“Well, are you at leastgonnasit, then? We can break thefeckin’ thing together.”He tilted his head toward the other swing, and I shook my head. “You’reactuallygonnamake me swing alone?”
“Yes,” I said with a sigh.
His feet hit the grass, dragging a bit before he came to acomplete stop.
“Can you let go for just a minute?Justone? I’lleven timeya.”
I swallowed, looking anywhere but at him and his perfectlytousled blonde hair. “Let go of what?”
“This!” He gestured a hand toward me: my crossed arms andfirmly planted feet, my jutted hip. “You’re so pissed at this town, atme—hell,maybe even yourself. Just let it go, and have a little fun.”
“I am not angry,” I said through my gritted teeth.
“You’re full of shite.”
“And you’re an asshole.”
“And you’rechangin’ thesubject.”
I groaned, dropped my arms to my sides, and stompedforward, plonking myself down on the swing beside him. My hands gripped thechains, the wooden frame bowed a little lower, and I swallowed again.
“Thereyago,Kins.That’s the spirit,” he said with a smile, and began to swing again.
Sitting there, my feet on the grass and my hands on thosechains, I looked out into the moonlit backyard, shrouded in a summer haze andfreckled with lightening bugs. I hadn’t sat there in years. Hell, I couldn’teven remember the last time I was in my parents’ backyard. I seldom came to thehouse since moving back home, after I claimed my space in Kate’s basementapartment.
I wanted to keep my distance from the memories, but still,it was frustrating, not remembering the last time I had enjoyed the peacefulcricket-chirp soundtrack in the glow of the back-porch light. The last time Ihad allowed the painful bliss of those old backyard memories to wrap their armsaround me.
It was more frustrating that my eyes fell onthatgrassy spot near my swing, and my memory began to play.
CHAPTER 5 |
Lost Friends & SpecialCouches
We had ourfirst real kiss when we weretwelve.
It was a Saturday in August. My family and theneighbors had searched all afternoon for Shadow/Murdoch/Mister before we finallyfound him underneath the swing set in our backyard. He had found a soft, shadyspot to fall asleep one last time, and I instantly hated him for forevertainting my sacred playing ground. But God, my heart burned something horribleat the thought of not knowing I had heard his meow for the last time the daybefore. I would have remembered it better, committed it to my memory, taken onelast picture with the digital camera I had gotten for Christmas.
My heart had been shattered for the first time,and where else could I go to heal, with those tears stinging my eyelids?
“Kinsey,m’darlin’,what’s the matter?” Mrs. Kinney asked the moment she threw the door open.
I refused to blink, but with a strangled voice,I managed, “Mister died.”
“Oh, your cat,” she stated in her voice thatcould have lulled me to sleep had she held me. “I’m terribly sorry, Kinsey. Doy’wantme to get Paddy forya?”
I nodded, reluctantly losing the battle againstthe torrential downpour of tears. She welcomed me inside with a gentle handagainst my shoulder, squeezing with attempted comfort as she led me to thecouch. She called toward the stairs for Patrick—her Paddy—and told him Kinseywas there, and within seconds, his feet thundered against the treads.
“What happened?” he demanded immediately afterseeing the blubbery mess sitting in the living room.
“Hercat’sdied,” shewhispered with a hand against his shoulder, and he sucked in a breath of airthrough a shocked O.
Mrs. Kinney left us alone then, telling us shewas taking Sean and Ryan to get new clothes for school. At one point, we wouldhave felt so cool to be left home alone, to raid the fridge of as many snacksas we wanted. But in that moment, I just felt grateful to cry alone with mybest friend.
Patrick held his arm around me, rubbing alittle too vigorously in his awkward boyish attempt to comfort me as my criesturned into sobs. He kept saying things like, “Hey Kinsey, he’s in a betterplace,” and, “Hey, he’ll always be with you,” and fuck, I wanted him to shut upwhile never wanting him to stop talking.
It seemed like hours had passed before my tearsfinally subsided, and I was left feeling drained, slumped against Patrick’sshoulder on his living room couch. We had found ourselves leaning against thebolstered back, breathing in time with each other as we stared up at theceiling. I remember tracing the cut edges of the crown molding with myeyes—like little steps, I thought—when I felt Patrick’s arm tighten around myshoulders. My entire body stiffened with apprehension and just a shred ofexcitement, as I pretended not to notice, not to care.
“HeyKins,” hefinally said, his voice scratchy after barely talking at all.
