Can't Let Go (2 page)

“Thank you,” I genuinely say, and his shoulders rise and fall like he doesn’t care.

Dex Prescott and I might not have the most stellar of conversations, but, for four hours every other Saturday, it’s just me and him. We play games, always ones he brings with him. He sneaks food away in his backpack that he shares with me. He’s fortunate to only live with his father every other weekend, while the rest of the time he lives with his mom. I can’t say I’m not jealous of his ‘normal’ childhood, except for when he’s with me, but I’m happy for him all at the same time. Not sure how I can be happy for someone I feel so much jealously toward, but I do. I wouldn’t wish any other person to have the life I have.

“I have something for you,” I say, digging into my pocket. I pull out the small disk and Dex’s eyes light up, grabbing it out of my hand.

“How did you get this?” he asks. “I’ve been saving, but my mom says no more games.” He holds the newest game of Mortal Kombat out in front of him like it’s a Babe Ruth rookie card. “You play it first.” He hands it back to me, thankful he didn’t ask me again how I got it. Especially since I kind of borrowed slash stole it from another kid. Not that I would usually ever steal. I’ve told myself a million times I’d never do it. But the kid called me a dirty piece of trash right in the middle of the playground. All his damn friends laughed and chanted it back. So, when I went in to go to the bathroom during recess, I played a payback that benefits Dex. The guilt resonates pretty hard within me, so I just replay the nightmare of the playground scene in my head to justify my actions.

“No, Dex, you go first.” I push his hand closer to him, and, ultimately, he accepts it.

“Thanks, Chrissy,” he says, giving me a huge smile before inserting it into the player.

12 years old

“BYE, MOM,” I mutter while allowing her to still hug and kiss me goodbye for the weekend. My eyes find Ted’s right behind her, smiling at our affection. He’s been dating my mom for a year, and they seem to be really happy. Usually he’s still around when my dad drops me off on Sunday, so she really isn’t fooling me, thinking he doesn’t spend the night.

“Call me if you need me,” she whispers in my ear. I’ve had a cell phone for three years because my mom wants to be able to text me and check up on me whenever I’m with my dad.

“I will,” I agree, trying to get out of her tiger grips. My dad’s horn honks again and I slowly backstep, giving a quick wave to Ted.

Running out the door, I climb into my dad’s new car. When I say new, I mean five-year-old used Cadillac, but new to him. He waves to my mom and I do the same.

“Ready, Edge?” he asks me, and I cringe from the reference of my nickname. My reaction has done a one-eighty since he first referred to me as that. Remembering the happiness that swelled in me the day he called me Edge for the first time, only disgusts me now. He said it with pride, but mostly it was because of the joy I instilled in him by making him money. Now though, I wish he’d say my name at least a few times. Edge comes with an expectation that I’ll continue to make the picks that gain him money, but leaving me with the fear one day I won’t. That I’ll disappoint him and the name will be stripped from me. As well as maybe my father.

“Yeah, Dad.” I sit in the car, listening to his rock ‘n’ roll music while watching his left foot tap to the beat of the music. The minutes ticking by until I see Chrissy. Since she doesn’t have a phone; I only have these four hours every other Saturday to spend with her. Although I’d never admit it to anyone, I love when our dads win big because they usually stay longer or the four of us do something together. She understands me, and we have a mutual understanding of our dads’ shitty recreational activities. “Dad?” I ask, and he turns his attention to me briefly before directing it toward the road again. “Do you mind if Chrissy and I go to the diner?”

“No, you’re old enough. Shit, when I was your age, I went all over my town,” he agrees, and I’m glad because I saved the money my dad gave me last week so I could take her out.

“Thanks,” I say and he just smiles over to me.

Chrissy deserves so much more than her shitty life with her shitty father. In the four years I’ve known her, she’s never shown up with anything new. She puts on a good front with me, but it’s obvious they don’t have money; her clothes are always really worn and a little too small. After I heard her stomach growl that first day I met her, I made sure to grab some snacks from my mom’s before my dad picked me up the next time. Now four years later, it’s our routine. We eat, play games, and never talk about anything important, even though I’m sure we have plenty in common.

When my dad parks his Cadillac behind Chrissy’s dad’s Caprice, my stomach gets this foreign, anxious feeling. I fear I’m getting sick, especially since the feeling grows more intense as we make our way through the run-down grocery store and down the steps. When we reach the bottom, I swear the fruit scent of her soap conceals the usual mold and sour food smell. My eyes find her sitting in the same chair every time, and my stomach bursts into a zillion little fireworks. She looks up at me, a smile already in place. “Hi, Mr. Prescott. Hi, Dex,” she greets us, and my dad says his usual while my voice embarrassingly cracks.

“Um … hi … Chrissy,” I say, sounding like a complete moron. What the hell is wrong with me?

Placing my backpack on the floor, I sit there facing the cracked cement wall, trying to calm myself before I puke all over the stained floor. “Hey, Dex.” She picks her head up so she can look at my face. I muster up a smile, which seems to make her own smile widen. “Are you feeling okay?” she asks, and then her hand touches my forehead and all those damn explosions go off in my stomach again.

I inch away at her contact, and she drops her hand, a frown replacing her smile. “You don’t feel warm, but you’re kind of sweating.” She rubs her palm across her pants, causing my eyes to fixate on her bare knee peeping out from the tear on her jeans. For the first time, I itch curiosity about what it would be like to touch her.

“I don’t know.” I wipe my forehead, and sure enough, my palm is now coated with wetness. “Do you want to go over to the diner?” I ask her, changing the topic to get away from the sudden uncomfortableness in the room.

She bites the inside of her cheek and casts a glance at the locked door that we aren’t allowed to enter through. “It’s okay, I asked my dad,” I assure her and rise to my feet, shrugging my backpack over my shoulders.

We hurry out of the grocery store as the attendant eyes us warily because, for the first time in four years, we’re without our dads. Crossing the street, we finally enter the small diner with vinyl seats and metal rimmed tables. I grab a booth in the back corner by the bathrooms. She slides in across from me and doesn’t pick up her menu.

“Do you know what you want?” I ask her, flipping through the menu myself.

“Um …” She stops and then inhales a hefty breath. “Dex, I don’t have any money.”

“No need, I’m paying. The winnings from two weeks ago,” I explain and continue to study the burgers, milkshakes, and sandwiches the diner offers, like this isn’t anything unusual for us.

Her fingers wrap along the top of my menu, and she pushes it down. “I won’t let you,” she informs me and the determination of Chrissy’s eyes shows her need to never want people to feel sorry for her.

“Yes, you will.” She leans back, crossing her arms, and stares out the window.

When the friendly middle-aged waitress wanders over in her frilly apron, she smiles and giggles before asking us what we want. I order two hamburgers with fries and milkshakes. Realizing I’m ordering for her regardless, Chrissy finally chimes in. “Not chocolate, strawberry, please.” The woman notes the change on her pad with a smile.

I follow the waitress’s walk back behind the counter with my eyes, watching her whisper to another waitress, who glances our way with a small amused smirk. They probably think we’re on some kind of date.

“Thank you, Dex.” Chrissy’s voice interrupts my thoughts and I turn her way. Again, Fourth of July booms in my stomach.

“You’re welcome,” I mumble, and we sit there in silence again, watching the cars pass by the diner, probably on their way to somewhere that has nothing to do with the hidden life that Chrissy and I have experienced.

We eat our lunch with barely any conversation between the two of us. For some reason, watching her eat brings a happiness to me that I can’t explain. At first she was slow, taking a fry, dipping it into ketchup, and then wiping her hands on the napkin, but once she witnessed my very caveman scarfing-down mechanics of eating, she changed her course to match mine.

Sitting on the crappy, ripped, vinyl-covered benches, we watch what everyone believes is the grocery store across the street. Some men leave with their heads down and hands in their empty pockets, a sure sign that they lost. Others have wide and huge smiles showing they won.

Eventually, we leave with the realization that our dads will be finished soon. We exit the restaurant and stand on the cracked-up sidewalk in the most rundown part of town. It’s a surprise everything isn’t boarded up by now. Her hand is on my forearm before I can react and then her lips are on my cheek even faster. “Thanks again,” she softly says before stepping back, leaving me in my own personal space.

This time it’s not my stomach that’s exploding to life.

14 years old

“MIKE IS COMING with me,” I tell my friend, Heidi, who is currently packing for a trip to Cedar Point with her family. I’ll never understand why she befriended me earlier this year when we both were thrown into high school. She’s middle class; I’m poor. She’s pretty enough to be a model, and I’m girl-next-door-tomboy. The list could go on and on to our differences, but it’s nice having an escape when she invites me over to her house.

My dad moved us for many reasons, one being an eviction notice from the one-bedroom place we’d called home for years. Lucky, though, I now have my own room, well, a curtained off section. But more privacy than the bed in the corner of the family room in our last place. Not that I have to worry too much, since my dad is rarely home. You know that goes along with actually being a parent.

Since I’ve grown older, I rarely go with him to the Saturday games, and if I do, it’s with the chance that maybe Dex will be waiting there in one of our chairs. But usually a heaviness would take over my body if they were empty when I arrived because he doesn’t go much either. He has obligations like most kids our age. Sports and friends keep him busy in his big house on the opposite side of the world from me.

Tonight his dad is throwing a party. Some celebration of a big windfall Mr. Prescott was blessed to win. I say blessed, because that’s what gambling is—luck or a blessing from the heavens above. Half of me wonders if it was Dex’s pick that gave him the windfall, but I’d never ask.

Now I stand in my bathroom, applying the mascara I’ve only been using for a few months and I try to see if my butt looks big in the yellow sundress Heidi loaned me. Twisting and turning, I struggle to gather an accurate assessment in the mirror. Just as I’m about to put my lip gloss on, a knock at the door interrupts me.