Eventually, I thought of something. “Do you think you can break the cycle, Jason?”
Jason stared down between his knees, crumbling chips into dust. “I have to, Becca. I will . My grandpa was an asshole, and I’m pretty sure his dad was, too.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m scared it’s, like, a hereditary thing. What if I can’t be different? What if I’m just…genetically hard-wired to be an asshole like my old man?”
I took his hands in mine. “I don’t believe that. You already are different, Jason. We can choose who we want to be.”
“I hope so.” He seemed so sad suddenly, and I wanted to find a way to cheer him up, change the subject, but I couldn’t think of anything.
We had finished the sandwiches and were munching on chips as we talked, each of us having had two cans of soda. I remembered the bottle in my backpack and reached through the back window to grab the backpack, opened it, and pulled out the bottle. I set it on the blanket between us. Jason stared at it as if it were a venomous snake.
“Where’d you get that?” he asked in the same too-calm voice he’d used before.
“My brother gave it to me. He thought we should party it up, I guess. I don’t know. I don’t really drink much, but I figured what the hell, right?” I tried to sound casual, but I don’t think I succeeded.
“I’m not sure I can drink that,” Jason said, in almost a whisper. “That’s…that’s what my dad drinks. It’s…the only way I’ve ever seen him after seven or eight at night, my whole life. Him, sitting in his leather armchair in front of SVU and Castle and Game of Thrones , and always with that mother fucking square bottle on the sidetable, a glass beside him. I watch, every night, as that bottle slowly empties, one glass at a time, until he’s meaner than a fucking viper, and twice as dangerous.”
His eyes were far away as he spoke, and I sat still and silent, listening intently.
“I don’t have anything against drinking. Not everyone is like him. I’m not like him, when I drink. I just…I cannot, will not ever touch that shit. Ever.” Jason stared at the bottle as if it were his father, raw hatred in his eyes. “Please put it away. I have some beer in the cooler, if you want to drink.”
I moved quickly, shoving the bottle into the backpack and zipping it closed. “I’m sorry, Jason. I-I didn’t n-n-nnn-know.” So much for changing the subject.
His hands wrapped around my arms and pulled me closer to him, until our knees overlapped, tangled. “Of course you didn’t. Don’t be upset. Not for me.”
“But I am upset for you. You shouldn’t have to go through that.”
He twisted my shoulders, and I turned in place until my spine was nestled against his chest. Jason leaned back against the cab and wrapped his arms around my stomach beneath my breasts, his knees drawn up next to my sides. I rested my arms on his knees and tilted my head back to lay it against his shoulder, and suddenly, between one breath and the next, I was completely contented. I felt safe. I could feel his heart thumping faintly, and his breath soughed gently onto my nape. I was entirely too aware of his body then, of his hands so close to my breasts, his mouth which I could twist in place and kiss, if I were bold enough, his strong arms caging me perfectly. My heart hammered, and I had to focus on stillness so I didn’t panic. I wanted more, more touch, more of his heat, more of his strength. His nearness was intoxicating, and forbidden. I’d sneaked out of my house in the middle of the night, and now I was wrapped in the embrace of a boy. A man? I wasn’t sure. Was he a man yet? Was I woman, or a girl? We were stuck somewhere in between. Thoughts like these floated through my head, demanding answers but receiving none, because his proximity and his hardness were intoxicating.
We breathed together in the cool night air, the sky a silver-bathed black above us. We didn’t need to
Jason stared down between his knees, crumbling chips into dust. “I have to, Becca. I will . My grandpa was an asshole, and I’m pretty sure his dad was, too.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m scared it’s, like, a hereditary thing. What if I can’t be different? What if I’m just…genetically hard-wired to be an asshole like my old man?”
I took his hands in mine. “I don’t believe that. You already are different, Jason. We can choose who we want to be.”
“I hope so.” He seemed so sad suddenly, and I wanted to find a way to cheer him up, change the subject, but I couldn’t think of anything.
We had finished the sandwiches and were munching on chips as we talked, each of us having had two cans of soda. I remembered the bottle in my backpack and reached through the back window to grab the backpack, opened it, and pulled out the bottle. I set it on the blanket between us. Jason stared at it as if it were a venomous snake.
“Where’d you get that?” he asked in the same too-calm voice he’d used before.
“My brother gave it to me. He thought we should party it up, I guess. I don’t know. I don’t really drink much, but I figured what the hell, right?” I tried to sound casual, but I don’t think I succeeded.
“I’m not sure I can drink that,” Jason said, in almost a whisper. “That’s…that’s what my dad drinks. It’s…the only way I’ve ever seen him after seven or eight at night, my whole life. Him, sitting in his leather armchair in front of SVU and Castle and Game of Thrones , and always with that mother fucking square bottle on the sidetable, a glass beside him. I watch, every night, as that bottle slowly empties, one glass at a time, until he’s meaner than a fucking viper, and twice as dangerous.”
His eyes were far away as he spoke, and I sat still and silent, listening intently.
“I don’t have anything against drinking. Not everyone is like him. I’m not like him, when I drink. I just…I cannot, will not ever touch that shit. Ever.” Jason stared at the bottle as if it were his father, raw hatred in his eyes. “Please put it away. I have some beer in the cooler, if you want to drink.”
I moved quickly, shoving the bottle into the backpack and zipping it closed. “I’m sorry, Jason. I-I didn’t n-n-nnn-know.” So much for changing the subject.
His hands wrapped around my arms and pulled me closer to him, until our knees overlapped, tangled. “Of course you didn’t. Don’t be upset. Not for me.”
“But I am upset for you. You shouldn’t have to go through that.”
He twisted my shoulders, and I turned in place until my spine was nestled against his chest. Jason leaned back against the cab and wrapped his arms around my stomach beneath my breasts, his knees drawn up next to my sides. I rested my arms on his knees and tilted my head back to lay it against his shoulder, and suddenly, between one breath and the next, I was completely contented. I felt safe. I could feel his heart thumping faintly, and his breath soughed gently onto my nape. I was entirely too aware of his body then, of his hands so close to my breasts, his mouth which I could twist in place and kiss, if I were bold enough, his strong arms caging me perfectly. My heart hammered, and I had to focus on stillness so I didn’t panic. I wanted more, more touch, more of his heat, more of his strength. His nearness was intoxicating, and forbidden. I’d sneaked out of my house in the middle of the night, and now I was wrapped in the embrace of a boy. A man? I wasn’t sure. Was he a man yet? Was I woman, or a girl? We were stuck somewhere in between. Thoughts like these floated through my head, demanding answers but receiving none, because his proximity and his hardness were intoxicating.
We breathed together in the cool night air, the sky a silver-bathed black above us. We didn’t need to
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