‘It’s true,’ Eve hissed, appearing next to Gwen. ‘Her friends came in here again the other day – you know the two I mean? The sorority chicks?’ Her words said sorority chicks. Her tone said disease-infested hookers. Good God. I was giving her five seconds to get to an argument I could squash.
I nodded once.
‘Well, I couldn’t hear everything they said over the damned steamer, but I heard your name and her name and the fact that she’s using you to be her … ugh …’ She made air quotes. ‘Bad-boy phase. I’ve never heard anything so fucking lame.’
My brows rose. Bad-boy phase. Right. ‘You are both insane.’
Eve crossed her arms. ‘Um, no. We’re not. They’re plotting the whole thing out and she’s just following along. You’re supposed to be like – a rebound stud to help her get over some other guy. So – for a million dollars and a chance to advance to the next round: do you like her or do you just want to screw her?’
They stood there like shoulder-to-shoulder crazy.
Rebound.
‘This is not your business.’
‘The hell it’s not.’ Eve poked me in the chest with one black-lacquered fingernail. ‘You’re our friend, and we aren’t letting some stuck-up bitch play you.’
My jaw clenched. ‘Do. Not. Talk about her like that.’
They looked at each other.
‘Crap,’ Gwen said, as Eve said, ‘Well, fuck.’
After an hour, Jacqueline and Heller left, minutes apart. Before leaving, he stopped at her table, telling her how pleased he was that she was catching up – which I only knew because that was the topic he’d wanted to discuss with me this morning after class.
Then he stepped to the counter to talk to me about her – while she watched – and I remembered an old saying my grandfather had been fond of quoting: Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive. I was getting a taste of what tangled meant.
The rest of the afternoon was so dead that our manager asked if anyone wanted to go home, and I volunteered. Eve and Gwen shared yet another pointed look. I’d never requested to be cut before.
Gwen followed me to the back and stopped me as I shrugged into my jacket. ‘Lucas?’
Turning, I sighed. ‘Yeah?’
Lips pursed, she laid her hand on my arm. ‘I know Eve can be a little harsh …’
I smirked. ‘Really? I hadn’t noticed.’
Her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled, and the Gwen I knew reappeared. ‘But we both care about you. We don’t want to see you hurt.’
I zipped the jacket to mid-chest – a soft, dark chocolate leather that I wouldn’t have been able to afford on my own. Charles and Cindy gave it to me for my birthday my freshman year. It had been a little oversized then. It fitted perfectly now. ‘I’m a big boy, Gwen. I can take care of myself. I have for a long time.’
‘Yeah, I know. Just … be careful. Some things aren’t worth the pain, whether you can survive it or not.’
She never said much about her baby’s father, but I knew she was speaking from experience. I could hardly compare Jacqueline Wallace to a guy who was too much of a selfish prick to man up to being a father. But what I knew about Jacqueline wasn’t mine to tell.
‘Thanks, Gwen. I’ll be careful,’ I told her.
Total lie.
I made a sandwich when I got home, sharing turkey slices with Francis, as I had the day he’d first shown up three years ago. I’d only been in the apartment for a month when Francis moved in, uninvited. Even with the Hellers living on the other side of the yard, I’d had an unexpected sense of isolation. My father and I hadn’t spoken often when I lived with him, but he was there, in the house. It wasn’t talk I missed as much as the presence of someone else.
‘What do you think?’ I asked him now, tossing one last slice of turkey in his bowl. ‘Should I become her bad boy? I’m certainly qualified for the role.’ I picked up my phone and pulled up her contact info. ‘Speak now, or forever hold your peace.’
He finished his turkey and started on a bath.
‘That’s tacit agreement,’ I said, texting Jacqueline an apology for not saying goodbye this afternoon.
It was awkward with Dr Heller there I guess, she answered.
She had no idea what an understatement that was.
I told her I wanted to sketch her. Waiting for her answer, I watched the screen. You want a bad boy, Jacqueline? I thought. C’mon, then. Try me.
Okay, she said.
I told her I could be over in a couple of hours and got her room number.
She’d emailed Landon – ironically, during the hour she sat in Starbucks – thanking him for insisting she do the worksheet. Ninety-nine per cent sure she’d aced the quiz Heller gave this morning, I wanted to email her back, but I didn’t. She wouldn’t be hearing from Landon tonight.
Her building was all too easy to get into. A simple, ‘Hey, man, hold the door,’ to one of her fellow residents was all it involved. I took the back stairwell to her floor, my whole body burning.
I hadn’t lied. I wanted to sketch her. Possibly, that’s all I would do. Tonight.
I knocked softly, ignoring the other students hanging out in the hallway. She didn’t answer, and I couldn’t hear any movement inside her room. But when I knocked again, she opened the door as if she’d been standing right on the other side of it, debating whether or not to let me in.
Her sweater was a lighter blue than her eyes, accentuating them further. Dipping to a cautious V in the centre and following her curves without adhering to them, the soft knit begged to be stroked. I vowed to answer that entreaty.
Entering her room – the door snapping shut behind me – was like closing a door on my conscience. That didn’t keep it from tapping from inside my skull, though – a muffled but unremitting reminder that this girl was a student in Heller’s class, off-limits. Further, she was getting over a breakup, which left her vulnerable in one way … and me in another.
Worse still, she had no idea of my conflict. I tossed my sketchpad on her bed.
Hands in my pockets, I feigned fascination with the room décor and felt her stare trace over me – from the worn shitkickers on my feet to the nondescript hoodie and the ring in my lip. Part beach bum, part redneck, part perfected don’t fuck with me front – I was nothing like her preppy ex, for all that I could have been him, once upon forever ago. I thought nothing of what I wore then, or what it cost. The labels Kennedy Moore and his upper middle class bros sported wouldn’t have impressed my middle-school comrades, whose parents were influential lobbyists, senators and CEOs of multimillion-dollar associations.
I’d never be intimidated by a boy flaunting his parents’ money; I knew how fast it could all disappear, especially when it wasn’t yours to begin with. This was a truth I’d learned, and learned hard: if you wanted something out of life, you had to depend on yourself to get it. And to keep it.
As Jacqueline’s gaze ran over my face, I continued my sham inspection of her dorm room while in my head, I visualized the distracted expression she sometimes wore during Heller’s lectures: eyes unfocused and unmoving, fingers tapping against her leg or her desktop, plucking invisible strings.
I had been drawn to her for weeks but kept my distance until the night I became her protector. Like that Chinese proverb that says if you save a life, you’re responsible for that person forever – I couldn’t seem to let her dust herself off and go on. Not when I didn’t believe for one second she had the tools to protect herself. Maybe I hadn’t saved Jacqueline’s life that night – but I’d saved her from something that would have stolen a piece of her soul. I was consumed with watching over her, and to do that effectively, I needed to know her better.
At least that’s the trumped-up story I told myself.
I caught her eyes on mine as I turned, and let my gaze skip to the small speakers on her desk. She was listening to a band I’d seen last month. I asked her if she’d gone to the show, and surprisingly, she nodded. I
hadn’t seen her there – but then, I hadn’t known to look for her. I gave her some excuse about alcohol and how dark it was. If I’d known she was there, no amount of beer or darkness would have kept me from finding her.
Best not to disclose that.
I pulled off my cap and hoodie, tossing them on her bed and attempting to compose my expression before turning back to her. She’d probably been there with her boyfriend, anyway, while I’d gone with Joseph.
‘Where do you want me?’ she asked, and my mind blanked momentarily and then filled with images I couldn’t say. She blushed as though she heard them anyway, her lips falling open, unable to take back the coquettish question she’d obviously not meant as a seduction tactic.
I cleared my throat and suggested the bed, matching her unintentional come-on with one of my own. Shoving my hoodie and cap off her comforter as she sat, I reminded my resurrected hormones that there were a million reasons Jacqueline Wallace was not for me, starting with the fact that I was basically lying to her about who I really was, and ending with the knowledge that girls like her didn’t fall for guys who looked like me.
But she didn’t have to fall, did she, for me to be the boy she slummed with? Her bad-boy phase. Her rebound. God help me, I was all too willing.
She stared at me with wide, apprehensive eyes, and I wanted to calm her, to gentle her with my hands. Instead, I found myself telling her we didn’t have to do this if she didn’t want to. I waited for her to release that pent-up breath she was holding and tell me this was a mistake. Part of me hoped for those words, because then I could backpedal before I made the monumental mistake of compromising my integrity in too many ways to count.
But I wouldn’t leave unless she told me to. Not while my head was full of nothing but wanting to move closer to her.
‘I want to,’ she said softly, her body still rigid, like one of my wooden sketch models – bendable at the joints but otherwise inflexible. Her declaration didn’t correspond with her posture, but I didn’t know which was valid – her body or her words.
‘What position would be the most comfortable for you?’ I asked, and she blushed again, harder than she had a moment before.
I bit my lip and turned away, parking my ass on the floor several feet from her, my back against the only blank section of wall in her room. Opening the pad against my knees, I took a slow breath through my nose and cursed myself for sending that text. Even though my request to sketch her was no ploy, this private proximity was nothing short of hell. In one crashing moment, I realized that I wanted her more than I’d ever wanted anyone before. This desire had been building for weeks, and I’d left it unchecked, because she had a boyfriend, because she was a student in a class I tutored, because she was impossible, unattainable, a fantasy and nothing more.
Then there was that night – a night that must terrify her, still – but I’d kept it from being so much worse. My hand gripped the pencil. I couldn’t credit myself for saving her and then take her as the prize, not under false pretences, not when she could never be mine.
But then, she had false pretences as well, didn’t she? I could give her what she wanted.
I told her to lie on her stomach and face me, and she obeyed.
‘Like this?’
I nodded, and my head swam. Goddamn – what had I done to myself? I had to touch her.
Unmoving, she watched as I tossed the pad and pencil to the side, coming up on my knees and closing the distance between us. She closed her eyes when I pulled my fingers through her hair, arranging it to reveal the curve of her jaw. A tiny, solitary freckle became visible just under her chin, and I forced my hand away to keep from stroking a finger over it. She opened her eyes, and I wondered if she could see the battle raging inside my skull and beneath the surface of my skin.
We were both silent while I sketched her. I knew she was watching me, though she couldn’t see what I was drawing. I felt her gaze but didn’t return it. Minutes later, her eyes drifted closed and she went very still. I finished the sketch and wasn’t sure what to do. On my knees again, I approached the bed, sat back on my heels, and watched her for several minutes. Her breathing was deep and even. I put the pad and pencil aside and struggled not to touch her.
‘Falling asleep?’ I whispered finally, and her eyes opened.
‘No,’ she said, though I knew she was mistaken.
I didn’t correct her. She asked if I was done and I heard myself tell her that I wanted to do another. When she agreed, I asked her to turn on to her back. She obeyed. I told her I wanted to arrange her, and she consented. My heart drove life through my veins as if I was waking up from a years-long coma. Everything was bright and detailed. Raw and sensitive. I wanted her so badly it hurt.
At first, I thought to arrange her as though she’d tumbled from the sky and landed on her back – an angel dragged to earth by her broken heart. But as I took her wrist and angled her arm over her head, I pictured her in my bed. Heart pounding, I moved her opposite arm – first to her stomach, and then above her head, with the other. I crossed her wrists and imagined her laughing and daring me to tie her up, clear as a memory. Goddammit.
I had to stop touching her or I was going to lose my mind, so I sketched her as she was, concentrating on lines and angles, shadows and reflections. My pulse subsided to a steady rhythm. My breathing returned to normal.
My gaze moved to her face. To her eyes. Which were wide open, watching me.
Her small hands, still obediently crossed at the wrists above her head, clenched into fists and then relaxed. The pulse at her throat thrummed. Her chest rose and fell faster. I was lost in the endless blue of her eyes. She seemed almost afraid, which made me angry – though not at her.
‘Jacqueline?’
‘Yes?’
‘The night we met –’ I’m not him. I’m not him. ‘I’m not like that guy.’
‘I know tha–’
I put my finger to her soft, full mouth, stilling her words. ‘I don’t want you to feel pressured. Or overpowered.’ Even in the midst of my duplicity, I meant the words, needing her to trust me. I also wanted to kiss her more than I wanted the next breath.
‘I do, absolutely, want to kiss you right now. Badly.’
I was the more fearful one, because I knew she’d say no. I would prove to her that I could be trusted by leaving. I trailed one finger from her lips to her throat, down the centre of her chest, and waited for her no.
But she didn’t say it.
Her voice was little more than a sigh. ‘Okay.’
14
Landon
The first time I drove solo wasn’t what I’d ever dreamed it would be. I’d imagined cruising with Boyce on a Saturday night. Picking up some faceless girl to see a movie or get a burger. Grandpa sending me to the store to get milk.
Instead, I drove to the dock and caught the ferry that ran twenty-four/seven, as Grandpa and I had done many times – but I’d never been the one to steer the truck on to the ramp. I drove to the cemetery, blanking on bringing flowers and realizing when I arrived that I only had a vague notion where, exactly, he was buried. Seventy-two hours ago. That day had been a blur. It didn’t feel real.
I found my grandmother’s headstone and the mound of new dirt next to it.
A week ago, I was driving on a back road not far from here, with Grandpa in the passenger seat. He was telling me how he’d learned to drive at fourteen, when he quit school to work with his father and older brother. ‘I damn near stripped the gears offa that old Dodge afore I learned to manage it,’ he’d said, chuckling at the memory.
I tried to remember the last thing we said to each other, but I couldn’t. Probably something to do with dinner, or chores, or the weather.
Now that I was standing at the foot of that mound of dirt, I didn’t know what to do. Was I supposed to talk to him? Cry? He wasn’t there. He wouldn’t hear me. So these things seemed beyond pointless, unless I wanted to hear myself talk – and I didn’t.
The cemeter
y was dotted with a few lone visitors, like me, and one large funeral service gathering. Under a big tent housing a load of massive floral arrangements, people huddled, paying their respects while seated on padded folding chairs. Whoever died had been money. I glanced at the cars lining the road near the gathering, recognizing the insignias – Cadillac, Mercedes, Audi, even a Jag … and Clark Richards’s shiny white Jeep.
What the hell.
Scanning the mourners, I found him easily – on the front row. His dark blond hair was slicked back and he wore a black suit, white shirt and a dark red tie. Melody sat on his left, wearing black and leaning into him. His arm was hooked round her shoulder, his face impassive. Even with the distance, Melody’s miserable, crumpled posture was obvious. Her shoulders vibrated, and though I couldn’t see her face or her tears, I felt her grief like a punch to the gut.
Her older brother Evan was on her right. I recognized their mother, next to Evan. The man next to Mrs Dover was probably her husband. Immediate family accounted for, but they were all on the front row. They’d lost someone closely related.
I considered the dirt at my feet. Dust to dust. My throat tightened. ‘Goodbye, Grandpa. Thanks for the truck.’
Later that night, lying in bed, I texted Melody: Are you okay? I was at the cemetery and saw you today.
She texted right back: My grandmother died Friday. Her funeral was today. I hate my family. All they care about is her money.
That sucks, I said.
Thirty minutes passed before she texted back: I’m in the fort. I needed to come outside and stare at the stars. You can come over if you want.
K. I pushed send and grabbed my hoodie from the hook on the back of my door.
Dad squinted up from the table where he’d spread the business ledgers and stacks of files, noting the boots on my feet and the hoodie I pulled over my head. He said nothing, but I recognized the disappointment in his tensed jaw before I turned and walked out the front door. If he’d assumed my grandfather’s death was going to turn me into a model citizen, he didn’t know me at all.