Chasing Spring(14)

It was springtime when my mother had left us for the first time. I was seven. It was hard to know what was going on then—when my mother walked out that day, my dad gave me a G-rated version of the truth—but now that I'd had eleven years to study the memories and form them into coherent events, it all made sense.

Freedom.

At the time, I was confused about why she couldn’t have freedom with us, and then I realized that freedom was a euphemism, and a poor one at that. To her, freedom represented everything she had been forced to give up because of me—partying, and pills, and strange men.

I’d tried hard to get her to stay that day.

I ran out of the house after her, but my dad held me back. I screamed for her out on our porch stairs as she lugged two broken suitcases toward the old black Camaro waiting for her at the end of our driveway. The car rumbled so loudly that at first, I thought she couldn’t hear me crying. I screamed louder as she loaded the suitcases in the backseat and the guy sitting behind the wheel turned to stare at me. He dangled a cigarette between his fingers and I could see the dark tattoos snaked around his arm. He had a black baseball hat pulled low, covering his eyes, and after my mom slid into the passenger seat beside him, he drove that car away as fast as possible, squealing his tires on the pavement.

My mother had never turned back.

The memory of that day faded as I rounded the corner to see my house sitting empty and quiet. Nothing had changed. I could still picture the black Camaro in the driveway even though the tire marks had faded years ago.

I walked up the front path, ready to ascend the rickety stairs, when suddenly, I hesitated. There was nothing for me inside that house. My dad and Chase were both at baseball practice. I had no homework and no new secrets to revel in. I had nothing to distract myself from old memories. I reached for my phone and texted Trent out of impulse.



Lilah: Are you home?



After I hit send, I turned and sat down at the foot of the porch stairs, trying to get the image of my mother out of my mind. A second later, my phone buzzed.



Trent: About to be. Come over, my mom is working a double.



I knew I was running from my past as I pushed off the porch and started to head in the direction of Trent's house. I knew it, and yet I didn't care. I wanted a temporary salve and that's what he would be.

It was a short walk to the poor neighborhood across Main Street. Trent was waiting for me when I reached his old bungalow house. He kicked the screen door open and shot me a knowing glance as I walked up the gravel path. A stray tabby cat crossed in front of me, starring up at me with nervous eyes.

“Just couldn't stay away?” he asked with a charming smirk. I wanted to tell him how little he meant to me—to wipe that smirk right off his face—but I shrugged and moved past him through the doorway. The scent of mildew hit me right away.

“Want to smoke?” he asked, already heading to find his stash.

“I'm fine. Let's just go to your room. I have to be back before my dad gets home from practice. He wants to eat dinner as a family.”

My dad wouldn’t care if I was late, but the excuse would justify my quick departure.

I dropped my backpack in the front entry and followed him to his room, trying to ignore the sadness that emanated from his quiet house. I knew Trent's world was marred with memories just as terrible as mine. He never talked about his dad, but everyone gossips in a small town, and no one can resist the juicy details of a parent’s early departure. I knew that better than anyone.

We moved through his dark house until we reached his room. The stench of ancient smoke was impossible to miss. There were yellow stains across the carpet of indiscernible origins and posters covering every available surface of his walls. When I reached his bed, I kicked off my shoes and fell back onto the worn sheets. Trent followed me into his room and sat at his desk to light up.

If I held my breath, I could pretend his sheets smelled like the shower gel that had appeared in our upstairs bathroom upon Chase's arrival. I'd used it that morning on a whim, wanting to see if his scent could rub off on me.

It wasn't the sex that kept me going back to guys like Trent; that part wasn’t even that great. It was afterward, when we lay in bed. For a few minutes I pretended that I was a girl that was loved and could love. I pretended that instead of another sad kid—a nameless guy—they were my soulmate, a boy I'd known my whole life.

I tried to push the sadness away. I didn't know why it was hitting me there of all places. I was supposed to be there to run from my memories, but even when I closed my eyes and fisted Trent's sheets between my fingers, I had the sudden urge to scream.

Shit.

I had to get out.

I pushed off his bed and went to grab my shoes.

“Where are you going?” he asked, spinning in his desk chair, not bothering to pause rolling his joint.

“Sorry, I totally spaced. My dad is getting home early today. I'll see you at school,” I stammered before leaving his room. I retrieved my backpack from the entry, forced my Converse on, and pushed through the screen door.

The smell of spring hit me again and I squeezed my eyes closed. In late January, the air was crisp and clean. None of the humid heat that swept in during the summer had made an appearance yet. I longed for that humidity. I longed for the stifling heat. It meant I had three whole seasons to prepare myself before spring came again.