Page 36 of Unbound
The walk from the street to the bleachers is rather short. It’s a small town and a large football stadium isn’t something we have around here.
“Why are you here?” he asks, staring straight ahead, his voice low and rough when I approach, my tennis shoes squeaking against the metal.
“Because I want to be.” My words tremble.
He says nothing to that, but his face hardens.
With a slight twist of his head, he looks at me for a moment, his mouth moving like he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t.
Not knowing what else to do, I sit next to him on the metal bleachers, my hands resting awkwardly on my thighs.
He won’t look at me, and when he does, the slightest shift in his eyes, it’s the same look I’ve had so many times before. I probably don’t want to hear what’s going to come out of his mouth.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” I finally say, palms sweating so bad I have to run them down my thighs.
Rawley shakes his head and then draws in a heavy breath. He’s struggling.
“Do you remember that homecoming game our Sophomore year—”
“I don’t remember anything but sitting on these very bleachers and you telling me you cheated on me. That’s what I fucking remember about this place.”
It’s his dismissal. It’s a “leave me alone.” I’m used to this side of him.
I look at him expectantly, and hold my breath for the briefest moments. “Is it really going to be like this?”
He looks at the field, almost irritated with himself. “Like what?”
My lips tremble, vision blurry. “You avoiding me.”
I watch as a frown deepens the lines of his forehead becoming more pronounced. “I’m trying to.”
My throat constricts, a noose around my neck he’s constantly tightening without knowing it. His devastation, the realization, it hits him as bitter, hurtful words are on the tip of my tongue, ready to be screamed at the top of my lungs.
“What do you want to hear, Rawley? I didn’t tell you because I couldn’t trust you to be there for me.”
His eyes hold mine like the heavy weight he’s been on me. He’s bound by reckless thoughts even he doesn’t understand. His response is shaky. “I had a right to know.”
“What good would it have done? And I did try. I was nearly six months pregnant and I went to Seattle to find you,” I continue. “If I would have told you that night, you would have called me a liar and told me to leave.”
“You don’t know that. And when did you ever come to Seattle?”
“New Year’s Eve. Do you remember that night?”
He blinks. Repeatedly but doesn’t say anything.
“I was going to tell you that night but then you sang “Wasted” and dedicated it to the fucking bitch who I believe you said, ripped your heart out. Do you remember?”
I hear his intake of breath, deep and hard. He remembers. I see it written on his face. “I remember,” he replies, a small furrow to his brows.
“And that means?”
His gaze moves to the side, no longer able to look at me. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
Of course it doesn’t. It never does with him.
Patting the front of his jacket, he pulls out a cigarette, cupping the flame as he lights it. He only ever smokes when he’s nervous, and I know by the way he’s biting the corner of his lip, he’s exactly that.
My attention moves to the bright orange glints of the end of his cigarette and the way his chest pulls in as he inhales. Smoke filters from his nose when he finally looks up at me. He doesn’t look at me directly but my eyes close with that look, my chest heaving as tears slip down my cheeks. Why is this always so hard with him?
