Winter Solstice in St. Nacho's (St. Nacho's #5) - Z.A. Maxfield Page 0,42

at me, I said, “You seemed to be okay with me sharing what happened. It was okay, wasn’t it?”

“I meant you to, but I still worried how they’d take it. Your parents are the last people in the world I want to let down.”

“They’re not like that though. They don’t have expectations for people. They go with the flow.”

“How’d they take it when you came out?”

“They said they knew, so it was kind of moot.”

“My dad and his wife aren’t real tolerant.” He shook his head. “Well, she isn’t. She’s in some famous gospel girl group. That’s how come she’s an IG influencer. Her lifestyle blog is something about faith and femininity and staying G-rated in an X-rated world.”

“Oh, wow.” I couldn’t even. Though we went to Church sometimes, my parents were only religious about Marvel versus DC.

“I didn’t exactly fit the mold,” Tug admitted.

“Did she know everything about your family situation?”

“That my dad isn’t really my brother?” He winced. “I let her in on that little secret the night they threw me out.”

“Ouch.” The man beside me had lived so many different lives. He’d grown up in a web of complexity I couldn’t imagine, caught between spiders with conflicting belief systems and agendas.

“I’m not real proud of that.”

“How come?” I leaned on my hands to get more comfortable. “Isn’t the truth always better than lies?”

“I think it is, but maybe not when you’re hurting so much you want everybody else to hurt as bad.”

“How’d she take the news?”

“I don’t know. I kind of flung it behind me like a grenade and ran.”

“What happened after that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Tell me something about how you handled that. I only know the part up until you graduated high school. What did you do? Where did you go? How did you live?”

“Jesus. Maybe you should wait for the book to come out.”

“Sorry.” Stung, I slid away. “I didn’t mean to pry. I’m just curious about you.”

He rubbed his forehead. “I couch surfed at first.”

“With friends?”

“Yeah. I was pretty miserable, so I passed that misery around a little. Started using more. Doing stupid shit.”

“Your friends’ families helped you out?”

“Until they found out I’d helped myself to some of their valuables.”

Without thinking, I said, “Oh, Tug.”

“Oh yeah,” He drew back and shot me a defiant glare. “I got probation back then. This what you wanted to know?”

I schooled my expression. “I want to know whatever you’re willing to tell me. Nothing more and nothing less.”

“Okay. So things got worse, and I did a little jail time, and after that I lived on the street. I got kind of good at getting cash out of nice ladies, and when that failed, I did whatever it took to eat and get high.”

I nodded, not wanting to interrupt the flow of words. I doubted we’d ever find ourselves in such a private, impersonal place again.

“Later on, I met this kid, Beck, who was in the same situation but way younger than me. His parents kicked him out with his dog. He was a musician. So fucking green, oh my God. He didn’t judge me for some shit I did, but wouldn’t let me use anymore, so I got sober. That was actually a good time for me.”

“So what happened? Why pick up again after you got sober?”

He sighed. “Beck started busking, and people rained money on his ass. He’s a great guitarist. He can play anything, classical, contemporary, flamenco, jazz. He didn’t belong out there. He should have been in school or in a music studio. I felt responsible for him at first, but he didn’t need me anymore.”

I digested that. “Everyone needs friends.”

“I was more dead weight than friend to him. I was basically taking his money every night to buy food and booze. He didn’t even have to be out there. He could have found somewhere, a room, someone to give him a hand anytime, and left me behind.”

“If that’s the case, so could you, right?”

“Not me.”

“Why though? Why not you? Is it because you were using again?” I asked because it seemed to me that if this boy and Tug were the same age and they were both living on the street, whatever applied to Beck should apply to him, even if he wasn’t a virtuoso guitarist. He was a smart kid. He’d gotten good grades.

“I think”—he turned to stare at something in the distance—“I think I picked up because I felt like a millstone around his neck. He had options, and I was basically