Worth Saving(31)

“My last name is Davison. Layla Davison. But, now that you mention it, I don’t know yours either.”

“It’s Sloan,” he replies with a proud grin. I wish I had that much pride when I said my family name. “My name is Captain Austin Sloan, United States Air Force.”

“You’re so proud when you say it,” I point out. “I take it you like what you do?”

“I did. I do,” he stammers like he’s unsure all of a sudden. “I like it. I’m proud to serve my country.”

“Were you a military brat growing up, or did you decide you wanted to do this on your own?”

“I was a military brat, I must admit. My dad was in the Air Force, too, but the decision for me to join was all mine. I don’t do this for my parents, but they’re proud I’m following my dad’s footsteps. They’re sure to tell me how proud they are every time I talk to them on the phone. They love that I became a pilot like my father, although my dad likes to take shots at me for not flying a jet like he did. I make fun of him for never seeing combat. We have a little fun with it. How about you? You close to your parents?”

I feel a sharp sting in my stomach now. I don’t usually have conversations with anyone about my parents. I honestly try not to think about them at all, and I’ve never been close enough to anyone to actually open up to them about my life. There’s only one person who knows about them, and that’s Marlene.

“Umm . . . my parents,” I stammer. Where do I even begin? Do I tell the truth? “I don’t . . . uhh . . . my mother left me with my dad when I was three. We never heard from her again, so I don’t know what happened with her. And my father . . . I don’t talk to him.” I try not to sound upset, but I must not have done a good job, because Austin stops painting and turns to look at me. I can see he wants me to open up about it, but I’m not sure I’m ready for that. But, instead of dwelling on it, I don’t think about it. I just keep talking.

“My father wasn’t a very nice person,” I continue, but I make sure to whisper and keep my eyes focused on the terrible painting I’m doing in front of me. “He was a drunk, and he liked to hit me when he got stressed out . . . and when he was tired, and when he was happy, and any other time he felt like it, I guess. I ran away from home when I was seventeen because he tried to upgrade from hitting me to . . . touching me.”

I hear the words come out of my mouth, but I can barely believe I’m saying them, and I’m not sure what kind of reaction I’m expecting from Austin. But, when I finally build up the nerve to look at him, he’s just painting. I’m not even sure if he was listening, but I’m guessing he’s not sure what to say, so he’s just focused on what he’s doing. I’m probably freaking him out with this sudden burst of deep, dark honesty. This is why I don’t spill the gloom of my life out in the open for everyone to see. It’s too much for me, so of course it’s too much for other people.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Austin says, cutting off my train of thought. “Some people don’t know they have something special, even when they made it themselves and it’s staring them right in the face. Makes sense why you wouldn’t talk to him. You should be proud of yourself, though.”

“Proud? What’s there to be proud of?” Neither of us is looking at the other now, we’re just moving the brushes around, using the distraction of painting to keep from having to make eye contact—it makes it easier to be honest.

“A lot of people aren’t strong enough to remove themselves from an abusive environment like that. But, you did. You found the strength to save your own life and make something better out of it, despite your father holding you back. You’re stronger than everyone else out there—everyone who’s had it easy. Stronger than me.”

Another perfectly worded paragraph that I have no response to. I don’t know how he does is, but Austin somehow manages to say exactly what I need to hear, like he’s in my head and knows how to ease pain that’s invisible to him.

I never thought of it that way before. To me, it took me seventeen years to finally realize I’d had enough. It was either suicide or get the hell out of there, and I wasn’t going to let my father win by killing myself. So, I left. I felt like I did it more out of necessity than strength, but Austin is trying to help me see it a different way. A better way.

“Alright, my lively young class, let’s see how those first paintings have gone, shall we?” Danielle interrupts. She starts to make her way around the room, glancing at everyone’s paintings. I look at mine and see that I’m an absolutely horrible painter. This is nothing like drawing, and I was never all that great with that either. I wasn’t exactly talented in school when it came to arts and crafts, and this mess of squiggly lines shows why.

“That’s a beauty,” Austin says with a chuckle as he leans over. “Have you been painting your whole life?”

“What? Are you kidding?” I snip, but then I see the enormous smile on his face. He’s making fun of me. “Oh, you think that’s funny? What about yours? Let me see.”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to make you jealous with this masterpiece over here.” He tries to put his hands in front of the canvas so I can’t see, so I reach over and snatch them down. The second the painting is visible, both of us burst into laughter.