But I Love Him by Amanda Grace

but to me, it’s out of reach. It will never happen. So stop acting like it will.”
    “What do you mean? We’ve talked about this. We’re going to live in a big—”
    “No. Now drop it,” he growls.
    I stare at him for several long moments, trying to figure out what I’ve done to make him so angry. He’d been fine just seconds before. Sad, yeah, but angry? It’s like a switch flipping. I wish I knew what I was supposed to do. I wish I could read him better.
    A car honks behind me and I’m forced to look back at the road, and I take a right turn and leave the little colonial behind. Only moments later he speaks again, and his mood has shifted a second time.
    “Look, I’m sorry. It’s just … sometimes I think you’re too good for me. You can have anything you want. Including a house and a horse and whatever else you want. But people like me … I’m never going to have all that. My life will always be one big mess.”
    A wide spot opens up next to the road and I pull into the gravel and put the car in park. I leave the engine idling and turn toward him. “That’s not true, Connor. I promise you. We’ll work together and we’ll get everything we’ve ever wanted. I swear to you, it’s going to happen.”
    Connor doesn’t seem to hear my words. He turns and stares out the window, even as it fogs over. We sit in silence on the side of the road for what seems like eternity.
    And then he speaks. “When I was seven, my mom kind of lost it for a while. I don’t even know where she ended up. Probably a psych ward. But I ended up with my dad for a few months without her around.”
    Why is he telling me this? What does it have to do with anything? Is this part of his anger or has he tipped back toward depression? Which one is worse?
    “We never had much money. And with her out of the house, he had no reason to hide what he spent on alcohol. He’d buy bottles and bottles of it while the cupboards were empty. Some days I’d eat nothing but dry ramen noodles or ketchup or frozen French fries. I couldn’t even cook the stuff ’cause he said I wasn’t allowed.”
    And then it makes sense. The reason he took up cooking.
    “Wow. I’m … I’m …”
    What? Sorry? That doesn’t seem like it’s enough. I reach out, rest my hand on his shoulder. He shrugs. I don’t know if he’s trying to shrug my hand off or just act like it’s not a big deal.
    I run my hand down his arm, then reach for his hand and pull it onto my lap, interlacing my fingers with his. He’s not looking at me, but the feeling of skin-on-skin somehow makes me feel better, like he knows I’m here for him.
    I know he wants the stories out, but I know he also wants to act like they don’t matter anymore, and he’s forever stuck between hiding the pain and letting it pour out.
    “I know I can’t blame him for everything,” he says.
    “Who?” I ask, even though I know the answer.
    “My dad. I mean, eventually I’m supposed to just get over it, right? I’m supposed to just say fuck it, and move on, and forget all the shitty stuff. I’m supposed to be normal and grow up and buy colonial houses with flower beds and pretty horses.”
    Oh. Now I get it. I take a long, slow breath, trying to figure out how I should answer, what I should think.
    Because yes, sometimes I think he should just be over it. He can’t blame everything on him, can he? He’s eighteen. Old enough to take control of his life. Old enough to create his own and forget the man who screwed up everything.
    But then, who am I to judge? Who am I to know what it’s like? I can’t even imagine the crap his dad has done to him. Maybe it’s normal that he’s haunted by it all. Maybe he’s supposed to think about it and confront it and not just ignore it all.
    “I guess,” I finally say. Because that’s all it is. A guess.
    “That’s what I want. To just put him behind me and pretend like he doesn’t exist. To just … be someone else. To work hard and to get ahead