I was staring out the window at the deepening evening dark, and didn’t see Becca approaching the passenger side. I started when she swung the door open and hopped in. I didn’t even stop to think how seeing me bloody would affect her until I turned to smile at her in welcome.
“Jesus, Jason! What happened?” She was shoving the center console up and out of the way before I knew what was happening, and her fingers were gentle on my face, a Kleenex from somewhere dabbing at the cut on my cheek and the still-dripping blood from my nose.
“Got in a fight with Dad.” I shrugged, going for a nonchalance I didn’t feel.
Becca’s eyes were watery. “God. You’re covered in blood.” She probed at my nose, and I winced at the pang of pain. “I think your nose is broken.”
“I’ll be fine.”
She shook her head. “You for sure need s-s-ssss-stitches on your cheek.” A tear dripped down her nose as she wiped at the blood with shaking fingers. “You need to go to Urgent Care.”
I couldn’t figure out why she was crying. All I knew was I hated it. “Don’t cry, Beck. Please. I’m okay. It looks worse than it is.” That was bullshit, since I could still barely see straight from the pain.
She shook her head, and the tears were dripping faster now. “You’re not fine. Don’t f-f-fucking lie to me, Jason.”
“Sorry. You’re right, it hurts like a bitch, but I can’t go to a hospital. They know me around here. They’ll ask questions.”
“Questions th-that should be an-an-an-answered.” She was blinking when she stuttered, which I was starting to realize was a sign that she was intensely emotional. “It’s not right, J-J-Jason. You shouldn’t—”
I pulled away from her touch. “I can’t. I won’t. I know you don’t understand, but I won’t tell. It’d be bad for me. For you. For Mom. For whoever I told.” I dug deep and told the truth. “I’m too scared to tell, Becca. Please. Just let it go. I’ll be fine.”
She shook her head again, wiping at her eyes. “I can’t let it go. It hurts too bad to see you like this.”
I swore, a long string of florid curses. “I should’ve gone for a drive instead of coming here. I’m sorry I involved you in my bullshit.”
She grabbed my arm in a sharp-nailed grip; I stared down at her fingers digging into my bicep, each nail long and painted with a white strip of polish across the tip, some kind of fancy manicure. “Well, you did involve me. I’m involved now, and you can’t t-t-ttt-take it b-back. You’re my boyfriend, and I care about you.”
“What do you want me to do?” I spoke to the window, snapping at her irritably and unable to reel it back in. “I’m not telling. This is my life, and yeah, it f**king sucks ass. But it’s the hand I got dealt, and I only got till I graduate. Then I’m f**king gone. If you can’t accept that I’m not telling, then…I don’t know what. Then this won’t work. ’Cause I’m not gonna.”
“Why? I just don’t get it.”
“No, I know you don’t. You want the goddamned psychology for why I’m too f**king afraid of what my dad will do if I told someone again? I can’t give you that. I’m not as f**king smart as you, okay? I just know he scares me. A broken nose, some bruised ribs, a cut face here and there, I can deal with that. If I tell, what will happen? I’ll get taken by CPS and put in a foster home? From what I know, chances are that’ll be just as bad or worse. Then he’ll start in on Mom ’cause I won’t be there, and she won’t tell, either—she won’t leave. She could’ve left before I was born and she didn’t, because she’s a f**king coward, just like me. You don’t know him, Beck. What we deal with now is better than the alternative. He’d deny it, and he’s got credibility to burn. No one wants to cross Mike Dorsey. You want to know why I’m all bloody today? I fought back. That’s why. He hit me, and I hit back. It ends faster that way, usually. It’s never gotten this bad before, though. I guess because he wasn’t as drunk as he usually is when he goes after me. I don’t know.”
Silence, thick, hard, and for once uncomfortable, rose between us.
“I’m sorry, Jason,” Becca whispered.
I knuckled my forehead. “Don’t apologize. I’m the one who’s sorry. I’m sorry I got you caught up in this. I’m sorry I yelled at you. You deserve better than this shit. Than me.”
“Drive.”
I glared at her in puzzlement. “What?”
“Start driving, please. Anywhere. Just drive.” She sounded mad, which I couldn’t figure out.
So I drove. Far, and fast. For once the radio was off, and we were each lost in our thoughts, hers inscrutable, mine a whirl of guilt and shame and confusion and pain. At some point, I hit the freeway and kept driving as evening turned into night. Still, neither of us spoke.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. “Why are you mad?”
“Why should you deserve better than me? What’s wrong with me that you don’t trust me to know what I want?”
That made my head spin. “What? How…?” I stared at her sideways, then returned my gaze to the highway. “How can you turn this back on you? I’ve got so much bullshit, Becca. You don’t need it. You’re smart, you’re beautiful, you’re talented—you can be anything you want. I’m just a jock with Daddy issues. You should be with someone who’s…I don’t know…who’s got less problems than me.”
She shook her head, which I realized wasn’t a denial, a no, but rather an expression of disbelief or inability to express what she was thinking. “See? That’s what I mean. If I want to be with you, then that’s my choice. It’s my choice to be your girlfriend, in spite of the fact that yeah, you’ve got problems at home that are hard for me to understand or deal with.” She was speaking as if she’d scripted this out, sounding rote and monotone, but I knew she meant every word, that this was just how she dealt with strong emotions while struggling to speak fluently. “Who you are is who you are, because of what you go through. I like who you are. I want to help you. I want you to tell me things. I want you to trust me.”
“I wouldn’t have told you a damn thing about my life if I didn’t trust you,” I said.
“I know. But now you need to trust me to deal with it.”