Page 53 of No More Bad Boys
Besides, my mind is on what I want to ask him. This feels like a now-or-never moment.
I ramp into it with a little intro.
“So… I’ve told you my big bad secret. Wait—there’s one more—I have mother-issues. My mom’s… kind of a nightmare. Well, I guess it’s not quite a secret. If you ever meet her, you’ll see what I mean about her, too. She didn’t beat me or anything like that, but she’s… never proud of me. I’m a big disappointment to her, while Kenley’s always been her darling. And she lies compulsively. Okay—it’s all out. And now I’d like for you to be honest with me, too. I really like you, obviously, but I feel like there are things you’re hiding from me, and I don’t think we can… move on until I know more about you.”
His grip on my fingers loosens, and he stares at my face.
“You don’t have to tell me of course,” I add. “But I’m just telling you that honesty’s a big deal for me, and I need to have that before I could possibly consider, you know… getting close to someone.”
Not breaking eye contact, he nods. He does the little lip roll thing again, then draws in a big chest-expanding breath and lets it out.
“Okay.”
“Okay,” I repeat, waiting.
“I don’t ever talk to people about this. The only people who know this stuff about me are the ones back in Sparta, and my sister. I don’t like to talk about it because it’s… shameful.”
“So that’s what was going on with Ronnie? There’s no need to be ashamed of your past. I just want to know you—really know you—and I don’t carewhatyou say—unless of course you tell me you have a thing for my sister—then all bets are off.”
I give a short laugh at my own joke, but he doesn’t laugh with me.
He looks down at the tabletop then back at my face.
“You know how you said you liked my truck? And you like my place? Well… you wouldn’t like the place I grew up. And my family didn’t evenhavea car until Whitney got old enough to work and managed to save enough to buy an old beater.”
“So… you were poor, then. I don’t care about—”
“Just listen. I don’t think you can even imagine the kind of poverty I’m talking about. My mom was a high school dropout—she had Whitney when she was only sixteen. I came along five years later—different dads. We never knew either one of them. We lived in a trailer park—and not a nice one. My mom—she’s not dumb, but she was a teen mother with no high school degree. She never held a job that paid more than minimum wage. And then she started drinking—hard—and she couldn’t hold a job at all. By the time I was born, she was a full-blown alcoholic, or at least that’s what it sounds like from the stories Whitney tells. Iknowshe’s one now.”
I watch in silent fascination as a tide of red rises from Blake’s neck to his forehead.
“Whitney’s basically taken care of me all my life, started changing my diapers when she was six, for God’s sake. Started babysitting other people’s kids when she was nine, and later working after-school jobs so she could buy basic stuff we needed. Mom drank our welfare checks. At least we had plenty of cereal, and processed American cheese, and bread, and peanut butter from the food bank.”
I nod, gaining a new understanding of why he enjoys preparing fine food so much now. And why he’s so proud of his truck, Hank.
“Everyone knew we were trash. Kids at school used to make fun of me for wearing the same two shirts year-round—I can only imagine how bad it was for Whitney, being a girl. I got pretty good at fighting, got in trouble a lot.”
He shrugs and pauses, his eyes holding a faraway look as he revisits the memories.
“And then baseball came along and basically saved my life. I might have ended up like Mom otherwise. Me and Ronnie and the other boys used to play with some really beat-up equipment at this empty field near the trailer park. One day the middle school coach was driving by the field and stopped to watch. He came and started knocking on doors at the trailers the next day, looking for my mom—he basically recruited me. He was a good guy, kind of a father-figure to me. I kept playing—that’s how I was able to go away to school—to go to college at all.”
“And then you got hurt and lost your scholarship.”
“Yeah, but by then I’d had a taste of life away from Sparta. I knew I’d never go back. I got a job near campus and lived frugally and got through it. I couldn’t wait to start working so I could live somewhere decent and afford some groceries beyond cold cuts and mac and cheese.”
“Why on earth did you go into TV news?”
I know from Kenley’s experience that most small-market TV reporters make so little they easily qualify for state benefits.
“I know, right?” he laughs. “I should’ve thought that one through a little better. But seriously, my journalism classes were the ones I enjoyed the most. I thought I’d be good at it.”
“And you are.” I take his hand, squeezing it. “I hate that you felt like you couldn’t tell me this stuff before. Do I come across as a snob to you?”
“No, but it’s clear you come from money. And… well in the past I did lose a girl I really liked over it.”
“She dumped you because you grew up poor? What a horrible person.”
He flinches at that, making me feel the need to explain further.
