The Anatomical Shape of a Heart(58)

“Let’s go,” I said to Jack.

Without hesitation, he curled his arm around my shoulders and pulled me away from my father.

“Beatrix,” Dad said as we started to turn away from him. “Please contact me when you’re ready. My university email address is on the campus website. We can talk on your terms.”

I stopped long enough to dig the artist’s mannequin from my bag. My father’s face twisted with hurt, eyes quietly pleading, and that made my throat catch. Just for a second. I steeled my resolve and hurled the mannequin down on the sidewalk between us. The carved body cracked at his feet, splintering in half.

23

The sky darkened as Jack and I strode down the sidewalk. Like the heavy clouds above us, I held myself together until we got back to Ghost. Both the quiet side street and the cover provided by tree branches drooping over our parking space must’ve given my brain the illusion of shelter, because once I shut the Corvette’s door against the sudden deluge of rain, I let go and broke down.

It wasn’t pretty.

The older, cooler fantasy me was horrified to be ugly-crying in front of Jack. But the present me was hurting too much to care. And when his hand warmed the back of my neck, it felt like permission to sob even harder.

Before I knew what was happening, Jack had leaned his seat back and pulled me sideways into his lap. I buried my face in the collar of his vintage bowling shirt and cried a little longer while steady rain battered the convertible top.

His hands stroking down my back were soothing, and little by little, I pulled myself together.

“I’m sorry,” I said, wiping my face.

His muscles flexed as he strained to reach across the seat. He retrieved a rumpled fast-food napkin from his glove box. “I don’t know why,” he said, handing it to me. “Nothing to be sorry for.”

I turned my face away and blew my nose, then looked for a place to throw the napkin away.

“Go on,” he encouraged, cracking the window. “Berkeley’s too clean anyway.”

I croaked out a chuckle and tossed the napkin outside. He started to roll the window back up, but I stopped him; the rain smelled good, and I didn’t mind the occasional drop or three on the back of my neck when the wind blew. It felt nice.

His thumb swiped beneath one eye, then the other. “Makeup goo,” he explained, cleaning up my running mascara. “Better?”

I nodded and let my head loll back against his shoulder. “I don’t know why my father got to me that way. It’s not like my family problems are anywhere near as epic as yours. You must think I’m a whiner.”

“I think no such thing. You have every right to be upset. My family’s been through a lot, but I can’t imagine what it would be like if my dad left us. I love her, but my mom is no Katherine the Great. She’s a cheerleader, not a provider.”

“Your mom’s fought her own battles,” I reminded him.

He grunted his agreement.

“What if my father wasn’t lying? Why would Mom turn down child support?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she’s too proud. Maybe it made her feel weak.”

“If that’s true, okay, but she lied to us. All this time, I thought he was this deadbeat dad. Why would she do that?”

“Because she’s human, and she makes mistakes? Or maybe your father wasn’t telling the truth, either. Maybe he’s feeling guilty and saying whatever it takes to win you over. Confront your mom and ask her.”

“I can’t. Then she’ll know I lied about coming out here. And she’ll know I kept the artist’s mannequin from her. And she’ll feel betrayed.”

“Don’t you?”

I thought about that for a second. “I’m not sure what I feel. All I know is that I’m tired of being the innocent bystander who gets punched in the gut. It’s their fight—Mom and Dad’s. But how come Heath and I are the ones who end up bruised?”

He rearranged one of my braids and wound the loose tail around the tip of his index finger. “Because everything we do in life affects someone else. Buddhists say that inside and outside are basically the same thing. It’s like we’re all trapped together in a small room. If someone pisses in the corner, we all have to worry about it trickling across the floor and getting our shoes wet.”

I chuckled again. “Or clogging up the escalator.”

He smiled against my forehead. “Or someone painting a message on the escalator you don’t understand.”

“I don’t want my mistakes to affect everyone else in the room,” I said after a moment. “I want to keep to myself and do as little damage as possible.”

“That’s one way of living, sure. But it’s lonely, and doing nothing can cause as much damage as doing something. We’re part of a machine, whether we like it or not. If one piston stops working, the engine will run poorly. And I for one would much rather that you piss on my shoe than that I watch you withdraw into the corner.”

“Gross.”

“What? It’s how you get rid of jellyfish stings.”

“That’s an old wives’ tale. If you ever pee on me, I’ll hurt you.”

“So violent.” His splayed fingers danced over my back like a spider.

I squealed as he attacked my side, tickling me with gusto. I couldn’t pry his fingers away from my ribs. “St-top!” I protested in the middle of a fit of laughter.