clementine // joshler

61

tyler's point of view

i'm working on homework on josh's couch when my phone dings with a text.

"who's that?" he asks, looking over from his book.

i pick my phone up to check the notification. there's very few possibilities for who sent it really.

"oh. it's just emily. she said her mom is wondering if i'm going to go to their house for easter." i put my phone back down, making a mental note to answer later. "man, i can't believe it's already april."

"do you normally go over there for easter?" he closes his book and sets it on the coffee table, giving me his full attention.

"yeah, most of the time. i never have work and i don't like being alone on holidays if i don't have to be." i pause and put my homework aside. "the only easter i ever had was when my aunt picked me up and took me to her church's easter egg hunt with her son. he would always wake up with all sorts of toys in a basket with a big, blue bow. i would get a plastic bucket and a sheet of stickers to decorate it with. no sidewalk chalk, no coloring books, no peeps or anything.

"when i would get home, my dad would already be drunk and take whatever candy i did get. he said it would give me bad teeth but he ate it all himself before the night was up anyway," i tell him the story, watching his face carefully to gauge his reaction.

his expression changes and i see a look in his eyes that i can't make out. it's not the pity i get from most people. i don't really know what it is.

"tyler..." he doesn't say anything else yet, but i can tell he's trying to come up with something that would articulate whatever it is that i can't read.

i decide to go on.

"i mean, it makes me sad sometimes, just because i wish i could've had better. but i wouldn't be where and who i am if it weren't for how things went. and i'm okay now. it's in the past," i add, the words thick in my mouth.

it's been awhile since i've talked about this stuff with anyone and i really thought i had moved on, but i can't help but feel the pull of disappointment and longing when i think about my childhood. i think that's just part of me.

josh takes my hand in his, looking at me with so much sincerity and genuine caring that it makes my eyes water.

"tyler, you don't have to brush it off like that. not with me at least. it's okay to have feelings, i promise." he squeezes my hand, something that seems to have developed into 'our thing,' something that is grounding and comforting and warm. he continues, "i'm here for you to talk to, you know. about anything. not just the pretty stuff."

i take a deep breath before my next question. i've been thinking about it for awhile, but there's never really a good opportunity to bring it up. it's an intimidating subject to broach. i don't want him to look at me differently. i don't think he will...

"are you sure you want to know?"

"i want to know whatever you'll tell me, ty. you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to or that you're uncomfortable with, but i love you. i don't think there's anything you could tell me that could change that," he reassures, no pressure in his tone. it's nice to know that if i did want to drop the subject, he would respect that.

i take another deep breath.

"my parents met while my mom was still in college. my dad was a line cook. he dropped out of high-school his junior year. he was a bum, basically. but they fell in love, i guess. when my mom got pregnant with me, my dad tried to get her to have an abortion. she told him no.