Page 40 of The Boy Next Door

Perhaps I'm my mother's son after all. She and Dad are attending some charity benefit dinner, Mom's work purchased a few tables, and she's busy applying her makeup. Strategically, as good a time as any to give them the news. With her focus split, I may even catch a break.

Dad straightens his tie in their bathroom while Mom lines her eyes with a dark pencil.

"Letting me control my own life is challenging for you guys," I begin and see Mom's eyes cut to me in the mirror. "I understand. You're my parents, your job is to protect me."

Dad's hands freeze on his tie. "Sam, maybe this isn't the best time to—"

"What your father means is—"

"No, you're listening now," I order. "Not talking."

Mom rolls her eyes, and fortunately moves onto applying lipstick, so I continue.

"Sometimes you made decisions for me because I was younger.

.. or too paralyzed with fear to decide for myself.

" The words are surprisingly freeing. Usually, I'd rather forget the past. The idea seems silly now.

How else would I see how far I've come? "So, you're only doing what you've always done, trying to take care of me.

But there are some things I should take care of myself. "

Sure as I am, speaking while meeting my mother's eyes feels like having a staring contest with an angry lion. Looking away first, I still win because Mom stops paying attention to her face and draws a red line on her cheek.

"What if you're wrong?" Mom scowls, blotting at the mark with a wet cotton ball. "What if you can't take care of yourself?"

"Then I get hurt," I answer simply. "And I learn. But my future is still my decision."

When Mom frowns, I feel the smile on my face. She may attempt to debate or discuss this further, yet I've already made up my mind. I feel confident, like I've won. No, like I won't play her game, which means I can't lose.

She looks to my father for help, but he stares down at his sink. There's no telling what emotions are in those eyes of his that we share.

Mom abandons her task, metaphorically pouncing as she turns to face me. "Sam, you haven't proven you're capable of—"

"Yes, I have," I interrupt. "I'm standing up to you."

"Congratulations," she scoffs. "You caught up to every other teen your age by standing up to your parents. But guess what? We love you, even when we're tough. Not every opposing force is like that."

"I think," Dad says. "It's a start."

He raises his head. Oh, there's happiness in his eyes. And pride.

"Well, I'm not convinced," Mom mutters.

"Don't you wanna know where I decided to go to school?"

This time, I fight the smile, yet it grows on my face anyway.

Mom huffs, throwing her hands up and walking away before she returns. Her mouth tightens, she makes a frustrated noise, and then she motions for me to continue as she grumbles, "Well played."

~

From one side of the parking lot, Clay heads to the school front doors while I arrive from the other direction. When we spot each other, we freeze, our eyes locking. This vaguely reminds me of an old western, two enemies about to duel to the death. We only need pistols and a tumbleweed to roll by.

The reality is simpler.

"Any chance we can forgive and forget?" Clay wonders, stuffing his hands in his pockets and looking away.

If I expect an evil mastermind instead of the guy I know, I'm disappointed. He's still Clay. Hair tucked into his beanie, unable to admit his mistake or apologize, ready to move on. He's the same, so does that make what he did better or worse?

For all he hasn't changed, I have.

"I don't think we can be friends anymore," I say.

Clay exhales a hard breath through his nose, annoyed. "Just because I'm a better artist and can get dates without pretending, I'm not the villain of your story."

"You’re right. That would give you too much credit. All I'm holding you responsible for is your own actions."

Walking into school, he doesn't let me escape.

"What about your actions?" he throws the question at my back. "You aren't blameless here."

Much as it used to bother me, Clay is a true artist in some ways. Talented, creative, versatile. He can't be pinned down into a single box. Because even if he's a jerk and bad friend, he's also right. Sort of.

"There is no universe where you acted how a good friend should," I say, wheeling around to face him. "But you only told the truth, so it's my own fault for not being honest with Hunter."

He blinks, not expecting me to agree, though recovers a moment later with a smug smile. "Well, I hope you learned a valuable lesson. Friends?"

"No."

"So much for forgiving and forgetting," he mutters.

"I forgive you. But it doesn't mean we have to be friends again."

Yeah, that feels right. For me.

"What, how will that work? What about art class?" Clay wonders, and I imagine the look on his face as I walk away. "Sam? Sam!"

Senior year involves bittersweet moments where moving forward means letting go of the past. This often involves saying goodbye to old friends one wishes to keep, and friendships unfortunately fade as people lose touch.

Yet not all goodbyes are sad. This one is for the best. So, I keep walking away, right out of Clay's life.

~

Mr. Cruse owns a vintage convertible similar to his son's, only in red. Mom calls it his 'midlife crisis with an engine.' While he usually drives the car in the spring and summer, the cherry red color catches my eye as he pulls out of his driveway when I get home from school. The top is down.

He honks. "Good to see you, Sam!"

Huh. He either suffered a psychotic break or something put him in a good mood. Staring in bewilderment as he cruises away, it takes a moment to notice Hunter approaching.

"Is your dad happy—" about something?

"No," Hunter answers.

"Um, I didn't finish the question."

"You already told me enough to answer."

"He seemed—"

"Hey, listen." Hunter coughs, shuffling his feet, and I forget all about his father. "What you said about my last band and stuff... I think you were right. So... thanks."

The sentiment is no less heartfelt because of the way he expresses it. Since I'm his least favorite person right now, he's thanking me because I deserve it, because I helped him. The warm feeling spreading through my chest fights away the chill in the air.

Perhaps I spend too much time soaking in the moment. Hunter nods and starts walking away.

"Wait, that's all? Can we talk?"

"About?" he wonders, genuinely confused.

"Um, us?"

"Nah."

Before he can go further, I risk grabbing his arm, determined to get a better answer than 'nah.'

"If I'm right about you, maybe I'm also right about us."

"What's the point?" he interrupts. "You were right, so I'm leaving. I'm going to New York."