her he’s sorry.”
That night, I got a call from an unknown number and, for some reason, I answered it.
“You doin’ okay?” was all he asked.
I knew it was Cyrus as soon as I heard his voice, but I thought I might have been wishfully thinking, because why the hell would he call me? Why would he care if I was okay? He should never want to hear my name or see my face again.
“Yeah.”
He then asked, “Need anything?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
I wanted to ask him what his angle was and tell him I wasn’t going to try to corrupt his daughter like the other half of my gene pool tried to do to his wife. That was the pissed-off, woe-is-me part of me. The part that lies inside the walls of my chest. A part of me believes he wanted to know if I was okay.
“Less than three months, Mr. Steel, and I’ll be out of this place, so yeah.”
“Tobias, it’s Cyrus.”
I didn’t say anything. I’d seen enough crap in my life, enough people who pretended to give a fuck, opened up enough to feel like it mattered, just to drive a knee to your nuts.
“Goodnight, Mr. Steel.”
Day two, Gabrielle asked me where Truth was and told me she had tried to message her. Then she told me she didn’t think Truth had even read it. What I wanted to say was so fucking what, but the reality is that Gabrielle had issues and I always tried to help her out. So, I acted like I didn’t give a fuck, which had been easy for all these past months, until she ended up at my house and I nearly lost my shit.
That night, there was a bag of takeout from a barbecue place inland and a note.
Good shit,
C.S
Knowing how much he must hate me, and that he could possibly try to fucking poison me, and that if I died here, it would take a few days for someone to even check it out, I tossed it.
Day three, today, has been the hardest. Justice asked me what was going on with Truth and me, and I told him nothing happened, and nothing was gonna. He asked me why, and I knew right then that he didn’t know about my shit, so I told him a half-truth, that I was looking forward to starting over.
Another bag of food was at my door when I got home, and it pissed me off. If he was trying to kill me, he was persistent. And if he was thinking I was starving and couldn’t take care of myself, that pissed me off, too. But if he was being nice, making me his cause so I stayed away from his daughter, he obviously not only doubted my word but was a manipulating asshole. I’d had enough of that with every other fucking male, father figure or otherwise, for a lifetime, and it enraged me enough that I put it in the fridge and planned to deliver it to his own fucking doorstep at five in the fucking morning with a note that told him to fuck off.
Now I’m lying in bed, not touching my junk, while I picture her laying here the other night, because it feels wrong, which is another reason I know there’s no way in hell I can do this shit anymore.
As soon as I turn off SportsCenter, I hear my door open, knowing damn well it was locked. The clock reads ten p.m., and I know I’m not expecting company.
I get up, reach under my bed for my baseball bat, and then quietly walk to my bedroom door and look out.
I see her, in what appears to be pajamas and slippers, hair all knotted up on top of her head, silently scolding herself as she walks in circles. One second, her hands are above her head, then on her hips, and then gripping her hair. She’s basically mirroring how I feel on the inside. I can’t watch that shit, and she can’t be here. I’ll have to be a dick so she’ll leave.
“You can’t just walk in here whenever you fucking want to.” I toss the bat on my bed then shut the door behind me.
“I need to talk to you.” She smiles and shakes her head. “I need to tell you I’m not gonna stop myself from falling in—”
“Shut your mouth, Truth. Just shut up and leave.” I swallow down the bile that is boiling inside of me and tell her, “I have