But Ms. Hendrick’s mistrust had hurt. I had wanted her to like me. I envied the relationship Flynn had with his mother. The way she had taken care of him. I had never experienced that sort of love before and my f**ked up mind and screwed up heart had craved it.
Aside from enjoying Flynn’s company, I had spent so much time at the Hendrick’s house in part because I hoped, someday, to be loved the way Flynn was loved by his mother. I had been such a messed up kid. My desperate need to feel wanted had twisted into something horrific. And I had ended up hurting the one person I had wanted in my life.
After Flynn and I had stopped being friends, I had seen Ms. Hendrick in town. But she never spoke to me again. And I had laughed it off at the time, but it had devastated me. And that devastation had turned into a white-hot anger. It became one more thing I blamed Flynn for.
“She had lung cancer. It was already stage four by the time the doctor’s found it. One day she was there. The next she wasn’t.” He told his story as emotionless as he said everything but even I could hear the quivering emotion beneath the surface.
“Why did you come back to Wellsburg?” I asked him.
Flynn didn’t answer me right away and I wondered whether he had retreated back inside himself.
The minutes passed and my skin froze from the strength of the air coming out of the vents. It wasn’t until Flynn turned down his gravel driveway that he spoke.
“I hated this house when we moved here. It was ugly. It smelled funny. I didn’t know where anything was. I hated school. I hated the people.” He sounded so angry and I pictured in my head the life of fifteen-year-old Flynn. He had been awkward and unhappy. It had been obvious, even to someone as self-involved as me. But what had I done to make that easier for him?
Nothing.
“But it’s mom’s house. She bought it for me. To start over.” I still didn’t understand the reasoning of that. If it had been me I would never have come back. No amount of sentimental nostalgia could have made me enter the town limits ever again.
“I painted it. I fixed the buildings. And now it’s not so ugly. I wanted to live here again.”
And that was that. He stopped the car and turned off the engine. He opened the door and got out, heading toward the front door, leaving me alone. I couldn’t even be annoyed by his lack of manners, because that was just Flynn. In fact, I appreciated the chance to get myself together.
This house meant something to not just him. This was the only place in Wellsburg I could ever remember being truly happy. And seeing Flynn walk up the repaired steps and go through the front door, now painted a dark blue, it felt right that he was back.
I gathered the bags of food from the floor and slowly walked towards the house.
Images flashed through my mind like a movie. I had been Flynn’s friend for only a few months. And it had been a relationship built on secrets. I had been terrified to openly admit I was his friend. I continued to stand by and allow the taunts and teasing. I had contributed to it all the while using him to find the happiness I so desperately wanted.
I had been a horrible person.
I was still a horrible person.
The steps creaked beneath my feet as I walked up the porch. Another image flashed in my mind. One of smoke and flames and running through the night to escape the destruction I had caused.
Handcuffs. Interrogation. Anger and Hatred. Those had been my consequences. And I had borne them bitterly. Until now.
Because it had been no more than I deserved.
I pushed open the front door and was surprised to smell the lingering scent of banana bread in the air.
I knew my way to the kitchen. I had walked over these floorboards enough times to find it. The décor was the same it had been seven years ago. Nothing had changed. Yes there was fresh paint on the walls and new doors hung from the jams, but it was still the same.
It was almost jarring.
But I should have known Flynn would never alter what he knew. This was his sanctuary. This was his home.
How I envied him.
Flynn stood at the counter already slicing thick pieces of bread and putting them down on a plate. I brought the bags of food over.
“Where do you keep the plates?” I asked him.
Flynn pointed to a cabinet above the sink. I was surprised to find new dishes and glasses. I had expected to find the same floral pattered china that his mother had owned when I was last here.
“I always liked the flowered ones your mom had. As far as plates go, they were pretty nice,” I said, trying to fill the suddenly uncomfortable silence.
“They were ruined in the fire,” Flynn responded and my hands gripped the plate so tightly my knuckles went white.
But before I could freak out and run away, Flynn took the plate from my hands and placed it on the table.
“Come, eat,” he urged, sitting down and carefully opening the box containing Dania’s cheeseburger.
I sat down across from him and took the other box but didn’t open it. I watched as he lifted the bun and scrapped off the lettuce and tomato with a fork and then wrapped the discarded condiments in a napkin before throwing it away. He pushed the French fries off to the side, making sure they didn’t touch anything before picking up the burger with both hands and taking a small bite.
“Stop watching me,” Flynn said firmly when I hadn’t started eating yet.
I blinked and looked away, flushing at having been caught. I flipped open the box and started picking at my sandwich. My appetite still hadn’t come back but I couldn’t just sit there doing nothing.
Flynn polished off his burger quickly and then ate his fries, one at a time. Dipping each in ketchup and then wiping the excess off with his fork before popping it in his mouth.
I tried not to stare. But his eating habits were so ritualistic that it was fascinating.
“I told you to stop looking at me. I hate it when people look at me,” he mumbled, taking a drink of water.
“Why do you hate people looking at you?” I asked him. Though I could hazard a guess why.
“Because people aren’t very nice when they look at me.” He reached over and speared one of my French fries that I had yet to eat and dipped it in his ketchup.
Then without asking, he claimed a few more from my plate.
“Uh, you wanna ask before you take my shit,” I told him. Flynn took another fry and I dropped my hand down on top of his before he could escape with it.
“Don’t cuss,” he said crossly, wiggling his hand beneath mine, trying to pull away.
He released the fry and I allowed him to withdraw his hand and pulling it into his lap. He didn’t apologize. He didn’t excuse his deplorable manners. He just began to rub his hands together.