“Looks like I’m headed downtown,” I mutter, throwing my sheets off me and sitting up.
“You’re not going anywhere. You’re grounded,” Mom reminds me as firmly as she can, but the threat is empty and she knows it. She can’t handle me. She doesn’t know how to. I hate disappointing her, but I don’t know what else to do either. This is just the way I am these days.
“I’m going to the promenade,” I state slowly, and that’s enough for her to finally give up. She releases another one of her signature sighs, shakes her head at me, and then leaves me alone at last, shutting my door behind her. I like that she has never expected me to be perfect, but I wish that I could be. She deserves that and so much more.
My legs feel weak as I make my way over to my bathroom, and when I see my reflection in the mirror, I realize that I really am a mess. I look like I’ve been through hell and back, and my entire body feels damaged. I fumble around in the cabinet, take my antidepressants, pop a couple painkillers, then I force myself under the cold shower until I physically can’t take it for a second longer. I’m hoping it helps wake me up, and it certainly does, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.
It’s a mission in itself just trying to get dressed. I have to stop every couple seconds to take a deep breath, and by the time Tiffani is laying on her car horn outside, I’m only just ready. I grab my wallet and my keys, and then I stuff them into my pockets. That’s when I remember something from last night.
I remember not having my keys, and I remember that girl opening the door for me.
Eden.
Eden let me in last night and saved me the humiliation of having Mom find me asleep on the lawn this morning.
I freeze in the hall, stopping right outside the door to the guest room. Or Eden’s room now, I guess. It’s closed, and I don’t know if she’s awake or not yet, but for a very, very split second, I lift my hand and contemplate knocking. I know I should thank her, but then I remember that look of disgust she had on her face last night, and I quickly drop my hand and keep on walking. Tiffani is waiting, and I doubt Eden wants to see me. So far, I don’t think she’s impressed, but no one ever is. I prefer it that way. When people don’t like you, they stay away from you.
Stealthily, I creep my way downstairs, glancing around over my shoulder to figure out where Mom and Dave are, but I can’t see them. The front door is in sight, so I make a clean break for it, throwing it open and quickening my pace across the lawn toward the neon red car that is waiting.
And as soon as I have opened the door and sat inside, Tiffani is running her eyes over me. “You look like shit,” she informs me, which is easy for her to say. Honestly, there is no way in hell she drank enough last night if she was actually able to get up early this morning to do her hair and makeup. She looks good, but I don’t have the energy to tell her. “You want me to walk around with you by my side looking like that?”
“Yeah, well, I feel like shit too,” I mutter. I yank my seatbelt over me and click it into place, slumping down against the passenger seat. I close my eyes and focus on my breathing. “My head is pounding, so please don’t talk to me.”
“So boring,” Tiffani says, and I can just sense the dramatic eye roll as she begins to drive.
For once, though, she does actually shut up. She remains silent on the drive downtown, though she keeps the radio on, and I’m sure I’m not just imagining the volume gradually increasing. It makes my headache even worse, and I have to roll the window down to allow some fresh air into the car. I decide then, as I’m feeling like I’ve been hit by a bus twice, that I’m never getting as drunk as I did last night ever again. It’s not worth the blackout, it’s not worth this suffering. Next time, I’ll stop once I’ve had enough. Though that’s easier said than done.
“I know what’ll cure you,” Tiffani says, her voice teasing as we’re parking up. I open one eye and look at her. “My mom’s going out tonight,” she continues, killing the engine and removing her seatbelt. She angles her body toward me and I don’t miss the way she seductively bites down on her lower lip. “And I was thinking that me and you . . .”
I sit up. That’s one way to get my attention. “Me and you could what?” I urge, raising an eyebrow. I already know the answer. I just like hearing her say it. I love the way she blushes when she does.
“Maybe,” she murmurs, leaning in closer, “me and you could continue this?” She bats her eyelashes at me and presses her hand against my chest as her glossy lips find mine. It’s the same old routine. She tries to maintain dominance, but I’m stronger than her, and within a matter of seconds my hands are tangled into her hair and I’m pulling at her lower lip with my teeth. She doesn’t offer too much, because she pushes away from me after less than a minute. “Hmm? What do you say?”
“Do you really need to ask?”
Tiffani’s not all bad. She’s hot, and she distracts me from all the other shit that goes on in my head, and I know that I’m using her, but she’s using me too. We’ll most likely break up next summer after graduation once we’ve successfully dominated our high school for four years, then she’ll move on to college and find some other guy to partner up with to enhance her college experience. We know where we stand with one another and we know exactly what this relationship is, so we’re on the same page.
And I’m cool with that. I don’t want to spend my life with her. In fact, I don’t think I want to spend my life with anyone. It’s not exactly something I’ve imagined, because I try not to think about the future too much. I don’t even know if I’ll still be here a few years from now, and honestly, it all seems way too hard to figure out. I’m not good enough for college. Not good enough to be anyone’s husband or father. Not good enough for anything, really. That’s why I take each day at a time, and I try to cope as best I can in the present.
Still feeling nauseous, I follow Tiffani toward Third Street Promenade, Santa Monica’s second pride and joy after our pier and beach. It’s Saturday and the sun is out early for once, so the promenade is heaving with crowds dodging the freaky street performers and dipping in and out of clothing stores and food joints. Tiffani and I are soon doing the same.
We are hand in hand as she pulls me along behind her down the center of the promenade, her hips swinging in an effort to turn heads, but no one gives a shit. She does this a lot, and I let her, because it’s kind of amusing. I’m exhausted, but getting out of the house for some fresh air is definitely helping me feel a little better.
“What about these jeans?” Tiffani asks. We are in American Apparel and she waves a pair of jeans in front of my face for what feels like the fifteenth time already. I don’t know how they can be any different from all the other pairs.
“I . . . honestly . . . don’t know.” I don’t care, either. I’m leaning back against a rack of discounted tops, scanning the people in the store, because I am bored out of my fucking mind, when I spot some fitting rooms over in the far corner. There’s a sign stuck to the door stating that these fitting rooms are closed, but it’s not exactly clothes that I intend to take with me.
I glance back at Tiffani, who is posing in front of a mirror as she holds the pair of jeans against her body, tilting her head from side to side. I step toward her, reaching for her waist. “Why wait until tonight?” I mumble against the back of her ear as I press my body firmly against hers, and brush my lips over the soft skin of her neck. “Why can’t we continue . . . right now?”
“Tyler!” Tiffani twirls around and whips me with the pair of jeans she’s holding, her lips parted and her cheeks red. I know she’s down, though. I can see the mischief behind the dramatic, horrified expression she’s pulling.
“Come on.” I snatch the jeans from her and toss them onto the nearest table, then reach for her hand and swiftly pull her toward those closed fitting rooms. I need to stay on her good side, and there is nothing she loves more than feeling wanted. Even when it’s for all the wrong reasons.
I glance around us, scouring the sto
re in search of staff, but the coast is clear. No one is around, so I go ahead and push open the door to the fitting rooms, pulling Tiffani with me.
“God, this is a bad idea,” she mumbles, squeezing my hand. “Such a bad idea . . .”
I spin around to face her and press my mouth against hers, mostly just to shut her up before she freaks and backs out. I kiss her hard, both of us fighting for that dominance again, and I push her back into a cubicle, pulling the curtain closed behind us. She hooks her arms around the back of my neck, holding me close while I wrap a hand into her hair. We’re never all that gentle with one another, and if I get the chance to pull her hair, then I’m doing it.
“Stoooop,” Tiffani whispers with a laugh as she pulls away from me. Her blue eyes are glossy and bright, and I know she is enjoying this.
“Babe.” I grab a fistful of her blouse and pull her against me again, and then I kiss the corner of her mouth as I begin to undo the buttons. I trail my lips down to her jaw, and then her neck, where I close my eyes and get to work.
“What is that you’re wearing?” she asks, her voice breathy. She tilts her head to one side and pulls on my hair with both hands. “Is that Montblanc? It smells like it.”
I wish she would stop talking. “No, it’s Bentley,” I say. “Come here.” My mouth finds hers again and I push her back against the wall of the cubicle. Right now, I definitely do not feel hungover. I am kissing my super-hot girlfriend in a damn American Apparel fitting room, and I’m enjoying it. I would be fucking crazy not to.
My hand is under her blouse, my lips are planting kisses all over her chest, we are stumbling. She is grabbing my shirt, one hand still slung over the back of my neck. I can feel her breathing deeply into my hair as she rests her chin on the top of my head.
“What are you doing?”
“What?” I mumble, refusing to tear my lips away from her body.
“Whatever it is that you’re doing right now,” she says. Her breathing is still heavy. “It feels nice.”
I don’t even know what I’m doing. I’m just kissing her, just touching her. My hands are all over her body, in her hair and under her shirt and on her hip. “Of course it does.” I pull away for a second, grabbing my T-shirt and pulling it off. I reach for the belt of my jeans, but Tiffani is quick to grab my wrist.
“Tyler!” she gasps. She’s shaking her head at me, but her eyes flash in amusement. “We’re not doing that here.”
I am just about to narrow my eyes at her, just about to ask her why the hell not, when I hear a voice call out, “Eden, are you still in here?”
Instantly, we both freeze. We aren’t the only ones in here anymore.
“Shhh,” Tiffani hisses sharply, and the alarm is written all over her face. Then, she raises her voice and asks, “Who’s here?”
There is a silence. And then, “Tiffani?”
“Rachael?”
Thank God. I would much rather be caught by Rachael than some store employee, and both Tiffani and I exchange a glance of relief. She slides the curtain open and steps out, but I don’t join her.
“Um, I didn’t know anyone was in here,” Tiffani says, and I can hear the embarrassment in her voice. Though at the same time, she’s probably ecstatic that we’ve been walked in on. It’s just the type of gossip she loves. Did you hear Tiffani and Tyler were caught hooked up in American Apparel at the weekend? It reminds everyone that yes, we’re still together, and yes, we must just be so in love with one another that we can’t keep our hands to ourselves.
“What are you doing?” Rachael questions, and then louder she adds, “Tyler, are you there too?”
I grit my teeth, rub my temple, and then finally say, “Yeah, I’m here.” I step out of the fitting room, pulling my T-shirt back on. My hair is a mess, so I run my hand through it in an attempt to tame it. I’m not exactly happy to be interrupted. “Ever heard of privacy?”
Rachael is staring at me with that disapproving, disgusted look of hers that she always, always gives me. “Ever heard of not hooking up in the middle of American Apparel? That’s gross.” Awkwardly, Tiffani begins closing the buttons of her blouse.
Rachael isn’t alone. Next to her, Eden is staring at me with a pile of clothes in her hands. She keeps her head down slightly, but I can see that she’s watching us with curiosity.
“What the hell are you guys even doing here?” I ask, staring straight back at Eden again, wondering what she thinks of me now. Was she in here the entire time? She saw me turn up late for the barbecue yesterday, then she saw me wasted on the damn lawn, and now, she may not have seen anything, but I’m pretty sure she knows I was just getting it on with my girlfriend in a damn fitting room. She probably thinks I’m an asshole. Good.
“Trying on clothes,” Rachael answers with the roll of her eyes, “which is a normal thing to do in fitting rooms.”
Tiffani isn’t too happy about being disturbed either, because she fires Rachael a threatening look and then seems to notice Eden for the very first time. I don’t know if they’ve met yet. She cocks her head to the side and asks, “And you are?”
She is back to being the Tiffani she wants to be. We are both good actors, and Tiffani is quick to establish her imagined authority whenever she meets someone new. That’s why she’s looking Eden up and down in an effort to intimidate her, and I feel a little bad when I see just how uncomfortable Eden looks.
“Eden,” she says with apprehension. God, her voice sounds so good when she says her name like that, all nervous and quiet, bringing out that husky tone again. She glances at me and adds, “His stepsister.”
“You have a stepsister?” Tiffani angles her body to look at me, her gaze sharp. I don’t think I ever mentioned it to her. I didn’t find it necessary. It’s not like Eden lives down here, and honestly, I totally forgot she was even coming for the summer. But Tiffani likes to keep tabs on every single part of my life, so this information is a big deal to her.
All I can do is shrug. “Apparently.”
Tiffani stares at me, blinking. She is annoyed now, I can tell. “Why were you in here?” she demands, turning her glare back to Eden. “Were you spying on us?”
“Chill, babe.” I reach for her arm and give her a look. After Eden helped me out last night, I owe her one. The least I can do is stop Tiffani from grilling her just to fuel her own ego. “It’s not even a big deal. Stop tripping out.”
She shrugs my grip off her and then crosses her arms over her chest. She will be pissed at me for stopping her, but whatever. “I’m just saying,” she mumbles.
“Yeah, well, don’t.” I steal another glance at Eden. She is still watching us closely. “She doesn’t care. Let’s just go. I need to go to Levi’s.” I don’t, actually. I just want to get the hell out of these fitting rooms. I throw my arm around Tiffani’s shoulders and pull her in close, but she doesn’t even budge.
“I’ll see you on Tuesday,” she tells Rachael. “You’re still coming to the beach, right?”
“Yeah,” Rachael agrees, and then she looks at Eden and it’s pretty clear what she’s about to say next. It makes me wonder when the hell Rachael and Eden even became friends. That damn barbecue . . . “Eden can come too, right?”
Tiffani heaves a slow sigh, pursing her lips. She is quiet for a while, making it all the more painful for Eden as it becomes more and more evident that Tiffani doesn’t want her there. Our circle of friends was established in middle school, and Tiffani hates having anyone else around us. She knows she can control not only me, but our friends too, and she doesn’t like that certainty being threatened. “I guess.”
I’ve had enough at that point. Enough of Tiffani’s ego, enough of Rachael’s glances. That’s why I pull Tiffani away again, and this time, she is happy to leave with me. We can continue this later. Tonight. That’s if she doesn’t stay pissed off.
As we head out of the fitting rooms and back into the bustling store, I try to steal one more glance over my shoulder, but the door has already closed beh
ind us. Damn, I think.
I wanted to see Eden’s expression again, because I haven’t had enough of her yet.
11
FIVE YEARS EARLIER
Through the silence, Dad taps his index finger against the top of the steering wheel. His jaw is clenched, his eyes are set on the road ahead. He hasn’t turned on the radio. That’s how I can tell that he’s not just annoyed, but seriously angry with me. And I know why. It’s because I was supposed to be redoing my math homework that he tore up last night. I shouldn’t have gone to Dean’s after school. I should have just asked Hugh to take me straight home. I should have known better.
“I was . . . I was going to do it tonight,” I quietly muster up. I’m playing with my hands in my lap, interlocking my fingers over and over again. I can’t look at Dad. Not when he’s mad at me.
“You know I wanted you to work on that homework right after school,” he says through gritted teeth. I see his hand tighten around the gear lever. He once told me only real men drive stick shift. “We know exactly what happens when you leave everything until too late in the evening. You start whining that you’re too tired, that you can’t concentrate as much.”
“I’ll do it right after dinner!” I tell him, glancing up, my eyes wide. Maybe there’s still time to salvage this. It’s not like I wasn’t going to redo that homework. I just wanted to throw a football around first, like how Dean gets to.
“Tyler, just be quiet right now,” Dad says. His voice is low, but firm. As always. His eyes are locked on the road and with his free hand, he rubs his temple. “Please.”
I drop my eyes back down to my backpack on the floor by my feet. I give it a small kick, frustrated. Like Hugh said, it’s only seventh grade. I wish Dad didn’t take it all so seriously, like my whole future would blow up if I failed one test. I’m not even in high school yet! No one else studies as hard as I do, but that’s still not good enough for Dad.
I do as he says and keep quiet for the rest of the ride home. It’s not too far, only five minutes, so I stare at my hands and trace the lines on my palms. Without the radio playing to distract us, the tension is more noticeable, the silence unbearable. It’s just after four, and Dad always works from home in the afternoons, which is a routine I’ve grown to hate. It means that for a couple hours every day, I’m alone in the house with Dad. Mom is usually down at her office until at least five thirty most nights. She’s an attorney who always has case after case to work through. That’s why her car isn’t on the drive when we pull up.