Page 82 of Getting It Twisted
I do as he says. Not sober enough for rational thinking, I suppose. I feel out of sorts, and not just because of the drugs and the vodka.
“So . . . you hate me now, right?” I look up at him, biting my lip in a sideways pout. “I’m an asshole, and you can’t stand the sight of me. Is that what you came here to say?”
“No.”
“That’s what you told me. You said it would be best if I leave again.”
His chest heaves in a sad excuse for a laugh. “I don’t hate you, Nathan. Don’t you get it?”
“Get what?” Mouth set in a hard line, I cross my arms over my chest.
He looks annoyed and resigned at the same time. His face scrunches up as if he’s in pain, though he smiles through it.
“I love you.”
The words ring in my ears, but they don’t stick. Are the booze and drugs playing tricks on me, spinning lies I’m too far gone to understand?
“You what?” My lower lip trembles. I feel like crying.
“Do you want me to say it again?”
“Yes.” It comes out a whisper—a raw, pathetic one.
“I love you. I love you, Nathan,” he says, and his hand brushes my cheek. “I always have.”
Holy shit. Holy shit. My heart beats as if it’s trying to break through my ribs.
“Even when I’m being a jerk to you? Or to your friends?”
“Yes,” he says, voice firm. “I feel it constantly, all the time. Even when I try to hate you, I always end up loving you in the end.”
I close my eyes, and for now, I allow myself to believe. I beg the universe toplease let it be true. I’ve been in the dark for so long, oh please let me have this one thing . . . This one beam of light in my life.
But . . . “What about that stuff?”
“What stuff?”
“The pictures. The stuff you saw.”
The stuff I’ve told no one except for him.
The stuff I should’ve taken with me to the grave.
That’s what started this whole thing, isn’t it? Daniel couldn’t handle how damaged I am. He freaked out. He deemed me unsalvageable, unfixable, just like everyone would if they knew what he does now.
“Oh, Nathan,” he says, voice pained. “It wasn’t your fault. None of it.”
Usually I can’t stand pity, because there’s no way anyone can understand all the shit I’ve been through, and I don’twantthem to understand. But with Daniel, it feels less like he’s pretending to understand and more like he’s just sad and angry on my behalf.
Maybe that’s what makes the words spill from my mouth.
“I’ve tried to get rid of it, all right? I’ve tried to control it—all this . . . all thisbadnessin me.” I clutch my chest, and tears well up in my eyes. “But I can’t. What if I’m broken and can’t be fixed? That’s what she said. My mom. That I was bad and that I always would be. And those men, those pictures . . .That’s not all. You remember when Wayne Hastings caught us shoplifting?”
“Yeah?”
“Remember how he kept me at the station for ages? He gave me nothing to eat or drink for hours, wouldn’t even let me piss. He said bad kids like me weren’t meant to roam the streets and threatened to lock me up in juvie for years . . . Unless I did something for him.”
“Did what?”