Two Broken Souls

chapter thirteen

As a ball rolls across the rug, there are giggles, a bit of a head bump, and then some serious making out. It is, all in all, a pretty good time.

Harry invited me over to his house so we can work on our sociology project. We're a little behind on scheduled, but making out is so much more fun.

We're at it for a while like that, and it's only when I feel Harry's hand move up my thigh, pushing my skirt along so that it bunches at my hip, that I suddenly pull back. In response, he instantly pulls his hands back behind his head.

"I'm sorry," he says. He sounds out of breath. "Sorry, I shouldn't have."

"It's not that." I assure him.

To be honest, it was exciting to feel his hand under my skirt, and I'm curious to know exactly what he wanted. It'd be easy to find out, too. But the weight of what it would all mean stops me, and I lean back against the wall, tucking my knees to my chest.

Harry props himself up on his elbows. "Are you okay?" He surveys my face. "Was that too much?"

"I'm fine," I say. "It's just maybe we shouldn't be doing this."

I think back to my relationship with Jared. We never went all the way, but every time we hung out it always started like this, then ended up with begging on Jared's behalf until I snapped and said no.

Now he sits all the way up. "No?"

I lean over so I can inspect his shelf of trophies. I read the inscriptions, lots of standard little league stuff, but there's a big silver plaque that stands out. Its inscription reads: LANGSTON HIGH SCHOOL VARSITY BASEBALL MVP. I picked it up to take a closer look at it. It's heavy in my hand.

"You were really good at baseball." I comment.

He shrugs. "Before the surgery I was. It was something me and my father bonded over. It feels weird to brag about now."

I nodded. We haven't spoken about the night we visited his father's grave. I just want to know what he's feeling. But I just don't know how to bring it up.

So I just decide to bite the bullet. I sat in his office chair across from Harry who was still on his bed. "You were crying in my arms the other night. Do you want to talk about that?"

Harry scoffs. "That's rich coming from you."

I set his trophy down. I didn't realize that I was still holding it. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"You're asking me to talk about my feelings when you don't even do the same."

I'm take back. "I talk to you." Which is true. I just don't let him in all the way because I'm scared he'll leave once I do. They always do.

Harry raises his chin up and gives me a look through his eyelashes, the one that's lethargic and challenging at the same time. "No, you don't."

I stare at him. Harry lies back down when he said that, his gaze is focused on the ceiling instead of me.

I sat back down on his bed so we can discuss, but somehow we end up kissing again. This time, we make it as far as an undone zipper fly, but Harry's the one who decides that it's enough. "Wait," he says, grabbing my hand. "If we're not, I think I need to stop."

I scoot back over to the other end of the bed, a little bit embarrassed. "Should I go?"

"No. I mean, probably, but . . ." He rubs a hand over his face. "Let's just talk for a little while."

"Okay, what do you want to talk about?"

"Can I ask you something without you getting mad?"

"Sure," he says.

"Why don't you and your father share a last name?"

Harry lets out a breath. "My mother thought it would be better if we took my step fathers last name. She didn't want people to google us and the first thing that pops up is a dead husband." he explained. "Sometimes, it just feels like she wants to forget about him."

"I'm sorry."

"Can I ask you something?" I nod. It's only fair.

"Why'd you stop writing?"

"You might think it sounds stupid," I started and he held my hand. "One day, I left my journal on my desk and my older brother read through it and I was so mad. I've never been angry like that before. I took the journal and I burned it in a bonfire. I don't know how much he read, but it still was an invasion of my privacy. So I got rid of everything that had some writing in it. I wanted to forget all about it."

"I'm sorry." Harry said like he understood.

No one in my family defended me when it happened. They all said that I overreacted and that it wasn't even a big deal. But when Bridget read Ryder's journal he freaked out and bought a lock for his bedroom door. 

"Guys, dinner is ready! Come on down." Sutton called from the kitchen.

Harry stands up slowly and offers me his hand. I take it and he pulls me up. I know he's waiting for me to tell him about more about my writing, but I pretend like it never happened. He mocked bows, signaling for me to go down the steps before him.

Sutton is waiting for us in the foyer. She grabs my face in her hands and pulls me close. "I'm just so glad you were able to make it. I really hope you enjoy the food."

"Mia," she says, "Meet Mr. Wells." Harry's step-father almost looks like Harry. If I didn't know Harry that well, I would have assumed they were father and son.

He sticks his hand out and I shake it. "Nice to meet you," he says, and I do my best to look friendly.

"Mia and Harry are parents for the sociology project." she tells Mr. Wells, clutching on to his arm. Mr. Wells just nods his head.

"I'm starving," Suttons says in hopes of avoiding any more tension.

"Me too," Harry agrees. "Let's eat."

Once we were seated at the table, Sutton led us in a prayer. I don't close my eyes, but I notice that Harry does.

The whole room smells like oregano and cumin, and my head fills with the image of my father in the kitchen. He used to cook dinner every night for us. He would always let me be the first to try whatever he was making.

Sutton passed a warm plate of pasta to me. It's been awhile since I've had a home cooked meal especially from a parent. It's nice. It usually gets depressing cooking for one.

The dining table is crowded with other side dishes: a bowl of fruit, some bread, and what looks to be a homemade salad. It must have taken her hours and hours to prepare, and it all looks fantastic, but as I stick my fork into the pasta, ready to take a bite, I feel my appetite disappearing. I stare at Sutton, who is smiling back at me with an eager-to-please face.

This whole dinner, her effort to connect with me, is more than my own mother has ever done in the past few years. Sutton keeps smiling at me, wanting to know my opinion on everything. Her eyes are bright and I recognize the spark in them; hope.

I slide my fork across my plate. "This is really good, sweetheart," Mr. Wells says as he wipes his mouth with his napkin.

Sutton bobs her head up and down with excitement at Mr. Wells' compliment. "And you like it too, Mia?"

"It's delicious," I say like I'm some kind of expert.

"Oh, good." She squeezes her hands together and beams.

I smile at Harry who has been quiet this entire dinner, but offers small conversation when his mother starts asking questions.