Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 131789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
“If you want me to believe you, then it’s time for you to tell me something real. You opened me up and got to walk around inside my head. Now it’s your turn.”
He bites his lip for a moment. “All right. So. Yeah… I also like to run.”
I blink. “Huh?”
“I like to run,” he repeats sheepishly. “You know that thing you’re so passionate about? Track? I’m actually into it too.”
My jaw drops. “Is this a joke? We had something legit in common this whole time, but you had to go and pretend you liked Sleater-Kinney? What is wrong with you?”
RJ’s tone becomes rueful. “Haven’t we just determined there’s plenty wrong with me?”
I huff in aggravation. “You’re ridiculous. You asked me about track a bunch of times and never once mentioned you’re into it. Sprint or distance?”
“Distance. Started when I was a kid,” he says gruffly. “Mom would bring boyfriends home and I’d get the hell out of there and run around the neighborhood to kill time.”
Before he even finishes saying it, I realize exactly why he didn’t tell me about his affinity for track. Because that would’ve meant sharing where it stemmed from, and what I’m learning about RJ is, he’d rather walk barefoot on hot coals than reveal any vulnerability. We are very much alike, he and I.
“Eventually I started to enjoy it,” he adds, shrugging awkwardly. “Helps me clear my head.”
“That’s one of the reasons I love it,” I admit. “The head-clearing part.” Irritation once again clamps over me. “See how easy that was, RJ? Being fucking real with each other?”
He looks like he’s stifling another laugh. “Yeah. I guess it’s not awful.”
“Good. Now what else?” I push. “Give me something else. Something deeper than a shared sport.”
RJ lets out a sigh as he lies back on the overturned paddle boat to stare up at the sky. It’s an especially clear night, the stars like buckshot blown through the vast blackness.
“Something deeper,” he echoes, his voice even huskier now. Raspy. This is clearly a challenge for him. “All right. My dad used to do magic tricks. That corny sleight-of-hand shit that twists a kid’s head in knots. I only have a couple memories of him, though, because he walked out on us when I was a toddler. He showed up probably looking for money and found me instead. Decided he’d make nice and entertain the kid while trying to convince my mom to float him a few bucks. So both the memories I have of him, he’s pulling quarters from my ears.”
His tone becomes soft and distant, barely disturbing the stillness and the moon mirrored in the lake. RJ tucks his arms behind his head. I lie back beside him, fighting the urge to reach for his hand.
“He was a con man. Fleeced his way across the country squeezing widows for their social security checks or selling some asshole who couldn’t afford it on a business plan he didn’t own.” He glances at me, face still a puddle of blurred, painful colors. “I keep tabs on him. Every few months I search police blotters and booking documents. I checked last month—he’s back in prison on his third grand larceny charge. Might never see another day as a free man as long as he lives.”
It seems like I should say something. I want to. It’s as though part of him is reaching out, aching for someone to grab his hand in the dark and say it’s okay, but what do I know about what he’s been through? I’ve also lost a parent, sure. And it’s a gaping wound that never heals. Except each one of my brief, incomplete memories of my mother is wonderful. She loved us. Lived for us. I grew up in a functional, happy home where my biggest gripe was not getting to have ice cream for breakfast or stay up late watching TV.
“Mom always told me, mostly when she was mad at him, that I got my resourcefulness from her, but that mischievous streak—that was Dad. I think it sunk in, hearing that. Maybe it made it easier to lie and sneak around, you know? It was in my blood, so what could I do about it? But at the same time, I was terrified. Of being a loser just like him. Going too far and landing myself in prison.”
RJ turns to face me fully. The evidence of how rending these memories are for him have become evident in his heavy features, the flat plank of his lips. I’m almost sorry I brought us here, and yet still satisfied that finally I’m beginning to understand him. Not only the facade he presents, but what it’s concealing. A hundred puzzle pieces of him snap into place around these formative moments in his life, the relationships and fears that raised him.