"That's only a few days away. When were you going to tell me?" he asked.
"I wasn't. Birthdays mean nothing to me. Well, they used to, but I haven't celebrated mine since I was ten."
"So you don't have any plans?"
"Nope," I replied.
"Well, you should at least let me kiss you at midnight."
At that I smiled. Ever since Cinderella we seemed to never have enough time for kissing. I thought we'd eventually get bored, but somehow each time was better than the last.
"Fine," I replied. "You can kiss me."
"Good," he said.
We held hands and leaned our heads against one another as the sun set in the distance. I didn't think a freeway would be an ideal place to watch the sunset, but the dimming light made the headlights glow brighter and the rushing air brought its own sense of peace.
"Question," Javier said as he stroked my palm.
"Answer," I replied.
"Have you ever told your dad how you feel?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, have you ever told him that you're angry?" he asked.
"I've never had the chance."
Javier grabbed my chin and kissed me briefly before standing and lifting me up with him.
"I think you should tell him," he said.
"Okay, but he's not here and just because he said he was coming doesn't—" He placed his hand over my mouth and smiled.
"Tell him now," he said.
I stood there, confused. We were alone on a bridge, cars traveling beneath us and he wanted me to do what exactly?
Javier grabbed my hand and laced my fingers through the metal links. "Just because he can't hear doesn't mean it won't help."
The sky held a soft glow, but the tip of the sun had completely disappeared. "Javi, I don't think talking out loud to no one in particular will make me feel any better."
"Have you ever tried?" he asked. "Tell him. It can't hurt."
Air continued to race through my hair and the buzz of lights blurred my vision.
"Tell him," he repeated. His voice was encouraging, not threatening. He placed his hand on my back and pushed me forward.
I moved closer to the fence and thought about my father and everything we had been through. I rubbed my face, the tip of my thumb and forefinger massaging the bridge of my nose. Javier pulled my arms away from my body and lifted them up in surrender. He continued to hold me lightly and brought his mouth to the edge of my ear.
He whispered, "Tell him" once more.
Shivering, I took a deep breath and uttered the smallest of words, "I hate you."
"Say it again, louder," he replied. Pulling my arms open wide, I felt an atmosphere of freedom. No one was here to stop me. No one was here to condemn me. Berate me. Judge me. Maybe I did need this.
"I hate you," I said once more. The power in my voice stronger.
"Come on, Sey, let it out. Let it go." Javier dropped his hands from my arms and stepped back, giving me space.
I kept my arms up in surrender for just a moment more and then dropped them. My hands trailed up along the metal links of the dome and I wrapped my fingers in them just above my head. My hair went wild and I could feel my skin brighten with emotion. The long skirt I wore thrashed against my legs.
"Let it go," he whispered one last time.
"I HATE YOU!" I screamed, the words flying out like the crack of lightning.
"I. HATE. YOU!" I said, again and again. Standing on my tiptoes, I repeated the words four or five times. And then I flattened my feet and pulled back, dropping my hands to my side.
I turned toward Javier, my eyes round and awake.
"Who, Selah? Who do you hate?" He pestered me further. I didn't know if I could say this. Out loud, it felt wrong.
"Him. I hate him," I replied, my eyes softening.
"Who?"
"My father. I hate my father." I lost an unexpected tear or two and then wiped my face. An ambulance wailed in the distance and I looked up, fearing they were coming for me. My eyes caught Javier's and his head tilted to the side as he offered me his hand. I grabbed it and found peace in his arms.
"How do you feel?" he asked.
"Better and worse," I replied.
"How so?"
"Just because I hate him doesn't mean I don't want him to come back. I still do. Very much." I felt caged with these emotions. It'd be easier if I could just let him go.
"Well, then we should hope."
"Hope for what?" I asked.
"That what he said in the letter is true. That he'll be here January 1 to celebrate your 18 birthday."
I squeezed Javier, not wanting to allow myself the vulnerability of hoping, but not being able to prevent it either.
"He's lied all the previous times," I replied.
"There's a first time for everything," said Javier. He ran his fingers down my back and played with the tips of my curls.
"Question," he asked.
"Answer," I replied.
"What do you want to do for your birthday? Besides kiss me."
I smiled at his words and then kissed him on the cheek. We jumped down from the ledge and began to walk home, my heart feeling lighter than it had before I came.
"Anything," I replied.
Javier nodded and tucked my head underneath his chin. We walked arm in arm, discussing my options for turning eighteen. And for once, I let myself believe that my father was coming home. That in a few days’ time I would see his face and everything would be all right.
Everything would be okay.
Chapter 30
Selah's Birthday
(Javier)
There were only five more months of high school to survive, and for once I wasn't looking forward to it ending. Life had been quiet and I was beginning to think my entire past—the drama, the scars—was all in my head. An imaginary story that left when I decided to no longer believe in imaginary friends.
Who knew a girl could change everything. A girl with her own pain. Her own loss. Her own anger.
I had thought about reaching out to her father, ensuring that he was, in fact, coming tomorrow, but boundaries still existed between us. And this wasn't one I was ready to cross. My mind, however, frequently thought of the other ones.
Boundaries.
Crossing.
Us.
Tonight we were celebrating her 18 birthday. Her godparents, in true form, were out for the evening doing their own thing. They had never celebrated with her, and I often wondered why her parents left her in their care. There had to have been a better choice. The fact that she would be here, with me, proved otherwise.
The days had turned into weeks and the weeks into moments. Moments of getting to know each other better. As Selah got more comfortable, she asked more questions. About the suicide and my past with Nathan. My mother and her struggle with single parenting. How Izzy found me in the bathroom—passed out and naked. And then again with a rope around my neck, tied to a shower rod.
I answered everything she presented—the painful ones, the embarrassing ones, the personal ones—and she did the same. The more we shared, the more we smiled and the more hurt we shed from our pasts. We were healing. Some things would be there forever—my scars, her need for acceptance, my fear of dark enclosed rooms, the loss of her mother. No matter how hard either of us tried, we couldn't erase the past, but we could build upon it.
The apartment had been cleaned from top to bottom, and Gio sat on the couch waiting for Selah's cake to cool so we could frost it. Gianna had been better too. Or at least I figured she was. Gio still spent the night when she had "company" in her bed or came home drunk and high. Both of which were only marginally disappointing. There was consistent food on the table and a paid electric bill. The basics for survival.
Gio jumped and ran into the kitchen. Vanilla coated the air as the timer buzzed, signaling the cake was done. He grabbed the frosting from the fridge and a butter knife from the drawer. I stood at the entrance and watched. The cak
e was a little crooked and the frosting, which was supposed to be a nice pink, turned out electric orange. We added too much food coloring and then tried to lighten it and everything got worse.
"Are you sure she's going to like it? I mean it may not even taste good. It's not going to look pretty either," I said as I assisted Gio at the table with the cake supplies.
He bounced in his seat and licked the edge of the frosting bowl. Smiling, he gave me two thumbs up and carried on with the task at hand.
"I hope you're right. I just want this to be special. I want her to be happy," I said. My hands rubbed the back of my head. I walked back into the kitchen and looked out the window. Then I opened the fridge and stared at its contents. Moving to the cabinets I searched for something, but I didn't know what. I shut them and then went to the sink. I turned on the water and watched it go down the drain. I counted to five. Then I walked back to the window. The sun was out and the clouds were smiling.
"It's cake. She's going to love it," Gio said.
"I know—" Wait.
I turned around and saw him sitting on his knees, frosting the cake. I looked around from side to side. I peeked into the living room, empty. I took a seat at the table and frowned.
"What'd you say?" I asked.
Gio smoothed the knife over the top of the cake and added more frosting. He licked his finger and smiled again.
"It's cake, Javi. Who doesn't love cake?" he replied.
"Yeah, yeah. She'll like the cake. Why are you talking?" I asked.
He shrugged.
"Gio, you haven't used words with me since ... well, since forever."
"I thought you needed a supportive answer. Therefore, I replied."
"Are you going to talk from now on?" I asked.
"I talk when it's necessary."
"And Selah's birthday cake was necessary?"
"Yes," he replied. Gio finished frosting and set the final product on the countertop before grabbing a spoon from the kitchen and sitting back down. "I've never had a cake before. Cakes are important. She'll love it."
"What's more important," I asked. "Love or cake?"
Gio paused, tapped his chin and then pinched his eyebrows. "Same difference," he replied.
"How so?" I asked. I wanted to keep him talking. I always felt he understood way more than he let on.
"If you love someone you make them cake. Simple as that." Gio continued eating the leftover frosting from the bowl—spoonful by spoonful.
"So I love Selah?" I asked.
Gio got up and tossed the bowl and spoon in the sink. He came back to the table and placed both hands face down at the edge. Then he turned and looked me straight in the eyes. "You must."
"Well, at least you've confirmed she'll like the cake."
He grabbed his bag from the couch and put on his shoes. Then he walked to the door and stopped.
"Not like. Love. She'll love the cake."
"What makes you so sure? We don't even know if it's her favorite flavor. I never asked," I replied.
With his hand on the doorknob he turned and faced me, a wide smile pushing at his cheeks. "Because ... she loves you," he said.
And then he left.
I sat still at the table for an hour, only my eyes blinking. That word wasn't something I said or thought of often. If ever. My mother had been at the receiving end of it, and when I was growing up, I believed I cared enough about Nathan to love him. We were friends and then we weren't.
Friends didn't destroy the things they loved.
***
The cake sat on the floor of my closet. My mother was getting ready for work and a frosted vanilla concoction would give her reason for questions. Or she would eat it.
"Hijo, any plans for tonight?" she asked as she packed up her purse. I stood in the kitchen washing our dinner dishes. The fluorescent light bulb above my head flickered. Any moment it would pop and there would be darkness.
"No. No plans, Mama," I replied.
"It's New Year’s Eve. Izzy can't possibly be working," she said.
"He has plans with his family. I'll be fine."
She eyed me from a distance and dropped her purse on the couch. Her heels clinked on the tile floor as she walked toward me. Grabbing my hands, she pulled them up and placed them against her chest—clenching them tight.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"Sorry for what?"
"That you don't have a family. That you don't have a father. That I'm not around."
I've never really looked at my mother. In passing and during conversations, but right then I was actually looking, not just seeing what I thought was there. She was older than I realized. Light wrinkles had formed at the corner of her eyes, and her skin, darker than mine, had lost its vibrancy.
"It's not your fault. You don't have to be sorry."
"Hijo, it is my fault. I was young. I was selfish. You're so much better than me. Do you know that?"
No, I didn't. I stood there as she moved her hand to my face and caressed my cheek. She was much shorter than me. Tiny and delicate, but full of strength. She had done it all on her own. I wasn't perfect, but I was loved. She loved me and that was more important than food and electricity, but she had given me that too.
"I love you," I replied. "I know I don't say it enough, but I do."
My mother lifted her lips and the years of hard work and stress vanished.
"I love you, too." She kissed my cheek, wiped it with her thumb and then went to work.
I looked at the clock—the day was growing heavier with each passing minute.
***
I brought the cake back out, set it on the coffee table and turned on some music. Running through the apartment one last time, I made sure everything was in its place. And then two short knocks hit the door.
I sniffed my armpits and pushed myself forward.
"Sey? That you?" I asked.
"Mmhmm," she replied.
I unlocked the deadbolt and pulled back. My eyes trailed her from head to toe. She had on a skirt, but this one was shorter than all the rest. It sat above her knee and held tight to her legs. Her shirt was the same one she had on the first day I met her. Almost four months ago.
Her hair fell down to her shoulders but remained unruly. Some things couldn't be changed. Some things shouldn't. It made me happy.
She entered the apartment with long, shaky steps and set her bag on the floor.
"Is that for me?" she asked.
I closed the door and turned around. Her arm pointed to the cake and her feet bounced up and down.
"Gio and I made it. Do you like cake?"
"Like? I love it! What girl doesn't want a boy to bake her a cake on her birthday?" she replied and began spinning in circles. Only this time the circles were quick, small and full of excitement. After three rotations, she stopped and found my eyes. "Thank you," she whispered. Walking to me, she stood on her tiptoes and gave me a kiss. A short taste. A tease.
I wanted more.
She took off her jacket and threw it over a chair. Then she turned back to me and stared. Her arms were crossed against her chest, and she played with her bottom lip.
"What now?" she asked. "Cake, TV, kissing?"
"It's your day. Which do you want first?" I asked.
Selah went to the front door and clicked the lock into place. Then she walked into the kitchen, grabbed a fork and searched for the remote. When she found the remote, she turned on the TV and kneeled down next to her cake. Without cutting it, she jabbed her fork into the center and took a large bite.
She chewed for a couple seconds before swallowing, standing up and turning off the TV. Without asking, she grabbed my hand and headed straight for my bedroom.
"Now what?" I asked.
She stood inside and stared at her surroundings. There wasn't much to take in—a bed, a desk, a couple important pieces and me. Her eyes fell back on my bed and her hand started to swing back and forth as she held onto mine.
"Sey—" As I opened my mouth,
she squeezed my hand and pushed me toward the bed. When we reached the edge, she stared.
"What are you doing?" I whispered.
Selah turned around and closed the door, leaving only a crack open so we could have some light. She came back and placed her hands on my face and her lips on my mouth. Her movements were eager and her breathing rushed. I pulled back and looked into her eyes, "What are you doing?" I repeated.
"Celebrating," she replied. "Just lie down with me and relax."
We both moved to the bed, laying side by side. Only the backs of our hands brushing and our knuckles kissing. Selah rolled over and placed her hand on my leg. She trailed her fingertips up from my thigh and toward my stomach. Her hand stopped at the top of my jeans and rested.
"Sey, what are you doing?" I asked again.
Her hand pushed up on my shirt and her palm grazed my chest. I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what to do. I wasn't expecting this or her or anything ... but the simplest movement, the continued touch, it felt—I swallowed hard—it felt good.
"Will you touch me?" she asked. "You don't have to if you don't want to."
I placed my fist in my mouth and bit down. I didn't need the encouragement, but the approval, the permission ... that helped.
She closed her eyes and laid her head next to mine. Her breathing, slow and controlled, grazed the side of my ear. She lifted her hand off my chest and placed a finger on my temple. Pulling it down, she trailed it over my cheek, across my lips and down the base of my throat. Only stopping once she hit my scars.
"I want to," I replied. "I just ... what if ... are you sure?"
Her hand rested across my throat and then ran back down over my chest.
"Yes," she replied. "I want to know what it feels like. I trust you."
She kicked off her shoes and leaned against my pillows. I pulled off my own and rolled over to her side of the bed.
"Can I just kiss you first?" I asked.
Selah smiled and reached out for me. My lips found hers with no direction, and I kissed her until my hands got curious. And my body agreed.
Seeds of Hate Page 17