“Oh, cupcake, angry is for guys who wear polo shirts and walk miniature doggies. Angry is not for the likes of Grant Turner.”
Cruz and I exchanged a look. The realm of average human emotion had never been quite appropriate for Grant Turner. From the time he’d moved to The Clink with his dad all of those years ago, I’d known that. There’d been an intensity about him, a spirit that wound deeper into his core than most.
“So you’re saying he was really angry after I left?”
Cruz smiled tightly, patting my arm a few times. “He was the human equivalent of Chernobyl. How about we leave it at that because that’s as fitting of a metaphor as I’m capable of right now?”
My heart ached as I imagined the pain I’d caused him—for the one-millionth goddamn time. “That was forever ago. He’s moved past it, I’m sure.”
“Sure, sure,” Cruz agreed, waving in Grant’s direction. “Just look how at moved on past it he is.”
My eyes stung from watching how Grant seemed to prefer the company of everyone besides me. It felt like yesterday when the opposite had been true. I wouldn’t cry though, no matter how badly my eyes burned. I’d dried myself out years ago.
“I never meant to hurt him,” I whispered. “I never meant to hurt any of you.”
Cruz wound his arm through mine again. “I know that. Aunt May knew that. Hell, even Grant knew that.” Cruz paused, his face turning toward mine. “But that doesn’t mean you didn’t hurt us.”
My body leaned into his, almost like I needed his support because I was unable to stay upright on my own. It was odd the way our roles had shifted. Back then, it had been Grant and me who Cruz leaned on for support, and now, I was leaning on him.
“I’m sorry.” My words came out louder than I’d intended, drawing the attention of a few people close by.
If Cruz noticed my louder-than-needed apology, he didn’t show it. “Apology accepted.” His arm wound around my back when my head dropped to his shoulder.
“Do you think apologizing to Grant will be that easy?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
“Has anything been easy where Grant Turner and you are concerned?”
I didn’t have to give that a moment’s consideration. “No. Nothing ever has been.”
It never would be either.
THE STARS DIDN’T use to shine in The Clink, but tonight, a few were popping through the haze of the city lights to blink down at me in Aunt May’s backyard, stretched out on the grass she’d taken such care to foster. My first time feeling grass between my bare toes had been on this lawn.
Living things, such as grass and flowers, hadn’t been a part of my world until Aunt May entered it because people who didn’t feel alive had no interest in keeping something else alive. Whether that be a house plant or a human being.
My eyes fought the urge to skip back to the looming apartment complex hovering a few blocks over. The Towers Apartment Complex was where I’d been conceived, where I’d been brought home from the hospital, and where I was expected to die if statistics had anything to do with it.
Thankfully, I’d given my middle finger to statistics.
After excusing myself from Cruz for some fresh air, the first thing my eyes had been drawn to when I stepped onto Aunt May’s back porch was the giant concrete structure to the left. Almost as if something inside me was trained to find it, aware that some part of me still belonged there.
God knew I’d left plenty of myself behind in those filthy rooms and dark halls.
I knew she wasn’t there anymore—I’d gotten a message a year ago from a police officer who’d called to let me know my mother’s body had been found deceased inside the same apartment she’d been dead inside of for years. Her body had finally followed her soul.
That should have been a relief to those who’d known her and her tortured existence, but the news had come when I was struggling to come to terms with some news of my own. Instead of being happy my mother had finally found peace in death, I found myself wanting to curse her for it. I found myself battling feeling as though I’d been cheated and wronged. I found myself wanting to curse my mother’s dead body instead of lay it to rest, so instead of returning that phone call from the police detective, I let it go unanswered.
I’d let the city take care of my mother’s body, excusing my actions as it being more concern than she’d ever shown me. Then I’d sealed the door on all my memories of that woman, and tried to cope with the news of my own loss.
The news I was still struggling to cope with.
Just as I was twisting around on the lawn so I wouldn’t be tempted to glance back at the Towers, I heard the back door whine open, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps moving across the porch. As well-loved as Aunt May’s house had been, it was old. Everything whined and creaked and moaned, from the doors to the floorboards to the windows, but I’d only ever known one person large enough to make the back porch sound as though it were about to collapse.
Instead of making the most of this golden opportunity to get him alone, I pressed my body harder into the grass, almost like I was trying to become one with it.
Not once in the two hours since I’d arrived had Grant’s attention turned my way again, and as desperate as I was to clear the air with him, I was just as petrified. Not because I was scared of what he’d say or how loud or animated he’d get—because, hell, a person couldn’t be as close to Grant Turner as I had and be someone who scared off easily—but because I was terrified of how he’d respond. Not in words, but in action. Would he be receptive to what I had to tell him, or would he shut down the way he’d been shutting me out all night?