He says, “I'm not asking you to love me. I know that you don't. Just don't turn me away. I have nothing else.”
I move without thinking, wrap my arm around his shoulders and pull him close against me. His skin against mine makes me shudder. Here, in this moment of truth, I can follow nothing but intuition. I lean over, kiss him on the forehead. His muscles go rigid at first but he can't seem to hold the sentiment and I feel him relax against me. Just feeling him let it go coaxes my muscles to slacken. This is what Charlie meant when he said go with your gut. Here goes, our moment of brutal honesty.
I say, “I don't know what's going to happen, but it's not going to be pretty. I just don't want to lose you. I don't want you to die because of me.”
“I'd give anything to have your back,” he answers, staring down at the wood of the steps. “I'd rather take a bullet than let it have you.”
“What if a bullet is the fate I deserve?” I wonder and a tear slips past my defenses to slide down my cheek.
“It's not,” he says with a fierce shake of the head.
I look up to the moon. The pressure of Josh by my side eases my panicky nerves. I can almost see those little red Xs that I left there in the sky. Please, before and above me, protect this one.
“You're right, though,” I say softly, letting my lips whisper against his hair. “People like us gotta stick together. And when I said you don't belong with us, it's not true. You are one of us. But you're the only one who has a chance to do something better than slinging drugs and blowing up houses. We were born into this life, but you . . . you're different.”
I feel his head shaking against me and he says, “Better? Like what? Starve as I try to live off of music in an overcrowded, commercialized market? Or how about some high-rise office job?” He pulls away, sits up, and his forehead lands in his palms. “There is no better, Maria. It's all fake. At least this is real, this . . . fucked up web between you and me. The guys might hate me, but it's better than the mundane machine that is the American dream. And it's better than the apathy that was my parents.”
Every once in a while, and usually only when it's just the two of us, Josh says something to remind me of how good he's gotten at acting like the dumb playboy. He's so good at it, actually, that even I believe it rather than recognizing that façade as a smooth defense mechanism. When I told him he wasn't ready, it had been a bluff, as if I were trying to convince him I had five aces in my hand. The truth is that he has consistently risen to each new level of danger as I sink the ship farther.
I prop my elbows on my knees, stare off into the undefined lushness of the looming swamp. The fireflies have exhausted their dance and the place seems enchanted in the soft and soothing moonlight. He massages his closed eyes with his fingers, then looks up at the same magical dank of the wetlands.
He sounds so far away when he says, “I don't care if you're not in love with me. Because I know you love me in some way, and I'd rather die tomorrow to have that tonight than live forever without it. And in return, I can be whatever it is you want me to be.”
His words carve much deeper into my chest than I could have ever imagined words from him ever would. Here it is, that searing honesty that makes him seem so out of place in our line of work. Here's his optimism that's so rare among the streets. He had to come from the outside to appreciate the game to its full extent. Izzy and I, and especially Freddy – we were born into it, jaded to it early.
“I honestly can't say what I want you to be,” I tell him, carefully avoiding looking his way for fear of making eye contact.
It feels surprisingly therapeutic to just say what I feel. As I realize this, I also realize that I've been hiding behind a big, heavy mask for so long that I had started believing in my own tough girl act. And just as when there's a crack in the dam, the words and emotions just roll from me.
“I can't say, because I won't let myself really consider what I want at all. If I slow down long enough to feel, it will bury me.”
He pushes off the stairs with a sigh, just to stand and surely to expend some of the nervous energy that is apparent along all his tensed, smooth lines. I had momentarily forgotten how absolutely divine he is when shirtless, with those little ringlets of fire and dirty blond lying against his neck. In the residual light, I can see the dusting of stubble along his jaw.
It occurs to me that while the rest of us were busy not having faith in his ability to handle our way of life, he had been slowly and quietly growing up. This poker face of his has developed under the radar. It’s fierce and such a drastic difference from when we first met him. Yes, he has changed, and amidst finding his stride he has also found grace. He tilts his head back, watching the moon. I wonder if he can see the Xs, too.
He says, “I'll run with you to the end of the earth if that's what you want. And I'll never
