Page 115 of The Story of You

It’s the same reason love can ruin you.

We didn’t begin easy. We didn’t love easy. We never glided along. But that night we found a way to step in stride.

* * *

Darius

Our declaration made things worse. Now we had something real to lose. We adopted a Bonnie and Clyde mentality—us against the world, but we let Simon and Shane in. Not all the way; most of the way.

We argued like a married couple and made out like the horny teenagers we were. It’s really not fair to give that many hormones to teenagers.

“Asher, I swear to fucking God, if you don’t quit smoking, I’ll do it for you. I hate kissing an ashtray.”

“Touch my smokes and it’ll be the last thing you ever do.” They were hard to come by. He usually had to steal them.

He had feedback for me too. “If you leave your gross pants in my bed one more time, I’m burnin' ‘em.”

By “pants” he meant my boxers. “Becauseyou’reMr. Perfect. After work, you smell like an old running shoe, but do I complain? No. I still kiss you.”

Simon and Shane would get annoyed with our bickering and throw things at us until we stopped or teamed up on them.

The bickering didn’t bother us though, it was our love language. So was fighting and breaking up and getting back together. We’d mastered making up.

When we were in sync, there was nothing better. We forgot about how much we hurt. We forgot that we were abandoned. We lived.

People donated things to the foster home. All kinds of random shit. We scored tickets to a local fair and it was the highlight of our teenage lives. Terry and Lars gave us each enough spending money for a greasy hot dog and a sugary drink. The four of us went on a warm night in April. Shane and Simon wanted to do sappy shit like ride the ferris wheel. Asher and I were too cool for that.

He took my hand. “C’mon. Let’s eat.”

We bought hot dogs and drinks and sat at the lime-green picnic table.

“Are we on a date?” I asked him

“Mmmhm,” he murmured, taking another bite of his hot dog.

The music was loud. It was a Tears for Fears song that reminded me of Mama. She had a cassette tape with her favorites that she played so much even Dad would complain until she’d seek him out and force him to dance with her.

He’d always obliged her. If Dad could feel love—and that’s a big fat if—he’d felt love for her.

I brushed my hands off with a paper napkin and stood. “Dance with me.”

“No.”

“C’mon.”

“I don’t know how.”

“So? I’m shit at it.”

He stared and I know he saw what I was feeling. Missing someone. It took a moment or two, but he relented, setting his hot dog down, and took my hand. He pressed me against him and for a guy who didn’t know how, he found the rhythm, swaying us, letting me rest my head on his shoulder.

“Who are you missing?”

“Mama.”

He nodded and didn’t make me say anything else. That was us. We understood and we responded.

* * *