Page 24

Past

A t Truman’s house, we settled onto the couch with a pile of mafia movies between us and a bowl of popcorn. Popcorn that he made in a metal box called a microwave. He laughed at me when I stood and watched the bag expand, spinning on a little plate inside.

His parents were at work, and we had time, seven hours to watch what we could, he said. The day faded away into evening as we watched The Godfather, Goodfellas, and some of The Sopranos. The movies portray the mafia as ruthless, but they also show the love they had for their families.

I couldn’t reconcile the two images.

“This is… intense,” I mutter, my stomach churning from the graphic violence and betrayal depicted on screen.

Truman squeezes my hand. “Yeah, it’s not pretty,” he says grimly. “Are you sure you want to get involved with them?”

I glance at him, my brown eyes searching his green ones for answers he doesn’t have. “I don’t know if I have a choice,” I say truthfully.

At five, we left. I promised him I would show him how popcorn was really supposed to be made when we got back to the cabin. I watched as he wrote a note for his parents—lying again, saying he was sleeping over at a friend’s house.

Although, was I friend? Maybe we were. Maybe it wasn’t a lie. We detoured to the library, they were closing soon, but Truman managed to snag a computer and print out a bunch of articles he found about the four families so we could bring them back and read them. So we could learn more.

By six thirty, we’d returned to the cabin and Truman looked beat.

“Do you always walk to town? It’s so far,” he says wiping sweat from his brow.

I snort and shake my head. “No, I usually only walk to the truck and drive it into town.”

He throws his hands up in the air before collapsing onto the couch. “Why the heck have we been walking then?”

I shrug. “It slipped my mind. I wasn’t really thinking about it. But honestly, what if those guys were still around and saw his truck?”

Truman stares at me. “Ok, fair point.”

“Here, let me get you some water,” I say, heading to the kitchen.

I pause for a moment, thinking of my papa and how he’d react if he saw me now—caring for this outsider boy, letting him into our home and our lives.

“Thanks, Kid,” Truman says, gulping his down.

“No problem.” I sit beside him on the couch. “So, you wanna learn how to make real popcorn or what?”

His eyes light up and he grins. I retrieve a pot from the kitchen and place it on the stove, drizzling the bottom with oil. Truman watches intently as I add the kernels and turn the heat to medium.

“Now we let the kernels dance and pop in the oil,” I explain. “Gotta keep ‘em moving so they don’t burn.”

“No microwave, no buttons to push,” Truman remarks. “I like it.”

I smile. “Wait till you taste it.”

We retreat to the living room with a bowl of salted and buttered popcorn with some sprinkled nutritional yeast and our printed articles.

“Do you think the Mafia is really like the movies?” I ask while grabbing a handful of popcorn.

Truman shrugs. “I mean, maybe? I don’t know. I guess it could be less violent, but then again, it might be worse than they make it seem too.”

I heave out a sigh. “None of this feels real.”

***

Articles are spread out haphazardly around us in the living room.

“Most of these seem to be covered by one reporter,” he says, squinting at a page. “An investigative reporter named Marcy Saviano. Let me look her up real quick.”

I scrub my hands over my face, tired and feeling heavy. Truman’s been at it all day and night and shows no signs of stopping. My eyes are heavy and my chest feels tight.

Too much information. Too much gore.

Too much truth.

“I need a break,” I whisper.

Truman’s gaze flicks to mine. An apologetic look on his face.

“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head. “This is like a movie, and I kinda forget that it’s not fiction, that this is your truth. Your life.” He sets his phone down. “Do you want to do something? Play another game?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know.” I slap my thighs in frustration. “I don’t know what I want to do or what I should be doing.” I push to my feet. Pace the room. Pent-up anger, betrayal, and grief war for a home in my gut. Tears prick at my eyes. I spin around wildly, a cry slipping through my lips.

Suddenly, Truman is there, in front of me. Pulling me against his hard, board body.

“Breathe, Kid,” he murmurs into my hair. “Just breathe.” I sink into him, gulping air. The scent of his skin—grass cuttings and summer sweat—calms me. My legs give out but he holds my weight easily. Steadies me.

“This is just—the horror,” I say into his chest. “How? How did I not know any of this?”

“How could you? It’s not your fault.” He peels back slightly, looks in my eyes. “Imagine if you hadn’t met me. You’d be all alone in this,” he says and grins playfully.

I huff out a sigh and stifle the urge to roll my eyes back at him, but the truth of his words isn’t lost on me. Where would I have gone? What would I be doing right now if not for him? This glorious boy with the ability to calm and comfort and soothe me. He is all I have in the world.

“I have an idea that might make you feel better. Do you trust me?”

Nodding, I take a step away from him, slightly embarrassed at our embrace.

The water is dark and cool, rippling under the moonlight. He’s taken me to the river, although not by the bridge in town. A secluded spot where it pools more than flows.

He’d asked me to trust him, and I had. Especially when he’d mentioned needing the truck keys.

I hesitate on the edge, toying with the hem of my shirt.

Truman’s already kicked off his shoes and waded in calf-deep, waving for me to hurry.

Watching me intensely. He’d stripped off his clothes like it was nothing.

As if seeing him in only his underwear didn’t affect me.

It did. It made my body react in ways I wasn’t accustomed to.

“Come on!” he calls, his grin a challenge.

I take a deep breath and peel off my shorts, inching toward the water like it might burn.

Truman splashes ahead, goading me further until I’m hip-deep.

The sudden chill cuts through my despair like a knife, sharp and shocking.

But his eyes are locked on my body as if he’s trying to memorize every inch.

“See? Told you,” he says with a laugh, diving under and popping up beside me, his hair slicked back and dripping. “Feels good to do something normal, right?”

For a moment, it does. I float on my back and stare at the sky.

It’s dark and velvety—more stars than normal shining—and empty of anything but possibility.

Truman swims lazy circles around me, and slowly, the day that was pressing against my skull begins to evaporate.

His arm or leg ever so often grazing mine. Giving me goosebumps.

“You know,” he says, treading water closer to me now. “I think that reporter—what was her name? Marcy Saviano?—we should talk to her.”

I stare at him in shock. “Didn’t you hear me? I said I needed a break!”

“Yeah,” he says, grinning sheepishly. “But isn’t this kind of exciting too?”

He splashes water at me lightly, just enough to make me blink and realize I’m smiling back at him.

He grabs my waist, tugs me under the rippling water.

His warm hands against the flesh of my belly send a jolt of heat between my legs.

I’ve never been touched like this before. It’s a warm and gooey feeling.

I fight against him as we sink, hold my breath and then finally kick to the surface, gasping. “You scared me!” But there’s no anger in my voice. Just laughter.

“Sorry,” he says, and he’s laughing too. “Seriously though.”

“Promise me,” I say, treading water and trying to look stern.

“Oh.” He gives me a nod, solemn. “Promise.”

“No more articles tonight?” I ask.

“Tonight is for floating,” he says, hands outstretched. There’s a glint in his eye, playful and mischievous. “Mostly on your back.”

We drift until our skin wrinkles and the night air no longer feels refreshing but cold. It reminds me of things I can’t push away. Of Truman’s warmth. Of everything waiting at the cabin, the potential energy of pages lined up on the floor, ready to tumble my world even more like dominoes.

There are still news clippings stuck to the bottom of my socks when I wake up on the couch the next morning, Truman asleep beside me.

I let him rest while I busy myself around the small kitchen, making toast with peanut butter. When he finally stirs, groggy-eyed, he looks around like he’s forgotten where he is.

Then his eyes find mine.

“God,” he says with a smile. “Still not a dream?”

“You promised,” I remind him.

“Okay! Okay.” Truman holds up his hands, laughing sheepishly. “Breakfast first.”