by Aria Ford
“Kyle,” I said gently. I pulled out the chair at the head of the table, turned to face him. “Listen. What are you doing here? How did you get here?” I felt my heart clench at the thought that he drove here. He could have had an accident so easily! I shook my head.
“I drove,” he confirmed. “So messed up. Sorry,” he sighed.
“No, don’t be sorry,” I said gently. “Why are you sorry? I was just worried.”
He frowned. “Sorry, Bethany,” he said. “I just didn’t know what to say. I had to see you.”
I felt my heart twist painfully. I had gone to sleep quite upset—he hadn’t answered my texts and I had assumed he had no interest in me. Now he was here? In my mother’s house? Saying he had to see me?
I sighed. I remembered the conversation I’d had with Rodney yesterday. About Kyle. The story of his past was a troubling one. Go carefully. He’s wounded. He has a lot of pain inside.
“I’m glad you came,” I said gently. That was completely sincere. I was, I realized as I sat and looked at him, so pleased to see him. Drunk or not drunk, exhausted or alert, he was Kyle and he meant more to me than I’d suspected.
He blinked at me, those gray eyes troubled. “You are? No, you’re not,” he slurred. “It’s trouble for you. Too much trouble.”
I frowned. “Trouble? How is it trouble?” It might be one am on a weekday, but all he’d done was visit—and I really was glad to see him.
He let out a long, shaky breath. “Always trouble,” he said wearily. “Too much noise. Too much fuss. Making life hard for Mom.”
I tensed. As far as I knew, according to Rodney, he never mentioned his mother. He was letting me into something he rarely discussed. Maybe he wouldn’t have if he hadn’t been drunk, I reasoned. But even so, he was here, with me, and the story had to come out. Like the missing bracket in Rodney’s program, it had to come to light.
“How hard?” I asked.
“Too much to do. Too much trouble.” Kyle shook his head. “Dad didn’t want kids. Mom did. He…it made him mad. Mad at her. All the fights. All my fault. Bad.”
I let out a long sigh. “Kyle, no. It’s not your fault. How could it be? It was their choice to have you! Not yours.”
In my heart, I was shocked. How could anyone have blamed a kid for his own existence? The thought was unbelievable. In my experience, kids were cherished by both parents. How would it feel, to think everything was your fault, just for being born?
You’d feel unlovable. Worthless. Shameful.
I closed my eyes. So many things were starting to make sense—his reluctance to get close, his coolness in public conversations, his rebellious streak.
He shook his head. “Not my choice, no,” he agreed. He grinned at me weakly, and I realized he wasn’t quite as drunk as I had previously thought. He was at least able to see me. He knew me.
“So?” I said gently. “How can you blame yourself? It wasn’t your fault.”
He looked at the table. His head rested in his cupped hands a moment. He sighed.
“Mom left when I was fifteen,” he said quietly. “Just walked out. Couldn’t handle it anymore. That’s what she said. Dad blamed me.”
“Blamed you!” I exploded. “Sorry,” I added as he blinked. “But what kind of a man is so bad at being accountable that he would blame a child for his marriage difficulties?” I was speechless. One A.M. or not, my blood was racing in my veins. If I’d had his father there in that moment, he would have gotten a piece of my mind.
Seems like he needs one, and a big piece at that.
Kyle frowned at me. “What do you mean?” he asked. He looked gray in the face and I was worried he might be sick. I tensed, poised between staying to talk and going to find a bucket for him.
“I mean,” I said gently, “that it couldn’t have been you. You were a boy. An innocent kid. They were two adults. If they couldn’t, as adults, figure out their differences, that’s too bad. But it was never, ever your fault. They were the grown-ups. It was on them to be accountable.”
I saw something shift in his eyes. Where before they had been dark gray screens, it felt as if a light had turned on. He understood something of what I had said. I felt a flare of hope inside me.
“Maybe,” he said. He sighed. “But I was a troublemaker. Not the son my dad wanted. I didn’t even finish school.”
It sounded to me like he was trying to cling onto this idea of himself as bad, reluctant to let it go, to allow for other explanations.
“You were a kid. You reacted to the situation the only way you knew how: to rebel. I don’t blame you. No one would.”
“Dad brought me back, though,” he sniffed. “He gave me a second chance. Kind. He didn’t have to… do that.”
I stared. “Yes, he did!” I raged. Kyle winced again and I shook my head. “Sorry,” I said. “But really, he was your father. He pushed you to the point that you ran off, and then you still think he was wonderful for taking you back! No way, Kyle.”
I felt furious—both mad at Kyle’s dad, who sounded like a piece of work, and at Kyle himself, for failing to notice how he was being used.
Kyle stared at me. “But…”
“No but,” I yelled. “Sorry,” I apologized again. “Sorry, Kyle. But really? You must be able to see that makes no sense whatsoever. A family is meant to help each other. Stone Age humans did that—it’s what led the human race to develop. Are you telling me your dad’s worse than a caveman?”
He laughed. “You haven’t met him.”
I smiled. His eyes met mine. Holding my stare, they seemed unclouded, as if he was sobering. I felt suddenly tired. I reached out and took his hand. He held mine.
“No, I haven’t,” I agreed with a giggle. “But if I had, he’d come off worse. Trust me.”
He smiled into my eyes, his hand gentle on mine. “I believe you,” he said.
Our gaze held. I felt almost as if his eyes on mine was a physical touch, closer than an embrace. We seemed to become closer in that moment, like his soul reached out and touched mine. It felt weird.
He smiled tiredly. His hand gripped mine. He looked much older than twenty-nine: weary, like he’d had a hard life in that small amount of years. He had.
“I’m tired,” he said.
I nodded. “You must be,” I agreed. It was 1:46 a.m., according to mom’s digital wall clock in the kitchen.
He yawned. “I should go,” he said. He was still drunk, I reckoned, but not as badly as he had been. I frowned.
“You’re not driving, Kyle—not now. Stay here.”
His eyes held mine. He reached out and took my hand. I ached, my whole body responding to his touch. In that moment, I would have done anything to have him hold me. I sighed.
“Come on, you,” I said. “You can stay in the living room. We’ll get you sorted out tomorrow morning. Sounds good?”
I talked gently, like I would to a child. His eyes met mine. He nodded.
“Bethany…I shouldn’t do this to you,” he said. “I should…go. Late for work tomorrow.” he shook his head. “Bad.”
“Come on, Kyle,” I said as he yawned again. He was standing now, swaying a little as he got up and leaned forward. I stood too. He let his weight rest on his fists, placed on the table for support.
“I’m okay,” he insisted.
“Come on, then,” I said gently. He walked forward and I walked beside him, ready to catch him if he did fall. I led him through across the narrow hallway to the living room. He sat on the chair.
“I shouldn’t stay,” he said. He looked so weary that I felt my heart twist for him. He couldn’t drive anywhere—not safely and not now.
“You absolutely should stay,” I said firmly. “Come on. You can sleep on the couch. I’ll see you tomorrow. Huh?”
He nodded. “See you tomorrow,” he whispered. He stood and lowered himself to the couch, then sat there, elbows propping his head up. He looked at his feet.
I walked out, leaving him to his rest.
Poor Kyle, I thought sadly. Poor, poor Kyle.
My heart ached, imagining the man as a frightened boy in a house of raging adults, the fingers pointing at him. He was the bad one, they told him. He dared to exist.
Some people, I said to myself angrily. I took off my night-robe and hung it up, then slipped between the sheets.
I lay there, eyes closed, thinking about Kyle. The thoughts of his family and his mother, his story and his hurt, were overridden by another, big thought. The thought that Kyle was downstairs, on my mom’s couch, a few paces away, fast asleep. I smiled.
My body felt a sweet warmth flow through it at that thought and, despite my expectations of staying awake, my eyelids grew heavy and I found my thoughts disjointed and undirected, settling down to sleep.
Chapter 14: Kyle
I rolled over and groaned. My head ached. Someone had left the light on and it seeped in between my eyelids, lancing my head with pain. I groaned again. My mouth tasted awful. I sat up.
“What the…”
I looked around. It was bright daylight, soft with dawn, and it filtered through net curtains over a big, long window. The room was cluttered—bookshelves, CD player, television, a big rug and plush furniture. I was sitting up, fully dressed, alone, on a couch.
Oh heck.
Memory returned to me suddenly. I knew exactly where I was. I was on the sofa. In Bethany’s mom’s house.
“Kyle Beckham,” I scolded myself, “of all the stupid, irresponsible things! You useless, stupid…” I trailed off. Some flicker of memory returned from the previous night. Sitting at a table. In a kitchen, maybe, with Bethany opposite. Her voice, saying something.
It’s not your fault. The adults in your life couldn’t be accountable. But that doesn’t mean that it’s actually your fault.
I blinked in surprise. I didn’t know if those were her exact words, or my sense of them. But I recalled her saying that. I was surprised. Somehow, it had shifted the shame and pain I always carried. My usual newsreel of reprimands didn’t quite have the impact it usually did.
Maybe whoever said all that was lying.
It had never occurred to me not to believe it. That it could have been coming from any other motivation other than telling me the truth. I frowned. For someone who didn’t trust anyone, I sure took people’s word for it when they said something negative! I chuckled.
My head hurt and I closed my eyes, trying to make the room stop moving. I sat down again.
I should leave. Now. How the heck am I going to get to work from here?
My car was here—I recalled a memory of driving here, recklessly.
If the police had been out, they would have stopped me, I thought grimly. The image of me creeping along the streets at thirty miles an hour, focused intently, trying to avoid things, came to mind. I would have laughed if it hadn’t been so serious. I must never do that again.
I stood, head swaying, and walked to the door. Maybe if I drank some water, my head would clear. I recalled a kitchen somewhere here. I looked around.
I tensed, hearing footsteps. Oh heck. What if that was Mrs. Hayworth? I stood stiffly. How was I going to explain who I was, why I was here?
I heard a footstep in the hallway and whipped round. I drew in a breath.
With the pale morning sunshine on her long pale hair, her curves lovely in a skirt and shirt, it was Bethany. I tensed. What would she think of me now? I stayed in the doorway, half hoping she wouldn’t see me there. Maybe, if I was quiet, she’d pass me. I could just get some water and sneak out to the car and she’d forget I was there.
I stood still, trying to make myself lean back against the cupboards, willing myself invisible.
She looked up, straight at my face.
Her smile was soft.
“Hello,” she said.
I stared. I couldn’t help it. Her big brown eyes were gentle in the morning light, those plump lips soft and just parted in the grin.
My loins ached despite my exhaustion and the traces of a hangover. I winced, hoping she couldn’t see the sign of my arousal. She smiled.
“You’re awake early,” she commented.
“What’s the time?” I asked, looking around for a clock. Bad idea—any sudden moves made my head ache like someone was trying to break it.
“It’s eight thirty,” she said lightly.
“What?” My heart thumped in panic. “I’m going to be late for work…” I leaned back, supporting my weight. Closed my eyes in weary resignation. “I can’t make it.”
She frowned. “Call in sick,” she suggested. “Come on. Just this once. You’re not going to be very awake today, anyway. It can last a day without you.”
I stared at her. I never called in sick. I would have felt like I was betraying some deep personal code. Hell, even when I was sick, I hesitated to do it. It felt almost as if my useless, worthless self would creep out of the woodwork if I risked being human.
“Come on,” she said gently. “Do it. You can probably even get a doctor’s certificate if you need one. I think any doctor would agree you’re not able to work.”
“Fine.”
I sank wearily onto the seat by the kitchen table. Pulled out my phone, which was still in my pocket. Dialed the work number. Melody answered.
“Melody? I…hi! Yeah. Listen. It’s me. I’m going to have to call in sick today.”
“Sir! Oh no. Well, there’s only two meetings to reschedule. We can juggle them in tomorrow’s timetable. Listen, you get well soon? Okay?”
I smiled. “Thanks,” I said tiredly. I was surprised by how simple that had been. “Thanks—I appreciate it. Bye.”
“Bye, Mr. Beckham. Get well soon!”
I hung up, feeling a little guilty for telling a lie. A small lie, admittedly. I did feel sick. I felt pretty awful.
I looked up into Bethany’s smiling stare. “See?” she said, crossing the kitchen to reach the counter behind me smoothly. “That wasn’t too hard.”
I sighed. “Bethany,” I began wearily. “Listen. I…” I frowned. What could I say? I had some memory of what I had said last night—some idea that I’d told her a lot of stuff about myself, things I never normally discussed. Alright, not ever.
I could remember even more clearly what she’d said. Her advice, her kindness. I just didn’t know where that left us. Not that I had ever really understood “us”, and our instant, amazing closeness—not ever.
“Kyle,” she said gently. “You want breakfast?”
I paused. I realized that I had missed dinner. And that, if I thought about it, I was hungry. Ravenously hungry.
“Please,” I nodded firmly. I paused. Remembered something else. “But I can’t stay. I don’t want to impose on your mother. I…” I trailed off as she smiled, laughing.
“Mom’s already out,” she said. “She wouldn’t mind anyway, but if you felt weird about it, don’t be. She’s only coming back at one.”
I stared at her. Suddenly, the ache in my loins got worse. I was here, in the kitchen, with Bethany.
No one else was in the house, and I had just spent the night under her roof, connecting with her. We were alone together.
It seemed that she had the same thought at the same time. She cleared her throat. Blushed.
“So,” she said cheerfully. “We can have toast and muesli? Or something warm, if you’d prefer?” she was opening cupboards behind me, making herself busy. I stood, uncertainly.
“That sounds great,” I said. My eyes met hers and held.
She stared at me. She must have read the depth of longing in my gaze because she looked down, embarrassed, breaking the stare.
“Well,” she continued, turning away quickly, “we can have coffee, maybe, or…�
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“Coffee’s great,” I said gently. I reached out and touched her shoulder. She tensed and I let my hand drop.
“I’ll put the toast out,” she said, turning to the toaster, taking slices of bread out of a brown paper packet on the sideboard.
“I’ll make coffee,” I nodded. “This the thing?” I pointed to a capsule machine. She nodded.
“Thanks, Kyle. That would help.”
I busied myself with the coffee maker while she set about getting out plates and spoons. I watched her as she did so, enjoying just being able to look at her. I was feeling better now, my headache lifting a little as we worked together.
“Kyle, can you…?” she turned and stopped. She must have seen the expression on my face. She flushed, embarrassed.
“Uh, what?” I asked gently.
“Nothing,” she said, looking down. She was buttering the toast automatically, not really watching what she was doing, cutting it in half. She nicked her finger and swore, sticking it in her mouth.
I reached out a hand. “Let me see,” I said gently.
She drew the finger out of her mouth slowly, looking up at me. My heart melted. I reached out and let my hands rest gently on her shoulders. This time she didn’t flinch or tense up.