Page 33 of Friendzone Hockey
The park is sparsely occupied on the other side, but I want somewhere we won’t be bothered. The swings at the back are free, and it’s secluded, even though the summer heat’s already stripped the trees of their former luster.
“C’mon, this way.”
We probably look ridiculous—two grown dudes on a swing set—but I don’t care. The chains creak as we sway, as we become weightless.
“Still wanna tell me?”
“I do. I need to say it to someone besides Dirk. I love the guy, but he thinks I’m gonna break every time I bring it up.”
Dash has too much quiet strength for me to think he’ll break, but I should warn him about something.
“I might become another guard dog.” Getting to Dash means getting through Dirk. Dirk’s always on guard when Dash is in the room.
“I think it’s already too late for that,” he murmurs.
“Huh?”
“Never … just, all of this might piss you off.”
I force patience into my demeanor, even though I’m anything but. “I’ll behave myself,” I promise.
“Mom had this old eighties sweatshirt she loved. The big Miami Vice logo was front and center with a bunch of neon all over the place. It was oversized and I used to wear it to bed when … when she wouldn’t come home.” He takes a deep breath, his swinging halting abruptly. “He burned it.”
“Robin?” I barely keep the murder out of my tone. Scratch that. I don’t keep the murder from my tone.
He nods, sniffling.
My fingers clutch tightly to the chains. I stop swinging too. Robin. I know of Robin, but I don’t have nearly enough details about him.
“Robin was Mom’s boyfriend and for a little while … oh god, it’s so fucked up.”
I extend an open hand for him; he places his palm in mine. “Take a breath, sweetheart.”
His ribcage expands with fresh air, deflating slowly. “When Mom was gone, he wanted me to be his boyfriend. He … at least he didn’t force himself on me like, likethat.”
“Did he assault you?” I say, breaking my vow not to say a word until he finished. But fuck. Just the idea burns acid tracks through every vein, every artery. Makes me want to tear off Robin’s skin.
“No … no. Sorta? Ugh, it’s confusing. We didn’t have sex. He wanted to. There were touches. No touches to my special places, but he liked to stroke …” Dash trails off, pulling in a fresh round of oxygen. “He’d stroke my arm or rest a hand on my thigh. Ran roses over my skin and across my nose—always across my fucking nose. He acted like we were together, and I was supposed to, too, or he was gonna leave me on the street with nothing.”
Yep. I’m way out of my league here. Every way I’d end Robin is all my caveman mind’s coming up with. Nothing productive or profound.
“I was around seventeen, close to eighteen when Mom died. There was some time between then and…” Dash clenches his fists. “Even though the gestures weren’t big ones, it was enough to make me uncomfortable. I complained. That’s when he locked me in a bedroom in the basement of a house I’d never seen before. I guess he had it the whole time. I don’t think Mom knew he had it either. Far as we knew he lived with us, paid the rent for us. H-He kept me in the dark.”
Dash sucks air in past the lip he’s holding onto with his teeth. It makes aff-fftsound as he shudders.
“Things would crawl all over me, constantly. I was afraid to fall asleep. I know it sounds stupid, but I thought whatever the creepy-crawlies were would lay eggs in my brain or somethin’.” He stares at the ground. “It was so cold. I couldn’t stop shivering. I’m surprised none of my limbs froze off.”
Does Travis know all of this? Bet he doesn’t know the details. If he did, he’d be in jail for murder.
“He wanted to control me like he did Mom. With some ‘cocktail’, he called it.” He takes another uneasy breath. “I know what you must be thinking. Why didn’t I run straight to Dad? But up until that point, I trusted Robin. He told me Dad was a horrible person, and I believed him. I believed a lot of things Robin said.”
I grip the chain of his swing and pull him toward me. I let our foreheads touch—that’s all that’s touching—and my body tingles everywhere. Little pinpricks of fuzzy lightning. He breathes long slow breaths, eyes closed, hanging onto me without physically hanging onto me. We’re joined by something invisible.
“Th-That’s why I hate myself so much,” he says softly.
Yep. It’s decided. If I’m ever within forty feet of that gaslighting sonuva bitch, he’s a deadman.
“Dad hates when I tell him how much I hate myself, and I get it. What we say after the word ‘I’ has an impact, especially if werepeat it over and over, but the little voice inside my head won’t shut up. The little voice inside my head questions everything.”
