Unspoken (The Woodlands) (29 page)

“Do all therapy sessions involve alcohol? Because if so, I see why it’s popular.”

“Nope, only mine.”

She handed me a large tumbler with ice cubes and what seemed like a fifth of vodka.

“Do you think I’m that fucked up that I need an entire bottle of vodka to fix me?”

Lana shook her long blond hair. “It’s to loosen you up.”

She led me over to the sofa, but I looked at it dubiously. I’d heard a lot of activity took place on that sofa. Lana huffed and pushed me into the chair next to it. “Is Grace still bad-mouthing this sofa?”

I nodded, taking a long draught from the tumbler. “Yes, she’s warned all of us that the sofa’s to be used only in the direst of circumstances because it was infected by Peter the Pumpkin Eater, as she calls him. I take it he’s an ex?”

“Yeah. He’s clean, as far as I know, though. But enough about Grace’s sofa-phobia. What are you doing here? Trying to find the best way to break Noah and Grace up?”

“No!” I exclaimed. “What kind of jackass do you think I am? Is that what Grace thinks?” More importantly, was she saying shit like that to Noah?

Lana scratched delicately behind her ear, like a Persian cat, and contemplated me. “Nah, I was just testing you out. Although, Grace does still think you don’t like her.”

“I don’t know her well enough to like her or dislike her,” I said flatly. “But she makes my boy happy and that’s enough for me.” I didn’t add the “for now,” but Lana let it go.

“Why are you here?”

“Because Grace says you’re always trying to give her advice.”

Lana rolled her eyes. “What do you need advice about?”

“Stuff.” Even sitting here, I was reluctant to share. I had held on to the secret of my dad’s behavior so long, it seemed weird to say it out loud. I felt like I was admitting to some defect. Would Lana think I was a monster because my dad was?

“Stuff is a broad topic,” Lana said mildly. She stretched her legs out, lifting her delicate feet and resting them on the stuffed cube in front of her chair, looking like she could wait me out all day long.

I opened my mouth and I told her everything I had shared with Finn. My dickhead dad. My confusion with my mother. My fear of hurting AM. Lana simply listened. Her face didn’t change one iota. If anything, the longer I went on, the more bored she looked, as if my story was mundane and ordinary and not at all the source of nightmares.

“You could write stuff down in a journal. That’s what every therapist liked to tell me. They’re big into journaling,” Lana suggested.

“Write stuff down? Like what?” I asked.

“Your feelings.”

“My feelings?” I felt like a parrot—a dumb, uncomfortable one.

“You know, I kind of like having you here. It gives me insight as to how awful real therapy will be,” Lana joked.

“Your bedside manner needs a lot of work.”

“The point is, Bo,” Lana said, finally sitting up. She leaned her elbows on her knees and pinned me with her blue eyes. “If you really think you need help, you shouldn’t be here talking to me, someone who’s had less than two years of psychology classes. I don’t think my years of therapy are counted into my practicum.”

“Do you think I really need help?”

“I don’t know. I guess if how you express yourself is either with sex or fighting then probably, but I think those are just excuses.”

“How so?” I held my breath and leaned toward her as if she was going to hand me the secret solution to every problem I had.

“You’re a pretty disciplined guy. You work out a lot or you wouldn’t have the body that you do. You’re obviously very smart or you wouldn’t be here at Central. You don’t seem to be wrapped up in your appearance, given that you seem to wear the same ratty pair of jeans every time I’ve seen you and your boots, which I presume you wore in the Army.”

“Marines.”

“Whatever, it’s all the same.”

I opened my mouth to explain to her that it wasn’t all the same, but she waved her hand to forestall any further talk.

“I don’t really care about how it’s different. You wouldn’t have survived in the disciplined environment of the military without learning some self-restraint. So you have it and you’re able to use it when you want.”

“But what about my dad?”

“What about him?”

What did I want to say? I just blurted out, “He’s a bad guy.”

“So you think you’re bad, too?” I didn’t want to nod, I just looked at her.

“You can write your own story.” Lana sighed softly.

“Like in the journal?”

“No, your life story. Write your own narrative. Be your own person. You want to be the guy who lives only to fight and possibly turn into someone hooked up to a breathing tube, breaking your girl’s heart, or you want to be the guy who enjoys every day of his life? What’s the best revenge against your dad? Do you really think he feels it when you pummel someone else? Do you really think that bothers him? Wouldn’t the biggest thing that bothers him be you living well and being happy?”

I stared at her in amazement. She really was scary because yes, that would be the biggest thing I could do to bother him.

Chapter Twenty-Five

AM

“W
HAT
’
S
THAT
NOISE
?” E
LLIE
EXCLAIMED
.

The blanket was over my head as I lay on the sofa. Ellie and I had splurged on pizza and milkshakes to compensate for the hearts and flowers that seemed to pervade every retail establishment, left over from last week’s Valentine’s Day. Ellie and Ryan had talked last night about her fear of attachment and then we’d all discussed the issue of the laxers. I didn’t know what to do about them, and I wished Bo would call me back, but the phone remained stubbornly silent. He’d missed class again on Wednesday. I wondered if he was going to drop out or transfer and the thought of Bo not being a part of my life seemed worse than attending a thousand parties with Clay Howard.

I pulled down the blanket at Ellie’s proclamation and listened. It sounded like an animal was dying painfully underneath our balcony.

Ellie ran to the balcony doors and wrenched them open, the snow and ice making it difficult. She was out there for a minute, nearly motionless. The dying animal sounds stopped and then started again.

The sliding door creaked as she returned. “I think you need to go out there.”

“What is it?”

“You won’t believe it unless you see it,” Ellie said. “I’m going to my room to call Ryan. Don’t disturb me.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I rose and saluted her. Dragging the blanket with me, I stepped outside and realized that it wasn’t an animal dying but someone singing. Someone singing really badly. I peeked over the railing and saw Bo and Adam sitting on the top of Bo’s car. Adam was strumming his guitar and Bo was singing into a microphone hooked up to a portable speaker. The sound emanating from Bo’s mouth distorted the lyrics, but I think I caught the words to Bruno Mars’s “When I Was Your Man.” Bo was singing that he regretted that he’d let his ego and pride get in the way of us being together.

It didn’t make sense to me. I hadn’t wanted him to leave, but I never got a chance to say so. Instead, Bo just disappeared. He didn’t come to class. He didn’t return my phone calls. But he kept on singing about all the changes he was going to make. Other doors or windows in the apartment complex opened and invectives were released.

“Shut up!”

“This isn’t the place for losers to audition for
American Idol
.”

“If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m going to come down and shut your mouth for you.”

But still Bo wouldn’t stop singing. I held up my hand and both the awful singing and the guitar playing stopped. “If I let you come up, will you stop torturing my neighbors?”

“I will,” Bo said into the microphone.

“You’d better come inside then, or we’ll get kicked out.”

Bo jumped down off the car and held out a hand to Adam. They slapped their hands together, and Adam got into Bo’s car and drove away. Instead of going to the front door like a rational human being, Bo vaulted onto the first-floor fence and swung his way onto the second-floor balcony and then the third floor.

“You’re a crazy person, Bo Randolph.”

“But you love me anyway?” He spread out his gloved hands in front of me, trying for innocent schoolboy but not quite pulling it off.

“I guess so.” I sighed and turned to go back into the apartment. Inside, I felt all shivery. Love? Did he really love me? Bo followed me inside, locked the door, and pulled the shades.

“Your security here is really bad,” Bo noted, trailing me into my bedroom.

“I don’t think anyone else is going to scale the walls to get into our apartment,” I said dryly.

“Still, I think it makes sense, from a safety standpoint, to sleep here every night.”

“From a safety standpoint?” I asked, dropping the blanket and starting to help Bo out of jacket and gloves.

“Yeah, don’t want the owners to get sued for unsafe premises.” Bo allowed me to unzip, unbuckle, and unsnap.

“That would seem to be something that would jeopardize my lease,” I agreed. “I like living here, with Ellie, and across from Sasha.”

I pushed his jacket off and ran my hands across the uneven texture of his thermal shirt, lightly kneading the muscles underneath.

“No, we wouldn’t want to do anything that would create unnecessary friction,” Bo murmured, a hitch in his breath as I dragged my nails down his chest to his belt buckle, but before I could undo the fasteners, Bo grabbed my hand.

“We need to talk.”

Four of the most hated words in the English language. I knew we should talk, but I didn’t want to, which was why I was trying to undress Bo before either of us thought too long and hard about this. Was this a precursor to him telling me we were done? That he just wanted to be friends? That it was him and not me? I bent to grab the blanket and wrapped it around me like the fibers and threads could somehow prevent his words from hurting me.

“I was scared I was going to hit you,” Bo confessed. His admission cut me off at the knees and I had to sit down.

“You wanted to hit me?”

“No!” Bo exclaimed. He squeezed the back of his neck with one hand and covered his eyes with the other. “After I struck the wall, I saw you look at me. With fear. Like I was going to hit you. And I ran away. I found a fight, or several, and I used those guys to beat out every ounce of feeling inside of me, but each time they hit me or I hit them, I kept thinking of you.” He dropped to his knees in front of me. “I was afraid for you, for me.”

“Because your dad hit your mom?” I guessed.

Bo reared back onto his haunches. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t, but it was the only thought that made sense to me.” I smoothed a hand over his shoulder. “I never thought you’d hit me. It was an emotional night. I was just taken off guard.”

Bo rocked forward and dropped his head in his hands. “I’m so screwed up, AM. I don’t know why you’d want to be with me. I’m not sure when dear old Dad started beating my mom, but I remember the first time I caught him doing it. I was at Little League and had gotten sick to my stomach. One of the coaches drove me home early. I came in and Dad was hitting my mom with his belt, across her arms, her chest, her legs. She was just sitting there, curled up in a kitchen chair. His face was red and each blow seemed to fire his rage hotter and harder.” Bo’s tone hadn’t changed, but his breathing was becoming choppy, faster, as if he were reliving the moment. His eyes stared, unseeing. I kept stroking his shoulder even though I really wanted to hug him to me. I bit hard into my tongue to keep my tears from falling. If the ducts were unleashed, I was afraid I’d fill the room with my tears.

“I launched myself at him and felt the sharp end of the belt across my face for my efforts. I was bruised for days. I can still hear the whistle as the fucker swung the thing through the air.” Bo lifted a hand up to his temple as if remembering the blow.

“What did they say, your parents?”

“Nothing. My dad sent my mom up to her room, like she was a disobedient child. Then he turned to me and said I wasn’t to ever to come between them again like that. It was his right as the man of the household. What did I know? I was a motherfucking ten-year-old.”

“Did he stop?” I knew he hadn’t, or Bo wouldn’t be so torn up by this, but I asked anyway, hoping.

Bo shook his head. “No. I didn’t see it often, but I could tell by how my mother moved, tenderly, cautiously, if she’d had a beating. I don’t ever know what she did to deserve it.”

Nothing. But Bo knew that, I’m sure. I stroked his head, smoothing down the strands of his hair.

“I’ve never felt like you’d ever hit me, Bo, but maybe you’ve got to stop letting physicality be your first response, no matter how instinctive it is.”

“Yeah, I know. That was some bullshit I spouted to you, wasn’t it?” Bo leaned his head against my leg, as if in need of comfort.

“Violence
is
part of history, but I understand that you don’t want it to control you.”

“No, that’s right.” Bo sighed, and allowed more of his weight to rest against me.