Page 68 of Dirty Chorus

“Here... uhh...” I walk over to one of the dining room chairs, pulling it out. The feet of the chair scrape against the floorboard and I pat the top rail. “Sit down.”

She strolls over and plops her bottom down, and throws her purse over the arm of the chair. She ties her fingers in knots in her lap.

“What’s wrong?” I ask and sit back down.

“It’s my mother...” She uses her palms to wipe her eyes again, but her face crumbles. “She...she...”

“She what?”

“I told her about you, and she said I have very good taste in men. I guess she knows who you are, and your family dynamics and... and... you’re not... good enough.”

Her mom isn’t wrong, but it still leaves a cold knot to settle in my stomach, twisting, and pulling something in my gut that I didn’t think was exposed. “She has a point. I wouldn’t date me either.”

A flicker of hurt hits her pupils, and my chest aches watching as I probably just added more pain to what was already there. When another tear slides down her cheek, tracing through the mess of mascara, something punches me in the chest. “Why?” She asks with a shrug, her head shaking.

“I’m not all put together, and... I’m kinda a nobody.” I shrug and give her a flat, truthful smile.

“Why would you say that? What if you’re somebody to me?”

“I probably wouldn’t give a girl a life she truly deserves. I play music, I travel, I live off finding pennies to buy a gallon of milk. That’s not something a pretty girl like yourself deserves.”

“You’re the only one who hasn’t pressured me to sleep with them, or looked at me as some sort of sexual object they want to exploit. You talk to me.”

“I just did that tonight, though. I caved in.”

“But I wanted it, you can’t sit here and tell me you don’t want it too. I can feel it radiating off of you, but you leave and run away.”

“I don’t want you sleeping with me and regretting it the next day. That’s why. Just look at how beautiful you are. I’m trying to process why you like me, out of every man out there in the world.”

“Are you hiding something? My mom says you use drugs.” She changes the subject, and I blink, cocking my head.

“I do what, now?” My lips press together, and I fling my head back, and I’m probably scrunching my eyebrows too hard with those words hitting my eardrums.

“She said that’s what you do. My mom thinks you’re a druggie, and I’m just gonna do drugs with you.”

“Do you think I am?”

“I dunno...”

I suck in a deep breath and cross my arms, slouching in the wooden chair. I don’t look her in the eyes, but stare at the floor as I say, “I’m honestly surprised with what I’ve gone through that I’m not hooked on something. It’s been offered to me one too many times.” I swallow before lifting my gaze back to her. She meets mine for a brief moment before she focuses on her hands, picking at her nails.

“I used to be one of those...” I snap my fingers, staring into space to find the word, but my brain is mush. “One of those straight-edge kids.”

“Straight edge? What the hell is that?”

“No alcohol, cigarettes, or drugs... I didn't follow the sex part, but...” I raise both brows and pause, taking a deep breath and realize I’m letting her in. “The band I used to be with was into some heavy shit at times.” Her eyes tremble at those words. “We’d play, and we sounded like shit because they were just doped up. It was hard touring with them. My last straw was when our lead singer pissed himself on stage and collapsed. I just wasn’t into that vibe. I wanted to play the guitar and sing. Even when we broke up, he fought me on the rights to a lot of the songs I wrote. I was...” I shrug and cross my arms. “I was seventeen, and they were in their early twenties and they dumped me on the side of the road when we got into a physical altercation. I had to walk down the side of a highway until I reached a nearby gas station. Omen flew out, and picked me up ten hours later at the same gas station.”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed anything. She said that and I dunno what came over me. I never knew you went through something like that.”

I hold out my arms. “Do I have marks... scars? Anything?”

“You have a lot of tattoos.”

“That’s the only needle that I like, and the baddest thing I have in my room is condoms and umm...” I clear my throat and rub the back of my neck.

“And what...”

“You might find a pocket pussy.” I cringe at that statement, but it gets her to chuckle for a second in the midst of her tears.