Page 68 of Two For the Show
She’s a good person.
I’m afraid, so afraid, that once she knows me and my truth, she won’t want to be around me, that she won’t want me.
But if she doesn’t, I’ll still be happy for my brother and my friends. Because she’s a good person, and they deserve someone like her.
I dig into my pocket and pull out her old cell phone. I charged it last night, just in case.
She looks surprised when she sees it. “Is that my old phone?”
“Yeah. I kept it.”
“Did Rich text it?” Her scent bitters around the edges. “What did he say?”
“I blocked his number,” I say quickly. “There’s nothing on here from him you need to worry about.”
“Well, I appreciate you bringing it back to me, but I can’t use it since that number is compromised.” She takes it from my hand and places it on the table. I stare at the black brick, willing myself to push past my fears and show her the truth.
I close my eyes.
“I need you to open my text thread,” I say quietly. “And read the whole thing.”
Dexter
This is weird, texting your phone like you’re here. I have no idea where you are, and that’s fine, you know I don’t blame you for leaving, but yeah.
Still weird.
This is the only way I know how to talk about this. I struggle with face to face conversations sometimes.
Kids see their parents as Gods, you know? Larger-than-life presences that they can’t look away from.
I was no different. My father was incredible. He was kind and gentle, and he loved us fiercely. I always assumed that extended to my mother, because when she’d come home from work, he’d kiss her, they’d cuddle on the couch, and he always seemed to care a lot about what she thought.
I was a kid and didn’t have insight into their lives and relationship, of course, but from where I was sitting, they were everything I wanted to emulate.
Everyone knew me and Dario would present as Alphas, like Mom. I don’t know how, but from my earliest memory, we were told we would be Alphas, and we needed to be good ones.
We were a handful.
Having twins must have been hard. Dario and I were monsters at the best of times. Two little boys running around and wrecking shit with no regard for their own survival would be enough to stress anyone out. My dad dealt with postpartum depression after he had us, and that left mom to pick up a lot of the slack for the first three years of our lives.
She didn’t seem to resent him for that, though. We had a lot of fun with her, always singing and dancing and goofing off, and Dad was present when and where he could be.
Well, from what I could tell as a kid. Memories from that time are hazy. Apparently, trauma can make you block stuff out.
Obviously, this isn’t stuff my mom was able to tell us. This is from my dad’s mouth when I went and visited him in prison when I was sixteen. He’s apologetic about what happened, and I needed closure.
It was a really bad idea to go there, if I’m being honest. Just a colossal mistake.
But I digress.
That day didn’t feel any different than any other. We were in the first grade and had a really shitty day at school. We got thrown off the field trip, and Dad had to come pick us up from the botanical garden.
Dario will take the blame for it every time to protect me, but I was the one who ripped the flowers out of the ground. I wanted to take them home and give them to Mom.
Dad picked us up and brought us home, ranting about how we were out of control, disrespectful, and he had better things to do than sit at home with us.
It’s the first time I remember him losing his cool.
