Plant New Seeds | H.S.| AU

Chapter Twenty-Five - Impulse

N I A

The jackass played me.

Three simple words, two options for answers, and one fucking question—that's all there was to it.

But he chose to complicate it more by answering with one of his corny cliche responses that went along the lines of: "if you're not happy, then I'm not" and "happiness is a spectrum."

Boo-fuckin'-hoo.

Nothing would ever be solved with either of us if we both continued on like we were happy. I was beginning to realize that more and more everyday; wish I could've said the same for Harry.

It was partially my fault for convincing myself that he was some sort of perfect alien specimen with no blemishes on the complexion of life.

Three days came and went, and the question still flew in the air like a moth, abandoned and shriveled up all alone without a claim. The annual Thanksgiving Bash our branch of Social Services was packed twice as much this year, Harry's gracious offer to volunteer swooping in like a saving grace.

All afternoon long we handed out turkeys to families, read Charlie Brown stories, and made arts-and-crafts Turkeys with the palms of our hands with kids—the perfect distraction to avoid finishing our conversation.

I appreciated the distraction, too, to be perfectly honest. The original reason for our conversation—me—still hadn't been covered and I hoped to keep it that way. As long as we didn't speak about it, there was no need to hide anything.

Omission is still a lie, dummy.

"You have an earring in your nose?" A little girl's voice forced my eyes to stop focusing on Harry, who was across the room having an obviously-silly conversation with Lauren.

I stared back down at her, forcing a smile as I replied, "I guess you could say that, yes, sweetie."

If I didn't know any better, I'd think she was the kid Harry and I didn't remember conceiving. Her light-brown curls bounced around as she danced to whatever Jojo Siwa song blared over the speakers, while the wings of the turkey costume she wore flapped around in the wind.

"Did it hurt?" Black Shirley Temple asked, tilting her head to the side as she continued her investigation. Her brown eyes were slanted as they zoned in on the stud in my nostril, the obvious urge to touch it burning rampantly through them.

I shook my head, "Not really. Just for a tiny-tiny second."

Jesus fuck, where was this child's parent? Guardian? Foster parent? Case worker? Somebody, anybody.

The last thing I wanted was to be responsible for corrupting someone's kid with the wonderful world of body piercings.

At least the tattoo on my back was covered. Giving a little kid any more ideas to alter themselves prematurely was another story in itself.

"Why did you do it?" Her tiny voice didn't pair up well with the striking boldness of her curiosity.

"I'm not sure, honey," I shrugged, genuinely not remembering the story behind my decision.

I've had the piercing since I was sixteen; ten long years fucked with your memory. Come to think of it, my memory had always been shit for as long as I could remember.

Odd phrasing, but it was true. Forgetfulness was a part of my charm, I supposed.

What was it that made me get a needle shoved through my fucking nose like an idiot?

Maybe it was a way to lash out at my obnoxious foster mother of seven months at the time. That woman had the ability to make a nun completely denounce Mary. We argued like hell about any and everything, probably the closest thing I would get to any Mother-Daughter fights about coming-of-age like on a cheesy sitcom.