Page 41 of The Publicity Stunt
“Wanting to talk about your feelings isn’t complaining, April.” My voice comes out rough. Most of the time our conversations revolve around comic books or pointless school gossip. I’m not good at deep conversations and serious talk. It’s not my forte. More often than not, I end up saying something idiotic or offensive (case in point).
But I don’t want my emotional shortcomings to make her feel like she can’t open up to me.
I place a hand on her knee. “April?”
Her eyes trail down, her shoulders tensing. For a minute, I think I’ve crossed some sort of invisible line. Just as I’m about reel my hand back in, she quickly covers it with hers.
She looks up to meet my gaze and smiles, small and weak. “God, this night is turning into a sob fest. We don’t have to talk about all this stuff.”
“Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Smiling all the time.” My frown is apparent in my voice.
April shrinks at my words like a wilted flower. “You don’t like my smile?”
“Of course, I do, Chere,” I say. “But I love your authenticity more. Do you know what happens to people who keep stuffing their emotions inside?”
“What?” she whispers, as though I’m about to drop some wise-ass sage advice.
But it’s not so much as advice as the truth. “They get used to feeling nothing at all.” That makes sense. Sort of.
April’s eyes flick down to our hands. She stares at them for a few seconds, then laces our fingers together. “Parker?”
“Yeah?”
“Which movie did you steal that line from?”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Irritated, I pull back my hand and stand. “I’m being serious, April.”
“You are?” she teases, wagging her eyebrows in a playful, goofy manner. I can’t make out if she’s trying to change the topic or if I’m reading too much into it. But either way, I get us back on track.
“You can talk to me about anything. I want that from you.”
Taking off her hat, she pats the empty space on the mattress, urging me to sit back down. Once I do, she repositions her hand over mine, lightly running her thumb over my knuckles.
It makes my heart twist in the oddest way.
“Anything?” she asks.
“Yeah, Chere. Anything. Everything. Whatever you want.”
“What if it’s not related to my parents?”
Her words take me by surprise. “What do you mean?”
She avoids my gaze. “What if … the thing that’s really bothering me isn’t about my birth parents, or adoptive parents, or family in general?”
“What?”
Her thumb is making little circles over my hand now. Jesus Christ, what’s with the intense buildup? I feel like I’m in one of those slasher horror movies, minutes away from being … slashed.
“You said I could tell you anything,” she says.
“I did.”
