Page 32 of Rowdy Boy
“It sounds stupid when you say it like that,” I finally reply. “It’s not an attention thing. It’s just…”
“I don’t think it’s stupid,” she interrupts.
“You don’t?”
“No. It’s not like you do things in front of him to antagonize him. But I’ve noticed your reactions. You get this look in your eye—it’s like you can’t focus or do anything until you reset somehow. I get it—sometimes it’s better to recalibrate than to let things fester or stay bottled up inside.”
I scoff at her much-too-mature-for-her-age assessment of my erratic behavior. What kind of teenage girl even talks like this? The kind who’s been in therapy for years, apparently. “Are you grief counseling me right now, baby?”
I watch her fidget with the neck of her T-shirt before she responds. She’s smiling; I can tell by the tone of her voice. “Maybe. Do you want to talk about something else?”
I don’t even have to think about it. I shake my head with enough force that I know she sees it. Her toes curl in my hands as she continues.
“I see you. I know you’re struggling. I don’t know all the details, but I know it hurts. I’m so sorry you’re going through it, whatever it is. I know what it’s like to feel like everything inside you is trying to claw its way out. To want to escape the feelings and thoughts you create with your own mind.”
I swallow past the lump of emotion lodged in my throat. Tori’s mom died when she was eleven. She died from cancer. A genetic cancer, and one Tori worries she’ll have to deal with one day. Our situations aren’t the same… but the way she names my pain…
“How do you deal with it?” I whisper roughly.
“Just like you. When it gets to be too much, I do something to work through it. I’ll paint, or I’ll come over here and swim laps. Take Penny on a walk. Cry myself into exhaustion.”
I grunt. We clearly have different ideas about what constitutes a coping strategy.
“Don’t huff at me,” she scolds. “It’s the same concept: I have to find an outlet. I have to let it work through me so it doesn’t destroy me. The difference is that I rely on coping tools that are safe, whereas you’re a loose cannon intentionally trying to inflict chaos on anything and everything, including yourself.”
I let her words sink in. I think about the train tracks. About Bash. Fuck, I miss him. When he called me on my shit, I was so fucking embarrassed—but he had every right to question me. I’ve been pulling stunts and playing games that are increasingly dangerous. Some days it feels like I’m one rowdy boy rage away from seriously hurting myself. Or worse: someone else.
“I’m sorry if I scared you on the highway last week.”
She sighs and pulls her knees to her chest, effectively severing our connection. “I didn’t really connect the dots on that one until it was over. But what I said last weekend stands: we’re okay. I just want you to try to channel some of your stunts into better outlets. Things that make you feel whole… things that make you happy. Maybe try to find outlets that don’t hurt you. Or put anyone else at risk. That’s the only way to take your power back. The biggest “fuck you” you can give your dad is to let your reactions to him inspire something productive or creative.”
I blow out a long breath. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“Get a hobby. Get a heavy bag. Find some way to physically exhaust yourself until your brain clicks off and the feelings pass through you.”
“You make it sound easy,” I counter. I like to work out. I also like to work on my Jeep. My mom had this old acoustic guitar that I snuck out of the attic and keep hidden in my closet. Sometimes I get it out to hold it. But maybe I could learn to play.
“It’s not easy. But it doesn’t have to be hard. Tonight is proof. You seem a lot more settled now.”
She’s not wrong. I roll onto my back with my arms cradling my head and smile at the ceiling. Tonight was… something. And she’s right. I do feel settled now. Settled, sated, sleepy. Probably helps that I went and blew my load in the bathroom as soon as I got in the house. Sex is an excellent outlet, too, it seems.
“He’s never going to let that happen again, is he?” I peek over to see her slowly shaking her head.
“Never.”
It’s a truth we both know: this whole night was so out of character for Rhett. It was a one-time free pass for sure.
“He got all huffy and growly when you went inside. I haven’t seen him that possessive in a while. But he wanted to keep you safe tonight, so I know he doesn’t regret it. He loves you.”
Safe. There’s that word again.
“What’s it like?” I ask, effectively changing the subject.
“What’s what like?”
“To be in love?”
She doesn’t answer right away, which has me shifting back on my side to gauge her reaction. At some point in the last few minutes, Rhett subconsciously placed an arm over her chest. She nestles the side of her face into his forearm before responding.