Page 43 of My High School Rebel Boyfriend
Mitchell returned with a trash bag, tossing the packaging and uneaten food into it and then shaking the cans to determine which were empty.
“What did you want to drink Harper?” he asked in a low voice and his hand swiped across my knee. I took the gesture as meaning I should follow him through to thekitchen area.
He opened the fridge door, bowed his head to my height and asked in a tone of bemusement, “What are you doing here?”
“I brought the pie,” I said, and then in a hurried whisper, “I didn’t see you at school and I wanted to see-” I was going to say, “See that you were okay,” but Mitchell didn’t need me to be his protector, that I knew. “I wanted to see you and make sure you’re not mad at me.”
“Why would I be mad at you?” His hushed tone brushed close to my ear, causing a rush of heat to my very core.
“Mitch, bring your mother another drink.” Wade’s order shattered my dreamlike moment, and made Mitchell grab at a can of cola. He fled the kitchen before I had a chance to answer him. “And cut up the pie.” Even a simple request from Wade was delivered in a harsh and authoritative tone.
I looked around, spying the knife block just as Mitchell came sliding back in on the floor. “Plates,” he said quietly, eyes raised to a cupboard above me, like whispering was imperative. “Do you want a slice?” He was already deftly dividing it up. I shook my head, pulling out a stack of mismatched lunch plates. “Should I put cream on it?” He was working quickly to serve his parents, like it was a race against the clock.
“If you have it,” I said. “It’s nice with a little.”
Mitchell opened the fridge again and squirted a blob of dairy whip on each plate. Mom would say it was sacrilege not whipping your own cream, but this was a family who had eaten fast food for their Thanksgiving Day dinner.
“Come sit down,” Mitchell murmured, plates in hand. “I’ll bring you a drink in a second. Can you have diet soda?”
I nodded, initially impressed by his thoughtfulness at my diabetes. However, in the next second presumed he must’ve thought I could do without the extra calories. He dashed back in, handing a plate to Wade first, and then picked up a lap tray from beside the couch and handed it to his mother.
Rose asked me about school and seemed to have some knowledge of me being at the Fall Fundraiser, but I was unsure how much she knew about the party and Mitchell spending the night at my house. I nervously omitted the details and was relieved when Mitchell returned with a glass of soda for me.
“No pie, Harper?” Rose asked.
“Oh no, I’ve eaten far too much already.”
“Hardly! You have the figure of a supermodel,” she said, making me blush. “And your hair. It’s so pretty.”
Rose and Wade then sang the praises of the pie, and I was confused. These two didn’t seem to be the stereotypes of abusive parents. Okay, they may not have been big on holiday traditions, but we were sitting in a typical house, watching the large television screen, eating and drinking. Something my family was likely doing right at this minute. So normal.
Yet, I’d seen the bruises.
Mitchell reached forward to put his empty plate on the coffee table, then leaned back on the couch, his leg closer to me than before. I looked at him, he looked at me. I wasn’t sure if it meant anything or whether he’d misjudged his position on the seat. Neither of us moved, we sat with our legs touching, all sorts of wild thoughts rushing through me, the worst being that I wasenjoyingsitting next to Mitchell. Why, oh why did he electrify me, make my heart beat faster?
And how absurd was it that I thought pie could heal an abusive relationship?
Pie was pie.
“That was delicious. You’re a great cook,” Wade said, wiping his mouth. I stared at him, eyes drilling into him, imploring him to be a better parent, though whether he would interpret it that way there was no way of knowing. I politely thanked him, praying that kindness could reign over hate and pain. And impulsively I took hold of Mitchell’s hand, squeezing his fingers, a subtle signal to show thatIcared about this boy. How could he, a grown man, beat a child, especially one he’d raised—it was beyond comprehension. Mom and Dad, though their overprotectiveness could be stifling and annoying, had never laid a finger on me or my sisters.
Mitchell’s hand squeezed back. And that’s when Wade announced, “Honey, we should leave these two young ones to it. Give them a little space, huh?” He grinned at Rose, patting her leg. “And you could do with a nap, baby.”
Rose nodded and Wade’s eyes darted from Rose to me. A feeling of smugness engulfed me, but it was only fleeting because that’s when I first saw the mobility walker—as Wade wheeled it in from the other room. Rose tossed the blanket to the side and pushed herself to the front of the couch. With the bones of an old person, she staggered to her feet.
“Are you okay, Ma?” Mitchell asked, now on the edge of his seat eager to assist.
“I’m okay,” Rose said. “You look after your guest.” She smiled and winked at him, then thanked me again for the pie. Mitchell stood anyway, and I watched in astonishment as Rose crept along the hardwood floor pushing her walking frame, Wade beside her.
Mitchell cleared away the dirty dishes with the efficiency of someone who was working for tips.
But I was blown away by what I’d just witnessed. Something wasn’t right. Things didn’t compute. Nothing made sense.
And I needed things to make sense.
Chapter 17
MITCHELL
