At eighteen years old, we’re provided with the label of an adult, but being an adult at an early age requires making adult-like decisions. I sat three years beyond my declaration of reaching adulthood and watched Blake eat his sandwich convinced I didn’t ever want to be an adult.

I preferred to live the remaining portion of my life not dealing with the decisions and complexities associated with being an adult. Remaining a little girl forever would allow me to live a life without complications, responsibilities, or making decisions which were potentially life-altering.

Yet.

It was time I acted as an adult.

“How is it?” I asked.

With a mouth full of food and a combination of vinegar and oil running down his forearms, he raised the sandwich in the air slightly and continued to chew.

“Good,” he said over the mouthful of food.

He nodded his head toward my sandwich. I glanced down. I hadn’t so much as touched my food. I reluctantly reached down and picked up the hoagie, feeling if I didn’t at least eat a portion of it we would probably end up in an argument of some sort.

“Good call on the sandwich. This bread is soft as fuck,” he said as he wiped the oil from his arms with a napkin.

“I like this place,” I said.

“Not hungry?” he asked as he tilted his head toward my plate.

I shook my head and lowered my sandwich to my plate. “My stomach’s upset a little bit.”

“Well, it’s not something you ate, because you haven’t eaten yet today. Maybe ‘cause you need to eat,” he said.

I shrugged and picked up the sandwich. “Maybe.”

I wanted to find out what he knew about the murders, and if he knew nothing, I preferred to be the one to tell him what happened. I had tried to place myself in his shoes and consider if he had told me what happened to my parents, and consider how I would have felt hearing the news from him. My belief of the sadness and rejection which would have followed is what prevented me from proceeding to tell him so far.

But I felt I needed to.

For us both.

The thought of us being in a meaningful relationship and me keeping secrets from him was impossible for me to process as a necessity. I sat watching him finish his lunch knowing at some point I would have to tell him something, and allow the morsel of information to lead into a conversation revealing everything I knew about his parent’s death.

When was the question.

I tore the sandwich in two, took a bite from one half, and placed the pieces on my plate. After studying them for long enough to convince myself it looked like I had eaten much more than I actually had, I shifted my eyes to Blake.

“Can we go sit somewhere when we get done?” I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Sure, where are you thinking?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe like a park or the Waterfront by the lake or something.”

“Somewhere peaceful,” he said.

I nodded my head. “Yeah.”

“Sure. You gonna eat that?” he asked as he motioned toward my plate.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “My stomach still feels icky.”

He reached for my plate and picked up the half of the sandwich I had taken a bite of. I grinned at the thought of him choosing it over the uneaten half. As he proceeded to devour the sandwich I realized just how simply he lived his life. Had I not asked about his parents, I was convinced he would have never mentioned them. Had I never asked about the toolbox on the sidewalk, he may have never mentioned Tyler again.

Blake was different.

As he wiped his mouth with a napkin and checked his fingers for residual matter, I ran through potential scenarios in my head of how to propose what I had learned of his parent’s death. Upon deciding I would simply proceed with whatever felt best, I picked up the remaining half of the sandwich and took a small bite.

“I’m just goofing around,” I said. “You ready?”

He nodded his head and stood. “Sure you don’t want that?”

“No, I’m really not hungry,” I responded.

After paying for the food and walking out to the motorcycle, we rode six blocks to the Waterfront, an outdoor mall which had been developed around a lake. The lake had several benches and a walking path, and I hoped I felt more comfortable talking once we sat down and relaxed together.

We walked half way around the lake hand in hand, and eventually chose a bench on the far side of the lake. As he gazed out at the body of water, he crossed his arms, sighed, and sat down.

“This is peaceful,” he said.

“It is,” I said as I sat down beside him.

In comparing the Blake I met to the Blake sitting on the bench, the differences could almost be described as drastic. When we met, he was fidgety and nervous acting. Now, he sat quietly and gazed out at the lake, seemingly at peace with life and everything around him.

“I like it when I think about us,” I said.

He continued to gaze out at the lake. “You mean like us as a couple?”

“Yeah. Like us. You and me together,” I said.

“Yeah, me too,” he responded.

“You know,” I said, pausing as I realized I was speaking much sooner than I was prepared to.

He turned his head to the side. “What?”

“Uhhm. Well, I wanted to talk about secrets. Like maybe not secrets in a secretive sense, but things we should share with each other. Maybe something we want each other to know eventually, and are kind of like scared to say. I think we should take an opportunity to do it now,” I said.

“Okay, you go first,” he said.

It was going to be tough to do, but I decided if I told him the truth about my father, it may prompt him to tell me about his parents, as long as he knew what happened. I inhaled slowly, stared out at the lake, and exhaled.

“For my entire life, I thought my father was killed in a car accident,” I said.

The words came much easier than I had expected. After glancing at Blake and confirming I had his full attention, I continued.

“But I found out yesterday that all this time my mother was protecting me from what really happened. She didn’t want to tell me because she was afraid it would have hurt me more. I’m glad I know now, but she was right,” I said.

With his eyes filled with concern, and his hands clasped together in his lap, he inhaled a shallow breath and spoke.

“What happened?” he asked.

“He was murdered. The guy came in our house, killed my dad, and tried to uhhm…he tried to kill…” I glanced up at the sky and took a shallow breath.

“He tried to kill my mom, but uhhm…she…well, she lived. She walked to the neighbor’s, called the police, and then she uhhm…she testified against him. You know, in court. He got eight life sentences after they tied him to a string of murders over something like twenty years. It’s why she has that scar.” I pointed to my neck. “You know, on her neck.”

“I’m sorry,” he said as he lifted his arm over my shoulder.

“It’s okay,” I said as I leaned into him. “It happened a long time ago.”

It felt good to tell him the truth. It was easier than I thought, and I felt tremendous relief knowing there was really nothing about me or my past that Blake didn’t know; short of the fact I knew about his parents. After he held me for a moment, he released me, leaned into the edge of the chair, and turned to face me.

“I really hate even saying anything after you said what you said, but I guess I will,” he said.

“It’s okay. Whatever you have to say, say it. I’m okay, really,” I said as I wiped my eyes with the tip of my finger.

“I uhhm. I was an orphan. I lived with this preacher. He uhhm, he adopted a few kids, and he had some others he kept in foster care, but he didn’t adopt them. I was one of the kids he didn’t adopt. But uhhm.” He shifted his eyes from me and gazed blankly out at the lake.

After several seconds of silence, he stood, crossed his arms, and continued to speak, but focused on the lake the entire time.

“He wasn’t…uhhm…he didn’t…yeah, he didn’t treat us all the same. He uhhm. He had his own…his own kids. There were boys…some boys. He uhhm. He took me one day…” he paused and bit his lower lip.

I didn’t like the way I was feeling. The thought of someone hurting Blake, especially as a child, wasn’t something I wanted to try and understand. As I sat and fidgeted in my seat, he chewed his lower lip and continued.

“It was a Tuesday. I was eight. He and his son…you know…they uhhm. They molested me. It happened…more…uhhm. More than once. The cross I wear? I took it from his home. It’s the only thing I’ve ever stolen. I felt like it had some special power or something, I don’t know. I just knew he took something from me, and I wanted to take something from him. So I buried it in the yard. When I finally left the foster home, I took it with me. Wear it every day now.”

He turned to face me and shrugged his shoulders.

“I’m so sorry,” I said as I stood.

He raised his hand in the air between us. “I’m uhhm. I’m not done.”

“Okay,” I said.

I sat down, crossed my legs, and folded my hands in my lap. Feeling sorry for Blake, angry at his foster father, and disgusted with the system for allowing people to adopt children and not take proper care of them, I realized Blake’s parents being murdered was the start of it all. In the grand scheme of things, it really didn’t matter what started it, but for some reason, it mattered to me.

He turned toward the lake and continued. “So…I’ve uhhm. I’ve created a safe place for my mind because of all of it. I kind of developed a subconscious fantasy or something. It…I…it’s just…I’m…”

He turned to face me. “I’m a virgin.”

I sat and stared, shocked almost more by what he said than I was when I read the newspaper article in my mother’s room about my father. It made sense now. His running away, his reluctance to proceed sexually, and his constant excuses for needing to leave when things got heated between us.

“I’m really sorry about what happened when you were young. I hate people sometimes. Have you like…have you talked to anyone? You know, like a professional? I asked.

He nodded his head. “I see a guy.”

“Like a doctor?” I asked as I stood.

“Yeah, a doctor,” he said.

I opened my arms and hugged him. As we stood holding each other his breathing changed from labored to shallow. After a few more seconds, he relaxed into my arms and sighed.

“That wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be,” he said.

“Mine neither,” I said.

“I’ve got one more,” he said as he pulled away.

“Okay,” I said.

He pointed to the bench. I sat, crossed my legs, clasped my hands together again, and waited. After he inhaled a deep breath he tilted his head back, exhaled, and turned toward me. “My parents were murdered too.”

I waited for more.

He raised his eyebrows. “Nothing? No comment?”

I twisted my mouth to the side and nibbled on my lip. “Uhhm. Yeah. They were. Your parents were murdered by the same guy that murdered mine.”

His face washed with wonder. 

“What…why…why would you think that?” he asked.

He stumbled backward and sat down at the end of the bench. As he gazed at me with confused eyes, I explained.

“When you were over for dinner, mom said she was sick. She wasn’t. After what happened to her and my dad, she said she became uhhm… like obsessed with the…you know, with the killer. She felt she needed closure. So she collected all of the old articles from the newspaper and kept them in a box.” I paused and turned my palms upward.

“She recognized your last name, realized your parents were both dead, and went to her room and got down the box. She must have fallen asleep while she was going through everything. After you left, I went to check on her, thinking she was sick. I found the article. Brandon and Velma. Was that their names?” I asked.

As he nodded his head slowly, his eyes welled with tears. I spread my arms wide as my eyes did the same.

We scooted toward one another, met in the middle of the bench, and collapsed into each other’s arms.

And we both shed tears we had spent a lifetime reserving for just that moment.