Incomplete (20 page)

My insides twist and I grimace, turning away. And there’s Aidan—sitting on the steps to our house, his dark head hung. He’s wearing jeans and a black shirt.

“Hey.” I sit beside him. “Little hot for pants, don’t you think?”

He shrugs, still not looking at me.

I sigh and put my arm around his scrawny shoulders. “What’s going on, Aidan?”

“Nothing.
You smell,” he mutters.

I sniff my armpit.
“Yeah. I know. But I know that’s not what’s bothering you because you have to deal with your own stench on a daily basis, which is way worse than mine, so what gives? Is it Mom and Dad?”

He shakes his head.

I study his lowered head, tilting mine to see his face better. I only catch a glimpse, but it’s enough. “Look at me,” I demand.

Again he shakes his head.

“All right, Aidan. We’ll do this the hard way then,” I say in a low voice, kneeling before him. I grab his shoulders and he fights me off, kicking out with his leg. “Knock it off and let me see!” I shout angrily.

“No!” Aidan makes another swipe with his leg and it connects with my shin. I growl in response to the instant pain.

It’s a low move, but I’m desperate, so I grip his hair in my hands and yank his head back, revealing the black smudge around his eye that shouldn’t be there. Aidan defiantly glares at me, and though the situation is not ideal, I feel my respect for him growing as he stares me down.

“Who did this to you?”

“No one.” He blinks his eyes, but tears continue to pool beneath them.

Air hisses through my teeth as I inhale. “Tell me now so I can kick their ass. I mean it.”

Aidan sniffles and I let him go, lowering myself to the prickly ground. He wipes his face on the sleeve of his shirt, but won’t meet my gaze.

I gentle my tone. “Aidan, come on.
Talk to me. Who did this?”

He lifts his face and it reddens as his eyes finally meet mine, his expression twisting with fury as he yells, “I did it!
All right? I did it!” Aidan jumps to his feet, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“What?” I slowly stand, looking at the quivering mass of fury that is normally my quiet, subdued brother.

“I can’t do anything right! I can’t even shoot a stupid basket without tripping over my feet and landing on my face! I’m worthless! Stupid.” He’s crying now, his voice shaking as he hollers through his tears.

My heart hurts looking at him, hearing him. I feel like I’m watching myself, looking in a distorted mirror at my own sorry reflection. He is me. When did this happen?
How
did this happen? I run a trembling hand through my hair. I let him down. My fault—this is my fault. He’s not supposed to think this way, feel this way. I let him down. I was supposed to protect him from all the insecurities I carry and I let him down.

Aidan’s sobs are knives to my ears and I forcefully yank him into my arms and hug him. He doesn’t hug me back, but that’s okay. I’m hugging him. “I’ll shoot hoops with you,” I say, my voice rough from the emotions I won’t let out.

“It won’t matter. I’m not any good.” His voice is miserable.

How am I going to leave him? I squeeze my brother tighter, feeling what I can only guess are tears and most likely snot dampening my shirt. I close my eyes and let the relentless sun beat down on me. “I’ll still shoot hoops with you. I should have been doing it more anyway. I’m sorry.”

Aidan pulls away and wipes his face. “You’re leaving soon. Don’t bother.”

Pain laces through my heart like little ribbons of agony.
“Aidan, I swear I’ll see you every chance I get. I promise. And you can stay with me whenever you want to, no matter what. I would take you with me if I could,” I vow, meaning it.

He rubs his face across his arm and straightens his shoulders. Eyes brown and intense lock with mine. “I won’t have anyone after you go, Grayson. Dad’s hardly ever home and all
Mom cares about is drinking.”

All this from an eleven-year old.
He is too serious, too intuitive—too everything he shouldn’t be for a kid his age.

I bow my head, my shoulders lowering under the weight of all I can’t change. “I know.” My gaze lifts in the direction of Lily’s house. “But you won’t be alone, Aidan. Lily…” I choke on her name and swallow. “Lily will look out for you. If you’re ever sad or scared or just don’t want to be alone, go to Lily. Okay?
Promise?”

He frowns, slowly nodding. “Okay.” Aidan brightens a little. “Maybe she can be my girlfriend.”

“Maybe not,” I retort with a scowl.

Aidan laughs. “Want to shoot hoops at the park for a while?”

I mess up his sweat-dampened hair. “I was just going to ask you the same. Lead on, little man.”

“I’ll get the ball.” Aidan runs to the garage and comes back carrying a well-used basketball.

As we’re walking, I say, “Can I ask you something?”

“Okay.”

A breeze, hot and stifling, waves over us. “How did you manage to give yourself a black eye shooting hoops?”

Aidan scowls and kicks at a rock. “I shot a basket and missed. When I went to catch the ball it slammed into my face.
Somehow.”

I choke laughter back.
“
How?
”

“I don’t know!”

Laughter bubbles forth of its own volition. “And you thought you weren’t talented.”

Aidan’s frown turns into a grin and he shrugs.

***

‘Keep the promises you make to yourself.’

The wrapper was on the doorstep and I would have missed it if the sunlight hadn’t hit it just as I looked down. It didn’t make me feel better. With a clenched jaw, I stared at the darkened house across the street. In fact, these little messages of Lily’s are starting to aggravate me. I kicked the piece of foil into the grass and I ran, faster and harder than I can remember ever doing before. I tried to outrun her, her image, her voice, the emotions I feel when I think of her—anger, resentment, longing, and still, always, love. That didn’t help. Nothing I do or don’t do helps. I am going insane in the wake of her absence from my life. And those fucking Dove chocolate wrappers are mocking me. I hate those things.

“Don’t do it.”

I glance at Ana as I dry a glass. “Don’t do what?”

She nods in the direction of Zoe. “That.
Her. Not a good idea.”

“Do you know her?”

“Yeah. She’s been after you for the last couple of weeks or so, coming in here, skanking up the place. I know her.” She glares in the direction of Zoe. Zoe smiles and chews on the mini straw to her drink.

“No, I mean personally know her,” I say, looking down when Zoe winks at me.

Ana makes a sound of disgust and shows Zoe her back. “I don’t need to
personally
know her to know she’s trouble. Trouble you don’t need. If you’re smart, you’ll stay away.”

I grin, hoping I look more confident than I feel. “No one said I was smart.”

“True. You’ve been acting pretty dumb lately.” Ana crosses her arms, muttering, “I wish I could put a sign up that says ‘No Tramps Allowed’.”

I snort. “Most of the tri-state area wouldn’t be let in then.”

“And what a nicer place it would be.”

‘Springsteen’ by Eric Church comes on the jukebox and I feel ill. This song makes me think of Garrett’s party, which makes me think of Lily, which makes me want to carve my own heart out so I don’t hurt anymore. I swallow and set the glass down before I drop it. She filters through my head and I clench my jaw. I need to get over her, move on. Lily has moved on—why can’t I? My eyes lift to Zoe. She’s watching me, one eyebrow arched as she sips her rum and Coke.

I make a decision, ignoring Ana’s utterance of, “Stupid,” as I cross the bar to the woman in the slinky gray dress. Her eyes match her dress and hungrily look me up and down. I slam Lily out of my thoughts and focus on her instead. Her hair is blond—short and messy. She looks like a woman who knows what she wants and usually gets it. Right now she wants me.

“How old are you?” she asks in a throaty voice, uncrossing and crossing her toned legs.

“Old enough,” I tell her. Maybe she can make me forget about Lily. Just for a little while, that’s all I want. “You?”

Her lips curve.
“Young enough.”

I smile through the sick feeling in my stomach and tell myself this is what I need, but the guilt, the wrongness of it, chews me up inside even as I take the phone number and address she offers, shoving it in my back pocket. It’s all part of a plan to change myself into someone who doesn’t pine for Lily anymore.

So far, it’s a miss.

Ana grabs me by the wrist and tugs me around to face her, her grip uncomfortable. Anger is etched into the sultry features of her face. “I get that you love Lily and you’re heartbroken right now. That it is
killing
you not being able to be with her. I
get it
. But hooking up with some random chick that oozes promiscuity like a raging bout of herpes is not the way to go about moving on. Start thinking with your head instead of your heart. Or whatever it is you’re thinking with.” She releases my hand and storms off to help a customer.

I look after my friend, unseeing of the blond or anyone else in the near vicinity. I know she is right and I should listen to her, but logic is not a stop on the path to destruction.

***

The walls are white, the room long and narrow. Alternative rock music blares out from overhead speakers. It’s cold in the room and smells like bleach. The cool air is seeping into me, enfolding me in its icy arms. I inhale and exhale—once, twice, until my heart rate steadies some.

“You sure you want to do this? There’s still time to change your mind.” Ben stands in front of a wall of art with his arms crossed across his chest, his eyes straight ahead, studying the varying forms of artwork. His jeans are holey and there is a brown stain the length of his pale blue shirt. 

I roll my shoulders and take a deep breath.
“Yep.”

With a grin, he turns and slaps my shoulder. “What’ll it be?”

My eyes search the walls, roaming over designs, pictures, and letters. There are so many to choose from. I turn in a slow circle, freezing when my eyes find it. That—that is what I want. Need. I point at it.

Ben groans.
“Really? That’s what you want? Kind of lame, don’t you think?”

I silently glare at him.

Hands up, he backs away. “Okay. Fine. I’ll get Joe.”

Joe Wolfe is Ben’s older brother and this is his tattoo shop, simply titled ‘Joe’s’. Ben’s thinking of getting into the business as well. He would be good at it. He has a good eye and he’s artistic. There is just the little problem of him being scared of needles.

Joe is taller and stockier than Ben and when they amble out of the backroom together, Joe shoves Ben and he almost falls, stumbling before righting himself. Ben flips him off and keeps walking, making his brother laugh. Joe is happily married with a three-year old daughter he treasures above all. He glows. It hurts to look at him too long, so I don’t, taking quick peeks instead.

“Grayson.
What’s your pleasure?” Joe asks, his brown eyes twinkling. He has sideburns and a goatee and mustache, his coloring and looks almost identical to his brother’s, although Ben remains clean shaven.  

“He wants that,” Ben replie
s, rolling his eyes as he taps the picture.

Joe doesn’t say anything for a minute, merely shrugs. “It’s his choice.”

“His choice is ridiculous.” Ben turns to me. “Why not get something manly? Like spikes or barbed wire or something? Blood. Gore. Ya know, cool stuff.”

I bump his shoulder with mine as I pass by. “Why don’t you?”

Ben’s face whitens as his mouth opens, but no sound comes out. I think it’s funny that he wants to be a tattoo artist, yet he’s scared of needles and won’t get a tattoo himself. Makes sense.

Joe motions for me to follow him. We go into the backroom used to do the tattooing. White walls, bleach smell—same as the other room. This area is smaller than the front room with a reclined chair in the middle of the room and a wheeled stool for Joe to sit on as he works. The music is quieter in here than in the other room, a low hum of lyrics and drums reaching us.

He slaps a piece of paper and pen against my chest. “Sign this.”

I sign the waiver without reading it and pass it back, suddenly nervous. I’m not anxious about the actual tattooing—that doesn’t bother me. I don’t really know why I’m nervous, honestly. Maybe because I feel like everything is crumbling around me and I’m losing control of myself—that has to be what I’m nervous about. Here is one more obvious piece of proof that I’m changing, becoming someone different. It’s scary, but I know it is also necessary for me to survive this life without her. I can’t be the Grayson she knew or I won’t make it.

“Where do you want it?”

“What?” I glance at him, blinking.

“Your tattoo. Where do you want it?” Joe doesn’t look at me as he sets instruments where he wants them. He is wearing gloves as he opens a bottle of alcohol and dampens gauze pads, placing them on a metal tray next to the chair.