Page 20

Past

T ruman stays true to his word and keeps me company as I wrestle with what to do next. Though wary at first, I slowly open up to him, feeling a kinship I didn’t know I needed. I show him the picture and the money.

I don’t show him the other stuff.

He keeps my brain from steam rolling into panic talking of life’s pleasures and hopes for the future. He’s going to graduate this year and plans to go to college in South Carolina. Something about law and justice. The events of the day fade into the background as we lose ourselves in conversation.

Truman’s stomach growls loudly, making me laugh.

“You’re hungry,” I say. He looks shy but nods. “I can make us dinner. Are you sure you aren’t going to get in trouble for not going home?”

“I’m sure. What will you make?” he asks.

“I just got a deer yesterday, so there’s fresh venison and plenty of vegetables or we can make a salad.”

Truman’s eyes are wide. “Like, you shot a deer?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“With a gun? Like you’re a good shot?” he asks.

I cock my head at him. “Actually, I shot him with a crossbow.”

“You keep blowing my mind. There’s always something else to learn about you,” he says looking bamboozled.

I shoot him a look. “Lots of people hunt around here, it’s not that exciting.”

He shrugs. “Sure, lots of boys. Can’t think of a single girl in my class who goes hunting. Let alone with a crossbow. Just makes you even cooler than I thought.”

A laugh bubbles up and out of me, and soon, Truman laughs too.

I pan fry some venison steak tips while Truman assembles a salad. Every so often, he glances at me.

“Am I doing it wrong?” I ask, catching him watching me.

“I mean, I don’t know, I don’t really cook, but my mom usually puts some kind of oil or butter in the pan I think.”

I sigh. “Yeah. Crap. Papa did all the cooking. I always washed up. But I think you’re right.”

I grab the butter dish and portion off a tablespoon into the pan. It feels weird cooking in the kitchen. It feels weird being here without Papa. It feels even weirder realizing that I’m missing a man who wasn’t even related to me. That for my whole life I’ve lived a lie.

Who am I? Better yet, who was Papa.

When night falls, Truman insists on staying to ensure my safety.

We stay up late swapping stories, our laughter ringing through the quiet cabin.

I put the radio on, a little luxury, I shove the stab of grief away.

During a game of Guess Who, we both drift off.

Truman on the couch and me on the floor.

I wake startled and early, the sun’s not up.

Truman’s chest rises and falls in steady rhythmic beats. I tiptoe upstairs to my room, crawl into my bed, and stare at the ceiling willing myself not to cry. Begging myself to keep it together just a little longer.

Truman was right to stay. His presence gives me a sense of comfort and security I didn’t know I needed.

When I come downstairs, purposely quiet, he’s still sleeping.

He’s so handsome with his sleep puffy lips and mused hair.

I start frying eggs and bacon and get the coffee going to let him sleep a little more.

“Oh my God, what smells so good?” He groans the words out from the couch. A tiny grin lifts the corners of my mouth up.

“Breakfast,” I call out to him.

Truman shuffles to me and licks his lips. “I love breakfast. It’s my favorite.” He bumps his shoulder against mine gently. “Did you sleep ok?”

I set the spatula down and turn to face him. “Not really. But, coffee helps.” I pick up my glass, ice clinking, and take a big gulp.

Truman wrinkles his nose at me before snatching a strip of bacon from the hot pan and tossing the hot strip between his hands mumbling that it’s hot. I can’t help but laugh.

Finally, he gets it in his mouth and groans with pleasure. When he notices me staring at him he freezes. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and his jaw ticks. I have the overwhelming urge to press my lips to his.

“What?” he asks.

I clear my throat and shake my head.

“Hand me two plates?” I say and nod to the plates on the counter. He runs a hand through his hair and smiles, his dimple appearing. I plate our food and we sit at the small table together.

“Can your phone look up people?” I ask while we eat.

“Of course,” he pulls his phone from his pocket.

“Should we Google the names your dad wrote in the letter?” I suck my bottom lip between my teeth, uncertain what Googling names means.

“Like if we search the names it should pull up any social media accounts, news articles or information on those names,” Truman explains.

“Oh. Then, umm, yeah. Let’s Google them.” But I’m nervous.

What kind of information will there be? What lurid details will I learn? Will I end up hating Papa if I know the truth? I grab the letter and put it between us on the table.

He takes another bite of food. Chews. Swallows. “Are you sure you want to know? I mean, if there’s anything to find out, are you sure you want to know it?”

I shake my head. “No. I’m not sure. But what the hell else am I supposed to do?

Just stay here and live my life until I die?

Or disappear somewhere else and pretend like none of it happened?

I’ve never had a job. Never had a phone, gone to school, we don’t even have a TV here, how the heck would I start a new life somewhere when I barely know anything about the world?

” I finish feeling the weight of my current situation set in.

Truman considers this a moment and then, “Well I could help you if that’s what you want?”

I shake my head again. “I need to know the truth.”

Truman nods. “Okay, let’s do this.”

He spins the letter toward him, and his thumbs start swiping across the screen. I don’t know what to expect or what to hope for. But hope blooms regardless.