Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

“No. Even I didn’t know until I was thirteen.” He stares straight
ahead. “By then we weren’t speaking.”
Wow. Instinctively, I inch a little closer so our arms almost brush
with each step. “Still, I don’t understand how that’s a weakness.”
“Sometimes his blood controls me. Like last week when I had to
carry you home—”
“I didn’t ask you to do that.”
“I know. That’s what I’m saying. I had to. I couldn’t help it. It’s not
your fault—or mine.” His fists clench. “I hate being weak.”
“Weak?” I give him a sideways glare. “You’re crazy. Any compulsion
to help people—voluntary or not—is a strength. It’s noble.”
“You don’t under—”
“There’s nothing to understand, Griffin. You help people. That’s
the bottom line. There are a lot of people in the world who don’t
help anyone but themselves. And a lot more who wish they could
do something—anything—to help someone in need, but can’t or
won’t. The fact that you have to help people doesn’t diminish the
fact that you do help them.”
We walk quietly for a few seconds. I give him time to let what I’m
saying sink it—if he’s felt this way his whole life then it might be
hard to accept. And it might explain why he’s such a jerk half the
time. A little rebellion against his heroic blood.
Not that this excuses his behavior.
As we pass the finish line of our sixth lap, he says, “I guess I
never looked at it that way.”
“Well,” I say, speeding up to a full run, “you should.”
He falls silent for a few seconds before blurting, “I broke up with
Adara yesterday.”
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