A Girl Like Me

by Ginger Scott

  “Are you hiding from me because you think you did this?” My voice carries, echoing off of the tree-and-wood cave Wes has backed himself into. He just stares at me through it all. He’s not even afraid of being seen. It’s like he’s torturing himself.

  He’s torturing me.

  I begin to laugh, the breathy kind tainted with disgust, and I stop with my eyes square on his—my tongue held between my gritting back teeth. Slowly, my mouth falls closed into a clenched smile as my eyes become slits.

  “You didn’t do this. Life…life did this! Life just does things sometimes, and our job is to figure out how to cope.”

  I step closer, my fingers now on the curved hood of the van. It’s covered in a layer of dirt, which makes me wonder where he’s been. Was he looking for me?

  “You know how I cope with the shit in my life, Wes?”

  I drag my hand along the front of the van until I get to the mirror of the driver’s door where I wrap my fingers around the chrome. His window is rolled down. I want to reach through it and touch him…feel him…hit him. My chest starts to pound so hard I’m sure it’s making my entire body tremble. I hold on to the van harder, my grip so strong I feel as if I could rip the mirror right from the door.

  “I get up every day, I go to rehab and work my muscles to exhaustion, because of you. I hear your voice, whether you speak or not. I feel you. I’m alive…because of you. I…cope…because of you, Wesley Stokes. It has always been you—always.”

  My lip starts to quiver, and the tears fill my eyes fast. I wipe my forearm across my face, but it does little to stop the shaking in my chest. I’m going to cry, and I’m going to be honest through it all. I thought I’d forced Kyle to drive all this way so I could find Wes and bring him home, but that’s not why at all. I thought that was why, and maybe it was at first. And then I found out he chose to stay away. He could come home today. He could have come home yesterday…months ago. But he chose to stay away. So now, I do this so I can be the strong one—so I can move past needing someone to take care of me.

  I do this to win.

  “You’re just like the rest of them,” I say, sucking in hard and fast, working my shoulders straighter. I stand taller. “You left. Just. Like. She did.”

  Through everything, Wes has sat perfectly still—the only movement the slight turn of his head and blink of his eyes, rarely, as he followed me. But those words hit him hard. His nostrils flare, and that line along his jaw flexes. I remember those subtle movements from the first time I saw him—at least what I thought was the first time—on that pitching mound. His jaw tightened every time I frustrated him, too…every time he fought to keep me safe and I ran toward danger.

  That’s what this is. He actually believes the crazy man in the trailer, and he thinks I’m being reckless. He believes the delusions because some man who was obsessed with my mother drew a bunch of pictures on paper.

  My chin sinks toward my chest as I move the few remaining feet until my palms are resting on the open window cavity. I couldn’t look away from the blue if I tried. Our eyes are magnets, and the bond is electric. There’s also something different, though. Every other time I’ve stared into those eyes, they’ve always looked back at me as if they were made of steel—unbreakable and unafraid. Right now, those eyes are shattered.

  “Come home with me.”

  I hear the words leave my mouth—no longer the angry voice willing to throw away everything my heart swears by. One look from my boy—my hero—and everything that a breath ago was tough and determined becomes soft. I’d only be pretending I didn’t need him, and I’m not so good at lying anymore. I don’t want to need him, and I hate that I do.

  Wes’s eyelids close, and my chest fills with hope that’s dashed just as fast as it comes.

  “I can’t.”

  My mind tries to make sense of his words while his face contorts, his mouth pulling tight with pain, his eyes creasing on the edges as he squeezes them shut tighter. If the words are so painful to say, I wonder why he would say them.

  “No.” My voice crackles when I speak.

  Wes’s lips part and his eyes follow open. We stare at each other for long seconds in an impossible standoff that I’m certain is not based on reality. It’s based on coincidence.

  “I won’t come back, Joss.”

  My heart bleeds. I feel it. I swallow, and my lips grow numb, tingling with urge after urge to yell something—anything—that might sink through the bullshit that’s clouding him.

  “You know that fortune-telling isn’t real, right?” I wait for a reaction from him, but all I get is the tilt of the head, and more sad, blue eyes. “Crystal balls…fortune cookies…those booths people spend hundreds of dollars in at the fair just so they can get a glimpse of what their lives will be. Will they have kids? Will they meet the right man this year? Will they get that new job? It’s all bullshit. It’s a scam, Wes, and Shawn is feeding it to you for free just so he can…what…control you and watch you dance? I don’t understand, Wes. Why are you letting him tell you how your life goes?”

  “It isn’t my life I’m worried about.” A shiver crawls down my spine, and it’s as if Wes can see it. His eyes move from mine for the first time in minutes, trailing along my face and neck, like a paintbrush soaked with color making strokes to fill in my form.

  “If you’re so worried about me, then why won’t you come home?”

  His eyes come back to mine with that question, and a heavy breath escapes him, his lips—those lips that I only want to kiss, if he would just let me—they’re turned down on the corners.

  “I’ve done nothing but hurt you, Joss,” he says, his head shaking as he speaks. He actually believes it, that we’re some disastrous formula. His logic makes me laugh, and I step back, letting my fingers fall away from his door as I bend over and laugh harder.

  “You have been the only thing that’s kept me alive, Wes. Twice,” I say, my laughter cutting short the moment I speak. Four feet of morning dawn, warm air growing warmer by the minute, is all that stands between us, yet it feels as if there are mountains and valleys, raging rivers and fire.

  I feel for the photo in my pocket, and for a few seconds, I hold it between my thumb and finger, my arm behind my back. My jaw grows hard the moment the truth washes through my mind. Wes didn’t send me those messages, and he didn’t leave me this photo. Shawn did. He wanted to keep his precious story going.

  “You have no idea about this, do you?” I say, a sad, breathy laugh escapes my lips as I pull the photo out, pinching it on the bottom and holding it for Wes to see. His eyes pain quickly then flutter closed as his chin falls to his chest. “I came here looking for you because I thought you missed me. I thought you needed me…wanted me. I thought we were this crazy kind of love that defied everything bad in life. But you didn’t want me at all, did you? Shawn did. He wanted me for his collection, to add more pages to his crazy, fucked-up narration about my life. And you—”

  My breath breaks, my chest shaking hard as the tears are hot with their threats in the corner of my eyes.

  “You never wanted me to know. You never wanted to see me again.” I wait for any sign that I’m wrong, but Wes’s only movement is the slight rise in his head, just enough to look up at me and stare right through everything I just said. The corners of his mouth turn down, and with one blink, his focus is somewhere other than me.

  I hear Kyle’s weight shift behind me, his footsteps coming closer, but I don’t move from my position. I stand and stare Wes down, waiting for him to snap out of this trance. More than a full minute passes with no words at all, and he never flinches. He doesn’t look at me again until Kyle reaches me and rests his hand on my back. His head moves at that touch, and his eyes widen for a beat. He doesn’t like seeing me touched.

  “You don’t get to talk to me. If this is what you’re deciding, then you need to disappear. Your parents, Wes…your brothers…they are…this has ruined them. They’ve fought so hard to even entertain the idea that y
ou’re gone for real. If you’re not coming back, then you need to stay away from us all. And you can’t stay here, because I know you’re here. It’s too close. You don’t get to keep me from getting over you. That’s cruel. If I want to love someone, you have to let me. If I need to move on, then you need to allow that to happen.”

  I lean forward a few inches, and through gritted teeth, I yell the rest.

  “And if I find trouble, let me have it. I’ll handle life on my own from here on out. You, Wesley Stokes, are no hero. You’re just a fucking asshole!”

  I turn fast, my eyes catching Kyle’s, and he falls in step with me, his fingertips grazing along my shoulder blade as we take long steps back toward his truck. When I feel his touch fall away, I turn to see him striding back to Wes. I pause, but I don’t stop him as he marches back to the spot I was standing, reaches inside the cab and punches Wes in the face.

  Wes just takes it.

  I let him.

  And when Kyle makes it back to where I’m waiting, we both turn our attention to his truck, climbing in and buckling while the wheels are already in motion. Neither of us speaks until the lights of Bakersfield are in view.

  “School starts tomorrow,” Kyle says.

  I wait until he pulls up to my driveway, and I stare out at my dad’s car, the garage left open, my gear stacked in the corner. Our dead yard, punctuated by a crooked mailbox, and paint chips falling from the trim of the house.

  “Some fucking life,” I say.

  My front door opens, and I can make out my dad’s form behind the screen. He repaired it last week. I helped. It was nice. It will have to be enough.

  I open my door and grab the envelope and box from behind Kyle’s seat, turning to my friend who looks at me with eyes that say he doesn’t know what to do.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say, and his head falls to the right while his lip quirks on the opposite side. “Yeah, okay, so maybe I won’t, but whatever, right?”

  He nods once, smirking.

  “Whatever,” he says. “Pick you up at seven?”

  “Whatever,” I repeat, chuckling as I slam his door shut and walk through the dead grass that leads to my front door.

  Kyle’s motor kicks in as he pulls away, and my dad pushes the screen open slowly, his eyes meeting the memories in my hands first then moving to my face.

  “Grace gave me a bunch of Mom’s shit to look through,” I say, leaving out the part about Kevin and tracking down Wes. My story would sound crazy—and it wouldn’t be wrong. It is crazy.

  My dad doesn’t say a word, only holds my things for me while I move into the kitchen and begin pulling out meat and cheese from the fridge to make a sandwich. After a few seconds, he makes his way into the kitchen with me, his hand frozen above the counter with the envelope from Kevin, and the tin from Grace propped against his side. He’s staring at the open end of the envelope, and my stomach sinks, knowing what’s inside. He shouldn’t see any of it, but I won’t hide it from him either.

  “It’s mostly photos. Some birthday cards she never sent,” I say, keeping it off hand and pretending that it doesn’t mean much to me. I’m not sure any of it really does.

  I turn when my sandwich is made, sliding the plate on the counter and leaning forward, propping myself up by my elbows to eat. It takes my dad eighteen seconds to finally set my things down. I know because I keep count with chews on my sandwich. He knows I’m lying, but he also knows it’s for his own good. Sober isn’t easy without adding the baggage of betrayal and heartbreak.

  “You were right about Grace, though,” I say through a full mouth. My dad blinks himself out of his daze, finally switching his focus from the packages of photos and letters to me. His mouth curves in a forced, closed-lip smile. “Grace,” I repeat.

  “Oh, yes…I’m glad you got to spend time with her,” he says, his mind only half invested in our conversation.

  I take another bite and watch him closely before answering. He’s twitchy, but he isn’t drunk. I can feel that he’s not entirely here, though.

  “I am, too. She made the trip worth it,” I say.

  He nods, his smile meeting his eyes this time as he steps around the counter toward me, leaning over to kiss the top of my head.

  “I’m glad that dumbass Kyle didn’t drive you into the Grand Canyon,” he says above me, squeezing my shoulder once before moving to the coffeemaker to brew himself a cup. He’s replaced alcohol with caffeine. His breath smells, but not like reeking of whiskey or bourbon.

  “We didn’t drive that way,” I say, laughing lightly.

  “And that’s probably the only reason he didn’t drive you off a cliff,” my dad jokes.

  He keeps his back to me, and I can tell he’d prefer to end this subject on that note—Kyle and his driving. We don’t need to get into the details and memories of Mom.

  “Yeah…you’re probably right,” I say, my eyes lingering on the back of my father’s head. He’s staring straight ahead, no longer with me.

  He’s with her.

  “Hey, I’m gonna shower and rest for a while, maybe take a nap. I’m three days old on everything,” I say, still no response from my dad. I back away to the hallway, stopping just before he’s completely out of sight.

  “Dad?”

  He turns slowly, coffee mug in his hand, and begins to take a sip when our eyes meet, stopping when the hot liquid hits his tongue.

  “Right, yeah. Shower’s all yours,” he says.

  I smile as I turn, but it falls away the second I’m out of view. I left this house in the middle of the night in search of answers, and days later, all I have is pain and regret. I crawl up on my bed and lift my leg, pulling off my prosthetic and stretching my quads and hips that ache from atrophy.

  I lay still for several minutes, fatigue hitting me full force, finally. I’m considering postponing the shower for a nap when a familiar sound hits my ears. Our front door slams shut, and my dad’s car engine never roars. Nearly five minutes pass without a sound, so I finally lift myself and move to my window, looking out to see his car unmoved from the driveway, and my dad nowhere to be found.

  Dread I haven’t felt in months drowns me in a flash. I move to my doorway, using the wall for balance, and I hop to the end of the hallway. My mouth waters with the urge to vomit when I realize the envelope is gone. I left it there, trusting that my dad wouldn’t look. I didn’t want to make it seem like I was hiding something. But I am. And I should have.

  So much progress, and all it’s going to take is a few Polaroids and an unflattering letter from a crazy man that used to live next door to undo everything.

  My eyes zero in on the tin still setting on the counter, so I maneuver my way across the room to grab it, tucking it under my arm and taking it back to my room. I open it and feel around for my grandfather’s pin, then fall back and hold it over my head, my thumb running over the tiny dents in the metal from the years he wore it on his chest. I bet these wings went to war.

  I pin it to my T-shirt and cover it with my palm. If it’s war everyone wants from me, then it’s war they’ll get.

  Sleep comes fast, and I embrace it. I won’t dream tonight. I won’t let myself. In fact, nothing happens to me without my permission from this point on.

  Five

  The pain is there this morning…where my lower leg used to be. It’s worse than normal, if normal is a thing, and it makes me slow to get ready. I have to let Kyle in while I finish brushing my hair and teeth, and he takes over my half-eaten cereal bowl for me while I search for my shoes.

  “I don’t think I have ever seen you without a Pop-Tart in the morning,” Kyle says, slurping the last drop of milk from the bowl before setting it in the sink.

  “We’re out. Apparently, Dad isn’t shopping anymore either, because we’re out of pretty much everything. You mind running me by the store on the way home?” I ask, sliding my left heel into one of my favorite pair of Vans.

  “Sure, but don’t you have rehab?” Kyle grabs my bag for me wh
ile I jerk my right shoe into the correct position, and I look down at the laces for a few extra seconds, avoiding him.

  “I’m not going,” I say.

  Kyle laughs immediately, but he stops when I adjust my posture and look him in the eyes. I reach for my bag, but he swings it over his shoulder and glowers at me, moving toward the back door and holding it open for me to follow. I drag slowly by him.

  “That’s your plan, huh? You’re gonna just quit on shit again? Maybe pick smoking back up, mix some pills with a few shots of whiskey, start dangling out of cars, and maybe nosedive off a bridge? Fuck, Joss, you make it really hard to be your friend sometimes.”

  I stop a few feet away from his truck, but he keeps going, swinging my bag around his body and tossing it into the back.

  “I don’t need your shit, Kyle!” I shout, but my words are cut off when he slams his door closed and quickly turns over his engine.

  My standoff is short-lived, mostly because Kyle won’t make eye contact with me, so I walk to the passenger side and get in, clicking my belt angrily and nestling into the corner of the seat, against the window, because I don’t want to be near him.

  I expect his driving to be just as rushed—quick turns, hard stops—but that’s not the case. Kyle drives calmly, even though I can feel the words he’s not saying pounding inside of him, begging to come out. We pull into the school without another word between us, and I unbuckle and fling my door open without pause. Kyle remains still, though, and just before I slam my door closed, I catch him rubbing both hands over his face.

  “What?” I huff.

  His hands fall away and he rests his head sideways against the seat, tired eyes looking at me. “What are we supposed to do now?”

  My brow draws in, and I squint one eye, irritated, not yet over my rush of angry emotions, and my leg still firing pain signals to my brain.

  “We go to fucking class, then we go home, and I pull out my Jose shirts and I put one on and see if I can pick up some extra shifts, start back early.”