She sits in the truck, thinking on my words while I swing her door open, telling her to climb out. She does and stops, staring at me.
“You don’t scare me, and don’t tell me not to trust you.” She has a determination in her voice. “You’re the only person… the only person that has helped me without expecting anything in return. Do you know that? Do you?” Anger—I feel it radiating from her. I like it. “Every man has wanted something for something, whether it be drugs for sex, sex for money. I haven’t had one single person care for me, or even my whereabouts for two damn years, Black!” she screams the last part, and a tear slides down her cheek. She’s trying to be strong, trying to mask the fact that she can be weak. “Two years,” she whispers. I pick her chin up with my fingers, her eyes shine brightly with wetness as she looks at me. The pain of not having anyone love her, or care about her, evident in her eyes. I got used to that a long time ago and it was hard. But she shouldn’t have to, there’s nothing wrong with her, nothing at all.
“Distraction time,” I say, passing her a can of spray paint. She looks at it and actually smiles. I gaze around to make sure no one is here before I drag her to the empty train on the tracks. She laughs when I stumble over a rock, not being able to see clearly in the dark.
“You’re quite cute when you’re mad.” She giggles like a girl.
“I am not cute, Rose.”
“You so are, Black,” she says, a smile evident on her face. I shake my head and chuck the lid from the paint can down to the ground. I start tagging her name—red for a red rose when I hear her gasp.
I turn to look at her and watch as she drops the can, taking a step backward, away from me. Evidence of who I am is written all over her now stricken face.
“You…” she says accusingly.
“Me…” I smile at her, finally being able to tell her the truth of who I am.
It’s exactly the same, exactly the same writing and color from when I was sixteen. The same boy who drew it last time is standing as a man in front of me, and I didn’t even know. I’ve thought about him for years, the one that always sticks with you. You know how you meet someone and there’s an instant attraction at the first sight? He was attractive, the best-looking guy in school, but the one no one wanted to be around. He had a bad name, a dangerous name. He hung with the bad crowds, and kids were warned not to go near him. So they didn’t. He was always by himself, never talking or mingling with anyone.
Then one night, I lost my grandmother. My heart broke—shattered to a million pieces—and I ran into the night, stopping at the park. That’s when I met him, beautiful and broken, just as I was that night. So beautiful, but yet so completely destroyed.
He’s now a man, an exquisitely handsome man. One that chose not to tell me who he was. One that looks at me for the very first time with a smile. A smirk if you will. Like he can’t believe I’ve just put it all together.
“You look so different,” I say, my hand lifting of its own accord, wanting to touch his face. My palm softens under his cheek, his breath comes in heavy bursts. I watch his eyes squeeze closed like my hand is burning him and it’s painful to have my touch. I quickly remove it. His eyes open, and his hand touches where my hand just was.
“Still feel the need?” he asks, and I shake my head. I don’t think it’s even in my head anymore. All that’s there in this moment is filled with him.
“No,” I whisper. “It’s really you?” We shared such a connection. I’ve never shared a connection with someone so strong. I was so young and I didn’t understand it. I knew I liked him, more than any of the other boys my age. Boys didn’t interest me back then, but he did and I didn’t understand why. Was it the bad boy cliché I wanted? Or was it purely him?
“You remember me?” he asks, searching my eyes.
“How
“You don’t scare me, and don’t tell me not to trust you.” She has a determination in her voice. “You’re the only person… the only person that has helped me without expecting anything in return. Do you know that? Do you?” Anger—I feel it radiating from her. I like it. “Every man has wanted something for something, whether it be drugs for sex, sex for money. I haven’t had one single person care for me, or even my whereabouts for two damn years, Black!” she screams the last part, and a tear slides down her cheek. She’s trying to be strong, trying to mask the fact that she can be weak. “Two years,” she whispers. I pick her chin up with my fingers, her eyes shine brightly with wetness as she looks at me. The pain of not having anyone love her, or care about her, evident in her eyes. I got used to that a long time ago and it was hard. But she shouldn’t have to, there’s nothing wrong with her, nothing at all.
“Distraction time,” I say, passing her a can of spray paint. She looks at it and actually smiles. I gaze around to make sure no one is here before I drag her to the empty train on the tracks. She laughs when I stumble over a rock, not being able to see clearly in the dark.
“You’re quite cute when you’re mad.” She giggles like a girl.
“I am not cute, Rose.”
“You so are, Black,” she says, a smile evident on her face. I shake my head and chuck the lid from the paint can down to the ground. I start tagging her name—red for a red rose when I hear her gasp.
I turn to look at her and watch as she drops the can, taking a step backward, away from me. Evidence of who I am is written all over her now stricken face.
“You…” she says accusingly.
“Me…” I smile at her, finally being able to tell her the truth of who I am.
It’s exactly the same, exactly the same writing and color from when I was sixteen. The same boy who drew it last time is standing as a man in front of me, and I didn’t even know. I’ve thought about him for years, the one that always sticks with you. You know how you meet someone and there’s an instant attraction at the first sight? He was attractive, the best-looking guy in school, but the one no one wanted to be around. He had a bad name, a dangerous name. He hung with the bad crowds, and kids were warned not to go near him. So they didn’t. He was always by himself, never talking or mingling with anyone.
Then one night, I lost my grandmother. My heart broke—shattered to a million pieces—and I ran into the night, stopping at the park. That’s when I met him, beautiful and broken, just as I was that night. So beautiful, but yet so completely destroyed.
He’s now a man, an exquisitely handsome man. One that chose not to tell me who he was. One that looks at me for the very first time with a smile. A smirk if you will. Like he can’t believe I’ve just put it all together.
“You look so different,” I say, my hand lifting of its own accord, wanting to touch his face. My palm softens under his cheek, his breath comes in heavy bursts. I watch his eyes squeeze closed like my hand is burning him and it’s painful to have my touch. I quickly remove it. His eyes open, and his hand touches where my hand just was.
“Still feel the need?” he asks, and I shake my head. I don’t think it’s even in my head anymore. All that’s there in this moment is filled with him.
“No,” I whisper. “It’s really you?” We shared such a connection. I’ve never shared a connection with someone so strong. I was so young and I didn’t understand it. I knew I liked him, more than any of the other boys my age. Boys didn’t interest me back then, but he did and I didn’t understand why. Was it the bad boy cliché I wanted? Or was it purely him?
“You remember me?” he asks, searching my eyes.
“How
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