“Close enough,” is all I say.
“Okay, well, Jake’s actually really nice. Unlike some people around here.” She steps back and I can see her gaze shifting around the room, checking everything out. “And you don’t really get a say in whether I want to hang out with him or not.”
“You’re kidding, right?” She is, isn’t she? She has to be. Jake is a stranger. She doesn’t know him like the rest of us do. She doesn’t know that he’s a player and he’s proud of it. She doesn’t know that he’s combative, argumentative. “Alright,” I say. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Why do you even care?” she asks.
“I don’t,” I say, my voice defensive. Or do I? If I don’t care, then why am I getting pissed off at the thought of Jake messing with her?
“You clearly do.”
I walk away from her, shoving my hands into my pockets as I think of how I’m going to change the subject. I have a pile of old DVDs by my TV, and I sound like a damn idiot when I blurt out, “What’s your, um, favorite movie?”
Eden stares at me. She’s probably thinking I’m an idiot too for changing the subject to movies, out of everything I could have possibly chosen. “Lady and the Tramp,” she eventually confesses.
“The Disney movie?” I almost laugh. There she is, surprising me again. If she were Tiffani or Rachael or Meghan, I would be teasing her to hell and back right now. But I think it’s sort of cute that she wasn’t too shy to give me an embarrassing answer. So I ask, “Why?”
“Because it’s the greatest love story of all time,” she explains. “Romeo and Juliet have got nothing on Lady and Tramp. They were so different, yet they made it work. Lady was totally normal and Tramp was totally reckless, yet they fell in love.” She smiles as she talks, not really looking at me, and I’ve never seen anyone look so happy over a damn Disney movie. “And plus, the spaghetti scene is totally iconic,” she adds.
“Totally,” I agree, laughing. I’ve never seen the movie, but I think I know how it goes. “And I’m pretty sure Lady wasn’t normal. She was boring and didn’t know how to have fun. Tramp’s my kinda guy.”
“What, because he roams the streets the same way you do when you’re stumbling home drunk at the weekends?” She tilts her head to one side, those hazel eyes of hers sparkling as she gives me a teasing smile. I laugh again, and she glances around my room once more. “You play football?” she asks.
“Huh?” I look over my shoulder to see what she’s talking about. Dean’s varsity football jacket is hanging over the edge of the top shelf in my closet. It’s been there for like a year, and it brings back bad memories. I took a bad trip once. Last summer. I don’t remember much, but I remember waking with Dean’s jacket on. Apparently I’d been shivering too hard and they wanted to keep me warm. I’m much more careful now. “No,” I say. “That’s Dean’s. I’m not really the football type.”
“Dean plays football?” she says slowly, as though she’s surprised. “And you don’t?”
“Yeah. So does Jake.” I walk over to my closet, subtly kicking my boxers to the side as I pass. “I used to play when I was younger, but I stopped back in middle school.”
“Why?”
“According to some people, football is a waste of time.” My throat tightens. I used to love football. I couldn’t wait for high school so that I could try out for the team, but Dad never let it become a priority. “Why waste your time on sport?” I recall. “Throwing footballs around isn’t going to get you into Ivy League. Stay inside and study instead so that you can actually be successful.”
Eden is watching me closely. “Who told you that?”
“Just someone.” Someone she is never, ever going to know about. “So that’s why I wasn’t allowed to play.”
“Allowed?” She raises an eyebrow.
Crap. I really need to censor what I say sometimes. “I mean, that’s why I stopped,” I say, reaching up to push Dean’s jacket further back onto the shelf. I run my eyes over my clothes and decide that I need a fresh shirt after all the shit that’s happened today. I feel gross, so with my back to Eden, I quickly pull off the shirt I’m currently wearing and then swap it out for a new one. “I really have to give Dean his jacket back. He’s been bugging me about it for ages,” I say over my shoulder.
A few moments of silence pass, and then I hear Eden quietly ask, “What does your tattoo mean?” I spin around to look at her, confused, and she adds, “I’m going to ignore the fact that you clearly got it illegally.”
“My tattoo?” I only have one. It’s on the back of my left shoulder, and she’s right: I did get it illegally last year in the basement of some guy Declan knows. “Uh, it says Guerrero,” I answer, feeling a little awkward. I scratch the back of my head, and before she can ask, I say, “It’s Spanish for fighter.” I still don’t know why I chose that. I guess at the time, it was sort of a fuck you to Dad. He used to always tell me to fight hard for success. So I decided, in that basement that stank of weed and stale beer, that I was going to do exactly as he asked of me. I was going to fight for my own version of success, which is to not let what he did ruin my life. Though I haven’t exactly done a great job of that so far.
Eden is still staring straight at me, and she’s genuinely curious, which is sort of nice, I guess. Tiffani once told me the tattoo is stupid, but she doesn’t know the meaning of it. “Why Spanish?”
“I’m fluent,” I admit. “Both my parents are. My dad taught me when I was a kid.” I don’t speak it much anymore. It only reminds me of him.
“I don’t know any Spanish,” Eden says. She bites her lip and then gives me a playful smile. “I speak French. Like the Canadians,” she jokes. “Bonjour.”
What the fuck? Did that husky voice just become foreign? I didn’t know French could sound so good. “Me frustras,” I reply in Spanish, running my hand back through my hair. She looks confused, but it’s entertaining. “Buenas noches. That means ‘Goodnight.’” I don’t translate the first part for her. I don’t tell her she frustrates me.
She seriously does, though. She questions me constantly, but she also pays attention to me. One minute she’s all shy and embarrassed, and the next she’s confident and challenging. She listens, but she also doesn’t put up with my bullshit. That’s sort of cool to me.
“Oh,” she says. The corner of her plump lips curves into a small, sweet smile and as she turns around and walks out of my room, I’m so glad to hear that mesmerizing voice of hers murmur, “Bonsoir.” Maybe it means goodnight in French? Whatever it is, it sounds amazing on her tongue.
My gaze remains glued to her until she disappears back into her own room. I’m smiling as I stand rooted to the spot, staring out into the empty hall. Something doesn’t quite feel right. I don’t know what it is, and I stand in silence for a few minutes, racking my brain and trying to figure out why I’m feeling so off. It’s not until I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror that it hits me.
My smile isn’t the same as it usually is. It’s not a smirk, it’s not challenging, it’s not cocky. My eyes aren’t as narrowed or as fierce. My heart sinks in my chest when I realize that for the past few minutes, I wasn’t acting. For the first time in a long time, I forgot to be Tyler Bruce.
I was just me, and that is the biggest mistake I could ever possibly make.
21
FIVE YEARS EARLIER
I love it when Dad is out of town, because when he’s out of town, he isn’t here, and when he isn’t here, he can’t hurt me. He’s been in Seattle for the past two days, and I don’t think he’s coming home until tomorrow night. I wish he would stay away longer, but I’m hoping that by the time he gets back tomorrow, he won’t be so stressed. I’m hoping he’ll come home happy and play basketball with us out on the drive again like he did a couple weeks ago. That would be real nice.
It’s Friday afternoon, and I’ve been allowed to skip last period only because I have an appointment with Dr. Coleman. We’re sitting in his waiting roo
m now, Mom and me, and I’m staring at the clock on the wall in front of me, watching it tick on. It’s been a while now since I got the cast on my wrist removed, and now Dr. Coleman wants to follow up and check how the fracture is healing. I’ve been constantly forgetting to do the exercises he asked me to, so in a last-ditch effort to make a difference, I quickly hold up my left arm and begin rotating my wrist in a full circle. It still hurts sometimes.
“Isn’t it too late to start doing that?” Mom asks teasingly as she glances at me out of the corner of her eye. She’s been on her phone for the past five minutes, rapidly typing, probably because she’s been working from home the past couple days and needs to stay in touch with the office. She’s even taken the afternoon off to take me here, and she’s promised we’ll stop for ice cream down at the promenade afterward.
“It might still help,” I tell her with a shrug, but then quickly give up and drop my wrist back down onto my lap. I look at the clock again.
“Tyler?” I hear a voice say, and when I look over, Dr. Coleman is smiling straight at me from the door of the waiting room. He’s sort of old, with deep wrinkles and graying hair and a pudgy stomach, but he’s always super nice. It’s not enough to put me at ease, though. “Come on through!”
Mom tosses her phone into her purse and gets to her feet. I try not to wince as she places her hand on my shoulder and guides me over to Dr. Coleman as he leads us down the hallway to his office. Dr. Coleman is a childhood friend of Grampa’s, and he’s been our family doctor since forever. Mom asks him how he’s doing, but I don’t listen for the answer, because now I’m nervous. I get anxious every time I have to see him. Despite the high temperatures outside today, I’m wearing several layers of clothes, including a hoodie. I don’t want him to notice the bruises, and I make it difficult.
“So, how’s that wrist doing?” Dr. Coleman asks once we’re all sat down and comfortable inside his office. He flashes me a warm smile and interlocks his hands in his lap as he watches me through the thick lenses of his glasses, waiting for a reply.
“It still feels sort of stiff sometimes,” I admit, glancing down at my hands. I just want to get this over and done with as quickly as possible.
“Normally, it’d be fully healed by now given how small the fracture was, but it’s taking longer due to how weak the bone is after breaking it the first time,” he explains with a frown, then edges forward in his seat and reaches out his hand. “Let’s take a look.”
I roll the sleeve of my hoodie back up to my elbow and hold out my wrist to him. I’ve done this all over before, earlier this year when Dad fractured my wrist in the exact same place when he grabbed me too hard, so I know the routine. Dr. Coleman bends my hand in different angles. Rolls it. Prods my skin deeply with his thumb.
“Just stiffness?” he asks once he sits back again, angling himself toward his computer.
“Yeah,” I say. Quickly, I pull my sleeve back down.
Dr. Coleman begins typing and over his shoulder he says, “It’s feeling pretty good to me. Give it a couple more weeks, and if it’s still feeling tight, come and see me again.” He stops typing and swivels back around in his chair to face me, moving his glasses an inch down the bridge of his nose. “I still don’t understand how you were unfortunate enough to break that wrist twice in the same year. Some odds those are, Tyler. When you turn eighteen, make sure you try out the lottery!” He laughs and gives me a wink.
“He can be so clumsy,” Mom says. Even without looking at her, I can sense she’s rolling her eyes. “We can’t keep him on his feet half the time!”
“Must run in the family. Old Pete was always tripping up out on the field when we were young!” he says. They get to their feet, and he exchanges a smile and shakes hands with Mom. I’m pretty sure Grampa must have been genuinely clumsy, whereas I’m not. “Make sure he does those exercises.”
“Of course,” Mom says, placing her hand back on my shoulder again when I stand up.
I feel sick now. Even Dr. Coleman doesn’t know what’s really going on. But I guess I make it difficult for anyone to figure out. Half of me desperately wishes someone would, but the other half of me knows better.
“Tyler,” Dr. Coleman says as we’re heading for the door. Mom and I pause to look back at him, and he shakes his head with a small laugh. “No more running down the stairs too fast, okay? I don’t want to see you breaking that wrist for a third time!”
If only I could promise him that.
22
PRESENT DAY
As the week progresses, I make every best attempt I can at emphasizing who Tyler Bruce is whenever Eden is around. I fucked up big time on Tuesday night, and I need to salvage that. She can’t figure out that I’m not actually as bad as everyone thinks I am. So, I’ve put my skills to the test and have been delivering the ultimate performance all week. I’ve been ignoring her mostly, only ever glaring at her, but I sometimes mutter cocky remarks or demand that she gets out of my way. And, so far, it’s working.
Even now, I can hear her. Our rooms are right next door to one another and for the past five minutes, I’ve been subjected to hearing her talk on the phone. It’s not clear enough to make out exactly what she’s saying, but it’s clear enough to hear her voice. That’s why, as I’m lying across my bed flicking through text messages, I don’t have my TV on, or any music playing. I already have background noise to listen to.
You better get over here pretty soon if you wanna have a shot at making any $$$, Declan has texted. His party is tonight. I’m supposed to be going, but I haven’t found the energy to get ready yet. It’s still early, though.
It’s the perfect night for this party to be taking place. Once a month, Tiffani stays at her dad’s place, which means that one weekend each month, I have to survive without her. But for once, I’m glad she’s at her dad’s tonight. If she was here and knew I was heading out to a party thrown by Declan Portwood . . . There’d be no way in hell I’d ever get anywhere near it.
But I guess I’m sort of nervous about it. Declan says it’s the perfect opportunity to get me started, to meet the right kind of people, but I’m starting to have doubts. I haven’t thought this through too much, and now I’m getting wrapped up in it way too fast. I’m not sure if I really want to fall down this path.
I hear Eden’s voice again. All husky and low. I wonder what she’s doing tonight. Probably nothing. Maybe she’d like a party. There’s two benefits to inviting her: One, she gets to see me as Tyler Bruce, and that should distract her from the fact that I was actually nice to her the other night. And two, I won’t have to go to this party alone.
I roll out of bed and glance at myself in my mirror. I narrow my eyes, testing out their intensity, and I tighten my jaw a little. Even tame my hair. Then, I clear my throat and walk out into the hall. I pause outside of her bedroom door for a second, listening in closely, and I hear her tell someone not to miss her too much.
I push open the door without much consideration over whether or not she’s still on the phone and I take a single step into the room. “Who were you talking to?”
Luckily, the call seems to be over. Eden’s cross-legged on her bed and her gaze flicks up to meet mine. I can literally see the irritation in her eyes. “Did I say you could come in?”
“Who were you talking to?” I ask again. I’m trying to sound like as much of an asshole as possible, but I may also be slightly curious. “You got a boyfriend back in Portland or some shit?”
Eden stares blankly at me, barely impressed by my interruption. “Were you eavesdropping?”
“My room is right next door. The walls are thin as hell.”
“Okay, well, I was talking to my mom,” she finally tells me as she stands up. Good. Does that mean there’s no boyfriend, then? I don’t want to ask, so I just stay silent. Eden looks at the clock. “Shouldn’t you be out doing something?”
“That’s actually what I gotta talk to you about.” Thank God she asked, because I wasn’t sure how to bring it
up. I close the door—I don’t want anyone overhearing—and walk over to her. I keep a safe distance of at least three feet between us, and she is watching me closely with those curious, big eyes of hers. “You’re not doing anything tonight, right?”
“No,” she says. “Everyone’s busy.”
“Alright, you’re coming with me,” I tell her. Tyler Bruce doesn’t ask. Tyler Bruce demands. She’s not getting a choice. “Party down on 11th Street. Don’t mention it to your dad.” Without giving her the chance to reply, I quickly turn my back on her.
“Tyler,” she says as I’m leaving. I reluctantly pause, slowly spinning back around. She’s folded her arms across her chest now and has an eyebrow raised. “Who says I want to go to a party with you? Sorry, but you’re sort of the last person I want to hang out with.”
So it seems she still hates me. Success. “Get ready,” I order.
“No.”
“Yes,” I say, my voice hard. Why does she do this? Why can’t she just be like everyone else and actually do what I tell her? Why does she have to fight so hard against me? Time to be a jerk. “What else are you gonna do? Sit here all night in your room like a damn loser with no social life?”
Her expression falters and she doesn’t look so tough anymore. She glances up at the ceiling and then back down, almost like she’s considering it, and then she quietly asks, “What will I wear?”
That’s more like it. Thank God I don’t have to go to this party alone. “Anything,” I say. My voice loses its firmness. “It’s not the same kinda party as Austin’s. This one’s more . . . chill. You could turn up in a pair of sweats and you wouldn’t be out of place.” Everyone will be too stoned to care, but I don’t even dare mention this. She’ll figure that out when we get there.
She definitely picks up on it, though, because she looks perplexed. “Chill?”
“Yeah. Are you up for pre-drinks while you’re getting ready?” I offer. Did she even drink at Austin’s party last weekend? I’m not sure. I wish I’d paid attention. “My stash is running a little low, because Mom’s constantly searching my room, so all I got is beer and some Jack and a little vodka. You know what, I’ll surprise you.” I smile at her, relieved that she’s given in, and also relieved that she’s not telling me no.