Page 28 of The Weight of Your Wishes

“Veronica was here, wasn’t she?” I already know the answer before she says it, but I need to hear it out loud.

“She was… with some new face. Haven’t seen him in town before. I was going to call you first thing tomorrow.” I nod solemnly and straighten up, pushing my hair from my face.

I leave without a word.

Once I’m in the driver's seat, I slam my hands into my steering wheel repeatedly with barely restrained rage coursing through my veins. I’m not even mad at Veronica; I’m mad at myself. Things had seemed fine enough when we parted ways tonight, but then again, if I’d scrutinized her more closely, I probably would’ve seen the signs—her discontent with me. But I trusted her, at least enough to not do something like this.

I rest my forehead on the steering wheel, shrouding myself in darkness. It’s my fault. There’s no other explanation at this point. Every relationship I’ve been in has failed before it could even get to a one-year anniversary.

That speaks for itself.

I let my head fall back against the headrest, succumbing to the numbness. The truth is, this should hurt more than it does. I know I should feel more than this, but it’s the same old story of my life. It’s easier to accept. With one last look at Patty through the window, I turn my key in the ignition and drive back home.

The same dark streets.

The same dirt roads.

The same faces.

It’s all the same, and so am I.

I walk into an empty house, quiet but for the low hum of the air conditioner. A quick look in the kitchen lets me know that Hendrix cleaned my spilled beer from the floor. My heart constricts in my chest as I pad quietly to the back porch. How is he supposed to look to me for guidance when I’m just a sad excuse for a man? He won’t look at me the same now, not after a moment of weakness like that.

I lean my elbows on the railing and lose myself in the wind rustling through the palms, the cicadas chirping incessantly. It soothes me, and it’s the only thing that ever has. When Hendrix sat out here and confessed how much it hurt him when I left, how he felt so alone, I related more than I wanted to admit. I realized that I’d done the same thing to him that everyone had ever done to me, and it killed me.

I want so badly for him to find peace out here as I have—peace in the simple things, peace in the quiet.

With one last deep breath of fresh, summer air, I decide to go in for the night, but then I smell it—cigarette smoke. I shake my head. I bet he thinks I don’t know that he opens his window to smoke in his room sometimes. I have half a mind to go in there and make him stop, but I don’t want to nag the boy to death.

Then I hear his roughened voice. “Marina, I fucked everything up.”

I still, feet rooted to the spot, knowing fully well I should give him his privacy, but too intrigued to do it.

“Dude, it’s like three in the morning. You can be so dramatic at times,” she starts.

“No. I really mean it this time.” He pauses for a minute. The cicadas seem to chirp louder through the piercing quiet of the night. “Grant… he went on a date with his girlfriend, and I got really jealous. I couldn’t help it, Marina! Don’t roll your eyes at me. She doesn’t deserve him, okay? Anyway, I left work early and went to a party…”

His words fade out as my ears start ringing.

Jealous.

He was jealous.

That single word keeps blaring in my mind like an alarm. There’s no way it means what I think it does.

“I can barely hide it anymore, dude. He’s so fucking sweet, like the gentlest giant. He touches me all the time. He never wears a damn shirt,” he says, strained like it’s painful for him. Blood rushes from my head as all the pieces start fitting together.

“Aw, X. You’ve got to stop this or at least try to do something about it. I’ve never seen you so torn up, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

I hear a sniffle, and it slashes through my chest. “I can’t. He’ll never,eversee me as anything more than his ex-girlfriend's annoying son. You should’ve seen how angry he was at me tonight.” His voice cracks on a sob, and it’s too much to take. This has to have been going on for a long time if he’s this upset. I think back over everything, looking for any possible signs.

At Cynthia’s house, after I’d gotten out of the shower, I opened the door with just a towel wrapped around my waist. He was… standoffish, but I figured it was just because he hadn’t seen me in so long. But even before that at his high school graduation, he was the same way. He wouldn’t even look at me, really. A lump wells up in my throat. I’ve been misinterpreting everything—the way he flinches sometimes when I get near, the way he avoids my gaze, all the attempts to hide away in his room.

Oh, God. I’m going to be sick.

I hear the soft click of his window sliding shut, and my knees go a little weak, so I take a seat.

My hand twitches toward the phone in my pocket. Shouldn’t I tell Cynthia about this? My conscience tells me it’s not right for him to stay here, that this is a recipe for disaster, but my gut warns me against it. Just last weekend, I promised him I’d never abandon him again, and I still mean it.

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