Page 18 of Don't Take the Girl
This can't be happening. There's no way London Hale is sitting across from me, chatting easily with his father about football like we're nothing more than childhood friends who occasionally share the same air. Riley Heron was never technically hisgirlfriend, and after hearing his reasons for entertaining any sort of relationship with her, I understood it. It may have been ill-thought-out, but I got it. But I thought I was different. I thought I meant more to him—he told me as much, his voice breaking with what I thought was sincerity. He has to know he hurt me. He has to feel something when he looks at me, even if it's just guilt.
The table chatter continues, spoons scraping bowls, ice cubes clinking in sweet tea with every sip, everyone around me oblivious to the storm brewing inside me. I push my chair back from the table, the legs screeching against the hardwood floor like they're screaming for me, and every head turns. London's gaze finally meets mine fully, and I see something flicker there for a second. Recognition. Regret, maybe. But it's gone before I can be sure it was ever there.
"Excuse me," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "I need some air."
"Can we talk?" London says, hot on my heels, following me into the yard.
I stop dead in my tracks, and before I can think it through, my fist is in his stomach. He makes a guttural, muffledoofas he inhales sharply. "Okay, so you're mad."
"I'm not mad," I respond quickly. Technically, I'm pissed, but not for the reasons he probably believes. The difference between this summer and the past two summers is that I know where he was this time.
"Then what was the right hook for?" he questions as he straightens.
"Leaving and not thinking I could handle it." His eyes flare in surprise before realization sets in, and then there's sadness. "Don't look at me like that. Unless the night before you left meant nothing, you should have told me."
"Laney…" He steps toward me, but I take one back. If I let him get close, I know I'll crumble. My walls will fail me because it's him, and even when I'm blinding mad, seeing him already has memixed up, wanting to forgive and forget, but I can't. He hurt me. "It's not what you think. I was going to?—"
I shake my head. "Don't lie. When exactly were you planning on telling me? This was your third summer going to see her. Were you going to tell me next summer or just disappear again?"
He puts his hands in his pockets. "I won't be going back to visit her next summer."
"Why not?"
"Because I graduate this year, and I can decide for myself, and I don't care to know the woman who walked out on her two-year-old son and husband to start a new family with someone else."
My heart splinters, and it takes great willpower not to close the distance between us and hug him, but I don't. He might be hurting, but so am I, and I don't understand why he wouldn't just tell me.
"My mother is a gold digger who married a wealthy man, and suddenly, she wants to make things right between us. She walked out of my life. She sent zero birthday cards…no visits…hell, she couldn't even pick up the phone. She was dead to me, and then three years ago, out of the blue, she called my father and wanted a relationship." He angrily rubs his chin. "He didn't even ask me if I wanted to go. What I wanted didn't matter. He packed my bag, and I was shipped to Florida." His eyes come back to mine. "I've been playing happy family in a million-dollar beach house that belongs to my mother's new husband for the past three summers, hating every second, wishing I could come home. But this summer was the hardest."
"Why?"
"Because all I wanted to do was spend it with you."
Now, the stupid organ inside my chest is galloping, and the butterflies have returned in full force, and I have to mentally remind myself not to let him off the hook. I might be young, but I know a young heart is easily fooled by a devilishly handsome guy and the right words. It's actions that speak the loudest. I know what I want. The question is, does he?
"I'm not asking why you wanted to come home. I'm asking, why didn't you tell me where you were going all this time? That's what people in relationships do, London. They tell each other things."
He tries again to step closer, his hand barely brushing my arm, and I shrug it off, taking another step back. "Are you trying to torture me?"
"You're doing that to yourself. They make these things called phones. You could have picked one up at any time if missing me was truly unbearable while you floated around in your pretentious beachside pool all summer."
He runs his hands through his dark hair. "I didn't not tell you to hurt you. I didn't tell you because I wanted to keep you," he says, vexed.
"That doesn't even make sense, London. You visiting your mother the past three summers has nothing to do with me."
"It has everything to do with you. Don't you get it…" His hands find his hips as his gaze drops to the ground. "It's what bonded us. I didn't have a mom, and you didn't have a dad. We were the two kids with parents who abandoned us. I didn't want to tell you about my mom suddenly coming back into the picture because I didn't want it to change things. I didn't want to lose something that felt like us. We laid on this grass countless days, went on more fishing trips than I can count, and took the long way home from Fisher and Sydney's house more times than not, talking about life and what that looks like with one parent, the weight we bear, the guilt, the expectations…" His eyes slowly rise, meeting mine. "I didn't want to lose us, but more than that, I didn't want to hurt you. You say you can handle it, but because I know you, I know a small part of you would be envious and sad, because I know what you wish for. You wish to find your dad. I never wanted to be a source of anything that didn't bring you happiness."
That was a loaded answer and not one I expected. I anticipated my lack of having a father to be part of his reasoning forkeeping secrets, but the rest of my mind is struggling to keep up. "I wasn't abandoned. He doesn't know I exist," I argue, his words cutting deep because the more time passes, the more I feel they are what's true.
My mother stands on the hill of not knowing, but if that was all it truly was then why not look for him? What mother wants to raise their child alone or, better yet, wouldn't want to give their kid a chance at knowing the one other person in this world who could love them unconditionally? Over the years, I've tried to bring it up, but she hasn't strayed from the script: I don't know who he is and wouldn't begin to know where to look.
"Fuck, Laney." Before I can react, he's pulling me into his strong arms, the same ones I've dreamed about falling back into all summer.
I spent a large part of my summer being upset about how he left things, and doubt made me wonder if he left things unsaid so he could have a carefree summer to do and see who he wanted. The depth and care he spoke with now feels like he's always seen me, just like it did the night before he disappeared. That felt like a dream, like we were always meant to be, but in leaving, he also taught me something: to be careful with my heart.
"I didn't mean it like that. My mother abandoned me. I didn't mean to project that on you. Nobody could ever abandon you. You're unforgettable, heartbreaker." I let myself soak in the way his body feels pressed against mine and inhale his musky scent, letting it wash over me and calm the storm that has been brewing inside me. "I'm sorry, Laney. I'm bitter and mad. I'm twisted up inside, and none of that is your fault. But if I've learned anything from all of this, it's this: there's power in knowledge, but there's also peace in ignorance because you can't undo what has been done. Once you know—you know. Good or bad, it's what is."
"Getting to know your mom was that bad?" I murmur against his chest, clinging to him a little longer, hating the pain I hear in his words.
