Stella and the Boxer

Chapter 40

I feel the air thicken as I stare at Jason, who squints against the headlights and against my gaze. Rather than gasp for the air that I need, I question him.

"Why did you come here? Why do you keep following me?" My second question sounds desperate and emotional when my voice breaks a bit, but Jason's persistence is disturbing, and I can't pretend to be an untouchable island in his company any longer.

The second that I stood from the car, Charlie wrapped his hand around my wrist. Though his hold isn't firm enough to keep me in place, I know that he isn't going to let me move alone. He sits, still halfway in the car, out of everyone's sight but mine, with his feet on the ground beside me. I think that he is watching me, but when I glance down, I see that his head is turned towards the front windshield, watching Jason. His jaw is tight, but his hand on my wrist doesn't quiver or sweat. He doesn't seem nervous or anxious, but concentrated - waiting.

Mr. and Mrs. Little stand beside their large truck which blocks the entrance to the second garage door, where my mother's car is normally parked. Mr. Little speaks firmly for Jason, "My son's tired of having to tiptoe around you all the time. My family shouldn't feel like they have to avoid all of you just because some things got blown out of -"

"Why don't you let your son speak for himself? Maybe he wouldn't have so many problems if you didn't treat him like a five year old. He isn't a child. His temper shouldn't be written off as tantrums anymore, and you sure as hell shouldn't be claiming that we 'blew things out of proportion,'" While my mom speaks in a hurried, irate voice, my father repeats her name softly and holds out his arm, beckoning her towards him, closer to the diver's side door of her car and away from Jason. She obliges without thinking and I sigh when she's out of his reach.

I don't necessarily think that Jason would hurt my mother, but God - she's short and fearless and he's stocky and irrational, and I'd rather them stay far away from one another.

"She's right. You speak for yourself," I demand, "What do you want? Why won't you just leave me alone?"

I can't see Jason's eyes; they appear only as shadows, merely black holes under his brow, but I can still see that he's squinting. His lips are pulled into a half smile - he smiles when he's nervous or boiling to anger. It's the calm before the storm, I suppose.

"He just doesn't want to feel like there is bad water under the bridge," Mrs. Little says in her meek voice.

From the corner of my eye, I see my father squeeze his eyes closed and rub at his brow in frustration, likely from Mrs. Little's blatant disregard for my request that Jason speak, and for her confusion over a very common expression.

The Littles are the textbook definition of coddle-parenting gone wrong. They also, by my family's definition, lack good sense. To them, Jason is a sweet, bright and witty young man with loads of potential, who would never think of hurting anyone or anything.

Even after Jason admitted to hitting me once, due to relentless interrogation, and the Littles said that it was because he loved me so much. He just wanted me back, and if he had to be wrongly accused of abuse, then he would suffer the consequences to make things work with me.

"I don't think that's the expression you're looking for," I dismiss Jason's mother before turning my attention back to him, "Listen, you can lie to this entire town. Tell everyone that I'm crazy and I've made everything up. They'll eventually believe you. They'll forget the evidence; they'll forget the story entirely because I'm never coming back to this town, not permanently anyway. I'll never seek you out. I don't care what happens to you. I just want you to leave me alone. And if you two want to involve yourselves," I turn back to his parents, "Then the best thing you can do is make sure that your little boy stays the hell away from me."