Rock My Heart (Luminescent Juliet #4) by Jean Haus

studying me. He opens his mouth to say something,
but then slightly shakes his head and sits up. “I’ve spilled my guts. Tell me
about your parents.”
    I don’t like talking about myself. Maybe because I
tend to hide too much, but after him sharing so much, it seems more than
discourteous to brush the question away. Instead, I push the fries away.
    “They’re not very exciting. My mom lives in northern
Ohio with my stepdad. My dad lives in California.” I was born in Malibu, but
when I was two, my mother took a job in Ohio, hoping my father would beg her to
stay and propose. “My parents never married—”
    “You’re a bastard,” he says in a shocked,
high-pitched tone and clutches his chest.
    “Takes one to know one,” I say in a sassy tone.
    “You’re right,” he says with an uncharacteristic
wink. “Guess it’s something we have in common.”
    “Are we supposed to be ashamed or something? What is
this? The fifties?”
    “No.” He laughs. “But I’d guess people who grow up
with dysfunction, though I suppose some kids with unmarried parents are fine,
recognize it better than others.”
    I slowly nod, realizing that not only is he probably
right, but he is also very intuitive. Though the dysfunction of my father
living on the west coast and dealing with my moody stepfather are not even
comparable to what he has dealt with.
    He picks his coffee back up. “What doesn’t kill you
makes you stronger, right?”
    “Okay, Nietzsche.”
    “Who?”
    “Um, the German philosopher you just sort of
quoted.”
    He shakes his head. “Must have heard it somewhere
and it stuck. I’m not in to that college shit. Life has given me enough
lessons. I’m a drummer then a mechanic. Probably wouldn’t have even got that
skill, but since I’m good at figuring things out, a high school teacher pushed
me”—he shrugs—“made me apply for a scholarship and go to tech school.”
    His tone is very nonchalant, but I read through the
lines and find a mix of pride and humiliation. Obviously, between the skill set
of music and mechanics, Gabe is quite intelligent, but I’m guessing that
someone has repeatedly told him that he isn’t. I don’t even want to imagine the
plethora of names his father has called him over the years. My heart aches for
him as a boy, but as he lifts his chin and almost dares me to comment, I
realize this man does not want my
pity. And in a way, I know how he feels. Though my not wanting pity isn’t about pride; it’s about me not deserving it.
    I crumple my fry bag, trying to appear indifferent.
“Lots of people are successful without college. It just depends on what you
want to do, I guess. I want to help people, be a counselor, so to college I
went.”
    He watches me as if judging my words, while the tilt
of his chin remains prideful.
    And suddenly, outside a fast food restaurant, under
his perusal, I finally notice—on a conscious level—Gabe from a female
perspective. His fierce pride, especially after his history, is the spark that
leads me to become aware of him physically.
    Practically every single—some not single—female at
our college has gushed about one of the band members, Gabe included. I’m not a
blind idiot—though sometimes I am just a plain old idiot. Like a connoisseur of
art, I understand the female admiration. Each band member is attractive in
their own way. Romeo with his dark good looks. While blond Justin looks like a
tatted up model. Then there’s Sam with his blue eyes and curly dark hair. But
pretty male faces do not make my heart, or other body parts, flutter. My
mother’s beautiful. The sculptures in the university’s art gallery are
beautiful. A 57’ Gibson -B acoustic
guitar is beautiful. Beauty has never made me all google eyed and wistful.
    Until now.
    Harsh masculine beauty hits me hard. Winged brows
over russet coffee colored eyes. A flared but defined nose. Full sexy lips.
Cheek bones that slash across each side of his face. Sun streaked, brown