’s a wonder we’re even functioning. We’re lost causes.”

“Nah. We’re not lost causes. We’re just works in progress.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“It’s true. I’ve come to realize that it’s relative. People don’t define who you are. Neither does our past or the mistakes we make. We define ourselves. We get to choose the kind of people we are. We make that choice every single day when we wake up and have another day to live.”

“I’ve… never thought of it that way,” she admits.

“Honestly? Me neither ’til tonight. I’ve realized I don’t want to be the guy I’ve let myself become. Some destructive asshole who disappoints everybody around him and goes off on benders every few weeks. It’s not good for me. But I’m the only guy who can make that change. Just like only your parents can do better for themselves.”

“You’re right,” she mumbles, drawing a shaky breath. “They have to do the hard work. I have my own shit to sort out.”

“You will. I know you will.”

“How?”

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