Page 85 of Filthy Beautiful
“Would you want to read it?”
“Sure.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s about Gabe,” he said. “And because you wrote it.”
“It’s not very good.”
“I doubt that.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re smart, Courteney. I’m sure they taught you how to write decently at that private school of yours.”
“Yeah. I guess.” I studied him. He seemed sincere about wanting to read it. Maybe this was a good thing… Like if he read it and thought it was okay… he could help me tell Cary about it? And maybe Cary wouldn’t get upset? “I can email it to you. You can read it when you have time and let me know what you think. Or… whatever.”
“I will.”
“And… if I got any facts about you wrong, you can let me know.”
“Me?” His eyebrows went up. “I’m in it?”
“Well… you were one of Gabe’s best friends and bandmates. Obviously, you’re in it. And if you’d let me interview you about him sometime, it would help,” I added quickly, not looking at him. I was prepared for him to say no to that.
No one ever seemed to want to talk about Gabe for any length of time—other than his parents.
“Sure,” he said. “I can do that. If you want.”
I met his eyes. I nodded, not sure what else to say about it. I was afraid when he read the mess of a rough draft I’d written so far, he’d change his mind.
“So… I should apologize,” I told him, quick, before I lost my nerve. “I’m sorry about that stupid argument tonight.”
“You don’t need to apologize.”
“Um… you were mad at me, though,” I said, carefully. “Because I went to the bar.”
“So stop going to the bar.”
“Until I turn nineteen, right? In like five-and-a-half months. Then what happens when you see me in a bar?”
He didn’t answer that.
Instead, he sighed and rubbed his beard. “You’re gonna have an incredible life, Courteney,” he said, sounding weary. “You’re gonna do great things. You’re smart and you’re beautiful and you deserve better than some creep in a bar. You have good friends and a good education and your brother has money. You can do anything you want in this world. Just remember that.”
Then he moved like he was about to stand… to leave, as always.
“Wait,” I said, sitting up and putting the laptop aside. I was struggling to catch up with everything he’d just said, because it all felt way too good.
It always felt good when he said nice things about me.
He did it so rarely.
I knew this was all in him, though; all this kindness he so rarely expressed with words. I knew he cared about me. Maybe it wasn’t a sexual attraction, yet… Maybe he couldn’t see me that way. Maybe he never would. But I was pretty sure he believed all those things he just said about me.
More than I believed them about myself.
I knew I was a good person, and I would have a good life, courtesy of my brother and his money—and my parents’ determination that I make them proud.
