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Well, he especially doesn’t talk about that.
He’ll talk about his years living on the streets, abusing drugs, absolutely.
He’ll talk vaguely about being tossed around from one shitty home to the next growing up, until he finally ran away at seventeen, sure.
And that’s it.
Over the two years we’ve known each other, I’ve managed to draw some conclusions about what he’s been through—kind of hard not to, when you live with the guy and spend nearly 24/7 with each other. You pick up on things.
Like the fact authority figures make him uncomfortable.
Like the fact he can barely stomach even the simplest of touches, and yet he’s starved for it.
Like the fact he has a hair-trigger when it comes to any semblance of non-consent in others, whatever it be, even if it’s something as simple as Phoebe hemming and hawing about trimming her ridiculously long hair.
“If you don’t want to chop off the dead ends, fuckin’ leave them.”
“But Mom?—”
“It’s your hair. No one else’s. Grow it down to your feet if you want.”
Shawn doesn’t reveal anything willingly, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure him out once you pay him enough attention. Hell, I’d even go so far as to say he wants someone to pay attention. To understand him, and respect his boundaries without having to make a big deal about it.
“You care about him.”
Shawn glances down, his jaw tightening. “He’s a little shit.”
My lip twitches at that, memories of a time where I thought the same flickering through my head. “And yet he worms his way in.”
He nods stiffly. “I read him wrong. Really wrong. I just…”
“Wanted to believe he was okay,” I whisper, understanding washing over me. Huffing a quiet, humorless laugh, I glance down at the phone I roll between my hands, and shake my head. “That he had it under control. That he wasn’t like us.”
It takes him a bit to say, “That, and I didn’t want to push.”
Nodding, I let those words roll around my head. “Better excuse than mine.”
“Still the same result.”
True that.
A moment passes, before Shawn goes on, “I know you just got out of rehab, and?—”
I shake my head. “No. I’m done burying my head in the sand. I’m not making the same mistakes I did that landed me in this mess. I’m doing things differently this time.”
He says nothing to that, and I know what he’s really waiting for. What they’ve all been waiting for.
Blowing out a breath, I tell him, “I know Izzy’s…gone. Dead. She’s not coming back. And I know admitting that isn’t much, but?—”
“It’s a good fucking start.”
At his roughly spoken words, our gazes meet, and while his dark eyes are hard as always, if I’m not mistaken I do catch a hint of something akin to pride, and maybe sympathy too.
“I’m ready to move forward,” I tell him, infusing as much sincerity as I can in my voice.
His mouth thins and he nods. “I believe you.” A beat passes. “But you also know I’m not the one who really needs to hear this. And they might not be as easy to convince.”
They. He means Waylon and Jeremy.
