Page 85 of Mine

I just knew that he understood the pain of hating the one who was supposed to love you and support you, while still bringing fresh flowers to their grave.

A gentle breeze rustled the trees, sweeping my hair back.

“My father hated flowers.” Salt’s grip on my hand tightened until it almost hurt, his words full of bitterness. “So I bring him a bottle of vodka. It was the only thing he ever did like. It was also the thing that killed him.”

“Oh.” I remembered the night at Beaumont’s, and how he’d refused Tommy’s offer for a round. “Is that why you don’t drink?”

He nodded. “I hate what alcohol did to him. Part of me blames it for who he was. Abusive, mean, drunk all the fucking time. He used to hit me every single night when he got home from work. It was even worse on my birthday.” He paused, his breath shaking. I realized he was trembling. I turned to face him, but he wouldn’t look at me, his gaze locked on the grave. “The worst one was when I was sixteen. As I got older, the abuse became more intense, so I expected his attack. I stayed out all night. I slept on a park bench and it was snowing that year. Cold. It was really cold.”

Fuck. The idea of him as a teenager sleeping in the snow, scared of his father—it broke me. Tears burned in my eyes as he continued.

“I went home the next morning to change for school. I’d been wearing the same clothes for a few days, so I had to. I shouldn’t have, though. I walked through the front door and he hit me with a bat. He’d been waiting for me.”

My breath whooshed out of my lungs.

“He beat the shit out of me. Over and over. He broke my ribs. He broke my arm. But, I got up. And I hit him back for the first time. It was like I’d kicked a puppy. He broke down crying, telling me that I was the reason my mother was dead. That I was a curse. That I should have died, not her. He hated me, he hated everything about me, and I shouldn’t have been alive. I was bleeding and broken and wasn’t supposed to be alive. The next year was easier, but he still tried to hurt me. But here I am now, still bringing him fucking vodka.”

Tears rolled down my cheeks. I leaned my head against his shoulder, holding his hand.

“I hate my birthday,” he whispered.

“Is today your birthday?” I asked softly.

He squeezed my hand. “Yeah. I’m twenty-six now. Maybe you can worry a little less about what people would think about us if we actually took a chance on each other.”

My heart ached for him. We stood in silence for a few minutes, both staring at the bottle of vodka that sat alone in the dirt, the clear liquid gleaming.

“Happy birthday, Simon,” I whispered.

I’d never said his first name before. It felt intimate and forbidden.

He exhaled slowly, tipping his head back. I looked up at him, watching the shadows his long lashes cast down his sculpted cheeks. Dark circles marred the skin under his eyes, his hair messy. I wasn’t any better off.

“It’s some sort of fate that alcohol killed him, right?” he asked.

“Maybe,” I said. “Is it fate that not believing in modern medicine is what killed my mother? She thought god would save her. She had pneumonia and it made her sicker until sepsis got into her blood and she died.”

“Well. Maybe she should have prayed harder.”

An unwelcome laugh escaped me and I covered my mouth, my cheeks flaring. He covered his mouth too, both of us staring in shock.

“Pepper, that was wrong of me, I’m so sorry,” he said quickly.

“No,” I snorted, shaking my head. “I needed that. And you’re right. Maybe she should have prayed harder. Maybe he should have drank more.”

Salt barked out a laugh, some of the tension melting. “Maybe he should have.”

Everything felt a little better now.

He cupped my cheek and pushed my chin up. “They tried to smother us, but they failed. And now they’re gone.”

I nodded as he thumbed away my tears. “They tried,” I whispered. “I still love her. Why do I still love her?”

“I still love him.” His eyes teared up and he closed them as one escaped. I reached up, wiping it away as gently as he’d wiped away mine. “I fucking hate him. But I still love him.”

“I think we love what we wanted them to be,” I whispered. “We love ghosts.”

He pressed his forehead to mine. “I’m tired of loving ghosts.”

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