The Art of Losing(22)

“I’ve since moved on to slightly more sophisticated fare,” I said. I could feel the scowl that formed any time I felt challenged about reading comics.

He held up his hands. “I’m not making fun of you, Harley,” he said.

“Sorry,” I said, trying to force my face to relax. “I get a little defensive about it.”

“Why? Did Mike make fun of it or something?”

“No,” I said, suppressing a smile at Raf’s protective tone. “It was one of the only things he and I had in common actually. But his friends were less enthusiastic. So are mine.”

“I get it. I was lucky that my passion was something I could study at school. At least part-time. But that didn’t mean everyone respected it.”

I glimpsed the small flicker of sadness behind his smile, but he shook it off.

“At least the things you’re good at are tangible,” I said. “You end up with a piece of art. But what does reading comics get me? Sharp reading comprehension skills and a superhero complex? How do the hours I spend bingeing shows that aired years ago help with my social skills? I’m a waste of space. You create beauty.”

Raf was grinning at me, this time with no tinge of sadness or pain at all. “So what else do you do? Aside from comics and TV?”

I shrugged, legitimately stumped. “I don’t know. I hang out with Cassidy. Mostly, I just did whatever Mike wanted to do.” A whirlpool of guilt swirled in my stomach. “I wasted three years of high school doing whatever he wanted, hanging out with his friends, being who he wanted me to be.”

A lump had risen in my throat, and tears were now burning in my eyes. I took a deep breath and tried to will them away.

“It’s okay to be upset,” Raf said, laying a hand on my shoulder. “Although, in the program, they say that ‘upset’ isn’t actually an emotion. They want you to say you’re angry or anxious or resentful. Mostly powerless. That’s the big one.”

“I’m not any of those things,” I managed to say. But my voice was tight. “I’m fine.” I sat down on the bed next to him.

“They also say that ‘fine’ stands for ‘fucked up, insecure, neurotic, and emotional.’”

“Yeah, well, ‘they’ can bite me,” I said. “Because that spells FUINE.”

Raf burst out laughing.

I turned to face him, frowning at first, then fixating on his eyes. His lashes were still so long, the way they’d been when he was a kid. But I’d never noticed the golden flecks in his irises.

“You know what I find surprising about your lack of interests,” Raf said, snapping me back into the moment. “You’ve always seemed so sure of yourself. I feel like you could do anything you want.”

I turned away. “Yeah, right. You’ve obviously never seen me in gym class.”

“Very few people look good in gym,” he said. “But don’t worry. We’ll figure out what would make you happy.”

“We?”

“You and me.”

“Why would you want to figure that out?”

“Why not? What else do I have going on right now?”

“Okay,” I said skeptically. “But not tonight. I should go.” It was late and I didn’t want Mom and Dad to worry.

“Hang on,” he said, standing. “I’ll walk you home.”

A smile tugged at my lips. “Remember how we used to walk each other home, back and forth, for as long as we could? We kept doing it until our parents practically dragged us away from each other.”

Raf grinned. “Yeah, they really had their hands full with the two of us schemers.”

“It’s probably a good thing we stopped hanging out,” I said, as I opened his bedroom door. “You were a bad influence. Still are.”

Once again, Raf made a show of being offended. “Me? I am pure as the driven snow! How dare you imply that I would ever try to corrupt you?”

I pointed at the unlit cigarette he held between his thumb and forefinger.

“If I recall correctly, you were the one who was smoking first that night,” he said.

For some reason, it pleased me that he remembered. I turned away to hide my smile. But when we stopped at my front porch, I asked, “Are you going to smoke that?”

He nodded. “Yeah, but I’ll wait until you go inside. I wouldn’t want to be a bad influence.”

Now I didn’t feel the need to hide it when I smiled at him. “You’re a good friend. I take back what I said.”

“We go way back,” he said with a shrug. Then he pulled out his phone. “Hey, give me your number. Friends have each other’s numbers.”

“Fair point,” I said, adding my number. A few seconds later, my phone buzzed with an incoming text: Sleep tight, xo Raf

“You, too,” I said and then closed the door behind me.

Floyd wasn’t waiting at the door, so I assumed, gratefully, that my parents must be asleep, but Dad was in the kitchen when I rounded the corner on tiptoes. He glanced over at me and then went back to spooning out one of the omnipresent neighbor-provided casseroles onto a plate. Floyd, the traitor, was staring eagerly at the spoon in his hand.

“Did you just get home?” I asked.