Page 37 of Stroked Long
“Does anyone approve of drugs?”
Casually she answers, “Druggies.”
How can anyone argue with that?
“Fair enough. But no, it’s not drugs. He had a troubled childhood.”
“Oh, that’s so terrible,” my mom answers, her hand over her mouth. “What happened?”
“I don’t really know the details. All I know is he lost his parents when he was young. You can tell when interacting with him that the loss still affects his day-to-day routine. There’s been a few times I’ve noticed he’s on the verge of a panic attack. Interacting with others, being social doesn’t come easy to him. Actually, most of the time it’s very awkward to talk to him.”
“You don’t make fun of him, do you? Ruby, if you dare tease him—”
“Mom, why would I ever make fun of him? That is absurd. I actually try to help him out as much as possible.”
“How so?” Taking a sip of her lemonade, she settles in for my explanation. And that is why I appreciate my mom. She listens actively. Attentively.
“For instance, the other night when Bodi was here painting his canvas, before we got started he noticed I didn’t lock my front door. Someone else wouldn’t care as much, but he seemed fixated on the door being locked, to the point that he zoned out on me, and his breathing started to become erratic.”
“Interesting. I wonder if it has anything to do with his childhood. What did you do?”
“I locked it before he could fully retreat from the night we were just starting to have. Once the door was locked, he seemed to enjoy himself. He actually joked around for the first time since I’ve known him.”
Placing her fist under her chin, my mom smiles and says, “Oh really? And how did you like this joking around? Did it make you weak in the knees?”
“No.”
Yes, oh my God yes. That little chuckle of his, the slight quirk of his lips, yes, I was very weak in the knees. I’m surprised they didn’t boil over into noodles.
“I thought you didn’t lie to your mother.” I hate when she’s right.
“I would say it’s more denial than lying. I’m not ready to voice my infatuation quite yet. But if you must know, everything about him is gorgeous, Mom. Not just his looks, but his mind, his soul—no matter how torn apart it might be right now.”
With a smarmy look, my mom replies, “Lucky for him, you’re really good at sewing.”
We spend the rest of the night searching the Internet for pictures of Bodi. It’s massively inappropriate, and if Bodi ever found out I was ogling over his abs with my mom I would be absolutely mortified.
Before my mom leaves, she pulls me into a hug and says, “I’m proud of you, sweetheart. You seem to be doing well.”
“Emotionally I am, but fiscally I’m going to have to figure out something else. I have one of the smallest apartments in the city, and I can barely afford it. I need a little side job to supplement my income while I search for a career, not just a job.”
The loving warmth of my mom’s hand pats my cheek, her face endearing as she speaks. “I have faith in you, Ruby. I know you will figure everything out. But you will let us know if you need help with rent; we will not have our daughter living in squalor, you hear me?”
“Yes, Mom.”
Little does she know, I would never take her up on that offer. I want to make it on my own, even if that means doing weird side jobs to get my bills paid. Oh, Los Angeles, why do you have to be so expensive?
With a quick clean up in my living space, I get ready for bed and sink into my mattress, thoughts of Bodi clouding my mind. I so desperately want to know what happened to him when he was a little boy. Not because I’m nosey, but because I truly want to know how to make his life better, how to make it easier, how to remove the pain that taints those beautiful eyes of his every day.But could I? He’s what he is today because of what happened years ago. How would I have the skills to help him heal?
The urge to talk to him is overwhelming. The need to see how he is takes over and before I know it, I send him a text as I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, images of his sweet face running through my mind.
Ruby: Hey Bodi, how was your day?
I don’t expect an answer; I don’t really expect anything from him in return. The purpose of my text message is to show him I’m thinking of him; he’s not entirely alone in this world. I know he has Eva and Lauren, but sometimes he makes it seem like he doesn’t even have them, like he’s completely alone.
But, he’s not. I’m here and I want him to know it.
My diarrhea mouth wants to commandeer my phone and take over my text messages. It wants to manipulate the conversation and go bat-shit crazy on him. But I don’t let it. The last thing I need is to have my ramblings recorded; hearing them in person is bad enough.
