Page 87 of Drop Three

“You mean at home?” Bodhi looks back at me.

“Well, yeah. Not much when Cal was adopted, but as soon as he was signed with the Strikers, it was like Callaway Hayes threw up in my childhood home.”

I grab a single paintbrush and begin touching up some areas I missed.

“What about you?”

I smile softly. “Me? I mean, yeah, I had pictures of him, too, but nothing like my parents did.”

“I mean pictures of you. What about the pictures of you?”

Oh.

“They had pictures of me. Maybe not as many, but that’s okay.”

My relationship with my parents isn’t bad, by any means. They’re wonderful. But he’s not wrong for noticing less focus on me and more on Cal.

Bodhi stops his painting and turns to face me. “Is it though, Navy?”

What is with the questions?

“What are you getting at, Bodhi?”

He shrugs. “I’m just wondering why it seems you were forgotten about the second Cal was adopted. Now don’t get me wrong, Cal’s my best friend and I’m real fucking happy for him having a family, but I can’t help but consider how that may have affected you. They were your family first, after all.”

I feel tears threaten to spill but I fight them back. “I guess I never saw it like that. Cal is my favorite person in the entire world. There were never any hard feelings from me when he was adopted.”

Bodhi steps down and carries the stool to the other side of the room. I didn’t realize he would be helping me this much. Nothing about his behavior right now looks like he’s close to stopping.

“You talk to your parents much?”

My gaze finds him, and I take a moment to look into his eyes, begging for an underlying reason for his question.

He stares at me like he can read the deepest, darkest depths of my heart and mind. It’s as if knowing I’m acknowledging him is enough for Bodhi to understand my every thought.

“Not much,” I answer. “They’re busy.”

“They’re retired, Navy.”Okay, yeah, they are.

I roll my eyes. “That doesn’t mean they sit around and twiddle their thumbs all day.”

“I’m just sayin’...I wish it were different for you. Take it from someone without a mother in his life. You have one who ishereand the fact that she forgets about you makes my blood boil.”

Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

“She doesn’t always forget about me,” I admit.

Bodhi steps off the stool, sits the paint can and roller down, and heads straight toward me. “Still too much,” he says, his voice low and sincere.

I look down and I don’t know why. I never cower, always hold my head up high, but when it comes to my relationship with my parents, I have no backbone.

The best word to describe my relationship with them is shallow.

It lacks depth, and I’ve learned to be okay with that.

“That’s okay. Cal grew up worse. I understand it,” I say.

“That’s no excuse!” Bodhi raises his voice, and I know it’s notatme butforme. “God, Navy, how can you not see how special you are?”

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