Page 63 of Facing Off
I raise my eyes to the ceiling. “That level of contentment and happiness is sickening.”
Hughes grabs a plate and hands it to me, eyes brightening with deepening curiosity. “Would you like me more if I got mad?”
“No, I didn’t say you could ask me questions!”
“But your question makes me wonder. Did you have a lot of angry people in your life growing up?”
“What?” I pick up a plate and throw it like it’s a hot potato. “That’s none of your business.”
“If you don’t answer, I’m going to assume yes,” he warns, arching an eyebrow at me.
“So?” My mouth goes flat. “I don’t care.”
“It actually hurts me to imagine you getting yelled at, baby.”
I glare at Hughes. He’s wearing this earnest expression like every word he says is completely true.
“That’s not—” I sputter. “Ugh, you need to stop calling me baby.” The continued sincerity on his face makes my back rise further. “Look. Just—they weren’t angry. Never showed me any kind of emotions. But let’s stop talking?—”
He’s too quick. Replenishing my hands with another plate, keeping me off-balance, maybe distracted. “What would you trust more? If a person tells you something quietly or if they yell it at the top of their lungs?”
What? That’s out of nowhere. I don’t like where this is going. My mouth can’t decide whether to open or close. I’m struggling. Why am I struggling? It’s because there’s an instinctive answer I don’t want to acknowledge. One that snapped into my head as soon as he asked the question. Yelling. Not because I want to be screamed at. More like anything “too much” is better than…
Whatever “too little” I got growing up.
I think about coming home from school, or from that cheap dance studio two buses away, or my first part-time job where all I did was fry up different types of potatoes just so I could afford to keep dancing.
He’d be working on his car or reading books in the front yard. She’d be gardening or scrapbooking. As the sun set, my guardians would take breaks and chat with each other about the neighbors. Politics. Celebrity gossip.Vacations that never seemed to include me. Finances. Their future goals and dreams.
No big deal.
Except no matter how many times I came through that front gate, I was never pulled into the discussion. There’d be a tepid greeting (Hello, Sonya), then they’d return to their own conversation. I didn’t get:How was your day? Anything interesting happen? Because you’re back way later than usual. Are you okay?
Actually, I’d have settled for a lot less.
Sonya, what are your thoughts on today’s weather…how fast grass grows…dry shampoo…?
When people say the opposite of love isn’t hate but apathy, there’s nothing I relate to more. Silence is also a message.
Hughes’ eyes lower.
We both notice I’m hugging the plate. Like a shield. Shit.
“Never mind,” he says quickly and softly, wincing. “You don’t have to answer that.”
I thrust my plate at him. “Good. Because it’s my turn to trip you up with an emotionally loaded bomb of a question.”
“Try me, Mrs. Hughes.”
I snarl and double down on looking for a way tounbalancehim way worse than me. This is revenge. Retribution. Me going on the offensive so I don’t risk another second of any sort of vulnerability. “Aren’t the Wings still losing? Shouldn’t you at least be mad at that?”
Something flashes behind his eyes, but it’s gone too quickly for me to clock what it means. Hughes rubs the back of his neck and gives me a tight smile. “Sure. But we’re going to get better. I’m going to make sure of it. I have a plan. I know it’s going to work out.”
His practiced answer stirs a memory loose. Him and I, sitting on a park bench eating fries after the Wings lost a game particularly horribly. He seemed so raw and crestfallen then. Was that a temporary struggle or does he still feel that way? I don’t know and it shouldn’t bother me…but it does. “That’s a lot ofI’s in your plan, buddy,” I say just to say something.
“Hey, Sonya?” he breathes.
“Yeah?”
