Believe (True Believers #3)(30)
Author: Erin McCarthy

“She ate scabs?” That was a horrifying image. “And I’m sure you weren’t as weird as you thought.” Picturing a little Phoenix, keeping to himself, made my heart swell. “Everyone goes through an awkward phase. You should have seen me with braces.”

But Phoenix shook his head as I started the car. “Uh-uh. I’m not buying that you were ever ugly.”

I laughed. “Want to see my middle school yearbook?”

“Yes.”

“No way.” I may have come to terms with my vanity as a default positive since the beginning of the summer, but that didn’t mean I wanted Phoenix to see me at my gawkiest.

“I’d show you a picture of me, but I don’t have any,” he said, and the amusement left his voice.

He didn’t sound angry, not exactly, but when I glanced over I saw his fists were clenched, and he released them, one finger at a time. God, what would it be like, to have your memories locked only in your brain, nothing visible to remind you of them? No pictures, no report cards, no childhood toys, no baby clothes? It would be scary to me, like I was a vast nothing, history fluid as our minds tended to twist truth and the past.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and I meant it more than those simple words could ever cover.

But he shrugged. “It’s okay. There might be a picture or two at Riley and Tyler’s house. Before Easton, Aunt Dawn was somewhat functioning.” He turned his phone to me so I could see the directions to the cemetery. “Want me to turn the sound on for the GPS so you know where you’re going?”

“Sure,” I said absently. “So why did having Easton change things?”

“He has a different father, which is a bit obvious given that he is biracial. It was also obvious to my uncle, who is blond, who my aunt was still married to at the time. So when he realized she had cheated on him, he ran her over with his car. That’s why he’s in prison. He got fifteen years for attempted murder.”

Jessica had mentioned something about Riley and Tyler’s dad being in jail, but I hadn’t gotten the full story. I made a face, horrified. “How did she survive that? My God, that’s awful.”

“It messed up her back and that is how she got started on the prescription pills. But tell me about your family. You don’t talk much about yourself.” His hand snaked out and took my right one for a second before letting it go.

I shrugged as I followed instructions to turn left. “I don’t know. I told you about my family. They’re just like . . . normal people. I haven’t had a super interesting life or anything.”

“Normal doesn’t mean you’re not interesting. You don’t need drama to be interesting.”

Didn’t you? I wondered again how I would define myself if I had to explain to someone in a dozen adjectives what made up me. Creative? A good speller? Punctual? I wasn’t a good friend, not anymore. I wasn’t fun. So what was I?

“I guess I just always figured I would do what my parents did . . . get a degree, a practical job, a house in the ’burbs. Their happiness comes from each other, from family, not from any personal ambitions or their careers. They worry about bills and medical care and the usual stuff.” I looked at Phoenix, suddenly feeling like I might cry, with no idea why. “Is that happiness? Really?”

“If you ask my mother and the Beatles, happiness is a warm gun, aka heroin. But for the average person, I would say, yes, happiness is about the moment. Not the whole journey. It’s ‘Do I have what I need right now?’ and if the answer is yes, then you should be happy.”

“Yeah?” Following the urgent GPS voice, I pulled into the cemetery, suddenly aware of the irony of our conversation with the headstones rising all around us. When he put it like that, so simple, I realized that I was content. I did have everything I needed. Parents who loved me, a future income, a current job, friends for now, and a guy who looked at me like Phoenix was doing right then. “What if you make mistakes? How do you be happy knowing you’ve hurt people?”

“If you are even thinking about it, then you care enough to deserve forgiveness. We all f**k up, Robin.”

Putting the car in park so we could figure out where his aunt’s grave was, I turned to Phoenix, afraid to look at him, afraid he would see my shame.

But he took my chin and turned my face. “Hey. Want to tell me about it?”

I shook my head, mouth hot.

He studied me for a minute, and I fought the urge to look away.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “But tell me this—are you happy when you’re with me?”

Without hesitation I nodded. “Yes, absolutely.”

“Good. And are you happy when you paint?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s do more of that. Because being with you makes me happy, too.” Phoenix pulled one of the flowers from the bouquet out and snapped off the stem. He tucked it behind my ear, into my hair. “I’m alive, I’ve got my freedom, a job, two bucks in my pocket, and a beautiful woman who sees something in me. What else could I need?”

He actually meant it. I could see that. He was grateful.

And I was, too. For him.

Chapter Nine

Phoenix

The cemetery was too quiet. I wanted to blast some Disturbed or go old-school Nirvana, blaring that crazy motherfucker Kurt Cobain to shatter the silence and bizarre ritualistic quality of the row after row of headstones.

Of course, I would probably get arrested if I actually did. The thought amused me. It probably wasn’t a natural response to grief anyway, but then when did my family do anything normal? We were the opposite of Robin’s family.

I stood in front of the grave of my aunt Dawn and stared at the grass, trying to comprehend that she was buried there. That we died and our bodies were lowered into the ground in a steel box and we stayed there for eternity. It was a head trip, and not a good one. There was no headstone for my aunt. No money for one. Which meant at some point no one would even remember she was here. I set the flowers down on their side. Other graves had a cool flower-holder thingy but again, there was nothing at Dawn’s. I only knew it was hers because we had gone into the office and asked for her plot number at Robin’s suggestion.

Robin was standing respectfully next to me, occasionally wiping at her eyes. I found it oddly satisfying that she was crying, which was f**ked-up, but the thing was, I knew she was crying out of sadness for me. I’d never really had anyone care about me like that. I’d never really had anyone stand next to me in the figurative sense, and I had been telling her the God’s honest truth—I was doing all right in the happiness department. Life wasn’t necessarily easy or mess-free, but I felt damn lucky, which seemed like an odd emotion to be having at someone’s grave. But that didn’t mean I didn’t feel bad that my aunt’s life had gone down the way it had—I did. And I hoped that whatever was out there after death, she was finally at peace. Maybe rocking out to some Bon Jovi with big old eighties hair.