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It was two months before Grant saw Lark again.
He saw Sparrow nearly every day in class, but Lark’s parents had decided to preempt his likely expulsion by switching to home schooling. And though the Oak-Garcias were regular guests at Darryl’s apartment, Lark was always conspicuously absent. Never without an explanation prepared: oh, Lark has an essay to finish; oh, Lark is out seeing a movie; oh, Lark caught a stomach bug and he’s sleeping it off at home.
Maybe those things were even all true, but no one was fooled – not that deception was really the point. The excuses were merely a social nicety that allowed everyone to politely sidestep the real reason Lark was not there.
No one wanted to talk about it. At least, they didn’t want to when Grant was around.
Grant thought about it often, though. About the last time they’d seen each other. The memory fascinated him like a bruise he couldn’t help but dig his thumb into.
He remembered pain bursting across his face and a copper taste in his mouth. He remembered wild eyes and sharp, barking laughter. He remembered feeling grass under his palms and a heartbeat in his chest. He remembered feeling alive.
He wanted to feel it again. He craved it. He often fantasized about meeting Lark and picking up right where they left off.
He wondered if Lark would hit him again if he asked.
That was the only thing on Grant’s mind as he sat in the car with his dad, driving to the Oak-Garcia household for Mercedes’s birthday party.
He didn’t need to look over at the driver’s seat to tell his father was thinking about it, too. The man radiated tension. His hands were too tight on the steering wheel and his jaw was set.
Grant felt Darryl’s concerned gaze flicker over to him, then back to the road.
“Are you sure you want to do this? We don’t have to go tonight. I’d understand if you’re nervous about seeing Lark again.”
Grant sighed. He’d never given any indication of being afraid of Lark after their fight, because he wasn’t. Nevertheless, his father continued to frame all of his own concerns about a meeting with Lark as empathy for Grant’s supposed trauma.
“Dad, it’s fine. Nothing’s going to happen. Clearly Mercedes and Henry don’t think so, or Lark wouldn’t be there.”
Darryl’s fingers flexed around the steering wheel.
“Okay. Just… if you need to leave, let me know and we can go home right away.”
Darryl obviously did not want Grant at this party. When he received the phone call from Henry a week ago with an invitation to the party, his anxieties spiked as if the fight had just happened yesterday. He reminded Grant again and again that Lark would be there, and that Darryl would understand if he wasn’t comfortable being at a party where the boy who’d broken his nose during soccer practice would be in attendance.
Grant did not tell him that was exactly why he wanted to go.
Nor did Grant respond to his father now. After a minute of uncomfortable silence, Darryl flicked on the radio. Grant rested his head on one hand and looked out the window, unmoving.
They finally arrived at the Oak-Garcia household. The driveway was already full, so Darryl parked on the street. Grant puppeted his body out of the car and wordlessly accepted the tinfoil-wrapped Pyrex of barbecue chicken kebabs that Darryl pressed into his hands. Darryl grabbed a twelve-pack from the back seat and Grant trailed after him into the house.
Mercedes greeted them at the door with a beaming smile and a hug for Darryl. Grant said hello and smiled and accepted a pat on the shoulder and obediently walked to the kitchen at Mercedes’s direction to set down his food. Henry was there and Grant went through the same routine, saying all the polite things he had to say to seem like a person who inhabited his own body rather than piloting it remotely.
He drifted over to the living room. When he saw Sparrow and Terry chatting in the corner, he was drawn to them automatically. Now he could relax a little. Grant didn’t have much to say, but Sparrow and Terry understood that. They knew how he got when he dissociated like this, which was most of the time. He exchanged greetings with them and gladly accepted hugs. When he made no move to participate in any further conversation, they continued talking, angled toward him so he was included in the circle as he listened in, but not fussing over his silence.
Grant’s gaze drifted around the party. No Lark yet. Sparrow noticed him scanning the room and guessed what he was thinking.
“Lark went to his room for a bit,” he explained. “We haven’t had this many people over in a while and he wanted some alone time before the party. He’ll probably come down before we cut the cake.”
Grant nodded absently. Sparrow and Terry returned to their conversation. A few minutes later, a small uproar cut through by the unmistakable voice of Glenn Close announced the arrival of Nicky’s family.
Grant said hi to Nicky and hugged him when he joined their little circle.
They continued chatting for a while. Grant found himself leaning against Terry as they all listened to Nicky recount a long story about Jodie having to come in for damage control after one of Glenn’s Christmas concerts nearly devolved into a riot. As he relaxed, he even felt present enough to add his input once or twice.
This also meant he eventually realized that he was starting to feel hungry. He regretfully extricated himself from Terry’s side and excused himself to the kitchen to get a snack. On crossing the threshold, he stopped dead in his tracks.
Lark was there.
He stood, frozen, with one hand holding a plate and the other reaching into a bag of chips. His eyes were locked on Grant’s.
He was a bit of a mess – not that Grant had room to judge. He wore a loose-fitting zip up and sweats. His hair was longer than Grant remembered and currently doing its best to fall out of a loose hair tie. His mouth was twisted into a faint scowl and his brow was slightly furrowed. His eyes burned into Grant, just as they had two months before.
Grant tasted blood in his mouth and fought the urge to smile. Did he imagine it, or did Lark’s fingers twitch? He wondered if Lark was remembering, too. The idea made him flutter.
“You’re here,” Grant said dumbly.
“Sure am,” Lark said with a dry smile. “Apparently I’m stable enough to be around humans again.” He finished scooping chips onto his plate.
Grant knew it was his turn to say something, but found he couldn’t quite make himself speak. He felt staticky, and his words were getting lost on the way from his brain to his mouth. Instead of talking, he joined Lark at the counter, helping himself to one of the kebabs he’d brought in earlier. Lark did not move, still scanning the rest of the vegan options.
Grant felt tingly on the side of his body closest to Lark. There was a low thrum of energy building in him as memories flashed through his mind and questions burned on his tongue.
He glanced at Lark out of the corner of his eye to find Lark looking back at him. The moment stretched out. Everything else faded away; Lark was the only thing anchoring him to this room.
The moment was broken when the sounds of chatter in the living room swelled once again. A few seconds later, his father’s voice called for him.
“Grant? Your mom’s here…” he trailed off. Grant turned to see Darryl filling the entrance to the kitchen. His jaw was tense again and his eyes were fixed on Lark.
“Hi, Lark. How are you doing?”
Lark’s overly-cheerful voice rang out behind Grant.
“Hey, Mr. Wilson. I was just about to fight Grant here for the last of the bruschetta.”
Grant tried to bite back a laugh, which came out as an undignified snort instead. Darryl was less amused.
“Lark,” Darryl said, a warning.
“Oh, settle down, I’m kidding. It’s been two whole months since I hurt anyone.” Lark grabbed the last two pieces of bruschetta and turned away from the counter. “I’m gonna go find Sparrow.”
Darryl stepped aside slightly as Lark brushed past him without so much as a glance.
Darryl loomed in the entryway, filling the small kitchen with an air of disapproval. Grant shifted uncomfortably. He would love to go back to his friends now, but there was no way he was getting out of this room without a lecture.
“I don’t like you being alone with him,” Darryl said carefully.
“Dad, it’s literally fine.”
“Son.” Darryl’s hand tightened where it gripped the door frame. “He just joked about hurting you again.”
“It wasn’t that serious.”
“It is that serious! Just two months ago, that boy broke your nose over nothing, and that time there was an entire team of witnesses around to stop him. We don’t know how far it could have escalated if there was no one to intervene. Grant, there are knives in here.”
Grant carded through his mental list of dialogue options and found nothing that would get him out of this conversation any faster. He could distantly feel his own anger simmering, but it wasn’t enough to bring him back to himself, which meant unscripted words were off the table for now. He went for a sullen glare instead.
Darryl sighed in exasperation.
“Listen, you cannot be alone with him again. If he’s going to be around, you need to stick by your friends or an adult. Okay?”
Grant said nothing.
“Grant. If you can’t agree to that, we are leaving this party right now.”
“Fine.”
Darryl was still glaring at him expectantly.
“Fine, I will not be alone with Lark again.”
Darryl huffed.
“I’m holding you to that. Now, go say hi to your mom.”
Grant did go say hi to his mom, and it was lovely. Sure, he still felt on a different plane of reality, and his words only came a little easier with his mom than with his dad, but at least she wasn’t constantly fussing over him like Darryl was. And her boyfriend was nice, too. He did feel a little better afterwards.
He felt eyes on him as he made his way back to his friends. Darryl was talking to Henry in the corner, gesturing between Grant and Lark with a serious look on his face.
Grant sidled up to Lark and nudged him.
“Sorry, looks like it’s about to be your turn for a lecture.”
Lark followed his gaze and sighed in exasperation.
“Lucky me. And here I thought I got off with just one today.”
Terry was watching them. He looked over his shoulder at the two dads talking on the other side of the room, then back at Grant and Lark, concern written across his face.
“Did something happen?”
Grant shrugged.
“Darryl’s freaked out because he saw me in the same room as Grant,” Lark explained.
“Maybe he would have been less freaked out if you didn’t say you were going to fight me.”
Sparrow’s eyes widened. Terry squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. Nicky, for his part, merely snickered behind one hand, which Grant appreciated. It was just a joke.
Or if it wasn’t, then that was only between him and Lark.
“Why would you say that?” Sparrow demanded. “They just decided to let you be around everyone again. This is the first time in two months that we’ve all been together.”
Lark scoffed.
“It was just a joke. Our parents just want to fuss over nothing.”
“And their fussing determines whether we all get to see each other!”
“Doesn’t change that they’re overreacting,” Nicky put in. “That little ‘fight’ was nothing compared to what we’ve already been through. Grant’s nose was only even broken for, like, thirty minutes before Henry got a chance to heal it. It wasn’t a big deal.”
“But we aren’t supposed to hurt each other.” Terry jumped in, shooting a glare at Nicky. “Every time we’ve fought before, it was against people who wanted to kidnap or kill us. We are family. It’s different.”
Whatever retort Lark was about to shoot back was interrupted by Henry’s approach.
“Sorry, boys,” Henry said with a nervous smile. “I just have to borrow Lark for a moment.”
Lark rolled his eyes at Grant before following Henry away and into the kitchen.
Soon enough everyone migrated to the dining room to sing Happy Birthday to Mercedes. Carol began to cut pieces of cake which Darryl and her boyfriend distributed to the group.
Grant was not paying attention to that. He’d noticed movement by the front door. Lark was there, pulling his shoes on with a scowl. He looked back, making eye contact with Grant for a moment, then slipped out, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Grant excused himself from his spot between Sparrow and Terry, saying he had to go to the bathroom. He disappeared down the hallway, counted to thirty, and then slunk around the edge of the room to the door.
Lark stood leaning against the outside wall, just a few feet away. He was glaring at an indeterminate space in front of him while repetitively flipping a Zippo lighter open and closed. He looked up when Grant stepped out, but his fidgeting did not falter.
“How bad was it?” Grant said in place of a greeting. He leaned up against the wall next to Lark, whose gaze returned to the lighter.
“Oh, the usual. ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed’ and all that.”
“My dad implied you might stab me.”
Lark barked a laugh at that. A single, harsh sound with only a faint trace of humor in it.
“Well, at least he’s honest. Henry is scared of me but he won’t admit it. It’s always, ‘I know you didn’t mean to hurt anyone, everything is fine, we all forgive you.’ He thinks if he just doesn’t acknowledge that his son is a violent fuck-up who has to be rehabed like a feral dog, it will go away.”
Lark snapped the lighter shut abruptly and turned to look at Grant.
“You wanna get out of here?”
“Please.”
Lark shoved off the wall and Grant scrambled to follow him. Lark set a quick pace down the street, his footfalls loud in the near-silent neighborhood. If Grant wasn’t so much taller than him, he nearly would have had to jog to keep up.
Ever since the Forgotten Realms — or perhaps more accurately, since the Doodler was released — Lark was always in motion. He was rushing and ragged around the edges. He was a snarl of barbed wire that snagged on everything and knew no way forward other than to wrench free of whatever held him, with no time to worry over anything he ripped apart in the process. Grant could almost see the sharp bits of manic energy that flickered out of him, tearing at the boundaries between Lark and the rest of the world, threatening to let him spill out.
He was so opposite to Grant, for whom everything felt numb and slow. Grant wondered why it was, then, that he felt such a kinship with Lark.
About two blocks down the street, they came to a playground. At ten in the evening, it was completely empty. The lights cast a harsh white glow on the surrounding area. It was still and eerie and liminal. Grant was a little enchanted by it.
Lark led them to the top of the play structure, where they finally sat down on the step just below the slides. Lark leaned back on his elbows and looked up at the sky. Grant did the same.
There was a long, quiet moment, and then Lark spoke.
“I come here a lot at night. When I need to be alone. It makes my brain quieter.”
Grant hummed in appreciation, but said nothing, savoring the moment. He could actually feel the cool breeze on his skin, and the peaceful stillness was smoothing out the static in his mind. He wasn’t all the way there, but he could feel his consciousness sliding closer to his body, catching around the edges if not quite clicking into place.
Grant felt Lark shifting beside him. Then there was the now-familiar click of the Zippo opening, the soft whisper of a flame taking light, and a strong smell of tobacco. That got Grant’s attention. Lark held a cigarette to his lips with two fingers, casually taking a long drag, and letting out an impressive plume of smoke without so much as a cough. Then he looked back at Grant and held out the lit cigarette in offering.
“You smoke?”
“Nope,” Grant replied, taking it.
Lark smirked at that, and only laughed a little bit too hard when Grant immediately ate shit and had to double over coughing. Lark took the cigarette back while Grant was indisposed, but when Grant recovered enough to request another hit, Lark handed it over without question.
Grant didn’t feel much of a buzz, but he kept smoking anyway. He liked the smell and he liked the ritual. He liked the self-destructive aspect, too. Maybe it didn’t give him the kind of thrill that his box cutter used to before his parents found it, but getting caught with a cigarette wouldn’t earn him another 72-hour hold in the hospital, either.
By his fourth time, he managed to take a drag without coughing. Lark nodded in approval as Grant handed the cigarette back to him.
“Sorry if you got in trouble because of me,” Grant said. Lark shook his head and laughed.
“Oh, I’m not in any more trouble than I have been the past two months. You don’t even wanna know how many concerned family meetings we’ve had over than one goddamn soccer practice.”
Grant laughed under his breath.
“I can only imagine. My dad has hardly stopped fussing over it. He keeps telling me that it’s totally okay if I’m afraid of you and don’t want to see you again, no matter how many times I tell him it’s fine. He won’t admit that it’s really him who has the problem with it.”
Lark hummed. They smoked in silence for a few minutes. Then Grant had a thought.
“If my dad hadn’t pulled you away, would you have punched me again?”
Lark finished his drag and leaned back on one elbow to blow a cloud into the air.
“Yeah, probably.” Without turning his head, he held out the cigarette towards Grant. “I was so fucking pissed, and wound up and…” he trailed off, searching for words.
“I felt like I had to rip my skin off, or something. Needed to take it out on someone.”
“And you chose me.” Grant cracked a smile so Lark would know he was joking. Lark huffed in amusement.
“Yeah, well, maybe next time try being less punchable. Are you taking your hit or no?”
Grant took the cigarette. Lark tilted his head to look at him.
“Would you have hit me back?”
“Yes.”
Grant didn’t have to think about it. Violence felt good, and he was good at it. He didn’t know how to be, most of the time. How to think and feel and act like a human being. Fighting was easier. He became a wind-up boy, a toy soldier, and his body went on autopilot. And if he got hurt himself, well, that was just a bonus.
Grant looked over at Lark, studying him. He had a question bubbling up inside him, begging to spill out, but he wasn’t sure if he should let it.
Lark made the decision for him when he noticed Grant’s scrutiny. He narrowed his eyes in return, pulling the cigarette away from his face.
“What is it?” It was almost a challenge.
“Would you do it again?” And there it goes. No taking it back now.
Lark’s eyes widened for a moment in shock. His lips parted just slightly, then closed. Then the shock passed and his eyes narrowed again.
“What are you getting at, Wilson?”
“I– well, it’s…” Grant ran his hands through his hair. Fuck. He didn’t know how to explain himself. He didn’t think he really wanted to, but this was Lark, and there was no way Lark was letting him drop this without elaborating.
Lark stared at him, one eyebrow raised, waiting. Grant wrung his hands together.
“Well, uhh. What if… I kinda, liked it?” Lark’s expression did not budge. Grant swallowed and forced himself to continue.
“It’s like… ever since the Forgotten Realms I just feel nothing. Constantly. Like I have my body but it isn’t me, and I don’t really feel like a person, I’m just something that acts like one. Except… when I get hurt.” Grant looked down at his feet. “Or when I hurt someone else.
“I think about it all the time. After you punched me I got like, this crazy adrenaline rush, and I actually felt like I was real again. And I keep wondering… if you liked it too. And if you would do it again, if I asked.”
He paused. No response. Grant shoved down a wave of humiliation.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. Forget it.”
Lark had not moved the entire time he was speaking. Grant braved a glance over at him.
Oh, wow. Lark’s eyes were burning into him. The look on his face was more intense than he’d seen all night. Grant had fucked up. He should not have said anything.
Except—
Was that a smile?
“I knew it,” Lark muttered, barely audible. Then, louder. “You’re a freak, Wilson.”
Lark was definitely smiling now. He put a hand on Grant’s shoulder, dug his fingers in painfully, and leaned in very close. For one wild moment Grant thought Lark was about to kiss him, but instead he brought his mouth just next to Grant’s ear and spoke in a low voice.
“I liked it too. I liked hurting you, and I liked it when you hurt me back.”
Grant vibrated like a plucked guitar string. He knew it. He knew Lark had felt it too. He hadn’t imagined the delighted glint in Lark’s eye as he was dragged away; the laughter wasn’t a mere manic outburst. He liked it.
Lark pulled back. Grant sharply drew in air, as if he really had been kissed and was only now able to catch his breath.
“You said you ‘knew it’?” Grant breathed, only a little bit shaky.
“You should have seen the look on your face. I don’t think I’ve seen you that happy about anything since… hm. Actually, I don’t think I’ve seen you look that happy ever.”
Even now Grant could feel a smile tugging at his face. He didn’t bother trying to repress it this time.
He saw the cigarette still smoking in Lark’s hand. Lark was ashing it, revealing the red-hot embers glowing at the end. Grant’s gut twisted in need. Without a second thought, he quickly pulled off his light hoodie, leaving him in just a t-shirt. He ignored the cold night air. He reached out and grabbed Lark’s wrist, cautious at first, but when Lark made no move to stop him, merely watching in interest, he gripped tighter.
Lark followed as Grant to led his hand towards Grant’s upper arm. Hovering their hands over his skin, Grant flicked his eyes up toward Lark, whose gaze was intently focused on the end of the cigarette. He hardly seemed to breathe.
Grant pressed down.
The pain was white-hot and sent a shock through his body. He flinched and lost contact with the cigarette. Lark began to pull his hand back, but Grant held him and dug his nails into Lark’s skin until he heard a pained hiss.
“Again.”
Lark’s eyes gleamed and his face began to twist into the manic grin that Grant had waited so long to see again.
The first burn had been a mere fraction of a second of skin contact, just one sharp jolt of pain that quickly resolved into a dull ache when the cigarette was removed.
The second one was longer.
Heat seared into Grant for a full, delicious two seconds. It was a brutal and effective point of focus; his mind and his body cleaved together with a sudden clarity like a bell being rung. His whole being flooded with euphoria and he smiled like he hadn’t in two numb months.
“Again.”
Grant switched his hand over to Lark’s free arm so he could continue clawing out breathy gasps of pain from Lark as a trail of burns snaked its way under his shirt sleeve. Then he took the cigarette back, filled his lungs with smoke one more time while Lark quickly shrugged off his own zip-up, and eagerly returned the favor. Lark’s fingers found their way into his hair, where they twisted and pulled cruelly with each new mark that Grant burned into his skin.
The pain was excellent. For the first time all night, for the first time in months, Grant was all here; his mind was clear and his body was his again. He focused on the heat lingering in his burns, and the sharp pain when Lark yanked his hair, and Lark’s hissed curses as Grant burned him and gripped his arm hard enough to bruise to prevent him squirming away.
His mind raced. He wanted more. He wanted biting and scratching. He wanted to be shoved, to be punched; he wanted to slam Lark into the metal bars behind him, he wanted wanted to pin him to the floor and see a spark of fear in his eyes, he wanted –
The loud sound of a ringtone startled him out of his fantasizing. He pulled back from Lark, whose fingers uncurled from his hair, and slowly, reluctantly slid his phone out of his jeans pocket.
It was his dad.
Grant let out a frustrated growl and dropped his head between his shoulders. Of course, he couldn’t stay away from the party for long without being missed.
“Fuck. I have to take this,” he said to Lark, flashing the screen towards him. “My dad’s already pissed enough tonight.”
He passed what remained of the cigarette over to Lark and let out a reluctant sigh as he answered the phone.
“Yeah?”
“Where are you?” Darryl gritted out. “Your friends haven’t seen you or Lark since your mom started cutting the cake.”
“I just went to the park down the street. The party was really loud.”
“With Lark?”
Grant sighed. “Yes, Lark is here.”
“Hi, Mr. Wilson,” Lark drawled, leaning close enough to the phone that smoke drifted into Grant’s face. He held back a cough, not wanting to give his dad another reason to be angry quite yet. He could at least put that off until they were in the car and Darryl could actually smell the tobacco on him.
“Grant–” Darryl cut off abruptly and Grant heard him take a deep inhale and exhale. Oh, he was pissed.
“You – we are going home now. You can walk back here and get in the car right now, or I will come and get you and we will leave without saying goodbye to your friends. Do you understand me?”
“Yeah. Fine. I’ll come back now.”
“Good. Be quick about it.” The call ended.
“Boo.” Lark made a face and stuck out his tongue. “Your dad should mind his business. You’re a big boy.”
Grant shoved him away with a degree of force that landed on the rough side of playful. “Come on, we gotta get going. Otherwise I’m gonna be the one on lockdown for two months, and who’s gonna smoke with you then?”
“Nicky, obviously. Where do you think I got these in the first place?” But Lark stamped out the cigarette stub anyway and stood up. Of course; it wasn’t the actual smoking that either of them really cared about.
They both quickly slipped back into their outer layers. The burns must be blistering already, because some of the fibers of Grant’s hoodie caught painfully against them as he pulled it over his head. That was much faster than he’d expected. Lark seemed to have the same problem; Grant saw him wince as his arm went through the sleeves.
Darryl and Henry were already in the yard when they arrived at the Oak-Garcia house a few minutes later. Darryl was an imposing wall of disapproval next to Henry’s anxious and fidgeting form. The sight of them immediately brought Grant back down from his high. His mind began drifting away again and he did not fight it, merely letting it go while assuming his default blank face. Lark sighed loudly next to him.
“Boys.” Darryl’s voice was gruff and serious.
“Hey, look. I didn’t break his nose this time.” Lark gestured towards Grant’s face. The burns under Grant’s sleeve glowed with heat; he was almost shocked his dad and Henry couldn't see them shining through his hoodie. His lips curved up in the faintest smile.
Henry laughed nervously.
“Oh – haha, okay, Lark, we talked about this. I know you’re just joking, but let’s try to be considerate to Darryl here, okay? We shouldn’t be making jokes about people getting hurt, especially not people we care about.”
Lark turned to Darryl and put pressed his palms together in front of his face in a mockery of remorse.
“I am so very sorry, Mr. Wilson. I promise I will stop making jokes about beating up Grant.”
Darryl just sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Henry seemed to shrink inside himself, his hands clasping nervously in front of his body and his eyes darting away.
“O-okay, Lark, I think it’s about time you came in for some cake, don’t you? And– uhh, Grant, it was very nice to see you tonight. I’ll bring out a slice of cake for you to take home before you leave.”
Henry hesitated for a moment, as if waiting to see if Grant would respond, but when Grant did not, he just gave Darryl’s hand a squeeze before rushing inside, Lark in tow. Then they disappeared into the house and it was just Grant and Darryl and the dead silence of the night.
Darryl sat down on the doorstep with a sigh. His shoulders dropped and his hands hung between his knees. Oh, no. Grant knew his own dad well enough to know that he wasn’t getting an angry lecture this time; this was another “I’m-concerned-for-your-wellbeing” talk. Anger he could handle. But being worried over? That made him squirm.
“Grant, can you come sit here with me?” Grant sat. There was no getting out of the conversation at this point, and at least if he was next to Darryl he wouldn’t be expected to make eye contact.
He felt Darryl stiffen beside him.
“Were you smoking cigarettes?”
Grant shrugged. He didn’t realize the scent of tobacco had clung that strongly to him.
“Okay." A sigh. "We’ll come back to that. Why did you run off with Lark? You and I agreed, father to son, that you would not be alone with him again, and not ten minutes later you’re disappearing from the party with him. I just don’t understand, why are you so eager to be alone with a boy who hurt you just because he lost his temper? Can you explain that to me?”
Grant was getting fuzzier as his father spoke. He pretended to scratch his arm, right where the burns were, trying to find some pain that would anchor him enough that he could respond.
“I dunno. I just don’t think it’s that big of a deal.”
“It’s a big deal to me, Grant. It’s a big deal to your mother and to all the other parents and to your friends. We worry about you, you know that? We don’t want you to be hurt.”
Grant propped his head up in his hands and gazed out over the street.
“I wasn’t really hurt, though. It was only a few minutes, and then Henry fixed it like nothing happened.
“Lark is my friend and I want to spend time with him. I think you all are being too harsh on him. All he did was hit me.” Grant turned his blank gaze to his father and for the first time made eye contact with him. “I’ve done worse.”
Darryl flinched at that. If he wasn’t so far from reality, Grant probably would have felt bad when he saw the deep guilt etched across his father’s face.
Darryl's eyes squeezed shut as he turned away from Grant. He bowed his head and pressed clasped hands to his brow.
Grant barely heard him whisper, “Forgive me.”