44Note: I moved this from a different account because I realized it was stupid to have it on an alternate account rather than my main account. It was annoying me. So no worries about plagarism if you've seen this before or whatever.
A/N: Alright, readers of Someday Soon I apologize! But an update is coming for that story, I promise, and I'm sorry for not keeping my promised schedule but I'm trying to finish planning the story and figure some things out before I dig myself any deeper. This story however, has been on my mind for ages and the basic outline for it is done, which is definitely a good thing! So, tell me what you think!
Chapter One
When I was seven, Dad told me to 'focus, work hard, and achieve'. He's always been business oriented and whenever I was sad he would say things like that. He thought he could make up for his absences through meaningless advice. He believes in hard work and success and I thought that was what it would take to get his attention. But no matter how well I did or how many clubs I joined, the phone calls extending his business trips continued to come.
I've never found it easy to hate him though. I still seek his validation and his presence. And instead of voicing my opinion, I don't complain, afraid to drive him further away. Which is why I'm stuck here. It's my seventeenth birthday and he's throwing me a party to make up for the last three months spent in Japan. All of my classmates were invited and are now scattered through the first floor of my house, eating, talking, and dancing. I'm the only one standing in a corner, avoiding the party.
Dad is in one of the rooms with a group of similarly wealthy and business minded men and I know they won't stop talking for hours.
I check my watch and realize it's only eight-thirty. Fuck. Stepping around a group of girls talking loudly, I walk to the kitchen.
"Adrian Broderick?" I hear. "Why can't I match a face to the name."
I pull a can of soda from the large pan of ice sitting out on the island.
"Oh you know!" The second girl flaps her hands stupidly. "Dark hair, blue eyes, doesn't talk much."
I snort and turn away.
"Ohhh … no. It doesn't ring a bell!"
Pushing my way through dancing bodies, I head away from the people.
"There you are!" Mrs. Jamison appears out of nowhere, catching me before I'm halfway across the room. "Happy birthday Adrian!" She fumbles with her purse, pulling out a white envelope. "A little something from Tom and me," she explains, shoving it into my hands.
"Thank you," I say with an obligatory smile, struggling between relief and depression over the fact that I am not, in fact, invisible. I put the envelope in my pocket and shift away slightly.
She doesn't notice. Her eyes are already focused away from me, darting around the party instead, seeking something out.
"I better go find Tom before he gets too caught up talking with your father," she says distractedly, "have a nice evening dear."
I feel a little bit heavier as I finish picking my way across the room.
Outside it's quieter. And when I shut the patio doors behind me, the noise from inside is almost completely shut in.
The warm breeze of late summer tickles the ends of my hair and I sit down on the grass – a good fifty feet away from the house and the party and the disappointment.
"You're not supposed to be out here," a disembodied voice floats across the silence.
I raise a skeptical eyebrow, feeling less riled than I'd have expected, and sit up a little straighter. "What about you?"
"I got permission," he says, stepping out of the shadow of the large maple tree.
"Liar."
He walks towards me, taking his time.
"Omniscient are we?" He takes a drag of the cigarette I hadn't noticed in his hand.
"Not quite," I sigh.
He stands in front of me and the only sounds are the faint strains of talk and music drifting across the yard.
"Quite a show they've put on," he says with a disgusted smirk, eyes trained towards the house.
Irritation flutters even though I hate the party as much as he seems to. "Fuck off."
He smiles. It was what he was looking for. "Testy."
My head's already pounding and I wonder vaguely if it's more trouble to stay out here with him or to go back to the party.
"So what's your name?" He asks, dropping down to the grass in front of me, careful not to extinguish his cigarette on the way.
"Adrian," I say shortly, making my decision.
His eyes flash in understanding and he laughs. My defenses immediately go up. "What's your problem?" I snap.
"Hey, I have no problem," he says leisurely, leaning back and appraising me shamelessly as though now he knows my name he has to reevaluate everything.
"I'm not the one hiding on my birthday, after all."
Anger rises at the insinuation. "No. You're just hiding." I snap.
He doesn't seem to like that but my moment of satisfaction is ruined when his eyes narrow, intimidating and looking for a challenge.
"I'll bet someone notices my absence before yours," he says, "And I don't even live in this town."
"What would you know?" My words come out shakily though and lose all impact. I've never enjoyed confrontation, especially not with people as eager for it as he is.
He smirks. "A party full of guests on your birthday and you're out back with a stranger. It's pretty obvious."
"Go away."
"What?" He says, leaning forward until he's only a breath away from me. His eyes are a bright, vivid green. "Can't handle the truth?" It comes out as a whisper and I can almost feel the words against my cheek.
"Stop it!" I say, pushing at his chest. I can't handle the way his eyes are boring into mine and the faint smell of him that's easily closing the short distance between us.
He laughs and falls backwards into the grass, sprawling on his back and stubbing out his cigarette.
"Pretty night, isn't it," he comments almost playfully before rolling onto his stomach and to his feet with a surprising amount of grace. For a moment, he stands over me, silent, and then walks away.
"Seya later kid," he says, turning one last time to look at me before disappearing back into the house and shutting the glass patio doors behind him. They rattle softly and leave the night feeling quieter than before.
"Did you have a good time?" Maria asks me.
I look at her and smile but she sees through it. "Well, he means well," she says unconvincingly, drying her hands on a dishtowel. "And please stop that." I let my forced smile fade away and she nods approvingly.
"You want anything else babe?" She picks up my empty mug. "Sit down." She says firmly as I get to my feet in protest, "I can take it," she smiles, "It's what I'm paid to do after all."
I sigh, dropping back into my seat. "Thank you." Maria chuckles.
"You're such a good boy Adrian."
I watch her as she finishes cleaning the kitchen, putting away leftovers from the party that'll never get eaten and wiping down the counters.
"I have something for you," she says when she's finished and shuts off the light so that only the small light above the sink is left on, casting a dim glow in the large room.
She goes into the pantry and comes back carrying her purse.
"Maria –"
She shakes her head and sets the purse on the counter in front of me. I sink back against the chair in defeat and watch her hand disappear and come out with a small bag, red and slippery and cinched tightly.
"Now, this belonged to my father," Maria explains, "Nothing fancy," she says, loosening the top with slender fingers. A gold chain slides out and coils into her palm. "I know you aren't religious darling," she amends, referring to the small gold cross housed on the chain, "but you don't have to think of it that way. Think of it as a symbol of hope or a reminder that I care about you so that you never forget that someone does."
She smiles and her warm cinnamon eyes light up.
I swallow. "Maria … I … thank you."
"You don't have to wear it if it makes you uncomfortable, I won't mind," she says seriously. "I just want you to have it."
I shake my head and slide off the chair. "It's great," I tell her softly. "And I will definitely wear it."
She pulls me into a comforting embrace, wrapping her arms around me. And even though I'm taller than her, I feel safe.
"Happy birthday baby," she whispers against my shoulder.
"Thank you."
She squeezes me tight and steps back.
"Here, turn around," she says, pushing my shoulder so that I'll comply. She drops the chain in front of me and pulls the ends back around my neck to clasp them. "There you go darling."
I finger the cool metal chain and turn back to her.
"Thank you," I say again, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek.
She strokes the side of my face with her cool hand. "Don't worry Ad. That smile, that's enough."
I bring a hand self-consciously up to my face.
"I've got to go," she says, watching me fondly, "I'll see you later hon. Sleep well."
"I –" I have to restrain myself from thanking her again, "I'll see you later."
Pulling out her car keys, she pats me on the back and then leaves through the side door, waving over her shoulder before shutting it behind her.
I get ready for bed, hyperaware of the weight of the chain around my neck, and fall asleep with a smile.
"Sonuvabitch," Dad murmurs, head buried in the newspaper. When he's home it's a morning tradition for him to sit at the table nursing a mug of black coffee and cursing at the newspaper. If you ever ask him what he's upset about though, he'll just give you a look that makes you believe maybe you're just hearing things so I've learned to just ignore him.
Maria and I exchange amused glances across the room and I smile into my cereal. It's nice having Dad home again.
"Tonight we're having dinner with Richard Aldron and his family," Dad says. He folds the paper and sets it gingerly on the table. "So be home by five-thirty."
I nod mutely and glance at the clock.
"I've got to go," I say, pushing away from the table and shouldering my backpack.
"Learn lots!" Maria calls cheerily, contrasting to my father's gruff, "Do your best."
School's the same as always: uneventful. I get a few compliments on my party that I shrug off, but mostly people ignore me and I ignore them, just like always.
It's not so much I never intended to make friends, but I was very reserved when I was younger. Most people took it as snobbery instead of introversion and few tried to befriend me. I had a friend, Kaley, but she moved away a couple years ago and we lost contact after a few months. Maria's helped me come out of my shell a little bit but I'm not good at making friends, just acquaintances. The sort of people who will probably only acknowledge you at school.
But I've always been alone and I've gotten used to it for the most part.
After school and leadership, I return home to an empty house. Maria has Monday afternoons off.
A trip to the refrigerator and then I head upstairs to exchange my uniform for sweatpants. Pulling out my history textbook, I sit down to study. I can't stand it though. My mind's racing and my fingers itch to be put to use. Finally, slamming the book shut, I give up.
Pulling off my shirt because I've already ruined enough of them, I leave my desk and head to the corner of my room devoted to painting. There's a good sized plastic mat to protect the carpet and an easel set up.
The motions of putting up a blank canvas and mixing my paints are old habits and within minutes, I'm painting. Bold, violent strokes across the pristine surface, marring it, ruining it, sculpting it. Slowly the lines give way to reason and a picture begins to develop. There's nothing quite similar to the satisfaction of creation.
Painting is one of the few times I can just let myself go. I don't have to watch myself to make sure I'm acting appropriately or working hard enough. I can just be. And I can expel all the pent up emotions I'm too afraid to let out any other way.
When I finally pull out of it, I have no conception of how much time has passed. Wiping a hand across my forehead, I step back and survey my art. The once empty canvas is now bursting with anger, done up in reds and blacks, all bold lines and heat. I step further away from it in surprise.
I'm constantly discovering things about myself through my art, but sometimes, I'm not quite prepared for the impact it'll have. The wave of emotions that crash down upon realizing they were there all along.
And looking at the canvas, the content exhaustion I'm usually left with after painting is overshadowed.
Feeling irritable and just a little pissed off, I turn away. I start to slowly put my supplies back where they belong when I pause, a sudden gravity heaving itself on me and making me feel a little bit sick. With trepidation, I pivot slowly towards the clock in my room.
6:27 it blinks tauntingly at me. Fuck!
Shoving everything on the shelf, I rush into my bathroom. Surveying myself in the mirror, I notice frantically the long streak of red pain across my forehead and my paint-splattered torso. Shit shit shit shit.
Blasting the sink faucet, I begin to scrub at my face frantically. I can get the rest later.
6:29 and I'm yanking on a dress shirt and fumbling with the buttons, doing it up wrong twice before finally getting it right. Pants next. I can't find my black shoes and after a panicked, thirty second search and the realization I left even my school shoes downstairs, I pull on my converse with a cringe. As soon as they're tied, I'm out the door.
My steps are stumbled and unsteady as I race down the stairs, my heart beating fast. When I reach the first floor though, I slow down and walk as casually as possible towards the front room, the room only used to entertain guests.
Voices waft airily down the long hall and my stomach sinks. I'd hoped that maybe they hadn't arrived yet, somehow.
"Oh! There you are my boy!" Dad says when I appear in the doorway. I try to hide my internal grimace at his tone. He's putting on a front. It's not proper to chew out your son in front of guests. His eyes though, the dark flash of navy I saw when I entered the room, give him away. "Come on and sit down."
He's seated in a ridiculously expensive dark mahogany chair. On one loveseat is a middle-aged couple and on the other, what must be their children. I falter in my path to the matching mahogany when I realize who the boy is.
"This is my son Adrian," Dad introduces stiffly, "Adrian, this is Richard and Tess Aldron, and of course they're children, Bethany and Casey," he gestures to the two sets of people.
I nod awkwardly. "It's nice to meet you," I say, directing the statement to everybody in the room and hoping they'll go back to what they were talking about before.
"We've met," the boy, Casey I suppose, says before anybody else can respond. He flashes a smirk and meets my gaze. I don't last long before dropping my eyes to my lap. I can imagine his smirk widening.
"Have you?" Tess Aldron comments idly, "Well that's wonderful. It'll be an easier transition for him if he knows someone." She smiles at me and I try to figure out what she's talking about.
"Well, what do you say we go eat?" Dad suggests, glancing down at his watch. "Dinner should be just about ready."
Dad ushers the Aldron's out, beginning a conversation with Richard as the exit. Bethany, who can't be older than ten, skips contentedly behind them.
Casey brushes against me as we exit together. "You've got paint on your neck," he breaths in my ear, his hand lingering on my back for the briefest moment before he pulls ahead.
I watch him move confidently down the hall before feeling my neck for the alleged paint and embarrassingly enough, finding some.