“Becca?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to ask you something, and if you don’t want to answer, just tell me okay?”
“Okay,” I say, my heart aching from the beat it just skipped. I pray and I beg; please, please, don’t ask me about her.
“Do you not like being touched because you’ve been hurt? Because someone has hurt you before?”
Tears form in my eyes just as fast as the lump rises to my throat. I hold my breath, hoping he can’t hear the sob forcing its way out of me. Silence fills the air as one song ends and another starts and I still can’t find it in me to answer. I feel him shift next to me and suddenly his face is in my vision, looking down at me. I can see the concern in his eyes, matching the tears in mine and I start to shake, because everything inside me is fighting, clawing its way out, trying to get free and I can’t—
I can’t let it happen.
I release my breath, my sob, and my tears all at once.
“Baby,” he whispers, wiping the tears off the side of my face.
And then he’s gone, back to lying next to me, his hand still holding mine but now his touch is different.
It’s tighter—as if he’s scared to let go.
“You never have to be afraid of me, Becca, I’ll never hurt you. And as long as I’m around, no one else will either.”
12
-Joshua-
Two weeks. That’s how long it’s been since I’d asked Becca to coast with me.
And we have been.
Kind of.
We spend a lot of time together but mainly when Tommy’s around. We sneak in the occasional touch, steal the occasional glance, but as soon as Tommy’s bedtime comes around she chooses to leave, giving me a quick, chaste kiss and the next day we repeat the process.
It’s like she’s reluctant to take the next step. Of course I’ve wondered if it’s because of what happened when I took her to the half-court… or if she’s afraid of getting too close and doing what Chloe had said—pushing me away. I’ve tried plenty of times to think of a way to bring it up but every time I build the courage to actually do something it’s like she can sense it somehow and she focuses all her attention on Tommy.
So for two weeks I’ve been stuck in this weird limbo of kind of dating a girl sometimes maybe.
Fuck, that doesn’t even make sense.
Yesterday, Chazarae managed to pull me aside while Tommy and Becca were playing in the sandpit. “It’s Becca’s birthday tomorrow,” she said, and my mind went into frenzy—because ask any guy, even those like me who’ve never technically been in a serious relationship: Girls and birthdays are the worst.
Especially if you have no idea where you actually stand with said girl.
And, even more so if you only have a day to work it out.
So I do what anyone in my situation would do—I call the closest thing I have to a friend who’s a girl: Chloe. She doesn’t answer. Which means I only have one other choice. Reluctantly, I call Kim. She gives me ideas. They aren’t great but they’ll have to do.
Becca’s eyes light up; matching the candles burning atop the camera cake Tommy and I had made her. Kim had sent me the link with instructions. I sent her a picture of the cake when it was close to completion. She wrote back: pinterestfail. My aunt’s a smartass.
“You made me a camera cake?” Becca whispers, her gaze darting between Tommy and I.
“Tommy made the cake. I was just the funds behind the grand operation. Right, bud?”
His little eyes move from me to the cake, his smile huge as he watches the candles flicker.
Becca gets out of her chair and hands her grams the camera. Then she picks up Tommy and sits down next to me with him on her lap—one hand on his stomach, holding him in place, the other on my leg. She leans down to Tommy’s ear, “Ready, buddy?”
He doesn’t reply—just sucks in a whopping breath and blows until all air leaves his lungs. And then he does it again. And after that, I don’t really know what happens because Becca’s watching me and I’m watching her and the world has stopped and the room’s hot and her eyes drift shut and somehow I find myself leaning in and just as my lips are about to touch hers, the snap of the camera brings me back down to earth and to the vision of Tommy sitting on Becca’s lap—his face buried in the cake.
Becca snorts with laughter and scoots back in her seat to get him away from the cake while Chaz giggles and fusses in the kitchen—I assume to get something to clean him up. She comes back with a wet dishcloth and starts wiping at his face. “I want a copy of that picture,” she says, looking between Becca and I.
Chazarae’s attempt to clean up Tommy with a dishcloth is a fail the moment he decides his hands and feet want the same fate as his face. The cake’s a goner, but no one seems to mind.
“Grams has him in the bath,” Becca says, stepping out of the house and sitting down next to me on porch steps. She lifts her gaze and smiles as she looks up at the stars. “This was a great birthday, Josh. Thanks for spending it with me.” “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”
She turns to me, bringing her smile with her—only now it’s wider and aimed at me.
“I got you something,” I tell her, reaching into my pocket and pulling out the little green bag. “It’s not anything special but I didn’t really have much notice.”
Her eyebrows pinch and her eyes move from the bag to me. “But you made me the cake.”
I hand her the bag and shrug at the same time. “Yeah, but this is something you can keep.”
Her smile’s gone now; her features bunched in a way that makes her look confused for some reason. She widens the opening of the bag and empties its content onto the palm of her hand. After setting the bag on her knee, she picks up the ring. It’s a quarter-inch thick, silver and has the words I shoot like a girl engraved with a picture of a camera. It’s also extremely lame. And going by the look on her face, she thinks so too.
“It’s stupid,” I rush out, smacking it out of her hands.
She catches it quickly and turns her back to me, inspecting it further. After a few moments, she faces me, a single tear streaming down her cheek.
My eyes widen, and then roll stupidly high. “Great, I’ve made you cry with the ugliest present known to mankind.”
“Shut up, Josh,” she whispers.
I try to reach for the ring but she pushes me away.
“It’s so beautiful and thoughtful and perfect and you’re ruining my moment with it.” She slips the ring on her pointer finger and smiles. “It was made for my shooting finger,” she says, shoving her hand under my nose.
“It’s stupid.”
“Stop it.”
I look over at her now—her smile back in place and her emerald eyes gleaming under the porch lights.
“It’s lame,” I say, because apparently I like beating dead horses. Or maybe I just need her to assure me that it doesn’t suck.
She purses her lips and narrows her eyes at me. “You’re lame!” Then she scoots closer and hugs my waist, and swear it—I think I actually sigh. She clears her throat before saying, “I’ve been thinking about something lately, but I don’t really know how to bring it up…” she trails off and I know that whatever it is—it’s not good.
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to ask you something, and if you don’t want to answer, just tell me okay?”
“Okay,” I say, my heart aching from the beat it just skipped. I pray and I beg; please, please, don’t ask me about her.
“Do you not like being touched because you’ve been hurt? Because someone has hurt you before?”
Tears form in my eyes just as fast as the lump rises to my throat. I hold my breath, hoping he can’t hear the sob forcing its way out of me. Silence fills the air as one song ends and another starts and I still can’t find it in me to answer. I feel him shift next to me and suddenly his face is in my vision, looking down at me. I can see the concern in his eyes, matching the tears in mine and I start to shake, because everything inside me is fighting, clawing its way out, trying to get free and I can’t—
I can’t let it happen.
I release my breath, my sob, and my tears all at once.
“Baby,” he whispers, wiping the tears off the side of my face.
And then he’s gone, back to lying next to me, his hand still holding mine but now his touch is different.
It’s tighter—as if he’s scared to let go.
“You never have to be afraid of me, Becca, I’ll never hurt you. And as long as I’m around, no one else will either.”
12
-Joshua-
Two weeks. That’s how long it’s been since I’d asked Becca to coast with me.
And we have been.
Kind of.
We spend a lot of time together but mainly when Tommy’s around. We sneak in the occasional touch, steal the occasional glance, but as soon as Tommy’s bedtime comes around she chooses to leave, giving me a quick, chaste kiss and the next day we repeat the process.
It’s like she’s reluctant to take the next step. Of course I’ve wondered if it’s because of what happened when I took her to the half-court… or if she’s afraid of getting too close and doing what Chloe had said—pushing me away. I’ve tried plenty of times to think of a way to bring it up but every time I build the courage to actually do something it’s like she can sense it somehow and she focuses all her attention on Tommy.
So for two weeks I’ve been stuck in this weird limbo of kind of dating a girl sometimes maybe.
Fuck, that doesn’t even make sense.
Yesterday, Chazarae managed to pull me aside while Tommy and Becca were playing in the sandpit. “It’s Becca’s birthday tomorrow,” she said, and my mind went into frenzy—because ask any guy, even those like me who’ve never technically been in a serious relationship: Girls and birthdays are the worst.
Especially if you have no idea where you actually stand with said girl.
And, even more so if you only have a day to work it out.
So I do what anyone in my situation would do—I call the closest thing I have to a friend who’s a girl: Chloe. She doesn’t answer. Which means I only have one other choice. Reluctantly, I call Kim. She gives me ideas. They aren’t great but they’ll have to do.
Becca’s eyes light up; matching the candles burning atop the camera cake Tommy and I had made her. Kim had sent me the link with instructions. I sent her a picture of the cake when it was close to completion. She wrote back: pinterestfail. My aunt’s a smartass.
“You made me a camera cake?” Becca whispers, her gaze darting between Tommy and I.
“Tommy made the cake. I was just the funds behind the grand operation. Right, bud?”
His little eyes move from me to the cake, his smile huge as he watches the candles flicker.
Becca gets out of her chair and hands her grams the camera. Then she picks up Tommy and sits down next to me with him on her lap—one hand on his stomach, holding him in place, the other on my leg. She leans down to Tommy’s ear, “Ready, buddy?”
He doesn’t reply—just sucks in a whopping breath and blows until all air leaves his lungs. And then he does it again. And after that, I don’t really know what happens because Becca’s watching me and I’m watching her and the world has stopped and the room’s hot and her eyes drift shut and somehow I find myself leaning in and just as my lips are about to touch hers, the snap of the camera brings me back down to earth and to the vision of Tommy sitting on Becca’s lap—his face buried in the cake.
Becca snorts with laughter and scoots back in her seat to get him away from the cake while Chaz giggles and fusses in the kitchen—I assume to get something to clean him up. She comes back with a wet dishcloth and starts wiping at his face. “I want a copy of that picture,” she says, looking between Becca and I.
Chazarae’s attempt to clean up Tommy with a dishcloth is a fail the moment he decides his hands and feet want the same fate as his face. The cake’s a goner, but no one seems to mind.
“Grams has him in the bath,” Becca says, stepping out of the house and sitting down next to me on porch steps. She lifts her gaze and smiles as she looks up at the stars. “This was a great birthday, Josh. Thanks for spending it with me.” “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”
She turns to me, bringing her smile with her—only now it’s wider and aimed at me.
“I got you something,” I tell her, reaching into my pocket and pulling out the little green bag. “It’s not anything special but I didn’t really have much notice.”
Her eyebrows pinch and her eyes move from the bag to me. “But you made me the cake.”
I hand her the bag and shrug at the same time. “Yeah, but this is something you can keep.”
Her smile’s gone now; her features bunched in a way that makes her look confused for some reason. She widens the opening of the bag and empties its content onto the palm of her hand. After setting the bag on her knee, she picks up the ring. It’s a quarter-inch thick, silver and has the words I shoot like a girl engraved with a picture of a camera. It’s also extremely lame. And going by the look on her face, she thinks so too.
“It’s stupid,” I rush out, smacking it out of her hands.
She catches it quickly and turns her back to me, inspecting it further. After a few moments, she faces me, a single tear streaming down her cheek.
My eyes widen, and then roll stupidly high. “Great, I’ve made you cry with the ugliest present known to mankind.”
“Shut up, Josh,” she whispers.
I try to reach for the ring but she pushes me away.
“It’s so beautiful and thoughtful and perfect and you’re ruining my moment with it.” She slips the ring on her pointer finger and smiles. “It was made for my shooting finger,” she says, shoving her hand under my nose.
“It’s stupid.”
“Stop it.”
I look over at her now—her smile back in place and her emerald eyes gleaming under the porch lights.
“It’s lame,” I say, because apparently I like beating dead horses. Or maybe I just need her to assure me that it doesn’t suck.
She purses her lips and narrows her eyes at me. “You’re lame!” Then she scoots closer and hugs my waist, and swear it—I think I actually sigh. She clears her throat before saying, “I’ve been thinking about something lately, but I don’t really know how to bring it up…” she trails off and I know that whatever it is—it’s not good.
