The Truth about Us (17 page)

He looks up at me for a moment. His eyes are watery. Sad. They see a lot. But then they twinkle. And then he winks. “I like you too, kid. But that's how you worry?” he asks. “That's how you show concern, bugging me about my peeing? You definitely need to work on that.”

I cross my arms and try not to laugh. “Well, you started it,” I say.

“I liked the old days when young people were seen and not heard. You kids today are so damn lippy.” His voice is gruff, but he's hiding another smile.

My heart swells. “You're kind of cranky sometimes, Wilf, but I like you too.”

He pretends to huff and puff. “That's what all the girls say when they want something.” The annoying fly lands close to Wilf on a table, and he reaches out and smashes it under his palm.

“Holy reflexes for an old guy,” I say. “And it so happens that I do want a favor,” I add.

He wipes the fly remains on his pants. “And I thought you were coming to see me because of my good looks and charm. So what is it, Chickadee? What do you want?”

I walk over and pat his arm. The skin is wrinkly and thin, but it doesn't matter. He's my friend. “I want to help you in the greenhouse,” I tell him. “I want to tell you about my plans for starting an herb garden in here. And I want to hear more stories about Rhea and figure out how she could be so in love with such a grouchy old man.”

He laughs. “I wasn't old or grouchy when I met her. And I used to cut quite a cloth.”

“You're speaking in old-manism again,” I say. “That's another reason I love you.”

“Huh.” He snorts again and grabs a clipper from the table. “But what's the real favor, young lady? Emphasis on the
young
and not on the
lady
. It must be big the way you're sucking up to me.” He snips at the air.

“I need Flynn's address,” I blurt out.

“No,” he says abruptly.

Wilf turns away and starts fussing with a leaf on a plant.

“Please? I mean it, Wilf. I can't get ahold of him. I don't know where he lives. Or if he even has a phone. I have no way of talking to him.”

“Maybe he doesn't want to talk to you,” he says. He snips the leaves a little too aggressively.

“You told me to fight. You told me you fought for Rhea,” I remind him.

His shoulders slump and he stops cutting leaves, but he doesn't turn around.

“Stella told him to stay away. My dad and Stella. But they're wrong about us. They can't tell me who to fall in love with. My dad can't control my life. I'm not a little kid anymore.”

Wilf turns slowly, his eyes softer, his lip trembling a little. I watch him, and my worry about him adds to the pain in my chest. He doesn't look so great.

“You barely know the kid. You think you should be throwing around the word
love
so loosely?” he asks.

“You knew right away when you met Rhea,” I say to him. “Boom. Just like that.” I snap my fingers.

“Yeah.” He smiles, but he's looking over my head at something I can't see. “From the moment I laid eyes on her. From the moment she stepped on my foot, trying to lead when we danced.”

“Well. Maybe it's the same for me. I need to go and see him. To see if he wants to fight, because I'm willing to fight with him.”

Wilf makes a low growling sound and coughs. He grumbles under his breath about his privacy and other people's privacy.

“Wilf.” I grab his hand. The soft skin is loose on his old bones. “Please? If I don't talk to him, I'll die.”

“Spare me the teenage drama,” he says. “You're not going to die.”

“Please?” I repeat. “It feels like it.”

“How do you know I even know where to find him?” he asks, yanking his hand away from mine with surprising force.

“You do,” I say. “You know his whole family. I know you know.”

He sets down the clippers. He sighs and runs his hands over what's left of the hair on his head.

“It's not a nice neighborhood,” he tells me.

“I don't care,” I tell him.

“My point is I want you to be safe. I don't want you traipsing off there, and I know you're going to.”

“I'll be safe. I know Tae Kwon Do.”

He frowns. “Do you really?”

“Okay, no. But I have pepper spray in my purse. And my sock monkey who makes me brave.”

He glares at me.

“I have spray. My dad makes me carry it.”

“Of course he does.” He rubs his chin. “I shouldn't be encouraging you. You're an impetuous thing. You're stubborn and hardly worth all this trouble for Flynn.”

I hold my breath, waiting.

“I'll think about it,” he tells me.

“If I don't talk to him,” I tell Wilf, “I won't come back. I can't work with Stella if she's the one who made him go away.”

“You're like a thorn,” he says.

“But you'd miss me.”

Wilf sighs.

The bus ride to Clover Lawn doesn't take much longer than going to Tuxedo, but it's in the opposite direction, and in many ways, it's like traveling to a different town. I stare out the smudged bus window at houses that need paint jobs. Some have rotting or broken-down fences. Many have unmowed lawns and dirty toys and bikes that look abandoned and sad, lying in tall grass and weeds. There are nice lawns too, of course, and houses properly looked after, but it's nothing like the rows of shiny big houses in Tuxedo with manicured lawns and long driveways. I fight the fear and anxiety filling space in my head.

When I pull the cord at the stop Wilf instructed me to, I glance around before hopping off the bus to the sidewalk. The napkin in my purse has directions on it. Walk down Oak Street, turn right at Walnut, and then left to the address: 298 Home Street. I walk quickly toward Flynn's house, ignoring the sick feeling in my belly.

There's thumping and cheers across the street. A group of boys in a park are playing basketball. They don't pay any attention as I pass, and I breathe out, relieved. I don't want to be noticed. A group of moms pushing strollers approach the sidewalk I'm on and kind of force me onto the road as they pass in their little gang.

A few minutes later, I'm standing in front of the address on the napkin. I stare at the house. I hate it. I hate everything about it. I hate the judgmental thoughts. The voices of my dad, Nance. The house looks like a rejected cardboard box. Beaten up and abandoned. The wood's dull gray color is fading and chipping away. On the tiny lawn are two small and equally unhappy evergreen trees drooping down at the top, the sagging branches brushing up against a tiny screened window.

It
doesn't matter
, I remind myself. Everything I have, everything I expect without even knowing, it boils up inside me. My hands are clammy and cold, and I tuck them into my hoodie pocket. It's still early and the weather is warm, but I'm freezing.

Sitting on lawn chairs in front of an identical home a couple of doors down are three or four boys my age or a little older. They're smoking and laughing, and when they notice me, my stomach drops. I promised Wilf I wouldn't come alone. I outright lied and told him my sister would meet me.
It's safe
, I tell myself. Flynn is nearby. Braxton is nearby too.

I walk up the short path to the front door. The paint is chipping off that too. I push the doorbell, but there's no sound so I knock in a quick pattern. There's nothing from inside.

“Yo!” one of the boys calls. I can only assume they're talking to me and look over. “You looking for Flynnster?”

I nod but realize that's useless. “Yes,” I call, but it comes out too quiet. “Yeah,” I call louder.

“Man, I can't figure out how that guy gets so many good-looking chicks,” another boy says. I stand straighter, trying to erase the way it makes me seem insignificant.

“Hey,” the first boy calls. “Do you know what would look good on you?” He waits a fraction of a second. “Me,” he yells, and his friends crack up. “There's a party over here and you're invited,” he calls, clearly on a roll. “Yo, and it's in my pants.”

“Small party,” I yell back, trying to sound tougher than I feel. The boys laugh even harder, and then the door opens. Flynn stands in the doorway, staring down at me. He doesn't look happy, but I can't stop a smile from breaking out on my face.

“Looks like someone's going to get lucky,” calls one of the boys.

Flynn takes a step so he's beside me on the porch. He puts his hand on my back and sort of moves me behind him. “Yeah. Your mom,” he calls, and the boys hoot and laugh some more.

In a swoop he moves me so we're inside the house, and he closes the door behind us. He stares down at me as if he can't believe it's me and brushes his hand along the side of my face and then quickly pulls it back. “What're you doing here?” His voice is low. “You shouldn't have come here.”

I take a deep breath. We're standing in an entrance. It's small. In front of us is a tiny living room and a kitchen to the right. There's a teeny hallway to the left and a closed door. The house is cleaner on the inside. There are pictures on the wall. And plants. I smile at all the potted plants on tables. He follows my gaze.

“My mom likes plants. Shit,” he says and runs his hand through his hair. “Why are you smiling at me like that?”

I can't help it. I duck my head to hide my expression. “You never came back,” I say, and then there's a pout in my voice. “I had no way to get ahold of you.”

He glances behind him.

“Come in,” he says. I slide off my shoes and follow him. Flynn nods his head at the couch. It's brown corduroy and well worn. I ignore how old and lumpy it looks and sink down on it. I don't want to be the type of person who cares about things like that. He sits on an old chair across from me, covered in some sort of vinyl. With holes. I hate the poverty in his house.

His knee bounces up and down. Up and down. I fold my hands in my lap.

“You don't look like you belong here,” he says.

Neither
do
you
, I think, but I don't say that out loud. He waves his hand around the living room. His face is tense. “I hate that you're seeing this.”

“It's not so bad,” I say. “I hate that you let Stella tell you to stay away.”

He drops his gaze to the floor and glances back behind him at the closed door. “Kyle is napping,” he says. “My mom will be home soon.”

“Will she kick me out?”

He glances up for a second and half laughs. “Probably not. But she won't be happy. How would your dad feel if he came home and found me on your couch?”

“My dad is an asshat,” I tell him.

He doesn't disagree.

“He made Stella tell you not to come back,” I say.

He waves his hand. “They're trying to protect you.”

I laugh, but it's bitter. “You sure about that? I think Stella was trying to protect you. It's not fair though. To tell you not to go back. I'll leave.”

He puts out his hands, face up. Giving up. “No one wants us together.”

“I do,” I tell him. “I do.”

He rolls his neck out. “Shit, Jess. So do I. But I hate this. You being here is embarrassing. I don't want it to be. I don't want my mom to be right.”

A clock on the wall ticks loudly. It sounds like it's saying his name over and over. Flynn. Flynn. Flynn.

I hold my breath. “Right about what?”

“That it matters. That you care. About this stuff.”

“Oh my God, Flynn.” I try to imagine myself living in a house like this. And fine, it does, it makes me uncomfortable. Maybe even a little afraid, but being in a big house doesn't stop me from being afraid either. I'm just not used to this. I can get used to it. It's only stuff. I close my eyes and think of my house, all the nice things inside, but how has it made me feel for the last couple of years? Alone.

“The thing is,” I tell him. “It's you. When I'm with you, I'm happy. It doesn't matter where we are. The shelter. My house. Here. It's being with you.” My bottom lip quivers, and I try not to cry.

He stares at me, his lips pressed tight.

“For the last couple of years, in my big fancy house, I've felt all alone.” My sniffles start. I breathe deeply, trying to stay in control. “I lost my mom. Then my sister. Even my dad. I lost Penny, my best friend.” The tears are spilling out now.

He's up in a flash, sitting beside me, pressing his leg against mine, his arm around me.

“I'm happier with you,” I manage to say. “I thought I meant something. I thought I mattered to you.” There. I've laid it out. He can reject me if he wants. But at least I'm being honest.

“Shit,” he says. His chin rests on my head. “You do. I'm sorry, Jess.”

I cry harder. “I don't want you to be afraid of my dad.”

“I'm not,” he says. “I'm not afraid of him. It's Stella. She said I would mess things up for you. And I don't want to do that. I'm sorry. Don't cry, Jess. I'm here. I won't stay away anymore.”

I push back, tears running down my face, my ugly cry in full gear. “She said you would mess things up for me?”

He nods.

“That's not what she said to me. She told me I didn't matter to you. That I was like all the other girls.”

“Not even a little,” he says. “You matter. A lot.”

I wrap my arms around him and hold him tight, and for the first time in days, I finally breathe properly. There's a sound behind us. The front door opens, and his mom walks inside. She looks at me, and I pull away from him and try to smooth myself out.

“How's Kyle feeling?” she asks Flynn, her eyes still on me.

I sniffle and wipe under my eyes, and she squints, looking closer at me. She's carrying a plastic bag in one hand.

“He's napping,” Flynn tells her. He doesn't look concerned at being found with me in his arms.

“How long?”

“Not very. He'll probably sleep a couple of hours more.”

“Mrs. McCarthy gave me some homemade bread,” she says to Flynn, holding up the bag. “We have leftover fish. We can eat at home tonight.”

She glances down at me again, studies my face. “You like fish, Tess?”

“Jess,” Flynn says, and he gently unwraps himself from me and stands. “And don't tell me you didn't know that.” He faux glares at her.

“I love it,” I lie and stand up and walk toward her, my hand out to shake hers. “Hi, Mrs. Carson.”

She stares at my hand and starts to laugh, but she takes it in hers. “You're a determined little one, aren't you?” She shakes my hand and lets it go, laughing some more.

“Not usually,” I admit. “Usually I'm a chicken.”

She tilts her head, studying me. “You must really like my son then.”

My cheeks heat up.

“Fine,” she says. “You do. Okay.”

She walks to the kitchen. “Go on,” she calls to Flynn. “I can see you've finally stopped moping now. So take the girl somewhere.” She looks at me. “And you don't need to eat fish when you don't even like it. Crazy girl.” She puts the plastic bag in the tiny refrigerator. “I need to have a nap before my next shift. I'll go lie down with Kyle.” She shakes her head at us and heads off toward the bedroom. “Be back in two hours, Flynn.”

Flynn walks me to the front door.

I slip my shoes back on. “How did she know I was lying about the fish?” I whisper.

He starts to laugh. “Never underestimate my mom,” he says. “Come on. Let's walk to Nellie's.”

He takes my hand, and when we walk by his neighbors, the boys hoot, but Flynn gives them the finger and they all laugh. I'm tempted to say something about the other girls they mentioned, but I don't. He says I matter. I trust him. I look around at the trees on the street. They're mature and full. Beautiful.

“Are you hungry?” he asks as I run my hand along the bark of a tree we pass.

“Kind of.” I'm starved.

“Nellie's has awesome pizza. I know a place where we can go to eat it. And talk.”

It sounds like heaven, but I frown and shake my head. “I don't need pizza. We can just go talk.”

He laughs. “It's okay, Jess. I help the owner out with odd jobs. He gives me free pizzas. It's a win-win situation.”

I smile. “You're a pretty resourceful guy.”

“I like pizza.”

The walk to Nellie's is short. The restaurant turns out to be an old house with only four tables inside. A man with a big round belly stands behind a counter smiling when we walk in. He yells at someone in the back to cook up a loaded pizza.

“Flynn,” the man says. “And who is your fine-looking companion?”

Flynn introduces me to Pete, the owner. While the pizza cooks, Pete tells me a funny story about trying to fix a leak in the roof on his own and how he ended up soaked from head to toe. I laugh and smile, listening to the two of them joke with each other about odd jobs gone wrong.

“Pete knows pizza. But he doesn't know fixing,” Flynn says.

When the pizza is out of the oven, Pete puts it in a box and hands it to Flynn. “Check back soon,” he tells him. “There's something wrong with the hinge on the oven door.”

Flynn assures him he'll be back and holds the box up in the air. We leave Nellie's and head toward a back alley and a stretch of bushes. Flynn points to a pathway that's concealed by a bunch of overgrown branches and bushes. “Come on. This path goes to the water,” he tells me. “Follow me.”

He leads me down a narrow path. I hear water lapping on the shore and smile. In a moment, the pathway opens up to a small pebbled beach. It's narrow, not very long. Tiny white-capped waves crash and splash to the shore, as if they're playing with each other.

“It's beautiful,” I say. I wonder if he's brought other girls here.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “The best part of Clover Lawn. Someone told me they used to have summer homes out here and then the town started settling farther away from the water. I guess this beach got kind of forgotten and lost.”

“It's really cool.” There's litter around the edge of the beach, fast food boxes and cups lying in the dune grass, proof that other people know about the area.

Flynn walks a little farther then kicks off his shoes and sits. I tilt back my head, close my eyes, listen to the sounds, and inhale the scent of the water.

“Eat first and then talk?” he says. “I'm starving.”

He opens the pizza box and pats the spot beside him, so I sit, pulling off my shoes and pressing my bare feet against his. There's so much to say, but it doesn't feel necessary to rush. My stomach grumbles, reminding me that being with Flynn is many wonderful things, but it doesn't fill an empty stomach.