Catching Raven

by Smith, Lauren

  “My uncle changed locations for his job. They were understaffed and having trouble finding someone who was willing to work nights at the factory, so they offered to up his salary and relocate him. He took the position without even telling me ahead of time.”

  “Are you mad?”

  “I was pissed. Still am, to be honest. Everything I’ve always known is in Dripping Springs. We didn’t just move houses; we uprooted our entire lives. All my friends live there. And I’m further away from my mom now, too. I know it’s only a thirty-minute drive, but that’s almost worse. Can you imagine being so close to everything and everyone you know, but have no real way of getting there? It blows. That’s why I’ve been saving up for a car.”

  “Where does your mom live?” she asks, dipping her brush into midnight and stroking the canvas. Little does she know, that’s my favorite color.

  “Depends on the month. She bounces around from place to place. Last I heard, she was staying with a friend in Wimberley. I try to go see her when I can, but she can’t seem to stay in one place for more than a month or two. She’s always had trouble getting her shit together. It’s one of the reasons why she gave up custody. She was only sixteen when she had me, and she was forced to sacrifice a lot. Eventually it all caught up with her. She resents me for that, along with a variety of other reasons. She’s not a drug addict, though. No clue where that rumor came from.”

  Her grip loosens on the paintbrush.

  “Careful,” I catch the end and slide it back into her palm. “These are oil based paints. They’ll stain your clothes.”

  “I won’t miss this outfit.”

  “I will,” I mutter without thinking. Shit. What the fuck am I doing? She’s only fourteen. I may be impulsive, but I’m not stupid. She’s got jailbait written all over her. I rack my brain for a subject change. “What about your parents?”

  “They own Bellotti’s.”

  “The restaurant downtown?”

  “Yep.”

  Why didn’t I make that connection? It’s her last name, dumbass.

  “So I’m assuming you’re related to Andre, then?”

  “Absolutely not,” she deadpans, then adds, “He’s one of my older brothers.”

  “That’s what I thought. He’s a big deal at school. I’ve only been here a couple weeks and already I’ve seen countless people kissing his ass. No offense.”

  “None taken. Story of my life. I’m much closer to Emilio. I could take or leave Andre,” she jokes.

  “Is Emilio your brother too?”

  She nods.

  “How many siblings do you have?”

  “Three. Two older brothers and a younger sister. Andrea and Arianna are the favorites. When your oldest brother is the beloved quarterback of the high school football team and your little sister is the child who can do no wrong, it’s easy to feel outshined. That’s why Emilio and I stick together.”

  “Makes sense. I’m glad I’m an only child. Never had to deal with any sibling rivalry.”

  “Not to mention Middle Child Syndrome,” she adds.

  “That too.”

  I don’t know what I’m getting myself into, but so far, Raven’s presence makes life seem less shitty. She may be younger, but I think Vivienne would approve. Or maybe she wouldn’t because of the age difference. Either way, who really cares? Raven and I are just friends.

  For the next two hours, we paint. She decides to call it a night around two in the morning. I walk her back home in the pouring rain and watch her slip inside with a huge smile on her face. I did that. I’m also the first person she’s ever snuck out with. This whole night has me grinning like an idiot. Makes the probation I’m on seem less restricting. See? I don’t have to give up all my fun.

  I wander back to my uncle’s house and spend the better part of the night staring at the ceiling. I let my thoughts run wild, entertaining dangerous possibilities I know I’ll never have.

  * * *

  Present Day

  Sam’s Ceramics

  A bell jingles, followed by the sound of the front door opening and closing. I carefully set the clay figurines down on the table and lean back to peer around the corner. Raven slips her shoes off and lifts her chin to greet me with a bright smile, her long dark hair spilling around her shoulders.

  “Hey, you. Some leftover Rudy’s is on the kitchen counter. It’s still hot, so help yourself.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” she says.

  She scurries into the kitchen and grabs a plate from one of the cupboards above her head. Stealing a fork, she piles on the food and embellishes it with a ribbon of BBQ sauce, then sets the bottle down and licks her fingers.

  “God, I haven’t had Rudy’s in forever.”

  “Me neither. Purchased some figurines while I was here. Thought we’d switch it up and paint some of those tonight.”

  “What are my choices?” she asks, biting off a piece of brisket.

  I glance down at the display in front of me.

  “We have a coffee mug, an outline of Texas, a flower vase, and a jar.”

  “I’ll take the coffee mug.”

  “Never saw that coming,” I say, my tone dripping with sarcasm. My fingers wrap around the handle and move the mug to her side of the table. I reserve the jar for me.

  “Was Sam working today?”

  “Isn’t he always?”

  “Did y’all get a chance to talk before he left?”

  “Sure did. He says ‘hi’ by the way. He misses you.”

  Sam is the store owner. He knows us both by name and lets us hang out here whenever we want. He should, seeing as how I single-handedly keep him in business. Every spare dollar I earn goes to supporting his shop. The guy’s been my art supplier for years.

  Raven tilts her head to the side and smiles warmly. My chest tightens. She’s always so pretty when she’s relaxed. Less and less of that beauty surfaces these days. I don’t even think she realizes it. If I were dating What’s His Face, I’d be unhappy too.

  Why does she insist on hanging on to him? That guy’s a joke. I abruptly break eye contact and focus on organizing the paint colors, fighting to keep my emotions concealed.

  “How’s Brandon?” A question I feel obligated to ask, but one I don’t actually care to know the answer to.

  “He’s fine,” she replies curtly.

  Confirms what I already knew. They’re still together. A familiar pang of disappointment shoots through me. “What do you see in him?”

  She pauses, then slowly sets her plate down on the counter and wipes her mouth with a paper towel. “Well, for starters, he has no problem admitting how he really feels about me.”

  Does she seriously have the nerve to say that to my face? Unreal. Of all the arguments she could have made, she chose the weakest one.

  “Yeah, if only there was a decent guy who was really into you over the last year...”

  “That doesn’t count. You were only in it for the chase.”

  “The hell I was. You wanted safe and stable, so you chose Brandon. And now you’re torn because you got way more than you bargained for. You can’t have it both ways. Either you take the risk with me, or go with boring.”

  “Wow. Jealous much?”

  “What’s there to be jealous of?”

  She narrows her gaze. “You tell me.”

  He’s sharing a bed with my girl. He gets to touch her in places I fantasize about. He gets to hear her deepest desires. She shouts his fucking name, not mine.

  “Can’t think of anything off the top of my head,” I lie.

  “Good. Glad we got that settled. Wouldn’t want you to catch feelings or anything. Can you imagine the horror? Being forced to open up to another human being and connect? My God. No wonder you’re not ready for commitment.”

  What a sassy little b— “Who are you to tell me what I’m not ready for?”

  “Eric, we’ve been over this. I’ve seen how you interact with women. Your attention is fleeting at best, caustic at worst.
Why would I sign myself up for that?”

  “Has it ever occurred to you that maybe I haven’t met the right girl? I went after the one I wanted most, and you wrote me off like I’m not even worth consideration. What am I supposed to do? My nights may be filled with strange, but at least I’m not stuck in a relationship with someone who bores me half to death. You on the other hand—”

  Thunk! She just chucked the kitchen plate into the sink. Shit.

  “I’m done with this conversation.”

  “Of course you are,” I mutter.

  “Quit picking a fight. That’s not the reason I came here tonight.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.”

  She rubs her temples and sighs heavily. “Can we just stick to the original plan? Keep things drama-free for once?”

  Ambitious, given how we operate. “Fine. If you’re done eating, get over here and pick your colors.”

  “No. Not if you’re going to act like a dick.”

  I strike my fist against the table. “Dammit, Rave. What do you want from me?”

  “Your attention. Is that too much to ask?”

  She wants a distraction, someone to take her mind off her problems. I can relate, but she picked the wrong guy. If she wanted compliant, she should’ve gone to Brandon’s. But she came here instead. Why? Because deep down, she knows I won’t give her what she wants. I’ll give her what she needs. And there lies the key difference between Brandon and me.

  My lungs deflate. “Come here.”

  She stays put and studies me. Not entirely sure what she’s looking for, but I doubt she'll find it. Even if I were offering up my emotions like dirty little secrets, she wouldn’t learn anything new. I’d make damn sure of that. I hold up her coffee mug in one hand and a paintbrush in the other. “Truce?”

  A reluctant smile escapes. She walks over and grabs both items out of my hands, then rounds the table to stand directly across from me. Our gazes collide. Soft tension erupts. I’m suddenly unable to remember what we were even arguing about in the first place.

  “Can we please not talk about Brandon anymore?” she says.

  Ah, memory jogged. “Who’s Brandon?”

  There’s the smile I’ve been waiting for.

  No more digs at her relationship, I tell myself. She needs a friend right now. “I’m sorry for being an ass.”

  “Same here.”

  No matter how hard I try, I can’t quit this girl. As much as I want to talk about us, it’s better if we don’t. She’s not in the right headspace for it and I don’t want to make her feel uncomfortable. I’ll simply bide my time until she breaks up with Brandon. It’s bound to happen sooner or later. Right?

  * * *

  Four Years Ago....

  “Tell me about her,” Vivienne prompts.

  I shovel a spoonful of Ramen into my mouth and stall. She taps the end of her pen against my manila file, reading me like a book.

  “What do you wanna know?”

  “Whatever you’re willing to share.”

  “She’s my neighbor. We’ve painted together a few times.”

  “Not graffiti, I hope.”

  “Nope. You’d be proud. I’ve been staying out of trouble recently.”

  “Good. Is she a senior, too?”

  “No.”

  She’s waiting….

  “She’s a freshman.”

  I don’t normally offer up so much information, but I can’t hold it in any longer. I need to talk to someone about this. Every time I broach the subject with my buddy Chase Williams, one of the three non-douchebags at my new school, he warns me not to go there. He insists Andre would beat my ass if he saw me hanging around his little sister. And he has a point.

  “I see,” Vivienne nods. “Do you like her as a friend, or more?”

  “Both. But I refuse to make a move. She’s too young.”

  “Do you think you can stick to that?”

  “I don’t have a choice. If she were a couple years older, I’d be all over her, but I’m not looking for jailbait. That’s just asking for trouble. Especially when you factor in my probation.”

  “I think that’s a wise decision, Eric.”

  “You’d like her though. She’s a good girl.” Why am I seeking her approval? Cut that out.

  “I’m sure I would,” she smiles reassuringly. Her gaze drops to her notes. “While we’re on the subject, have you given any thought to what I said about Levi?”

  Not one bit.

  “I have,” I lie, “but I’m not changing my mind. We may not hang out as much because of the move, but I’m not dropping him. He’s not as bad as you think.”

  “No, Eric. You’re not as bad as you think.”

  I stiffen. Where the hell did that come from? I swallow my insecurity, feeling the air around us thicken with tension. It’s sobering. My natural instinct is to bolt or deflect. I lean forward and place the bowl of Ramen on the coffee table, avoiding eye contact at all costs. “Do me a favor and hold the judgment till noon.”

  “I’m not judging you. I’m simply tossing a theory out there.”

  “Which is?”

  “Has it ever occurred to you that maybe the reason you take the fall for Levi is because you think you deserve to be punished for something? Or perhaps you feel like you don’t deserve anything good in your life?”

  Silence.

  “Would you say there’s any truth to either of those assessments?”

  I lean forward and glare. “What’s your angle?”

  She’s unfazed by my hostility. “Why do you always assume I have hidden motives? I’m not your enemy, Eric. I’m trying to help you. But I can’t help if you won’t let me.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to be able to move forward and let go of your past so you can heal. You deserve to find some semblance of peace and happiness.”

  “I’ve moved on. It’s buried. There’s nothing more to say.”

  She studies me. “Eric, you haven’t worked through your issues. We can sit here and talk about the light and easy stuff all day, but it’s not going to get you to where you want to be. You need to be willing to open up more. At least give me something.”

  My chest is rising and falling rapidly. Clever bitch trapped me. It’s a double-edged sword. If I get up and walk away, she wins. If I give in and spill my guts, she still wins.

  “Tell me about your parents,” she presses.

  “No. Next.”

  She sets her pen down and waits for me to elaborate. It’s obvious she’s not going to budge. I check my phone to see how much time we have left. Thirty-two minutes. Shit. I’m royally screwed. Fight the inevitable for as long as possible. If I’m going down, I’m going down swinging. This tactic lasts a whopping four minutes.

  “My parents. They’re both living their own separate lives.”

  “And how does that make you feel? Knowing they’re out there but making no real effort to contact you?”

  “How do you think that makes me feel?”

  “You tell me.”

  My fists ball up. “It makes me feel like shit, okay? There. Is that what you want to hear?” Why am I allowing this woman to cut me? Maybe she’s right. Maybe I am a glutton for punishment.

  “How old were you when they split up?”

  “I don’t know, five? They were on-and-off for a while after that, then Dad ditched us for good a few years later.”

  “Why’d he leave?”

  “He couldn’t handle my mom.” And my mom couldn’t handle me. And I can’t handle this. I feel claustrophobic on the inside. Is that even possible?

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “She was young. It wasn’t her fault.”

  “What wasn’t her fault?”

  “My dad leaving. He knew what he was getting himself into. He knew she had a kid and a bunch of other baggage.”

  “Do you hold him responsible for everything?”

  “I hold him responsible for his fair share. He ga
ve up when Mom and I needed him the most. You don’t get to just walk away after you committed to helping raise a child you knew wasn’t yours. When things were solid, he had no problem claiming me as his own, but when shit hit the fan with my mom, he couldn’t distance himself from me fast enough.”

  “That must’ve been hard. When was the last time you saw him?”

  “I don’t know. Ten years ago. Why?”

  “Where do you think he lives now?”

  “Fuck if I know. Probably on a beach somewhere. Or maybe he’s living the whole white picket fence, suburbia bullshit. I’m sure he married some Stepford Wife type along the way who gave him 2.5 overachieving children, and they all sit down around the table at dinnertime, sharing stories and holding hands and praying.”

  “What’s the last memory you have of him?”

  I must get off on this—torturing myself. I cave and describe in vivid detail—down to the very outfit he was wearing—the last time I saw my dad. How he screamed at my mom at the top of his lungs. How I sat at our kitchen table plugging my ears, desperately trying to drown out the fighting. How he grabbed his keys and his wallet, said he was done with us, and slammed the door so hard a picture fell off the wall. I’ll never forget the sound of his truck as it roared to life, gravel crunching beneath the tires. I ran over to the window with tears streaming down my face, and that was it. He didn’t even come back for the rest of his stuff. No phone calls, no visitations, no birthday cards.

  Nothing.

  Vivienne leans back. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  After she sucks the last scraps of my soul out of my chest, we call it quits. Actually, first she says I have serious abandonment issues and need to work on trusting people without pushing them away, then she seals fragments of my soul in a Mason Jar. And she does it with a smug smile.

  She knows too much, which officially makes her a threat.

  My conclusion: I can no longer trust her.

  My next conclusion: she’s got to go.

  Unbeknownst to Viv, this is our last session.

  FOUR