Sunday, August 27
(Scout)
Paxton's plane lands in fifteen minutes and we're stuck in traffic. We're going to be late. I hate being late. I have United's website open on my phone to the flight arrival screen and I've been refreshing it about every thirty seconds for the past half hour—as if with the plane this close, there's going to be some type of delay. Clearly, I'm obsessive.
I'm tapping out the beat to the song on the radio on my knee, not because I like the song, but because I can't sit still. Fidgeting is a nervous habit of mine, and I hate it. I wish I could generate calm at will. I've tried meditating, but I can't quiet my mind. It can be a beast sometimes.
Staring out the passenger window, chewing the inside of my cheek, I feel Gustov's hand on top of mine pressing it to my thigh. I turn to look at his hand. He's never touched me like this before and I can't deny that I'm feeling it everywhere, not just my hand. It sends currents shooting right through the heart of me. And just as quickly, his hand is gone.
"Relax. We'll get there. I promise." He always sounds so sure of himself, even when I know he's not.
"I just don't like being late," I explain, trying to justify my worry.
He huffs good-naturedly. "Probably should've asked someone else to drive you then. Tardy's my middle name, dude."
Looking over at him, I sigh. I know he's right. It's stupid that I get myself so worked up. He's completely relaxed, wearing that sleepy grin that I see more and more these days. "Sorry," I say.
"No worries, Impatient."
Looking at him with narrowed eyes, I ask, "Did you just call me Impatient?"
He nods and fake coughs. "Yeah, it's kinda been my nickname for you. Like, ever since I first met you. I hate to tell you this," he says, lowering his voice slightly, "but you're fucking impatient." His eyes are wide when he says it, and he's smirking—but he's not being mean.
I huff ... and then take a deep breath ... and then I admit it. "I know I am." I widen my eyes back at him. "I'm fucking impatient."
"Admitting the problem is the first step to recovery. Maybe there's a twelve-step program?"
I smile. "Does it bother you? You obviously noticed it a long time ago. I had no idea that my impatience was worthy of a nickname."
He shakes his head. "At first maybe a little, but that's because my own life was so jacked. Not anymore though. Can't judge when you don't know what kind of shit someone else is dealing with. I've learned that the past few months. I have a feeling your heart is heavy, and when your heart is heavy, everything's harder. Dealing with life is harder. Believe me, I know. The negative is amplified, and sometimes that extinguishes the peace."
"Peace." I huff again. "I don't think we've met."
"You'll find it; someday you'll find it." He winks. "Trust me."
"I do," I whisper. I don't know if he even heard me. But I do. I don't know why, but I do. We're quiet for the rest of the ride.
When we pull up to the doors outside baggage claim, Paxton is standing there with a big smile on his face. I think he saw Gustov's truck before I spotted him. Gustov's truck is hard to miss: it's old, rusty, beat-up, and two different colors—the cab is one color and the bed is another. But I love it. I love it because I know he has enough money to buy just about any new car he could ever want. But what does he drive? He drives this POS that he's had for years. And I'm pretty sure if someone offered him a million dollars for it tomorrow, he'd turn it down. I. Love. That.
My chest is tightening with excitement and happiness as Paxton abandons his suitcases and starts running toward me. I hadn't realized how much I've missed being around him ... until now. He's my family. My one and only true friend.
I hug him and I feel like I'm home. I haven't felt like this in years. Paxton has always been home for me.
"Thank you, Scout," he says, his arms wrapped around me, his voice full of relief. He may be a teenage boy, but he's never been one to hold back his emotions with me.
I squeeze him harder. "You're welcome. I'm glad you're here." I release him and step back. He's beaming. He's taller than last time I saw him; we're eye to eye now. He shouldn't look this grown up. He should still be a kid, not a seventeen-year-old man.
Gustov's door creaks open and slams shut, drawing Paxton's attention over my shoulder. Paxton is tracking him with undeniable awe in his eyes. Like I said, he's never been one to hold back his emotions around me.
"Paxton, I presume? Unless your cousin's just got a thing for hitchhikers, which is cool. Everyone needs a hobby." Gustov's standing next to me now.
Paxton lets out a nervous laugh. He stares at Gustov like he's a god. Paxton has always been painfully shy and guarded around strangers. He's not quick to trust. Not that I blame him; he wasn't raised in a home built on trust. Promises were always broken. I could adapt, because I was used to it and more mature. Paxton never quite adapted. He was young and vulnerable, and when his parents said they were going to do something, he expected them to follow through. Most of the time, they didn't. Paxton is the one person in the world I would never lie to, I guess because everyone else who's close to him already has.
"Paxton, this is Gustov Hawthorne. Gustov, this is Paxton."
Gustov extends his hand, which Paxton reluctantly takes. "It's just Gus, Pax. Welcome to SoCal, dude. How was your flight aboard the big bird?"
Paxton is still holding Gustov's hand, but he's not shaking it anymore. He's just staring up at him. I nudge his shoulder to rouse him out of his idol worship.
He starts and lets go, blinking rapidly. He's completely clammed up, so I prompt the question again. "How was the flight?"
He nods. "Good. It was good. Really good. Except for the turbulence over the Midwest, that was bad. But the rest was good. Really good," he rambles. He rarely rambles; it's a product of his nerves.
If Gustov notices, he hides it. "Well Pax, let's get these suitcases of yours into the back of the truck." Gustov grabs one and Paxton grabs the other. "This all you got?"
Paxton nods, but he looks ashamed for some reason. "Yeah."
Gustov pats him on the shoulder as he walks past to get inside the truck cab. "Living light. You're my kind of dude, Pax. We're gonna get along just fine."
With Gustov's words, relief flashes across Paxton's face. I know it's such a small thing, but I'm so grateful to him. His kindness just made Paxton's day. I smile. I feel like everything is going to be okay.