Kick Me Like a Stray

“Frankie, Sugar, this is the third time this week, I am not pressing you for an answer, but if I can help you in any way, now would be a good time for you to say so.” He finished his words with a kiss to my shin that he had just bandaged; a remaining habit from when he would patch up his younger brother when he fell or hurt himself.

Or, at least that is what he had rushed to explain the first time he had fixed me up, blushing and apologizing as he backed away. It had been a bloody and sprained wrist that time, but I was lucky he couldn’t hear my heart flutter. I know he was doing it out of brotherly feelings, yet he kisses it with such a serene look on his face, proud of helping someone. I crushed a little harder each time.

“I’m fine, Gerard, Seriously. Just insanely clumsy.” I had to look anywhere other than his face. The windows that still needed wiping down, the mop and bucket that Gerard had been using to clean the black and white checkered floor of the restaurant.

“Frank.” Clearly he had held the face, because when I glanced at him I felt a wave of guilt and sadness. His eyebrow raised and small mouth a bit pouty, clearly asking if I thought he was going to fall for that.

“Yes,” I whispered and looking away from his unwavering gaze.

“Yes, what?” His voice was pitched at incredulousness by my answer when there had been no spoken question.

“I want you to believe it. I expect you to believe me. Because why would I lie! What story am I covering up? Why would I lie!?” I realized, belatedly, I was getting slightly hysterical and gripped the edge of the table I sat on as I hung my head and brought my voice down from a scream that had echoed across the empty expanse of the eatery.

“Are you going to take offense when I tell you I don’t believe you right now? Nor will I ever believe that an ex-ballerino is clumsy and or you are doing this to yourself?” His dyed-black hair fell into his eyes as he shook his head slowly at me and stood up from his crouch from working on my shin.

“I-I, uh, how?” And maybe it came out as squeaky as the sound his chair made as he pulled it out from under a table to sit on.

“I don’t tell my informant’s names.” His smirk did something to my stomach, flipped it, which any other time would feel great, but with all the other emotions twisting it, I just felt like throwing up.

“Ha. Funny.” I hadn’t meant to sound so dead, but it slid the smirk off his face.

“Frank, what can I do, seriously? Babes, I’m worried.” He paused as if he truly believed I would respond. “Why don’t you come over to my house tonight? Meet my brother, relax?”

“No!” Again it was a scream, like I couldn’t control myself.

“Why not?"

“My mom, she, uh, needs me.” Need. How odd the not-lie fell off my tongue.

“So she is who does this to you?”

“I-I never said that. My mom just needs me.” I tried to sound brave.

“Needs to beat you into a pulp? I can see that. I’ve been seeing that, Frank.”

“It isn’t like that. If….It’s…Only if I…”

“Only what, Frank?” Gerard sounded angry and I couldn’t look up from where my legs were swinging where they hung over the table. “Only if you mess up? She beats the shit out of you because she loves you?”

“If I go, she’ll take it out on Jamia.”

As if I had flipped the anger was gone, replaces with a quiet and scary calm. “Who is Jamia?”

“MY younger sister.” It took a while to choke our and by the end of it I wasn’t sure if I had even said it or if he had read my mind because it felt like he had said it before I even started.

“Your younger sister. Clenching his jaw and balling and unballing his fists he stared at the ceiling, yet I had a feeling he wasn’t admiring the hanging lamps or painting that was some bastardization of the Sistine Chapel artwork.

For a while the only noise was the swish of my pants as they rubbed against each other as I was almost violently swinging my legs, my fight-or-flight response begging me to leave but my body stayed, the cars that passed by on the road out front, and the slow whoosh of the fan running in the kitchens.

After and insanely long time, Gerard released a shuddering exhale.

“So if I asked you to come live with me you would probably say no.”

“Yeah, it’s a no.”

“Alright, come on, lemme take you home.” Standing up he flipped the chair onto the top of the table and repeated the process for the few tables around him in the time it took me to jump down off the table.

“The rest of the restaurant? We haven’t finished.”

“I’ll come in early tomorrow. I have open, anyway.” I cringed for him, that’s an 4:00am opening shift. IF he was coming in early…

“You sure?”

“Of course, come on, let’s get you home we were supposed to be done half-an-hour ago.”

The ride home was tense. Gerard’s knuckles practically glowed white on the steering wheel, an unspoken reiteration of how he didn’t want to take me there.