Carolina [h.s]

chapter seventeen

washington dc,
south carolina
july 1990

***

Vada
//

"Did something happen yesterday?"

We sit in his car still parked on the beach, it's two in the morning and the effects of alcohol are starting to wear off of both of us. The low hum of the radio plays. I'm tired but we keep awake with the stars and the moon in front of us.

We talked about constellations. He only stared at me when I told him I felt connected to them, but there was something behind his eyes I couldn't quite register.

We sat like that for a while. After we got tacos from a food truck, I learned he didn't like tomatoes. I ate them for him instead. We bond over our favorite bands Kiss, and Led Zeppelin. He thinks Kurt Cobain is a fucking genius. I couldn't agree more.

I didn't wanna go back just yet, we were six hours away from our troubles but I know he wants to know why we left in the first place. I knew he deserved some sort or explanation, especially because he answered my questions and I never answered his.

"Grams was just worried when I got back, she said some stuff and..." I shrug. "It's nothing, I just didn't wanna be there."

Harry leaned back in the driver's seat from next to me. Arm hanging out the window, he keeps a lit cigarette between his fingers, and another unlit one behind his ear like always, and it's familiar.

"I doubt it's nothing, we all got our shit." he says.

He was right but I wouldn't even know where to begin with the pile of shit my life had. I'm quiet again, because I don't know what to say.
I don't know if I should say anything about it at all. I wondered if he would even care to listen.

Fingertips tap my temple and green eyes meet mine. "What's going on up there?" he wants to know.

I lean my back against the window of the passenger side, my legs across the console and over his legs. "I don't.. I don't know" I say honestly. "too much to explain."

He flicks his cigarette out the window rolling it up. "Look, I'm not one to try to pry emotions out of someone. But don't be naive and think I won't care if you tell me, 'kay?" he watches me.

It's like he read my mind, he knew I was insecure of what he might think. But did I really need to be?

"So, at least tell me something" he then says

"Like what?"

He shrugs, running a hand through curls. "Something I don't already know, something you don't usually tell someone when you first meet them."

My mind drifts and I know exactly what to say. "My mother was a drug addict," there's nothing behind my voice except for the truth. I wasn't looking for pity, and he knew that. "She died when I was seven... I was there." I say what I don't tell most people, and I don't feel regret like I thought I would.