“Hold this,” Scotty said, handing me his cigarette. “I have to pee.” He smoked occasionally. I didn’t mind it, but I didn’t smoke. It was dark out, and he walked around to the side of the house. I was standing on his back porch leaning against the railing when his mother appeared at the back door.
I straightened up and tried to hide the cigarette behind my back, but she’d already seen it. She walked away and then returned with a red Solo cup a moment later.
“Use this for your ashes,” she said, handing it to me out the back door. “We don’t have an ashtray. None of us smoke.”
I was mortified, but all I could say was “Thank you,” and then I took the cup from her. She closed the back door just as Scotty came back for his cigarette.
“Your mother hates me,” I said, handing him the cigarette and the cup.
“No, she doesn’t.” He kissed me on the forehead. “The two of you will be best friends someday.” He took a final drag of his cigarette, and then I followed him back inside the house.
He carried me up the stairs on his back, but when I saw all the pictures of him that lined the stairwell, I made him stop at each one so I could look at them. They were so happy. The way his mother looked at him in the photos is the same way she looked at him as an adult.
“What kid is that cute?” I asked him. “They should have had three more of you.”
“They tried,” he said. “Apparently I was a miracle baby. Otherwise, they probably would have had seven or eight.”
That made me sad for Grace.
We got to his room, and Scotty dropped me onto his bed. He said, “You never talk about your family.”
“I don’t have one.”
“What about your parents?”
“My father is . . . somewhere. He got tired of paying child support, so he bolted. My mother and I don’t get along. I haven’t spoken to her in a couple of years.”
“Why?”
“We just aren’t compatible.”
“What do you mean?” Scotty sprawled out next to me on the bed. He seemed genuinely curious about my life, and I wanted to tell him the truth, but I also didn’t want to scare him away. He grew up in such a normal household; I wasn’t sure how he would feel knowing I didn’t.
“I was alone a lot,” I said. “She always made sure I had food, but she neglected me to the point I was put in foster care twice. Both times they sent me back to live with her, though. It’s like she was shitty, but not shitty enough. I think after growing up and seeing other families, I started to realize she wasn’t a good mother. Or even a good person. It became really hard to coexist. It was like she felt I was her competition and not on her team. It was exhausting. After I moved out, we stayed in touch for a while, but then she just stopped calling. And I stopped calling her. We haven’t spoken in two years.” I looked at Scotty, and he had the saddest look on his face. He didn’t say anything. He just brushed my hair back and stayed quiet. “What was it like having a good family?” I asked him.
“I’m not sure I knew how good it was until just now,” he replied.
“Yes, you did. You love your parents. And this house. I can tell.”
He smiled gently. “I don’t know if I can explain it. But being here . . . it’s like I can be my truest, most authentic self. I can cry. I can be in a bad mood, or sad, or happy. Any of those moods are accepted here. I don’t feel that anywhere else.”
The way he described it made me sad I never had it. “I don’t know what that’s like,” I said.
Scotty bent down and kissed my hand. “I’ll give it to you,” he said. “We’ll get a house together someday. And I’ll let you pick everything out. You can paint it however you want. You can lock the door and only let the people in that you want in there. It’ll be the most comfortable place you’ve ever lived.”
I smiled. “That sounds like heaven.”
He kissed me then. Made love to me. And as quiet as I tried to be, the house was even quieter.
The next morning when we were leaving, Scotty’s mother couldn’t look me in the eye. Her embarrassment seeped into me, and I knew for certain in that moment she didn’t like me.
As we were pulling out of his driveway, I pressed my forehead against the passenger window of Scotty’s car. “That was mortifying. I think your mother heard us last night. Did you see how tense she was?”
“It’s jarring for her,” Scotty said. “She’s my mother. She can’t imagine me screwing any girl; it has nothing to do with you in particular.”