Page 63 of Badd Love
He sniffed softly. "Both, I guess."
"And what about when your head and your heart say different things?"
A long pause. "I've found in circumstances like that, that situations have a way of making the choice for you."
"Not sure how I feel about that," I said.
"Hear that, for sure. Unfortunately, life doesn't ever really give much of a shit how you feel about it."
"What was your mom like?" Duncan asked.
Dad, forty-some years later, went misty-eyed, cleared his throat. "Mom was…Jesus. Everything Dad wasn't, which was a good thing, in both directions. She was an easy laugh. I think to this day, Bax's sense of humor comes from his incessant driveas a little kid to make Mom laugh—which he did, frequently and uproariously. He got in trouble as much as he made her laugh, and sometimes she'd have to pass off discipline to Dad because she couldn't hide her laughter. She wassobeautiful. Her hair was almost to her waist. I remember being super little, like, Zane must've been—shit, three? Bax was just a baby. It's one of those super dreamy memories, y'know? Like, it could very well be one of those memories you've partly invented." He cast his eyes toward the sky, blinking hard. "A band was playing downstairs—you could hear the hum and thump through the floor. The chatter of the crowd under my feet, the sound of the band on the weekends. Zane had passed out on Mom and Dad's bed with a sippy-cup—it had a red lid. Mom was sitting at her vanity. It had the light bulbs around the frame of the mirror. She was wearing one of Dad's flannels; Dad was so big and she was so tiny that it was like a dress on her. I think she actually did wear one of his shirts as an outfit once,—there's a photo somewhere. She belted it and left it partially unbuttoned. Anyway. She was brushing her hair and humming some song. Her vanity was the only light, so the room was dark and warm. She had her hair down over her shoulder and she was dragging this super old brush through it—must've been an antique or…or an heirloom. I think it might be in a box in the attic here. I wonder. Shealwayshad her hair up, braided, and in a bun. That was her hairstyle, and she almost never varied it except on special occasions. I think the memory is so distinct and special because it was one of the few times I saw her with her hair down." He sniffled, wiped at his face; Dad didn't cry almost ever, but the few times I have seen it, he didn't try to hide it or seem embarrassed.
In fact, the only other time I've seen him cry is when our dog, Bomber, died. It was one of those classic cases of Dad didn't want the dog but Mom did and so they comprised and got the dog. Bomber had been a rescue—he was three or fourwhen he got him, and he was, fittingly, a mutt of indeterminate breed mix, and a rambunctious troublemaker that drove Dad absolutely nuts. Having a dog like that in a three-bedroom apartment over a bar was a pretty wild idea. We hadn't moved to the house, yet—it was almost done being built, as I recall. I think Bomber was at least part sheepdog of some sort, because he used to love herding us kids around the yard, after we moved to the house, nipping playfully at our heels. He got sick pretty abruptly when I was thirteen or so, and passed pretty quickly thereafter. We were all devastated, but none more so than Dad, who, despite all his bitching about Bomber destroying his slippers and chewing on doorframes and barking his fool head off every time a seaplane went overhead, loved the shit out of that dog. We never got another dog after that, if that tells you anything.
"Mom was quiet and mellow, for the most part,” Dad said. “Where Dad was more…taciturn, a man of few words as a rule, Mom was more just quiet. Soft-spoken. She and Dad…I don't remember them having tons of conversations. I think their relationship was more about the quality of silence. Being content to just be near each other. They were super physically affectionate, though." He looked at me. "Dane, son. Just live your life. If this girl, Lindsey, is supposed to be in your life, she will be. I am not a religious or spiritual man, and I'm not sure how much I believe in fate either. Our lives are what we make of them. That said, shit happens. People make inexplicable decisions. People do shit that surprises us. And women…? Son, I've loved and lived with your mother for more than twenty years, and in that time, we've only spent a few weekends apart, total. And she'sstilla mystery to me, in some ways. Like, I know her inside and out. I know how she thinks. I know when she needs space and when she needs me close. I get to thinkin' I've got the woman all figured out, and then she does something that shocks the shit outta me, and I realize I don't know dick.” Helooks at me. "The reason I say that is you may have the most genuine feelings in the world for this girl, but you don't reallyknowher. That's okay—love doesn't require you to know the person. Sometimes, you meet someone, and your hearts or souls or whatever just…knoweach other. I can’t explain it, but I've felt it myself and seen it time and again. You don't know this girl. You don't know what she's thinking. Shit, I'm not sure you even know what she's feeling."
"I don't," I said.
"If she made it clear she's not in a place to deal with her feelings for you, there isn't much you can do except respect that. There's a time to fight for the woman you love—even if that means fighting her in some way. You ask me, this doesn't seem like that. It seems like a situation where you gotta let her confront her demons and hope she finds her way back to you. Which means there ain't shit you can do. I know that sucks dog balls, and I'm sorry."
Dunc and I aren't twins—we're Irish twins, born less than a year apart. Although something tells me that term is probably associated with some sort of negative stereotype about Irish people, and I shouldn't use it. The point is, even though we aren't real twins, we are close enough that we can sometimes communicate silently through looks. And sometimes, we can just feel what the other is thinking.
Point in case, I saw Dunc open his mouth, and I just knew he was about to say something about Bomber; I met his eyes and shook my head. We'd probed into enough of Dad's painful memories for one conversation.
As much as it sucked, I recognized the truth in Dad's advice. I’m convinced Lindsey has feelings for me—as strong as mine for her. But if she's unwilling or unable to face them or handle them or whatever, there's not much I can do to change the situation.
All I can do is go about my life and…wait.
Hope.
Dream.
If this is being in love, I'd like to unsubscribe, please and thanks.
CHAPTER 9
Lindsey
I’m alone.
Raquel and Hamish were busily moving their lives to Seattle. Rune was officially an Alaskan. Even and Mom and Pop Rigby were gone—house sold, closed, and turned over to new owners, belongings stored in a locker, the pair off on an extended trip throughout Europe.
Leaving poor lonely Lindsey languishing all alone in the impersonal plastic hell of Los Angeles.
Fuck this.
But I'm too damn stubborn to let myself cave—to call Rune and beg her to find me a couch to sleep on and maybe a job. Mainly because Dane was in Ketchikan, and I still couldn't handle thinking about or seeing him.
I've been having nightmares about Danny. Flashbacks—visceral, physical memories that leave me nauseous, shaking, and weeping. They come at random times—this morning, I was having a cup of coffee on my little Romeo and Juliet balcony when one hit, and I dropped my mug on the sidewalk below, nearly crowning some poor dude. Yesterday, one hit while I was in the shower, and I couldn't get off the floor for almost half an hour.
I see his curly black hair, his pale skin, his flat, cold, greedy gray eyes the color of a dreary, sullen day. I feel his hands on my skin. His foul-smelling breath in my face, whispering about it being a secret and how if I tell anyone, the police will come and take me to jail. I remember being confused about that—I knew I hadn't done anything wrong, but the fear was irrational and the gut-wrenching, soul-destroying nausea of what he was doing to me overrode any sense I may have had that he was wrong, not me.
It felt wrong, and he put it on me, and I was scared and ashamed and sick, and he got me all twisted up inside.
Fuck.
"Linz?" I heard my name being called, but the maelstrom of thoughts and feelings paralyzed me. "Lindsey?" A hand shook me, firmly. "Lindsey!"
