Page 20 of I Hear You

“Henry, I’m kidding. Look, we’re obviously walking in the same direction and I could use the company. Today was a long day at work.”

She doesn’t have to tell me twice. I take several large, hurried steps to catch up with her. We’re walking side by side now. The crowd has thinned, so we’re not competing for sidewalk space with anyone else. I still walk as close to her as I can without making it too obvious how badly I want to be near her.

"You got a job?" I ask.

"I did. At the diner. A few shifts a week.”

“Awesome. My mom and I eat there all the time. Maybe we’ll come in on a night you’re working.”

She seems to mull this idea over, changing her glance from me to the path ahead several times before continuing the conversation.

“Yeah, maybe you can come in with Taylor and Jesse sometime,” she says.

Well, that wasn't what I expected.

“You’ve met Taylor?” I ask.

“Actually, Taylor and I are roommates. I only found out her boyfriend is your friend Jesse recently, though.”

Of course, in this thumbtack sized town, she would be roommates with one of my best friends. I laugh out loud at the revelation.

“Well, we should all hang out sometime together.”

Madison's eyes widen. Shit. Did I just ask her out on a date? When she doesn't immediately answer, I change the subject and luckily the conversation picks back up. She's telling me about working at the diner now while I shamelessly admire her.

She’s wearing a pair of denim shorts and a plain white t-shirt that dips in the front, just barely showing off the top curve of her breasts. She has one of the most beautiful bodies I’ve ever seen. I’m not delusional to the fact I would have this same sentiment no matter what her body looked like. All her physical features are heightened to my vain senses because I am so enamored with all of her non-physical features.

Like, right now, she’s asking me about my classes and the way she looks at me as I tell her about my boring as shit classes–she’s actually paying attention. Showing real interest, asking questions, and her eyes sparkle with genuine curiosity. Or the way she waited at the curb a few beats longer for an older woman to catch up to us so we could all walk across the street together. She does things for others and doesn’t want praise for it. She may not even realize she’s doing these things, it’s just her natural, caring, personality.

She doesn’t know, of course, I know what a good person she is. She doesn’t know that I, Henry, know about the time when she was in eighth grade and she left anonymous notes in a girl’s locker who was being picked on. They said things like,you matter,your scrunchie is really cuteandyou did great on your book report. She doesn’t know I know these things because she told them to Ender, not Henry. Madison may not have had a lot ofbest friendsin her life, but she was a great friend to many people who didn’t even know it. She was an excellent best friend to me.

We’ve long passed where I parked my car and are almost at the college campus. I wanted to get as much time with her as I could and I don’t have any plans today, so I don’t interrupt the conversation and just keep walking with her. Walking with her, talking with her, about nothing–has been a gift. Hearing her voice, her laughter, noticing her little and big facial expressions, I take in as much of her presence as I can get.

We get to her dorm building and she stops outside the door abruptly.

“Oh my gosh, I totally walked here on autopilot. Where is your car parked? Not far, I hope,” she says, looking around for my truck in the parking lot behind us.

“It’s um–a few blocks back,” I admit.

“Henry! Why didn’t you stop me? I’ve been rambling this whole time.”

“I wanted more time with you.”

I’m surprised at my own admission and she seems to be too, judging by the way her mouth drops open a little and her cheeks blush. She is so incredibly sexy in ways I never imagined I’d find a girl sexy. Just the tiny movements of her lips or the pink hue of her cheeks turn me on.

“Well, I've actually got a study group I’m going to be late for. But thank you for walking with me, Henry.”

She catches me off guard and throws her arms around my neck, giving me a hurried hug. My arms just briefly come up to her waist to hug her back before she’s pulling away and ducking inside the building. I stand there staring at her through the glass doors, trying to remember the feel of her curves. She stops a few steps up the stairs and looks back at me, a shy smile on her face. I give a little half wave like an idiot, a big goofy grin on my face. Her smile broadens the faintest bit, and she continues up the stairs.

Now I know what the girls are always saying about a panty-dropping smile, because–damn.

So much for keeping my distance from her. As I start the walk back to my truck, I realize something. Once again, I did not ask for her number, I did not ask to see her again, I did not pass go, I will not be collecting $200.

Writing used to be something I really enjoyed. It was cathartic and helped me escape the pressure of always having to be perfect. The pressure of having to be the star football player, class president, homecoming king–all the things expected of me by my dad and the kids at school. Jesse was the class clown, Emmett was the class playboy, and I was the perfect one.

We all had our roles to play, but I don’t think their roles came with a dad at home who called them a loser or a pussy when they didn’t meet those expectations. It wasn’t until after he left that I realized how verbally abusive he always was. The outbursts and anger from him were so far and few between, I overlooked them. I never saw the patterns of his behavior. It was too easy for me to forget one insult by the time the next one landed.

I was around Emmett’s dad all the time and never once saw him raise his voice to his kids. Sure, he would get on them about doing chores or scold them when they brought home a bad grade, but it was different. That’s obvious now that I can look back with clearer eyes. He never yelled, he never belittled them. I don’t know how I didn’t notice the difference between a real father, a real man, and whatever the hell my dad was.

---