I'm having a hard time swallowing. "You didn't know what to do with me?" I repeat. "Why...I was just a kid."
"You were trouble Lazarus. If you ask me, you haven't grown out of it either."
I honestly don't know what she's talking about.
"I wasn't trouble..."
"You stole candy from the store down the street when you were eight years old. At eleven I caught you drinking your father's gin. At thirteen you were taking my razors and making marks up and down your arm."
Fuck. Jesus. She remembers that. "Every...a lot of kids do that. It’s not right but it’s common. It’s a cry for help. Maybe it's what I did in order to deal with the pain."
"What pain?"
'The pain of having a father like mine. He hit you. He hit me. He abused us. Inside and outside. You know he did."
"He never did such a thing."
"I didn't imagine it!" I yell, getting off my stool. "He did it and you know it."
"Your father was a drunk."
"I know. That was another thing. There were so many things, how could you not understand that as a young kid I didn't know how to deal with it. I still don't. Not even in the slightest."
She waves me away with her hand. "You're trying to make me feel guilty for something he did."
"I am not. I'm just telling you why these things happened. You can't pretend he didn't leave us, mum."
"He left you, Laz," she says stiffly, her jaw firm as she looks at me. "You were the reason your father left."
Cold. Inside me there is nothing but cold. A wasteland. Frozen tundra.
My heart died the day when I learned it wasn't enough.
My heart died the day when love ceased to save me.
I don't know why the words are coming in my head right now, but they are. They are and they're real.
I can't believe this is happening.
"Mum," I manage to say, my stomach churning with the poison in her words. "Why did he leave because of me?"
She looks away, walks over to the kettle which is now boiling over. "He was afraid of you."
"Why?"
"He was afraid that you would love him. I was afraid of it too. You never should have done such a thing."
I am dumbfounded by this. None of it makes any sense, it sounds like the rantings of a loon.
And yet, at the same time, they reach deep inside me. They check all the boxes.
I was always there for my father. He would be a piece of shit and I was there, playing with the Magic 8 Ball, I was there giving him fake gin, I was there cleaning up after him. I did all the things my mother didn't want to do. Good cop, bad cop. I was the good cop.
And my father didn't like that. Didn't think he deserved it. Or maybe just didn't want what I was giving.
My love was unwarranted. It was wrong.
It chased him away.
Everything inside me sinks, like the very fabric of my soul, what I knew about myself, is plummeting to its death.
My mother just told me my father left us because I loved him when I shouldn't have.
What the actual fuck?
"Lazarus," she says to me, pouring the hot water in the delicate china with so much ease it's like we're not even having this discussion at all. "You wanted the truth and there you have it. It was easier to send you away than deal with you. Of course I missed you. Any mother would. But with the way you were acting, the way you made your father feel, it was for the best that you stay far away from us."
"Then why did he leave in the end," I say quietly. "Why go when I was never even there?"
She shrugs and her expression, for once, is pained. "I honestly don't know Laz. I guess he just didn't love you like a good father should. But you know it was for the best, didn't you? It was the best for the both of us."
I don't know what to believe anymore. This has thrown me for a loop.
I feel like everything I know about myself is being rewritten, all my history, and I don't know what kind of person I'll become once it's all been processed.
"Hey," Noah says, his voice cautious.
I look up to see him hanging awkwardly by the entrance to the kitchen, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, his purple backpack slung over his shoulder, hair wet from the shower and now a bright purple to match the bag. It takes me a few moments to snap back to this reality, the reason I'm here to begin with.
Right. Noah. Gay pride. Marina.
Marina.
She sure picked the wrong fucking guy to fall in love with.
I clear my throat. "Hey. Ready to go?"
"I just made you tea," my mother protests.
"I lost my appetite," I tell her with barely a glance in her direction and I stride past Noah, heading for the door.
Once outside I have this urge to run. Just start running and don't stop until I'm on the ground, panting, wheezing, completely spent.
But I don't. Noah holds me back.
"What did I just interrupt?" he asks, trailing after me as we head to the car. "Or do I want to know?"
"You don't want to know," I tell him. And now, more than ever, I'm acutely sorry for Noah. Not only does he have to have Daryl as a father, he has to have my mother as his stepmother. If she's like that with me, her own flesh and blood, I can't imagine what it feels like to not be related.
“Are we going to your girlfriend’s first? I need to get ready,” he says.
“Yeah.” My voice sounds distant, even in my own head.
“Are you sure you’re okay, dude?” Noah asks. “You’re vampire pale right now.”
I manage to swallow. I need to snap out of it. I’m doing this to support Noah. It’s supposed to be a fun day as well as an important one. It means something to him.
But I’m not sure this is something I can sweep under the rug. The scars are too deep now. It’s a feeling, a sharp pain, that I can’t quite escape.
My father didn’t love me.
My father was afraid of my love.
My love scared him.
My love wasn’t good enough.
I’m not good enough.
When I pull up outside of Marina’s, I barely even remember driving. One minute I was at Noah’s, the next I’m parking outside of Havisham’s.
Speaking of, she’s peering through her blinds at me. You’d think after all this time with Marina, nearly every day, she would be used to me.
Does it matter? The thought comes into my head. You won’t be here long.
And then the thought leaves, leaving me rattled.
“Hey guys,” Marina’s clear, beautiful voice comes ringing out and I look to see her on the other side of the gate, poking her head over and grinning. “Come on in. Hey Noah,” she says to him. “Love your hair.”
“Thanks!” he says brightly.
We walk through the gate and instinctively I bend over and kiss Marina on the cheek.
“You okay?” she asks me, hand on my chest, peering at me intently. “You look ill.”
“I’m fine,” I tell her, not meeting her eyes. This is not the time for the discussion. Perhaps there will never be a good time for it. Probably for the best. She doesn’t have to know that I am, deep down, inherently unlovable. I’m sure she’ll figure that out for herself soon enough.
“He’s being a weirdo,” Noah says.
“Well he’s my weirdo,” Marina tells him with a proud smile. “That’s why we work so well together. If I have a bit of advice for you Noah, it’s you need to find your weirdo. Once you do, everything else falls into place.”
“I’m not actually on the market for a weirdo,” Noah says smartly. “But I do want to find my own brand of weird.”
“Find your weirdo, embrace your weird,” Marina says. “It’s all good. Now let’s get you inside and have a little fashion show. How many outfits did you pack?”
Noah rolls his eyes. “Only one. I’m not interested in wearing feather boas. I just want to feel a part of something bigger than me.”
“You have a smart brother, Laz,”
Marina says to me but her smile is starting to falter, just a bit. I know it’s because she’s picking up on what I’m putting out there. It takes a lot of strength to return the smile and pretend that everything’s fine.
But I try. I try for her sake, I try for Noah’s. I tell myself that the conversation I just had with my mother didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t anything that I didn’t know deep down. It was just out in the open and I should be glad, happy even, that the elephant in the room was finally dealt with.
It was dealt with by a shotgun blast to the heart.
Noah was right when he said he wasn’t wearing feather boas. He’s wearing a shirt that says “Save a gay, punch a Nazi” and has tried to fix his purple hair into a Mohawk. Without Knox gelatin though, it’s more like floppy spikes. But hey, it’s cool.
Marina has made rainbow streaks in her hair by dusting different colored eyeshadows in sections and is wearing a shirt with Rosie the Riveter on it and jeans.
“Let’s go show some love,” she says excitedly but there’s something off about her tone. Noah wouldn’t pick up on it, but I do.
I know her so well.
My sweet girl.
Far too good and sweet for the likes of me.
She needs someone who can match her heart, can give back what she gives. Who can love without limits, love without conditions. Someone who loves her the very way she deserves to be loved.
Because Marina, of all people, is deserving of the biggest love possible. She’s deserving of someone who deserves her mind, body, heart and soul.
What I’m realizing today, with horrible clarity, is that someone is probably not me.
Chapter Eighteen
Marina
“Poison Heart”
I close my eyes.
Take in a deep breath through my nose, counting to five.
I exhale.
Open my eyes.
Look into the camera.
Smile.
“Hi there,” I say in my most polished voice, “my name is Marina Owens and this is Palm Tree and Honey Bees beekeeping 101. I hope to teach you over the next two hours the beginning basics of starting your own hive, whether for honey production, positive environmental impacts, or just pure love for honey bees.”
I smile until my smile starts to shake a bit and I feel crazy and then my eyes dart up to look at Laz behind the camera. “That’s it, right?”
He nods, brows furrowed. “I think we got it.”
I sigh and adjust the collar of my bee suit. The hives are behind me in the background and the girls are paying me no attention but Laz thought being in the suit would make me look more professional.
He’s also the one who, a couple of weeks ago, thought that if I was going to start filming my own online classes, that I should actually be in the video. That wasn’t part of my original plan—it’s supposed to be about the bees, not me. I was just going to film everything myself and do a bunch of voice over work, maybe some shots of me in action, but I would be totally suited up, you wouldn’t be able to see me.
But Laz was insistent that I show myself off since I’m “bloody hot” (his words, not mine) and it might attract more people, especially men. I’m not sure I like the whole idea of men being interested in learning about bees because of me—especially as my Instagram always receives a slew of sexist and misogynistic comments from guys every time I post a picture of myself or remind them that I am, in fact, a female beekeeper.
But I do need the extra income and as long as I’m not trying to be sexy and wearing a bikini or something, it’s something I’ll have to be okay with.
Plans change.
Now, though, I’m feeling that more than ever.
Like I said, it was weeks ago when Laz said he would help film me.
But the Laz from then isn’t the same Laz as now.
I don’t know what the hell happened.
Actually, I have some idea.
It was the moment I told him I loved him.
I swear something inside him changed.
Something between us changed.
I recognized fear in his eyes after we had sex in that bathroom at the show, after we had our first fight. At first, I thought it was just for the magnitude of what we were to each other, the fact that love is scary. Of course it is. It’s this force of nature, bigger, more powerful than anything, greater and stronger than hate. At the same time, it’s not tangible. You can’t hold it in your hand. What else is there in the world that is worth so much but you can’t save or store or sell? Love is the currency of the heart. It exists only in us, powered with every single beat.
What I think I’m learning is that love is something you can give but it comes at a cost. Someone may not want the love you’re giving and the cost is greater than you could imagine. When I love Laz, when I look at him and think about how much this man means to me, how deep he’s carved himself in my heart, I know there’s a point where the love I give will start to deplete me. Maybe love is only limitless if someone takes it from you. It’s when they send it back that it starts to fade.
I know I’m thinking about this while staring at Laz as he fiddles with the camera. He’s not looking at me. I have a feeling there’s nothing interesting about the camera either, that he’s reviewing the footage as something to do, not because he has to.
He doesn’t want to look at me.
The last two days, he’s barely even touched me.
We haven’t had sex.
It bothers me.
Not in some greedy way, like I’m some horny teenager who pouts because she can’t get her fill (though, yeah there’s some of that, hey I just started having sex for the first time, in some ways I’m closer to a teenager than I would like to admit). It bothers me because he’s pulling away.
Right now, I’m standing in front of him and the only time he’ll look at me is when he’s looking through the lens. It gives him distance.
“Laz,” I say softly, swallowing hard, not wanting to bring anything up, wanting to keep pretending. I’ve asked him a few times “what’s wrong, is anything wrong?” and every time he tells me he’s fine and then he clams up. If I really push it, he snaps at me. Makes me feel like I’m being a psycho girlfriend again. Makes me feel like I’m one of his exes, the ones that would push and push and push at him to get something out of him.
I don’t want to be them but I can completely see their point.
“Laz,” I say again, louder, and come over to him, placing my hand on top of the camera. “Talk to me.”
He glances up, meets my eyes for a moment and I’m surprised to see there’s a new version of him, like someone else is operating his body. I can’t see his soul anymore.
Maybe you never could. Maybe you saw what you wanted to see.
“Yeah, it all looks great,” he says absently.
“Not what I meant and you know it.” I fold my arms across my chest. “You need to cut this bullshit.”
His head snaps up. Now I have his attention. “I beg your pardon?”
I almost laugh at how British he sounds right now. When he’s annoyed or when he’s fucking me, his accent thickens like mad.
“Bullshit. This is bullshit.”
He raises a brow, straightening up. His eyes are hard, jaw firm. “Bullshit? What are you going on about?”
“Us,” I tell him, throwing my arms out. “This. What happened to us? Weeks ago we were fine and now…now, it’s like I don’t even know you anymore. We don’t even have sex anymore. You barely touch me anymore.”
He clears his throat, looks off toward the hills. “I’m going through some things.”
“If you’re going through some things then you need to talk to me about it. You need to communicate with me. This is what couples do Laz, this is what healthy couples do.”
He doesn’t say anything. His fists ball up and then release.
What the fuck is going on with him?
“Lazarus,” I say with deliberation. “You need to talk to me.
You can’t do with me what you did with all your other girlfriends. They didn’t deserve it and I certainly don’t either.”
“You’re right,” he says quietly, eyes still avoiding mine. “You don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve any of this.”
“Then talk to me!” I cry out, smacking his arm. “Say something! Tell me what’s on your mind. If we can’t talk to each other about everything, we have nothing. Do you understand? We have nothing.”
“Then we have nothing,” he says.
“What?”
Everything that’s warm and bright inside me comes to fade.
He finally brings his dark eyes around to meet mine and I swear to god they’re watering with emotion.
Oh my god.
Oh my god.
My stomach sinks.
“Laz…” I whisper.
“You want me to talk to you about what I’m thinking, how I’m feeling?” he says. “The thing I’m going through?”
I gulp, hesitating before I nod because now I’m not so sure.
“Oh fuck,” he says, shaking his head, pressing the tips of his fingers into his forehead. “I can’t believe this…I can’t.”
The way his voice breaks tells me everything I don’t want to hear. A warm rush of tears races to my eyes, threatening to spill over. I want to touch him and console him but at the same time, I’m afraid. I’m afraid if I touch him, I’ll break.
“Please tell me,” I whisper anxiously. “Please.”
“Marina,” he says glancing at me with so much pain and heartbreak in his eyes that I nearly fall backward. “I am so, so sorry. You deserve so much more than this, than…than someone like me. I don’t want to have to do this, I don’t.”
I’m starting to choke up.
My heart is balanced on the edge of a cliff, wind battering it, ready for the fall.
“Do what?” I manage to say. “Do what?”
My fingers clench at the front of my suit, needing to hold onto something.
“This,” he says, wiping his eyes. “Us.”
No. No, no, no, no, no.
“Laz,” I say, desperation reaching up from inside me like bony hands. I grab onto his arm, his beautiful, wonderful arm, because if I hold onto him like this, he won’t do what he’s trying to do. He can’t. He can’t.