45 Days to Save the Bad Boy

Twenty-Eight

Breton answered my question with a question.  “Were you ever scared?  Thinking of all the possibilities?  Every possible thing you might have to save me from?”

“Yeah, a lot.”  I answered honestly, remembering the nightmares I had for the first couple of days.  “I had nightmares, but after I met you they went away.  Well, after I got to know you.”

“Did you know,” Breton cleared his throat, “Did you know my dad didn’t actually want you to save me?”

I gaped.  “What?”

“He didn’t.  He, well he knew something was wrong with me.  My personality, it changed.  I know Peter told you that much, so I’ll skip the details.  Dad, he wanted me to get help.  A therapist, a doctor, the school guidance counselor, something.  I told him no, no way was I going to spill my problems to some random stranger who gets paid for it.

“That’s why he found you.”  He laughed humorlessly.  “A random stranger who wouldn’t get paid.  His idea of a loophole, I suppose.  But he never thought in a million years that you would take him seriously.  He was desperate, didn’t think of the consequences.

“When we showed up at your house that night for dinner, he realized exactly what he had done.  How he accidentally got you involved in something that wasn’t important at all to anyone outside the family.  I guess he just didn’t know how to tell you, so he said nothing.

“A few weeks ago, when I read your book for the first time, the one you named, I showed it to my dad.  He was stunned that someone would care that much about a stranger.  He was touched that someone would care that much about his son.

“And he still didn’t know how to tell you that it wasn’t actually meant to be you, that it wasn’t actually meant be be anything.  So he didn’t.  I knew all of this too, but I didn’t say anything to you either.  Some days I hate myself because of that, others I think it’s the best thing I ever did.”

“Why are you telling me now?” I asked quietly.

“Because, Georgie.  I know exactly what I need saving from.”

I waited in silence, feeling like this dramatic pause was taking longer than necessary.

“Well?” I finally said.  “Are you going to tell me?”

He shook his head.

“Why not?”

“Because you already know.  You’ve got the right idea Georgie.  I mean, what you’re doing, it’s working.  I’m not… I’m Breton again, not the bad boy.”  He looked at me, a soft emotion shining in his eyes.  “Thank you.”

“It’s not a problem,” I assured him, grinning.  “I’m really glad I can help.”

“Me too,” he joked.  Laughing, I pulled him up.

“Come on.  We need to go get some pie, or a malt, or something,” I insisted.

“Why?” he asked, following me obediently.

“We’re celebrating!” I cried, flinging open the front door and pulling him out and over to his driveway where his car sat.  

As soon as we got in the car, I had a thought.  “I shut the door right?  Yeah, I did.  Wait, do I have my keys?”  Patting my pockets, I found them empty.  “Nope.  Okay.  Well, we’re locked out now, Breton, so you have to take me somewhere.”

“Gladly.  You wanted a malt?”  He expertly backed out of the driveway and began to drive to the nearest malt shop.  At least, I assumed that was where we were headed.