Page 16 of The Boy Who Loved Wicked
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to date. I simply hadn’t come across anyone that piqued my interest. Most kids my age were experimenting with drugs, partying at raves, sleeping around, and couldn’t hold an intellectual conversation if one dropped into their arms. Danny and Theory were the exception. We were all so different, but when you grew up with someone, a different type of bond formed that outweighed your differences. We somehow managed to find common ground, and what they couldn’t get from me, they got elsewhere, I hoped. And what I couldn’t get from them, I got from hardcovers and paperbacks.
“And Mason seems different, you said so yourself,” Danny interjected, seeing that I was on the verge of caving. “You have things in common.” He and Theory bobbed their heads at me in unison.
“Like what?” I asked.
“Well, he’s smart,”—he ticked off his fingers— “good looking, doesn’t seem interested in having a life—”
“—As usual, don’t listen to him,” Theory said.
I moved to the window. “No, he’s right.” I sighed. I’d said once upon a time that I wouldn’t be afraid to live in the light. I’d recently promised to live in the moment. As far as compatibility went, Mason did appear to be on my playing field. I sent a look to the house across the yard and chewed on the inside of my cheek, then aimed a smile that I didn’t feel in my heart on Theory. “Help me pick out something to wear?”
She jumped out of the chair and in her excitement, knocked it over. “This is so thrilling! You won’t regret it. You’ll see.”
That night, I found myself crossing the yard over to Mr. Wicked’s house. I’d taken to either watching him from my window, or imposing my company on him nightly. He didn’t seem to mind. He even seemed as though he was growing to enjoy our sparring matches on philosophy and literature. He smiled more often than not, and I’d come to consider his smiles as mine—inspired by me alone.
Mr. Wicked wasn’t outside brooding when I squeezed through the fence. It was still early, and Emily hadn’t arrived home. But the downstairs lights were on, so he was there.
My eager smile faltered as I drew closer and viewed him sitting at the dining table, alone, his head resting in the palms of his hands, the floor littered with broken glass. One look at the chipped paint on the wall across from him, and the trail of liquid running down it, gave a clear picture of what took place.
I backed away, thinking he wouldn’t have wanted me to see him this way. Right before I reached the opening in the fence, I heard, “Mr. Michaelson?” My shoulders slumped, and I faced him.
“I slipped through, but then remembered I had an assignment I didn’t complete, so…” I could still save him the embarrassment by not revealing that I’d come close enough to see his wreckage.
“Is that so?” He stepped through the doors, and slipped his hands into the pockets of his charcoal slacks, wearing a disappointed frown.
“No. It’s not so. I didn’t think you were up for company.” I pointed to the inside of the house, and he followed my finger before dropping his head.
“This particular night is tough for me every year.”
“I’m sorry.” I resisted asking him why.
“Not your fault, Mr. Michaelson.”
“Phoenix.”
He nodded. “Please, come in.”
I hung on the edge of the dining room, not sure if I should’ve taken the two steps that carried me into his war zone. The air held a rough feel of vulnerability and a sharp tang of the booze that pooled near the wall and stretched like fingers over the floor. He had no escape from what this looked like from the outside. My heart broke for him, as it did every night.
“Have a seat. Help yourself if you’re hungry. It’s a pity if all this goes to waste.” He went into the kitchen cupboard to grab a broom and dustpan for the shattered glass. That’s when I noticed the food along the kitchen counter, and his untouched plate on the table.
“You cooked all this?”
“God, no.” He settled into his seat. “I thought maybe I’d try something different this year. Turn this night into a celebration of life instead commiserating the loss of one.” Again he didn’t clarify. “My plan was not a success.”
Although all he’d said so far left me with more questions than answers, it was the most personal he had ever gotten. This was the first hint into the reason behind his unhappiness that I hadn’t figured out on my own from watching him. I worked to put the pieces together, unable to get past the thought that this had to be her fault. I was hit with an irrational blow of resentment. Of frustration for how little I knew. The experience I lacked and for wanting something I felt incapable of handling. Something that was wrong. I couldn’t eat. I could barely breathe. I swallowed the lump in my throat. “What happened?” I whispered, speaking of the things that took place to lead him to a night like this.
He shook his head. “You wouldn’t understand, Phoenix.”
“Because I’m too young?” I asked acerbically, defensive about my own shortcomings.
“No. Because you have yet to experience the harsh realities of a life rife with broken promises. Whether it be other’s...or your own,” he said with a pained expression. Somehow, that hurt more than if he’d thought me too young.
“I lost my father. He promised to always be there for me, and he left.” Not of his own free will, but when I needed something or someone to blame, he often fit the bill.
He appeared remorseful. “Yes, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insinuate that you’d never been a victim of heartache.” He scratched at his chin with his thumb. “I lost someone important to me, on this day, almost a decade ago.” There was no “but” that seperated those two statements. One did not negate the other. They were both crushing. They were both our truths. And for all I didn’t understand because he hadn’t shared much of that side of himself, I comprehended that the loss he spoke of wasn’t a willing one. Our losses might’ve come under different circumstances, but they were the same.
I felt brave sitting there with our joined pain belly-up. Could’ve been the low setting of the light making me feel protected from total exposure. Or maybe that he’d called me by my first name, dropping the wall kept in place whenever he addressed me as “Mr. Michaelson.” Maybe it was the tremble in his voice when he called me Phoenix. “You’re exactly as you appear, yet somehow different.” My heart raced with that admission.
