your tits” or something. “What? No!”
“Well, that waitress was looking to serve something up to you and it certainly wasn’t pizza.” We both howl with laughter.
The busty waitress sets our waters down on the table, both Cara and I chuckling softly as she walks away. Cara takes a sip and grabs the lemon out of the glass, squeezing it into the water.
I rub my hands down my pant legs repeatedly, my eyes darting to her. “I’m sorry about your mom.”
“Yeah, me, too,” is all she says, wiping the moisture from the glass with her fingers.
“Do you miss them? Your parents, I mean?”
She doesn’t say anything right away, but starts shredding her napkin, tearing small pieces off and throwing them on the table. “Well, I miss my dad.”
“Not your mom?”
Her smile fades. “Not so much, no.” The napkin pile grows larger. “My mom was … she wasn’t a very nice person … and … well … she ignored me for several years of my life.”
I’m not sure I heard her correctly. “What do you mean, ignored?”
“I mean, she paid no attention to me. When I was in the house, she walked by me, pretended I wasn’t there. She had serious problems … issues with drugs and alcohol. I guess you could say she was extremely self-centered.”
“I don’t know what to say,” I whisper. I really don’t. The fact is, I don’t want to say anything. I want to reach out to her, let the strength of my arms embrace her and take all that bullshit away. What kind of a mother ignores her own daughter?
She grabs another napkin and adds to the mound and just as her hand touches it, mine touches hers. She pauses, eyeing my hand for a minute, then slowly slips out from under my grasp. A thick layer of discomfort weighs in the air.
“So what do you do when you’re not at school or in the library?”
She pushes the crumpled up napkin into the center of the table. “Mostly I read, and study.”
“You don’t go out at all with friends?”
“No. I don’t have many friends,” she replies, staring down at the table.
“Why not?”
She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “I guess the glasses scare people away.”
I try and catch her attention with my eyes. “I think you want to scare people away.”
This is what baffles me about Cara, though. Her glasses say one thing, but the way she dresses screams the total opposite. It’s almost like she’s at war with herself.
She directs her gaze anywhere but at me. “So, how’s Colt?”
I guess that’s another subject that’s off limits . “He’s okay. I’m going with him on Friday to get his scan. He doesn’t want my mom to go because he’s afraid she’ll have an emotional breakdown.”
“I’ll say some prayers for him. I have a feeling that he’s gonna be fine, though.”
“You do?” I ask, my voice shaky.
“Yeah, I do.” If hope was her smile, the world would believe that anything is possible. She takes another sip of water and as she’s placing her glass down, her eyes flick to my bicep. I realize she’s looking at my tattoo.
My eyes move to it as well, and I point my index finger in reference and pull my sleeve up to my shoulder. “I got this about six months before my dad passed away. It’s one of the best memories of my time with him. We went to this tattoo shop in LA; I walked in and told them that I wanted a guitar with loopy strings and musical notes flying out from it. My dad followed behind and took a seat next to me for support. I didn’t realize how much of a wimp I’d be once the artist started the tattoo. It actually hurt like hell and I managed unsuccessfully to wince every few seconds. My dad looked over at me and said, ‘son, be a man.’ Of course, he said it completely in jest—my dad didn’t have a condescending or critical bone in his body.”
Cara reaches out and traces the outline of the guitar with her fingers. I freeze momentarily, her touch spreading warmth through my entire arm, effectively disabling my
“Well, that waitress was looking to serve something up to you and it certainly wasn’t pizza.” We both howl with laughter.
The busty waitress sets our waters down on the table, both Cara and I chuckling softly as she walks away. Cara takes a sip and grabs the lemon out of the glass, squeezing it into the water.
I rub my hands down my pant legs repeatedly, my eyes darting to her. “I’m sorry about your mom.”
“Yeah, me, too,” is all she says, wiping the moisture from the glass with her fingers.
“Do you miss them? Your parents, I mean?”
She doesn’t say anything right away, but starts shredding her napkin, tearing small pieces off and throwing them on the table. “Well, I miss my dad.”
“Not your mom?”
Her smile fades. “Not so much, no.” The napkin pile grows larger. “My mom was … she wasn’t a very nice person … and … well … she ignored me for several years of my life.”
I’m not sure I heard her correctly. “What do you mean, ignored?”
“I mean, she paid no attention to me. When I was in the house, she walked by me, pretended I wasn’t there. She had serious problems … issues with drugs and alcohol. I guess you could say she was extremely self-centered.”
“I don’t know what to say,” I whisper. I really don’t. The fact is, I don’t want to say anything. I want to reach out to her, let the strength of my arms embrace her and take all that bullshit away. What kind of a mother ignores her own daughter?
She grabs another napkin and adds to the mound and just as her hand touches it, mine touches hers. She pauses, eyeing my hand for a minute, then slowly slips out from under my grasp. A thick layer of discomfort weighs in the air.
“So what do you do when you’re not at school or in the library?”
She pushes the crumpled up napkin into the center of the table. “Mostly I read, and study.”
“You don’t go out at all with friends?”
“No. I don’t have many friends,” she replies, staring down at the table.
“Why not?”
She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “I guess the glasses scare people away.”
I try and catch her attention with my eyes. “I think you want to scare people away.”
This is what baffles me about Cara, though. Her glasses say one thing, but the way she dresses screams the total opposite. It’s almost like she’s at war with herself.
She directs her gaze anywhere but at me. “So, how’s Colt?”
I guess that’s another subject that’s off limits . “He’s okay. I’m going with him on Friday to get his scan. He doesn’t want my mom to go because he’s afraid she’ll have an emotional breakdown.”
“I’ll say some prayers for him. I have a feeling that he’s gonna be fine, though.”
“You do?” I ask, my voice shaky.
“Yeah, I do.” If hope was her smile, the world would believe that anything is possible. She takes another sip of water and as she’s placing her glass down, her eyes flick to my bicep. I realize she’s looking at my tattoo.
My eyes move to it as well, and I point my index finger in reference and pull my sleeve up to my shoulder. “I got this about six months before my dad passed away. It’s one of the best memories of my time with him. We went to this tattoo shop in LA; I walked in and told them that I wanted a guitar with loopy strings and musical notes flying out from it. My dad followed behind and took a seat next to me for support. I didn’t realize how much of a wimp I’d be once the artist started the tattoo. It actually hurt like hell and I managed unsuccessfully to wince every few seconds. My dad looked over at me and said, ‘son, be a man.’ Of course, he said it completely in jest—my dad didn’t have a condescending or critical bone in his body.”
Cara reaches out and traces the outline of the guitar with her fingers. I freeze momentarily, her touch spreading warmth through my entire arm, effectively disabling my
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