She crossed her arms, never letting the smirk leave her face. “I know who you are.” Given my reputation, I wasn’t sure that was such a good thing until she added with a little teasing grin, “My daughter and grandson have made it their new hobby to talk about you.”
“Oh,” I replied, knowing damn well by the heat in my face that I was blushing like a fucking jackass.
But so was Ray.
“Thank you for that, Mom. So very much.”
“Mmhmm,” her mom replied cheerfully. “It was nice to finally meet you, Soldier. I’m Barbara, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you too.”
“Ray, I’ll give you one more minute, but after that, I can’t guarantee your son won’t be the one to interrupt your little moment,” she jabbed playfully before heading back inside and closing the door behind her.
Ray covered her face with her book and my letters to her, and I laughed under my breath, feeling suddenly like the teenager I had never been allowed to be.
“Oh my God,” she groaned. “I’m sorry about that.”
“It’s fine. I like her.”
She lowered the things in her hands and looked into my eyes with an unexpected desperation I thought I understood. That type of powerful, overwhelming emotion you didn’t know what the hell to do with because it was just too … everything. Too intense, too big, too consuming, too much for one person to deal with on their own.
Then, she said, “If I don’t do this, it’s going to drive me crazy all night.”
I had no idea what exactly she was talking about, and still, I nodded and said, “Okay.”
And the next thing I knew, she was stepping forward and pushing her mouth against mine in the simplest, most unromantic kiss of my damn life that lasted all of three seconds, in which the world and everything in it stood still and quiet.
Nobody had ever kissed me like that before, and, God, it was perfect.
She had stolen my breath in those seconds and zapped my heart into beating at the speed of light, and the moment she pulled her lips from mine, my entire body ached with the pain of already missing her.
Ray pressed her lips together as she took a deep breath, then smiled while walking backward to her door.
“Good night, Soldier,” she said quietly, shyly, keeping her eyes locked with mine.
I didn’t move a muscle, except to smile back. “Good night, Rain.”
And it was only when she disappeared inside with her book and the letters I’d never thought she’d read that I finally walked back home, where Eleven waited for me with unamused boredom written plainly on his face.
“Don’t be jealous,” I said, closing the door behind me and knowing I’d spend the rest of my life replaying that kiss in my mind.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
LETTERS: READ
Dear Rain,
My mom visited today for the first time. I’ve been locked up for six years. No letter, no phone call—she just showed up out of nowhere. Honestly, I think I had started to accept that she just didn’t exist in my life anymore, like she was dead or something, and then the second I started to move on, there she was again. Like a cancer or some shit.
Can’t believe I just related Mom to cancer. But let’s be real here—that’s exactly what she is, right? A fucking tumor that tries to kill me over and over and over again, and I wonder when I’ll eventually just cut her out completely. I wonder if I ever could.
I wonder if you have a mom and if you like her. Or if she’s a poisonous, soul-sucking leech, like mine.
Anyway, Mom showed up to tell me she has a boyfriend and a job. And you want to know how that felt? It felt like she was rubbing in how great her life is now that I’m not in it. Hell, she kinda said it herself. She looked happy even if she still looked like a sick fucking junkie. The last time I had seen Mom look happy was probably when I was, like, six or seven, when she was sober and back from one of her little “trips”—which I later realized was code for rehab.
Anyway, whatever. I don’t give a shit anymore. One day, I’ll be happy too. At least, I hope so. And I hope that when it happens, I’ll be far away from her.
I hope I never fucking see her again.
And I think, most of all, I hope you’re happy too.
Soldier
***
Dear Rain,
Why did your parents name you Rain?
My mom told me once that she named me Soldier because, once upon a time, she believed I’d save her life. It’s such a cruel irony that I actually did save her sorry ass time and time again, and she never acknowledged it. Not once. Her self-absorption and addiction and whatever the hell else is wrong with her have left her so completely incapable of looking outside of herself that she can’t see the sacrifices I’ve made for her. Which is why I don’t think she could’ve picked a more appropriate name for me. Because my life has been one massive war of survival and sacrifice, yet somehow, I prevail.
What does that say about me? What does it say about her?
I’m thinking about Mom tonight, obviously. I wish I weren’t. But that’s my downfall too. She’s my mom, and for every moment that I hate her, there’s a moment in which I miss her and all the potential we had to have more than this dysfunctional, toxic bullshit of a relationship.
Anyway, I’m wondering why your parents named you Rain. Was it raining when you were born? Were they hippies? Did they make sweet, passionate love outside during a thunderstorm the night you were conceived?
I just laughed out loud and woke up the guy next to me. He’s pissed. I should stop now.
Soldier
***
Dear Rain,
Today, they moved me from laundry duty to the kitchen again. I like the kitchen, so I’m cool with it. Laundry gave me too much time to think and get trapped inside my own head. You’d think I’d feel like that about cleaning, but I don’t. Cleaning is relaxing. There’s instant gratification for the work you’ve done. You can see your progress as it’s happening. But laundry? Hell no. All I can do is load the machines and watch them spin while my mind plummets into places better left untouched. It’s too monotonous, you know? Kitchen duty is better. I get to hang with a couple of the guys I like and eat as much of the food as I want.
Not that the food is great, but you get used to it.
Anyway, one of the guys on the kitchen crew asked about my scar, and I thought about you. It’s a little crazy, isn’t it? Of all the shit I’ve been through, the one thing that marked me for life was a direct result of saving you. And I’m glad for it. I’m glad for this scar. Because every time I look at it or touch it or someone asks about it, I get to remember all over again that I am capable of doing something good without it ending in someone else’s pain. And if I tell myself that enough, maybe, one day, I’ll start to believe it.
Soldier
P.S. Oh, and he thought my scar was pretty badass, like I’m some kind of gallant hero or something, and for once, I agreed.
***
“Are you a bad guy?” Noah asked me one weekend as I pulled the weeds from the small plot of dirt I had to my name.
I glanced over my shoulder and wiped the sweat from my brow. “Do you think I’m a bad guy?”
He dropped his gaze to the gravel beneath his feet and seemed to consider his own question for a moment. “I don’t think so,” he replied, although he sounded unsure. “But you were in jail, and my friend Greg says that only bad guys go to jail.”