Page 45 of Delinquents Turned Fugitives
"Oh, damn. Right for the throat." His eyes gleamed as he turned to study me. "Fine, I'll tell you one but you tell me one in return."
"Deal," I held out a hand to shake. When we did, his huge hand completely encased mine. His palms were rough, fingers calloused; the texture scraped against my skin and made the nerve endings in my palms come alive. I stared at our hands.
"I tracked down my dad when I was sixteen. Found him in a restaurant. He had on some suit, some woman out to dinner with him--looked all middle class and shit."
"What happened?" I asked, wondering how the hell I'd feel to find the father who'd left me. Furious? Hurt? Distraught?
"I punched him in the mouth and walked the fuck out."
My eyes widened and I turned sideways on the bed so I could better study Andros' face in the moonlight. "Did you tell him who you were?"
"Nope."
I started to laugh. "I love it. That's so badass."
He shook his head. "Nah. It wasn't. My grandma's badass. You're badass."
I froze and stared at him. "Why would you think that?"
"It's easy to do what you want in life. It's way fucking harder to do what's best for someone else."
My shadow power flared up unbidden and filled the room until Andros' face was the only thing I could see clearly.
He stared steadily at me, something raw and profound in his eyes. Something a bit more than pride or admiration. Something akin to tenderness.
My breath caught in my lungs and the silence built to a crescendo. My eyes drifted to Andros' lips.
"I'm drunk," I whispered.
"I know," he said. One corner of his mouth quirked up. He pulled on our hands, which were still linked. "Come on. Let me take you downstairs and get some food in you. The guys have something ready too."
I felt like I was floating down the stairs, my hand tucked into his. Everything else in the world felt so far away. Like I was in the clouds and earth and all its problems were just tiny specks.
When we reached the living room, it was empty. So was the kitchen. Andros fixed me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and led me out the back door without any explanation. I followed willingly.
We wandered past the barn, to the old overgrown horse paddock. There, in the middle of the dirt, the guys had started a bonfire. A bag of marshmallows and some long sticks lay on the ground nearby.
As soon as I saw the set-up, my eyes filled with tears. My mom had loved singing stupid camp songs and roasting marshmallows with us. We didn't even have to be camping. She'd often drag us into the back yard and use the little fire pit. I'd gotten so sick of marshmallows that I'd taken to burning them too much, just so that I wouldn't have to eat them.
My eyes traveled over to Evan, who stepped forward. I released Andros' hand and ran forward, letting him hug me as sobs racked my frame.
My mother had been gone. For all intents and purposes, she'd mentally been gone for years. But now, there was no chance that she'd come back. A quote I'd been forced to memorize in some literature class came back to me as my body shook and expelled all the anger I'd ever held toward her, all the resentment--only sadness and longing was left behind. That quote repeated in my head:Hope is the path to hell, paved with golden expectations that will be crushed underfoot when reality walks that path.The truth of that quote hit home. Part of me had deluded myself into thinking that our family could be restored. But including her in that hope had been a delusion. The reality was, the woman I'd lost last night and the woman I'd loved had been very different.
I took a deep breath and wiped my face. Then I turned to watch the crackling orange flames. Tonight, I'd celebrate the woman I'd loved. Because tomorrow, I had to walk that foolish hopeful path once more. I had to try to save Matthew—hope was my addiction. I just prayed it wouldn’t be my downfall.
