The Queen of Bright and Shiny Things(23)

“He’s a truck driver. He didn’t even have a place until the court dumped me on him. He just put up at short-term motels between long hauls.”

Judging by the crappy accommodations, Shane isn’t close to his dad, as the guy didn’t go out of his way to provide. “I shouldn’t even say anything, but—”

“Don’t say it. I’m not reporting him.”

“Why?” I demand. “He can’t get away with hurting you.”

“I made him a deal,” Shane says, surprising me. “He bought this place … and signs off on any paperwork. In return, I look after myself.”

“But … your face…” I really thought his dad had hit him. But he’s not even here?

“You’ve seen the front porch. Try going out the door when you have an arm full of stuff.”

“You’re trying to convince me you fell.”

He smiles. “I really did. I promise. After I broke my history project, I said screw it.” So it’s the project in the trash, not liquor bottles? “I didn’t feel like going today. My dad is many things … and a good father isn’t one of them, but he doesn’t punch me in the face. He’d just rather not see me.”

“Why not?” I ask, despite my resolution not to pry.

He shrugs, but the careless gesture reveals a world of vulnerability. “I remind him too much of my mom. It hurts, I guess.”

“Because she’s gone.” I have no idea what that means, though. Did the woman move to California to find herself, or—

Before I can speculate, he says softly, “Yeah. Her funeral was the worst day of my life.”

Wow. So, forever gone.

Without even thinking about it, I move over beside him on the sagging couch, gently nudging his guitar aside to cover his hand with mine. This is new to me; I’m more familiar with distant kindness, leaving Post-its and moving on. I don’t know much about making real connections, but for Shane, I’ll crawl out of my comfort zone. He wraps his fingers around mine, and I think, I could live in your eyes.

“What happened?” Belatedly, I realize he might not want to talk about it, but if he doesn’t, he can say so. I won’t back off the bravery with a babbling disclaimer.

“Things were okay when I was younger. My dad was never around a lot. He’s always driven a big rig, as long as I can remember. But when he came home, my mom would light up and it was like Christmas. He always brought presents…”

“That sounds nice.” I don’t remember a time when my mom and dad were together and happy. She left right after I was born. Things were better when my dad had custody, but I’ve never been part of a typical family unit. I know how it feels to lose a parent, though. Later, I’ll tell him so, but right now, I don’t want to interrupt.

“I was always closer to Mom for obvious reasons.”

I nod.

“She got sick when I was twelve.”

There should be some words in the world that could make it better somehow, but if they exist, I don’t know them. So I just cling to his hand, gaze locked on his bruised face. His eyes are just swimming, not in tears, but sadness. His chin drops.

“We went through rounds of radiation, aggressive meds, chemo. Year after year. She had two remissions before it finally got her.”

No wonder the football team didn’t have the power to bother him.

He goes on, “My dad bailed when I was fourteen. He couldn’t stand watching her die.”

“That was a * thing to do,” I say. That’s not a word I normally use, but it applies.

Wry smile. “You’re telling me. But my mom forgave him. Said he just loved her too much to let her go. And that’s what I had to do … so she could finally, y’know.”

“Rest?” I supply, unsure.

“Yeah,” he says tiredly. “Dad wouldn’t come back to Michigan City, said he couldn’t. I was on the verge of going into the system for the last time when I cut this deal with him.”

“The last time?”

He hunches his shoulders. “I didn’t handle it well after my mom died. A friend of hers let me stay with him while he looked for my dad, but I wasn’t … cooperative. Or law abiding.” I can see that he regrets it, probably feels like he let his mom down.

“You went a little crazy. It’s understandable.” I’m guessing whatever he did, like get into fights, shoplift, drink, maybe drugs, it isn’t as bad as what I’m hiding.

“So I’m lucky I avoided a permanent stay in juvie,” he concludes. “My dad came through.”

“And bought you all this.”

My disdain must’ve penetrated because his brows draw together. “It’s not much, but it’s mine. It’s all he could afford. My mom’s medical bills…”

“I am such an *. I’m sorry.”

“It is a dump. But it’s better than foster care. I just … I couldn’t deal with a new family right now. I just wanted to be by myself.”

I wonder if that’s really what he needs, but it’s not my place to judge. I had years of court-mandated therapy and I don’t feel fixed. I just feel like a different kind of broken.

He goes on, “Promise you won’t tell anyone. I’m not sure if this is strictly legal.”