Page 70 of Reaching Avery
“That’s not fair, Avery,” he said, putting his fork down and furrowing his brow. “If you don’t tell me, of course I won’t get it. You don’t know what I’ll say or think.”
I’d always been great at keeping thoughts to myself. But my fuse was at its end.
“My family isn’t like yours,” I said, maybe a bit too harshly. He wanted honesty, and I was going to give it to him. “My dad isn’t an amazing surgeon who brings home the big bucks. I don’t even know where my dad is right now, and frankly, I don’t care as long as it’s as far away from me as possible. There are days where I have to worry whether Declan and I will be able to eat. Whether our electricity or water will be shut off because the bills aren’t paid. Every single day I worry, Maverick. That my so-called dad will find us again, or that we’ll be kicked out on the streets. Every. Day.”
His eyes had widened as I spoke, and his mouth went agape.
“Wanna know why college isn’t an option for me?” I continued, less angry than before, but still just as serious. “That’s why. I’d love to be an architect. To design things, maybe build them. But I can’t go to college. Not unless I get a scholarship or take out a bunch of loans that I’ll never be able to pay off. And that’s only if my piece of crap dad doesn’t track us down and uproot our lives for the hundredth time.”
It wasn’t until after I’d ranted that I realized I’d let alotof personal crap slip out in the process; things I didn’t think I was ready for Mav to know.
Seeing the expression on his face knocked all of the irritation out of me.
“I… damn. I’m at a loss here,” he said, visibly struggling. “I’m sorry.”
Shock and sadness crossed his face—which I’d expected, I guess—but I never expected to see guilt. He had no reason to be guilty. For anything.
“Don’t be sorry,” I said, looking away from him. “It’s not your problem.”
The weight of my confession was heavier than I’d imagined. Usually, people felt lighter after gushing about their problems, but I only felt worse; like I was in the middle of the ocean with no lifejacket, barely keeping my head above the water, and then having someone apply pressure to my head, trying their hardest to push me under the waves.
It was exhausting.
Sometimes I thought it’d just be easier to stop fighting and drown.
“It is, though,” Maverick countered, reaching across the table and covering my hand with his. “Because I care about you.”
I could only stare at him, not sure if it was real. Ifhewas real. His hand was warm on mine—comforting—and I looked down just as he hooked his pinky with mine.
Thatdefinitely feltreal.
“You do?” I asked, hoping he could hear me over the instrumental music playing overhead.
“Yeah. More than you probably know,” he said, staring at me before dropping his gaze. A smile lingered in the corner of his lips. “And probably more than what makes sense. Guys aren’t supposed to admit crap like that, but I don’t know. It just feels right.”
His words were honest. It was something about the way he looked at me when he said it. As if he’d admitted to a secret he’d been keeping locked away, and was relieved to finally voice it. It was the type of relief I was supposed to feel after admitting to everything I had, instead of feeling like I was drowning.
And then it occurred to me that maybe… just maybe… he was my lifejacket that’d keep me holding on just a little longer.
