I squirm on my hard bed, trying to get comfortable, but I give up, focusing on my sketchpad instead.

My hand moves swiftly across the blank page, filling it with hard, dark lines. Images of a lion flash through my mind. I sketch the strong, lean body of a lion, outlining the muscles running through his legs to the wild mane framing his face. The lion is strong and proud, defending his pride when intruders invade. He roars fiercely to keep them out, but some dare to test his strength, so he fights. He fights to protect his pride. He fights to protect the cubs. And when he wins, the lionesses rejoice, thankful he’s around to protect them from the dangers surrounding them in the wild.

I’m exactly like the male lion protecting my mom. Trying to shield her from all the bad in the world, but there’s one difference between me and the lion. I’m failing, and he isn’t.

I’ve failed to keep Mom healthy and happy. I’ve failed at being the person she needs because maybe she doesn’t need a daughter who works her ass off and doesn’t have a spare moment. Maybe she needs a daughter who will be by her side–to be there when she falls.

Mom spends most of her time in bed because of how weak she is. Most days she barely has the energy to make it to the bathroom, which makes me feel worse about never being round. I’m not here to help her…and the guilt eats away at me, but I push it down, focusing on the reason I work so much. Saving her.

My pencil moves faster across the paper as the lines of the lion’s face form into a vicious roar. He stands alone and strong, and it’s exactly how I feel. It’s my own fault–but maybe it isn’t.

Maybe this was the way my life was supposed to turn out. I was never meant to go to college or fulfill my dreams. I was meant to take care of her, my mom. I was meant to fall down a path that left me bitter. If that’s what was meant to happen, someone can put me out of my misery now because I’d rather leave this earth while I still have a semblance of myself left, instead of someone I don’t recognize.

A muffled knock comes from the front door. My eyebrows pinch together, curious as to who in the world it could be. I’m not sure anyone knows where I live with the exception of Harry and Anthony since they’re the ones sending me a paycheck.

Throwing my pencil and sketchpad on my nightstand, I scoot off my bed and trudge to the front door. It doesn’t have a peephole, so I fling the door open, not knowing what to expect.

And I sure as hell didn’t expect Hudson to be standing in the doorway.

“Hey.” I soak in the smooth sound of his voice, needing his comfort and warmth to wash over me–to transport me to a different time. A time where this would be right. A time where I could make him the center of my universe.

“Hey.” Simple. Redundant. I can’t think of a single other word besides the one he just said as he stands before me, unsure of himself, silently begging for something…from me.

I bite my lip, ripping my focus away from his face down to the Vans covering his feet, which is when I notice a skateboard. I don’t know anything about skateboarding, but it’s black on top with red wheels–the same color as my bike.

He clears his throat, bringing my attention back to his face, but my eyes linger on his chest covered in a red shirt, matching his skateboard. I wonder if he meant to do that. My gaze moves over his neck to the scruff covering his jaw. I wouldn’t mind running my hand over his cheek, feeling the coarse hair rub across my fingers.

When I reach his eyes–eyes that could sear me–I take him in, everything that I can see. And what I see is someone every bit as alone as I am.

Dark circles sit under his captivating, brown eyes, and his face is slack like he’s holding more than he can carry, and he doesn’t have the power to keep himself together anymore. His shoulders hunch like he’s trying to protect himself from something. I find myself wanting to alleviate whatever is bringing him down, but how can I do that when I can’t even help myself?

“What are you doing here?” I finally manage to ask. I don’t know how he knew where I lived, but I find myself feeling a sense of relief, like somehow he’s taken the pressure off just by standing in front of me.

“I saw you walk home the other day,” he explains shrugging his shoulders.

Maybe some good did come out of me sulking on his steps for more than two hours. I shake my head at myself. Sulking is never construed as a good thing.

He places his foot on his skateboard, nervously moving it back and forth. “You had gotten up off the steps of my trailer, and I watched you walk back here like you…like you needed someone.” His eyes go wide as embarrassment floods his face. “But I can leave. I, uh don’t mean to bother you. It’s just–I need someone, so…” He trails off, not finishing his thought, and I wonder why he needs someone. Does he need help taking care of his son? Or does he need a friend?

He turns on his heel, bending down to pick up his skateboard, and I stand there, not able to do or say a single thing. He takes each step solemnly as he moves down the stairs farther away from me.

I’m not sure I know how to be someone’s friend. I’m dark, inappropriate, and rude. Everything you don’t want in a friend.

“Wait.” I find my voice, letting the door close behind me as I rush toward him, not wanting him to leave me here–wanting to find an escape in him.

He turns and looks at me with questioning eyes as if he can’t believe I stopped him from walking away from me.

“I think,” I pause, stepping closer to him. I stare up at him as he looks down on me, wondering who I am and where I came from. I wonder the same thing daily. “we can help each other.”

The side of his mouth tilts up in a half-smile. “I’d like that.”

“What do you say we head to the park?” I ask, unsure of what to do with myself–unsure of everything.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket, glancing at the screen. “I’ve got thirty minutes.”

I nod my head and lead the way to the small park at the corner of my street. Calling it a park is insulting because it consists of a swing set and slide–nothing else. But it’s all the kids around here have, and it’s better than nothing. It’s better than them getting involved in gangs or drugs, so I’ll take it. The measly park is most definitely better than nothing at all.

We walk in a comfortable silence down the road. The cracked pavement is barely big enough for one car to drive down, so we walk off to the side in the dirt.

With each step I take, I kick at the dirt, creating a dust storm in my wake.

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about the way my life has turned in to a storm. A storm that rages through the night and in to the early morning, managing to drag on for hours.

My storm started a long time ago, and it hasn’t let up since Mom landed in the hospital three years ago. I’ve been standing in the pouring rain, letting the chaos swarm around me, while I try to minimalize the damage it causes.

I’m trying with all my might to make it better, but I feel like I’m constantly failing. When the rain lets up, alleviating some of the weight, another storm erupts, forming in its place. Once one storm fizzles out another one rolls in, and I’m starting to drown from the endless downpour.

But I’ll keep going as long as I can, keeping us all out of the eye of the storm, sacrificing myself if that’s what it takes.

I trip over my own feet from dragging them in the dirt, and Hudson’s hand shoots out to catch me.

Quickly, I shift away from his touch as I silently thank him for catching me.

We reach the park, and I collapse on one of the two swings. I kick at the rocks under my feet, avoiding eye contact with Hudson. It doesn’t seem like the best idea to have rocks at the park because if some kid falls, it’s bound to hurt like a bitch.

“Why do you work so much?” Hudson asks, his voice wrapping around me in a vice grip as I think of how best to answer his question.

Instead, I answer with a question of my own. “So we’re jumping in to the heavy?”

“I figured we might as well go in headfirst. Seems dumb to dance around the things we don’t tell anyone.” He sits on the swing next to me, twisting the chains around so he can look directly at me–seeing everything I don’t want him to. Fear. Hurt. Loneliness. “I can tell you need this as much as I do, but if you want to take it slowly, we can. I just think it might be a waste of time.”

“You have a kid,” I blurt out, needing him to give me something before I can let anything slip out of my mouth–before I can let him see what no one else has.

Peeking over at him, I see his eyes bright with joy and love, something I have yet to see from him. The few encounters we’ve had, he’s been brooding and mysterious. It’s odd to see something brighter shine through him, but even as the light seeps through, I still see the dark wrapped around him, holding him down.

“I do.” I turn my body to him, tangling the chains of the swing much like he has, and I’m rewarded with a brilliant smile. One that reaches his eyes. A kind of smile that is unfamiliar to me as I haven’t seen one in years, at least not a genuine smile like his. “His name is Chris, and he’s six.”

“Where’s his mom?” It seems like a logical first question. I refuse to fall for a guy whose heart is taken by another woman.

His smile falters as a breath escapes his lips. “She died giving birth to him.”

Way to go Jade. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. It was a long time ago. I’m just sorry Chris will never have a chance to know his mom.” He looks down at the ground with a frown on his face.

Chris will never know his mother. My chest tightens at the thought of never knowing my own mom. I think I would miss her even if I never knew her. “Did you love her?” I ask.

He glances up at me from under his eyelashes. “Yeah.”

I nod. “Do you miss her?”

He lifts his head, and my breath hitches from the tormented look in his eyes. “Yes, and I’m terrified I’ll lose everyone I love.” He exhales, and whispers, “I can’t lose anyone else, especially not Chris.”

I let my eyes trail down the man across from him. His shoulders are hunched, but I can tell he’s tense, holding too much on his own. His chest moves up and down, and he holds each breath longer than the last. His arms are taught, veins protruding more as he grips the chain of the swing.

I want to erase his fears, and I want him to take mine. But that won’t happen because are fears are the same–both of us scared of losing the ones we love before we’re ready.

He scratches the scruff on his face before he lets his hand fall to his lap. “What’s your story?”

I tell him because it’s the least I can do after stealing the radiant look off his face. “My mom’s dying.”

The pity? It isn’t there. I don’t sense a single trace of it in the features of his face. He just nods in understanding.

“From what?” he questions, sounding like he wants to know every detail about me.

“Heart disease.” I pick at the rusted chain, chipping off a small piece of my fingernail.

“Can she have surgery?”

“She can, but she refuses. She doesn’t want to be a burden on me or my dad, but what she doesn’t get is she’s more of a burden while she’s sick than if she would just have the damn surgery.”

I slap my hand over my mouth, ashamed I said that out loud. How can I say she’s a burden to me because she’s sick? It’s not her fault her heart isn’t working the way it should. But it is her fault that she won’t get help.

If she would just have the surgery, I wouldn’t worry so much about her.

Hudson reaches over and gently removes my hand from my mouth, holding it in his hand as his thumb moves in circular motion over my skin. Tingles erupt where his hand connects with mine, leaving me nervous and at ease all at once. “It’s okay to feel that way.”

“It’s not,” I whisper, shaking my head in disagreement.

He spins his swing around until it’s untangled and stands, kneeling before me, closer than he was a minute ago. His free hand reaches for my face as I sit frozen, captured by his gaze. When his hand cups my face, I find it hard to resist the pull, so I give in, turning into his hand, seeking his comfort and all he has to offer.

“It is because it means you care. It means it’s killing you to watch her suffer day in and day out, and you want her pain to end. You want her to get help.” He shifts closer, leaving a sliver of air between us, and my breath hitches in my throat from the raw truth seeping out of him. “It doesn’t make you a bad person. It makes you human.”

“Tell me something that makes you human,” I murmur, my breath sweeping over his face.

His eyes study me, and his body tightens before the words fall out of his mouth. “Sometimes I think I should have given Chris up for adoption because I can’t give him everything he deserves.” His eyes harden as if he’s mad at himself–mad at the world. “He deserves a family and to live in a place much better than this, but this…this is all I can give him.”

The tips on my finger trail over the hand he has on my face. “That makes you selfless. Wanting him to have a better life makes you the best dad he could ever have because you’ll work that much harder to give it to him.” I drop my hand to my lap.

“Me and you–we need each other, Jade.” His thumb sweeps across my cheek one last time before it falls away, leaving me cold and empty. He stands from the ground, towering over my small frame, holding onto the swing for dear life.

“Maybe we do.” It’s more than a maybe. It’s a fact. Because with each of our small admissions of guilt, we’ve let the other carry one of our small burdens, while the other rests just for a little while. It’s freeing, this feeling of letting go–opening up to someone unexpectedly. It’s liberating, even if it’s just for now.

“Lift your feet,” he commands in a voice that could make me do anything.

I do as he says, and he untangles me before he pushes me on the swing. My hands latch onto the chains, but loosen when his hands land on my back, pushing me toward the sky once again, because I feel safe. In his presence, the bad, the worry, the doubt, and the insecurities fall away.

For some unknown reason, I feel like he’ll be there to save me when I won’t know how to save myself.

I extend my legs each time I soar toward the sky and push them back when gravity pulls me back to the ground. I close my eyes as the wind rushes through my long brown hair, sweeping it behind me, and I enjoy this second as everything seems normal–as everything seems as it should be.

“Tell me, what’s your favorite color?” he asks as his hands push into my back, sending me higher in the sky.

It seems like such a simple question compared to what we were talking about before, but I’ll take it because sometimes I need easy…like right now, and I’m guessing he needs it, too. “Maroon,” I say, inhaling the air washing over me. “It’s the color I associate love and hate with. The color that brings me happiness and rage. But it’s the color I’ll forever cherish because it reminds me of my mom. It reminds me of the good memories we had together before her illness took over, so while I might associate it with hate and loss, I’ll also remember it for my mom’s love of red velvet cake.”

So much for light. But if this is going to work between us, he should know every answer I give him will come with something dark and heavy until I’ve spewed everything I have at him.

“Mine’s black. Mostly because I feel like I’m walking through life in the dark, not able to see a single thing in my path, but it’s lead me here, and I’m pretty happy with where here is.”

Who knew? A chance encounter by two people who have more in common than they ever could have known.

Ask most people what their favorite color is and they’ll tell you, but the reason? Their reasoning will probably be because they think it’s pretty or they just like it. Nothing real.

But me and Hudson, we have a reason for our favorite color. It means more than a color on a wall. It brings out emotions in us that mean more than a simple color.

Hudson places his hands over mine on the chains of the swing, bringing the swing to a halt. “I need to head home. Chris will be back from school soon, and I have to meet him at the bus stop.” He removes his hands from mine and steps around to face me. “I’ll walk you home.” He holds out his hand, and I stare it, not wanting to leave our bubble but knowing we have to.

I take his hand, and he lifts me from the swing. Dropping my hand, he picks up his discarded skateboard from the ground and walks ahead me, leading the way to my house–a place I don’t want to be.

He slows his strides, keeping in time with me in silence. A silence that is solemn because I don’t want him to leave me alone, to take my solace with him. I want him to stay, but that’s being selfish because he has a son–a son who depends on him. And I’m a girl who has stood on her own two feet for too long, and now that I’ve found someone who can help carry me, I don’t want to let go.

We stop at the foot of the steps leading to my front door, and I shift on my feet with my hands in my back pockets.

“Tomorrow?” he questions, looking down at me, needing me to say yes.

“I, uh, work all day tomorrow.”

“Do you have a break in between?” he asks full of hope, wanting part of my time.

Time is a cruel thing in my world. I never have enough of it, but if I can feel this way when he’s around, I want to give him whatever time I can muster, even if it means sacrificing it at home.

Is that bad? I’m sure it is.

“One hour, at five,” I say, giving him what I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it.

“I’ll see you then.” He slips past me, running his hand across mine faster than I’d like.

“Wait,” I say, stopping him–to keep him here just a little longer. “What about Chris?”

“I’ve got it covered. Don’t worry.” His mouth tips up in a smile just before he leaves me standing outside the front door.

When he disappears out of my view, a crushing weight settles over me, leaving me feeling as defeated as I was before he showed up at my door. With him gone, I’m back to bearing my problems on my own again.

It was a nice break, but that’s all it was…a break. And I feel like I need another one already.

Wet. Wipe. Trash.

I do the same three things across the bar, cleaning it off as customer after customer leaves.

Work is the only constant I have in my life. That and avoidance. I avoid the hard things.

Dealing with Dad.

Helping Mom.

Regretting my choices.

I try to avoid all those things and while I may hate having two jobs, I love the distraction it provides me. The way it keeps my mind occupied. But tonight, I’m having to work ten times harder to drown out the noise in my head.

After I wipe down the bar for the third time, I move on to the empty tables, wetting my rag in a bucket of hot water and ringing it out first. I wipe the table, punishing it for not stopping my racing mind.

Mom. I’m not there enough for her. I’m not working hard enough for her. I’m not being strong enough for her. I should be forcing her into surgery, but instead, I’m watching her fade away. I haven’t held a conversation with her in a month because it’s too painful, not for her–for me. It hurts too much to watch her wither away–to watch her struggle to say one sentence, so I visit her when I know she’s sleeping to avoid the pain.

Dad. He’s there for mom less than I am. Sometimes I wonder why he sticks around. How come all he does is sit around and watch television? I wonder why he doesn’t put more effort into his life. He’s completely given up on everything. Himself. His wife. His daughter. Nothing matters to him, so I avoid him because I don’t want to see the disinterest written across his face. I wonder when he stopped loving his family.

Choices. I’d like to think I’ve made the right decisions in life. I stayed to take care of my mom. I choose to get along with my dad–sometimes–to appease my mom. I work to keep all of us going, and I draw to keep myself sane. But did I really make all the right choices? Regret eats me alive every day when I think of all the opportunities I missed because I made the choice to stay exactly where I am.

Today fucking sucks because all those thoughts are bouncing around in my head, and no matter how fast or hard I work, they won’t shut up.

But I try to drown them out, wiping the table harder, making it feel my frustration, begging it to make the noise in my head stop. My forehead is slick, sweat dripping onto the clean table, so I scrub harder, mad that the table is making me sweat.

I bang my hand on the table, letting out a frustrated yelp, drawing the attention of a nearby customer, but I ignore him. I swipe the empty beer glasses from the table and walk back to the bar where two new customers wait to place their order.

“Whiskey neat,” the blond guy orders, holding up three fingers, indicating he wants three.

I snatch three short glasses and the half empty bottle of whiskey from behind me. I pour the amber liquid into each glass before placing the rest of the bottle behind me, ignoring the thoughts swimming through my head.

“You bang your guy yet?” Kristy questions, coming up next to me with an empty tray in her hand.

“Psh, no,” I blow out.

“That explains it.”

“Explains what?” I backfire with my hand on my hip.

“You’re all worked up.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’ve been saying that a lot lately,” she deadpans.

I compose myself as much as I can. “I’m good. See?” I plaster on a big, fat smile, praying she buys it.

“That’s the fakest smile I’ve ever seen.” She leans against the back of the bar, crossing her arms as she stares out at the lack of people here tonight. “And that’s saying something because you know as well as I do that all the women who come traipsing in here show off their fake smiles while displaying their cleavage to get free drinks from the guys.”

“Ha, you’re right.” I pat her on the shoulder. “Thanks for cheering me up.” I don’t know why her comment pulled me out of my sour mood, but the thought of myself looking like a desperate chick, roaming around the bar for her next victim is pretty damn funny.

“Whatever works for ya, babe.”

“I bet I know what works for you,” I joke, jerking my head toward the door where her six-foot-tall rock god of a boyfriend is stepping into the bar.

A smirk slips across her face, and I can only imagine all the dirty thoughts running through her head. “You’re right. I need me some of that.”

Jason stops in front of the bar, leaning over it as far as he can and snatches Kristy’s wrist, yanking her closer to him. He lays a kiss on her that is only appropriate for the bedroom, but they put it all on display, not caring what anyone around them may think.

They wrench away from each other, and Jason hops on a nearby barstool, making himself comfortable.

“What’s up, Jade?” he asks, drumming his hands on the bar.

“Nothing much, just enjoying the show,” I say sarcastically.

“We can arrange for a much better version for–”

“No,” I say sternly, pointing my finger at him.

He laughs, unable to contain himself. “All right, all right.”

Kristy steps around the bar, sitting next to Jason, apparently thinking she’s allowed to have a break. Kidding. She is, we just never have time for a break, but we’re experiencing a weird lull tonight.

“Jade’s feeling a little sexually frustrated.”

“I am not.” Seriously I’m not, but I don’t bother to tell her the real reasons for all my frustrations lately. I should because then she might get off my back, but then she’ll give me that look of sympathy people give you when they find out someone close to you is dying. I’d rather avoid that all together.

“You know that’s really an easy fix. I mean you could even join us if you want.” Kristy glares at him and throws her elbow into his stomach. “Ow, what the hell!” he yells.

“You know what that was for.” She stalks away from him to help another customer, dramatically swinging her hips, catching the eye of every guy in the bar.

She knows Jason’s just playing around, but it doesn’t mean she won’t dish it back at him. Their relationship is flawless. They joke with each other and have no insecurities, well, apparently, except for the whole getting engaged thing. But other than that, they’re my model for a perfect relationship. What I think is a perfect relationship anyway.

“I’ve got this friend–”

“No,” I say automatically, cutting him off once again.

“Hey, you don’t even know what I was going to say,” he argues, throwing a pout at me as if it will change my mind. That only works on Kristy, not me.

“You have a friend who can help me out.”

“Well, yeah, kind of, but he would at least buy you dinner first,” he explains, fixing his blue Mohawk so it stands up straighter. I don’t know how he gets his hair to stand straight up, but he does, and it’s perfect every time.

“No.”

“How about a beer instead?” he compromises with a smile, showcasing his polished white teeth.

“Now that, I can do.” I pop the cap off a beer and slide it over to Jason.

He gulps down half of it before he places it back on the bar. He slightly turns his head and watches Kristy out of the corner of his eye. A genuine smile slides across his face, one I would give anything to have directed at me. Not from Jason, but from anyone. To have someone who watches me from afar with nothing but affection in their eyes. Kristy’s crazy for not wanting to get engaged to Jason.

That’s how we spend the rest of our night. Kristy flits around the bar with Jason’s eyes glued to her, and I watch, envious of what they have, while I help customers who wander up to the bar.