Page 189 of Wicked Angel
“Thanks, Mom.”
She disappeared back into the house, shutting the door firmly behind her as Johnny set the tray, complete with a glass pitcher of lemonade, two glasses and tea biscuits, onto the table.
“Sorry,” I said as he settled back into his chair. “My parents are a little overly enthusiastic about ensuring my comfort. She’s probably fighting herself back from coming out here again with pillows and a menu. Or my dad is.”
“They think you’re awesome,” he said simply. “Can’t blame them for that.”
I smiled a little as he poured me a lemonade. I noticed he didn’t pour one for himself.
“And your mom’s super sweet,” he added. “Loving and caring and kind. I see where you get it from.”
I groaned a little. “Yeah. I’m probably way more like her than I want to know. She thinks you’re super fucking hot, by the way. Never, ever tell anyone I said this, but my dad kinda looked like you when he was young.”
Johnny looked mildly amused. “Did he?”
“Minus the tattoos. He was more blondish before he went so gray. And his hair was thick like yours before it thinned out. He was built like you. When I was like thirteen, he’d have his shirt off mowing the lawn in summer and my friends would be all, ‘Your dad is so cuuute.’ Thank God he finally started losing his hair and put on the middle-age belly. Or I’d be in a world of trouble with Shayla.”
“Hate to say it, but you’re probably right.”
“She still tells me he’s cute, just to irritate me.”
Johnny settled his elbows on his knees again, his expression growing serious, and I could feel the conversation was about to shift. That prickle of dread crept down my spine again.
“I was telling you about my mentor.”
“You were.” I glanced at the house again. “Are you sure you want to talk about this here, though? I can’t guarantee she won’t come gliding out here any second with finger sandwiches and tea.”
“It’s okay,” he said softly. “This is the best place. If what I have to say is upsetting to you, I wouldn’t want you to be anywhere other than a place where you feel so loved.”
Tears burned suddenly in my eyes and I bit my lip to keep them at bay.
“I’m listening,” I reassured him.
“This is really hard to explain. I’ve been trying to practice how to tell you, and I can never seem to get it right.” He took a deep breath. “The thing is, Rory has been trying to help me see beyond myself. Just like you have. Like, how I interact with the world. And the impact that has on others, not just on myself. I have this problem where I get stuck in my own head so much that I fail to see what’s going on around me.” He paused, and I could tell he was really struggling for the right words. “You know how sometimes when someone’s sick, for example, with alcoholism, they don’t treat people the way they should, but it’s not really them, it’s the sickness?”
He waited for me to respond to that, but I wasn’t sure what he was getting at. “Are you telling me you’re an alcoholic?”
“No. I’m not an alcoholic. It’s just an example that I thought might make sense to you. The issues I’m dealing with…” He blew out a breath. “I don’t always see how they cause me to behave. Or how I treat others. But it’s harder to explain to someone than being a drunk. When someone says, ‘I’m sorry I hurt you, I was drinking,’ it might not excuse the behavior but at least you get what they’re saying. It was the alcohol at work. The disease. When I’m hurtful, I can’t say ‘I was hurt, so I became an alcoholic, and then I hurt you.’” He shook his head. “I’m simplifying this, I know, but I’m trying to simplify something that’s really complex.” His deep, aquamarine eyes met mine, and it really touched me, that he was trying so hard to get me to understand what he was trying to say.
Even if I still wasn’t really getting it.
“For me,” he went on, “it’s more like, ‘I was hurt, so I adapted a whole bunch of survival behaviors that ended up being destructive, and then I hurt you.’”
I sucked in a breath. I didn’t like hearing that. That he’d been hurt. Though I was relieved to know that he realized he’d hurt me. Still… “You didn’t hurt me that bad, Johnny. I just got scared. When I realized that more hurt was to come if I let us go down that road I described.”
“Yeah. I know. I’ve been really trying not to head down that road.” He shifted uncomfortably. “It’s a road I’ve spent a lot of time on, historically.”
“You mean, drinking and women?”
“Among other things. I’ve hurt a lot of people. Including myself. Actually… a while ago, Rory encouraged me to make a list. Of all the people who I think I’ve hurt, or should’ve treated better. It’s a long, long fucking list,” he confessed.
“It’s okay. We’ve all hurt people, even without meaning to.”
“It’s not okay. There are people I hurt really badly. Like my mom. And my ex-wife. You know… Amber.” He glanced up at the house. “And there are people I just plain should’ve treated better. Like your parents. I came into their house playing nice to impress you, and all the while I just wanted to fuck you. It was disrespectful to you and to them. And you know how I know that? Because I got concert tickets for your dad. Rory has been telling me to stop doing things like that. Stop trying to buy people and use people for my own gain. Because when I do that, I’m not really forming a relationship with them. I’m treating them like a means to an end. And he’s right. The worst part is I never let anyone actually get to know me. They don’t see who I am. It’s artificial.”
“I see who you are,” I told him softly.
He held my eyes. “You seesomeof who I am. A hell of a lot more than anyone else, probably. And it’s happening way too fucking fast.” He shook his head a little, like I’d annoyed him but not really. “I’ve never wanted to be so transparent with anyone before. It’s not my natural way of interacting with people. Especially women.”
