I finished off my coffee and looked at a nearby trash can. Calculations of distance, angle, velocity, and wind speed flashed through my mind before I tossed my empty coffee cup—perfect shot, no rim.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Talk about a loaded question. I fiddled with my hands in my lap, with the fraying fabric of my jeans. Waiting for the words to come. “Look, Hunter, I …”
My throat tightened, trapping the rest of the sentence inside. I pictured the horrified look on his face when I answered him honestly. Him backing away in disgust.
I coughed and tried again. “Here’s the thing …”
I closed my mouth without finishing my thought and Hunter’s eyes glazed over, like his mind was suddenly someplace else. The bench creaked as he vaulted off it, tossing his cup into the trash can at the same time. He headed toward the waves.
I guess he was fed up with me.
“Hunter,” I whispered into the stillness, but of course he couldn’t hear me.
The space inside my chest shrank, or at least it seemed that way. Because all of a sudden, this enormous pressure smashed and shoved at my synthetic heart, my stomach, everything, until it felt like they were flattened, distorted into much smaller shapes. Should I go talk to him? I wondered, as I watched him pace back and forth at the water’s edge, kicking up sand with his steps. Or should I just leave, make my way to the bus station on my own? Or maybe—and here was a timely thought—maybe I should never have called him in the first place.
The cramp in my chest intensified as I slid off the bench and my shoes sank into the warm sand. I walked over to where Hunter now stood with his arms at his sides, just staring into the dark blue water beyond. I reached for his closest hand, and laced my fingers with his. But even though we were touching, I felt his distance. It was like a Grand Canyon of distrust was forming between us, and it was all my fault.
“I’m sorry,” I said softly. “It’s not that I don’t want you to come with me.”
That was the truth.
“Then why won’t you let me?” he muttered.
One manufactured heartbeat. Two. By the time I got to three, I hoped I could give him an explanation, anything that might make this easier—for the both of us.
“I … if I told you, I don’t think you’d understand.”
Hunter had traveled across multiple states at the drop of a hat to help me, and yet this was all I could bring myself to say.
When he didn’t reply, I started to pull my hand away, but then I felt him curl his fingers more tightly around mine and the panicky stomach-plunging-to-my-feet sensation that had taken over me a minute ago subsided.
I just didn’t want him to hate me.
A ragged sigh erupted from Hunter, and like we were somehow connected, the easing of his tension flowed into me, through our linked hands. He turned and he drank in my features like he could absorb every tiny line and curve. Read every lie.
His voice was barely audible over the sound of the ocean surf. “My dad walked out when I was nine. My mom got remarried when I was eleven.”
He dropped my hand and stuffed his own into his pockets, kicking at the sand beneath his feet. “You know how when some dads walk out, the mom makes up a story about why? Something nicer than what really happened?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Not my mom. She and my stepdad don’t believe in sugarcoating. So when she thought I was old enough, she told me all about him. How he had a drug problem, got arrested. Went to jail and repeated the same mistakes again and again after he was paroled. Finally, he realized having a son cramped his style, so he stole her spare cash, her jewelry she’d inherited from her grandmother. Stole her wedding ring, which she took off every night to clean. Then he bailed.”
Oh my god. “Hunter, I’m so sorry. I had no id—”
But he held up his hand. “Let me finish. I’m not telling you this to make you feel sorry for me. I’m telling you because—you’d think because of her being so honest, I wouldn’t want to find him, right? Wouldn’t want to get to know him? I mean, what kind of kid would want an asshole like that in his life? But I do. I feel like something is missing—like, how can I know myself if I don’t know my dad? Even if he’s a total douchebag.”
He gazed off into the distance again. His next words were so soft, even my superior auditory functions had to work overtime so I could hear. “Sometimes, I think I would have been better off if she’d lied. Because now all I can wonder is—what if I turn out like him? What if there’s something wrong with me?”
A fierce protective instinct flooded my nonheart. I wanted to assure him that there was nothing wrong with him, not even close. That he would never turn out like his deadbeat father. But I held my tongue while he continued to talk.
“My point is, I do understand. I know what it’s like to want to find someone, your family. There’s this part of me that hopes maybe my mom got it wrong. Maybe, I don’t know, maybe he had to leave us for the good of mankind or something, just pretend to be bad. That’s what always happens in comic books, anyway.”
He rubbed one hand down the back of his neck and exhaled. “It’s just … I get it. I know what it’s like to be searching for your family. I want to help you. You have the courage to do what I’ve only ever thought about doing. I know it’s scary, but what I don’t understand is you calling me to come here, just to push me away.”
“I promise it has nothing to do with you,” I told him. “It’s all me.”
Groaning, he looked up at the sky. “I can’t believe you said that.” Then he dropped his head and skewered me with his gaze. “Look, if you’re not into me, just say so.”
I barked out a strangled laugh. “Actually, the problem is I like you way too much.”
Hunter tried to hide a smile, but wasn’t able to squash it before I could notice. “And how is that a problem exactly?”
I could stand here all day, ticking off the reasons. And I’d spent the last twenty-four hours batting them away like a persistent swarm of mosquitoes. But I’d made a decision. Being together wasn’t for the best. As much as I wanted to protect him, I couldn’t guarantee that I would be able to. Hunter’s safety mattered above everything.
Even the truth.
“It just is,” I said.
“Can’t you give me one day?” Hunter asked. “I need one day to show you that having me around is a good thing.”
“Hunter, I—”
“If you want me to go after that, I swear I won’t argue with you,” he went on.
I was so touched by how hard he was trying to persuade me that my throat locked up, refused to work for a minute.
One day. Hunter thought it was enough time, but I knew otherwise. Life could go from beautiful to ugly in a fraction of a second.
“Also, Tennessee is on my bucket list! You can’t deny a man the chance to check off something on his bucket list,” he added, his eyes wide and pleading, like he was scrambling for more excuses to give me.
There it was again. Laughter. Coming out of my synthetic belly, traveling out of my fake lungs, and then carrying on the wind. The corners of my lips turned up into a smile, and I was happy.
Legitimately, authentically happy.
How is that a problem exactly? Lately, happiness—even just a shred of it—had me buying into the lies I’d told. Not only to Hunter, but also to myself.
One more day. Everything will be fine.