“Lie to your face?” she echoes me. “Desperate for a fuck, slutty friends, bastard father?”
“I’m sorry—”
“Sorry?!” Both hands come down on my chest, shoving me back and away from her. “God damn it, Linc! Drop the victimhood for a minute. Have you even thought of how hard this is for me?”
“What’s so hard about it?” I ask. “Oh, wait, I already know. You’re ashamed of me.”
“No! I’m not!” she insists. “But I have a whole life I need to quietly uproot and destroy for you, and I’m still going to do it. I’m so sorry it’s not moving fast enough for you.”
“You are so obsessed with what everyone else has to think!” I grab her shoulders and pull her close, fighting the urge to shake her until she fucking understands. “You don’t even know what you want.”
“I want you,” she hisses.
“Prove it, then,” I snap.
She throws her arms out, forearms connecting to my wrists and dislodging my grip on her shoulders before she’s pushing me away again. “You don’t know him like I do. Step back and think for a second, Linc, it’s not exactly gonna be easy to tell my racist, bastard, cop of a father that I’m dating a black murderer.”
The word ricochets off the walls and pierces my chest, my heart cracking in two while my stomach plummets into the ground. I close my eyes, blocking out the wave of dizziness that comes hard and fast like a freight train. “Wow,” I whisper, before I can stop it.
“Linc—”
“You know,” I cut her off, dropping my head and opening my eyes. Don’t look at her, I tell myself. Don’t give her the satisfaction of the ruins in my eyes. “Don’t even worry about it.”
“Lincoln, please,” she says, chasing me down the stairs to the front door. “I didn’t mean it—I swear I didn’t, it just came out bad—”
I pull my arm away when she tries to take my elbow. “You told me, the night we met, your biggest fear was being irrelevant,” I say, finally meeting her eyes. She’s stricken, big, fat tears welling in the corners of her eyes, her mouth working to say something, anything to take back what she just said. “Keep quiet, Riley. Shut your mouth, go find a nice, stable white dude to marry. A lawyer, even. Make Daddy proud. That, that is how you become unmemorable.”
The tears spill for both of us, tracking down our cheeks like twin flames. Her lip quivers until she bites on it, her shoulders slumping as she looks down at our feet. I see my hand reach for her, but I stop it short of touching her hand. I want to. Fuck, I want to pull her in and hold her until this is over.
I’d rather die than watch her hurt, and especially knowing I’m the one who caused it...
But I don’t.
I put my hand in my pocket and say, “I love you,” because it’s true.
And then I leave.
Cheyenne: Just go out with us.
The last thing I want to do is go out with Cheyenne and Carly. It’s been a week and they haven’t heard a word from me, but in truth, no one has. I texted Carly to cry and complain about my life, convince her to come over with booze, ice cream, maybe some nachos, and sit around binge watching crappy TV shows until I forgot about Lincoln and what a horrible girlfriend I am. It was going fine—she even agreed I was trash, which is what I need right now. I’m not looking for a pick me up or to be distracted from my guilt.
I didn’t expect her to turn around and tell Cheyenne all of my problems.
I don’t know why I’m surprised, frankly, since Cheyenne and Paris just magically showed up the last time I had Linc drama. Location on, my ass. Paris is off in actual Paris, France at the moment, and isn’t around to save me with her wisdom. Lucky me.
Carly: It’ll do you good, girl.
Cheyenne: You need a better man.
I don’t want a better man. He’s the best man. He’s sweet and soft-hearted, but strong and brave and intelligent, witty and brilliant. I’m the piece of shit. I’m the one who doesn’t understand.
He hardly gives me a chance, though. How am I supposed to know when to defend him, and when to shut up and let him take care of himself? Aren’t I talking over him if I take over the defensive stance every time?
Sure, my dad is my problem, a problem he has no empathy towards. He hasn’t told me about his dad—maybe he was understanding. Mine isn’t. And neither are my friends, who are already acting like I’m single and need someone better. Fuck only knows what that means.
Why is this so damn complicated?
Maybe it’s not. Maybe I’m just overcomplicating it, like he accused me of.
Fuck all.
Riley: I don’t want to go out.
Cheyenne: Too bad. We’re coming to get you.
I throw my phone to the side and ignore the further notifications. Carly eventually calls me once, twice, three times before I finally answer. “I’m not going.”
“Please?” she says.
“I just want to mope that my boyfriend thinks I suck,” I say. Boyfriend. Have I called him that yet, really? To anyone but my own head? “It wasn’t supposed to get turned into an excuse for Cheyenne to go hit on college boys and leave me alone in the corner.”
“It’s all about you, Ri, I swear on my life. We won’t ditch you like we did last time.”
“Why are you even friends with her?” I ask.
“You’re friends with her, too.”
“No, I’m not,” I say. “I’m friends with you, and you bring her everywhere now. She’s miserable, and I hate her, and I don’t know why we all have to hang out.”
“She’s not that bad,” she sighs.
“She’s mean,” I say. “And cold, and a bully, and—and hell, she’s racist, Car.”
Carly lets out a low breath, and I can almost see her shaking her head at me. “Listen. We’re not going out for drinks. We’ll go wander around downtown, get some ice cream and fresh air, and just hang out. It’ll be really low-key. And if Cheyenne wants it to be more, well, she can go by herself. It’ll be just me and you then.”
I don’t understand why it can’t be the two of us alone to begin with, but I get the feeling it’s a trio situation or nothing. My dad texted to let me know he’d actually be out all night, and I have the house to myself. Again. My big, empty house, that now has memories of Linc all over it.
I don’t want to spend time with my thoughts.
“Fine,” I say. “But if you turn into a party girl, I’m done. Forever. Got it?”
“Done,” she says. “We’ll be there in ten. I’ll even make her drive.”
Good luck with that noise, I think. I hang up without another word and skulk to my room to get ready. My hair is a wreck, so I tie it in a bun at the top of my head and slip into a pair of pastel pink leggings. They don’t really go with the black skull tank, but I just don’t give a damn right now.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Lincoln’s Rockies hoodie strewn across my floor. He must’ve forgotten it in his rush to get away from me.
God, I suck.
I pick up the abandoned hoodie and slip inside of it, breathing in the clean, syrupy scent of him. He smells like all the good things in a city—smoke and heat, old wood and glass cleaner. The detergent he uses, some plain jane soap stench, cuts through what I really want to pull deep in my lungs, but it will have to do right now.
Cheyenne, of course, comments on it. “That’s what you’re wearing?”
I shrug and pull the strings on the hoodie, tightening the neck until it cinches over my mouth and nose. I’ll gag myself on him and keep myself from telling her I hope she chokes on her overbite.
Carly frowns at me in the rearview mirror, but I look out the window. True to her promise, Cheyenne drives further into the city and parks near the apartment buildings her brother lives in. We walk down the street without speaking, Cheyenne a few steps ahead of us and Carly draped over my shoulders.
“I still think a couple drinks and some dancing would do you good,” says Cheyenne.
“And I stil
l think you should respect I don’t like using your stupid fake IDs,” I bite.
She rolls her eyes and reaches in her bag, extracting teeny tiny bottles of bright green liquor. Sour Apple something or other. “I handled that part for us.”
“Chey,” Carly sighs.
Cheyenne shrugs and pops the top off her bottle. “Suit yourself.” She takes the overly sweetened drink over her tongue and hisses dramatically, discarding the plastic in a bush.
I sneer and grab it, stuffing it into my pockets. She doesn’t notice. “So much for a ride,” I mutter to Carly.
Carly shrugs. “It’s just a bit. She’ll be fine after she eats.”
I glare at her and pull out my phone. She watches me for a moment, so I pull up a game, pretending to distract myself with breaking virtual blocks until she starts talking to Cheyenne. Then, I text Lincoln.
Riley: I miss you.
We haven’t talked since the fight. Neither one of us have the cajones to admit we’re wrong, so I have no intention of trying to make that happen.
It was a stupid fight. One we shouldn’t have had to have in this century, one that never would’ve happened if I had a better, more open-minded father. But it happened. And I for one am willing to throw it in the pile of things I don’t think about, if he is.
Lincoln: I miss you, too.
It surprises me he replies, and I blink to fight back the tears that come instantly. He hurt me so bad—but I know his heart has to be shattered for him to talk to me like he did.
Riley: Can I see you tonight?
He doesn’t reply for a long while. Carly grabs my arm and tries to usher me across the street, following Cheyenne. I glance up, only to find Chey wants to cross to avoid the black homeless guy sitting by the fence.
I yank my arm out of Carly’s grasp and keep walking straight ahead. The man doesn’t look up when I drop the few dollars in cash in his metal cup.
Cheyenne whispers something in Carly’s ear, and they both laugh.
They’re laughing at me for this.
Lincoln: Yeah.
Riley: I’m downtown. With Chey and Carly. Rescue me?
Lincoln: Be right there, Trouble.
The nickname settles my stomach a little. He might forgive me yet. I meet the girls at the crosswalk near the parlor. They’re still giggling when we walk inside, but when I pierce them both with a glare, Cheyenne shuts her mouth and Carly hugs me again.
I keep my phone face up on the table, waiting for the text to come through that he’s here to pull me away. I wonder if I could convince him to flee the state with me. We could start over again. He did it once, maybe he’d understand my desire to fake my death.
Cheyenne is droning on and on about her screw of the week, and how he’s just not as cute as Ross Drumm, who’s her One True Love.
“Has he even spoken to you since the stalking charges got dropped?” I snipe.
Carly snorts.
“The charges were never even placed,” Chey huffs. She pulls another two shots out of her purse and pours them over her scoop of vanilla ice cream. She tips one towards me and I wave her off, pulling my chocolate chunk peppermint out of her reach before she can taint it. “I think we’ll get married in the fall.”
“This isn’t high school,” I say. “You’re a little old to be planning a wedding to a guy who doesn’t know you exist.”
“Let’s not pretend I’m the immature one at the table,” she says snidely. “At least Ross and I have a chance. You and this guy of yours...nah.”
I tap my phone, hoping Linc is close. Nothing yet. Ugh. I’m not gonna make it. Maybe I’ll have him pick me up in the nearest dark alleyway.
“Let’s change the subject,” Carly says. “Ri doesn’t wanna talk about him tonight.”
Yes, actually, I did. That’s all I wanted to do, in fact. My ‘friends’ had other plans.
Maybe it’s best, though. I doubt I would’ve ended up reaching out to him if I sat around moping with Carly in my house. I could’ve lost him forever going that route.
“You’re right. Girl, you’re like,” Chey slurs at me. No way is she fucking drunk off three little shots. Does she think I’m buying it? “Nuts. I still can’t believe you walked by the guy.”
“The homeless guy?” Carly asks.
Cheyenne nods. “Crazy.”
“Why?” I growl.
“He could’ve been a rapist,” she says, loud enough everyone in the shop can hear her. “Or a thug.”
“And why’s that?” I ask.
She’s thrown by the question. She considers a minute, mouth open, and I offer, “Lemme guess—black dude?”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. Don’t be a Paris tonight.”
“Paris had a point about you,” I say. I throw my empty container at her and push away from the table, going with my gut and abandoning this conversation.
Unfortunately, they both leap to follow me out.
“Riley, wait—” Carly says.
“I’m getting real tired of you acting like you’re so much cooler than everyone else,” Cheyenne snaps at my back.
I shove my phone in my pocket as it dings with a text message, and Cheyenne stumbles to a halt in front of me. “I’m not acting,” I growl. “I am trying to be better than you—and frankly, you don’t make it all that hard.”
“You’re not special,” she says. “Dating a black guy doesn’t make you any better than the rest of us.”
“Intentionally not walking by a black person doesn’t, either!” I scream in her face. “In fact, it makes you a piece of shit. It makes you a racist bitch.”
“Whoa now.” A new voice cuts in, deep and mildly amused, with a far away southern drawl that’d make any girl quiver. Besides me—I just want to punch him in the face.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, looking Rhett up and down. He looks exhausted but primped anyway, dark circles under his eyes, but hair and clothes on point. Even the most self-absorbed girls I know don’t have the patience to look as good as he does all the time.
“Who’re you?” Carly asks.
Rhett glances at my friends, then decides they’re not worth the time and ignores them. Normally that would piss me off. Tonight, it makes me appreciate him a little more. “Linc asked me to come get you.”
“Why?” Hurt seeps into my voice and I clear my throat to get rid of it.
“He got pulled over. Cop’s giving him a hard time, but apparently, the princess needs a chariot and can’t wait an extra five minutes.” He rolls his eyes and gestures for me to follow him. “C’mon. We gotta run.”
“Hey, I got a question,” Cheyenne asks. “Is it true black people have two Achilles tendons?”
Rhett looks at her like she is the dumbest person he’s ever come into contact with. “Excuse you?”
Carly shoves Chey’s shoulder, but it doesn’t stop her. She raises both hands in an act of surrender, her voice slow and blending together still. “I’m not racist. I have a black cousin. He told me you people have two Achilles tendons and that’s why you can run so fast.”
Rhett scratches the back of his head, his disappointment in mankind landing on me when he says, “Nice friends you got there.”
I don’t hear him.
Everything sounds far away, like I’m outside my body watching this exchange. My body moves forward, my arm reels back, and still, I feel nothing. I hear Carly say something, I’m conscious of Rhett stepping forward and reaching out to grab me.
But nothing feels real again until Cheyenne’s nose shatters against my knuckles.
It is on rare occasion I will let myself be jerked around. I blame it on the fact I haven’t dated in a long time, this inexplicable pull the girl has on me. I’m lonely, and she fills that void, that’s what this is. I’ll come to my senses one day soon, and I’ll stop coming when she calls. I’ll stop believing she wants to educate herself and her vows that she’s brave enough to openly date a black man.
Right. And while I’m on that, I’ll
be crowned the queen of England. Me in a dress and a robe is more believable that only loving Riley ‘cause I’m bored.
Fuck, I want to believe her so bad. That’s why I’m in my goddamn car again, isn’t it? Saving her from her ratchet friends and giving her yet another shot to break my heart. Because that’s what’s going to happen. No matter how sincere she sounds, she’s not willing to defend me when it really matters.
She shouldn’t have to, and I shouldn’t expect her to. But that’s the world we live in—this is a climate we were born too soon to avoid. Who knows, in a hundred years, maybe our problems won’t be relevant anymore.
I’m starting to think like Duke. There’s always going to be someone who thinks they’re better, we’ll always need someone to plug the microphone in for us.
I just want her to be that airhorn when I need it. She doesn’t have to talk over me, she doesn’t have to go be some obnoxiously passionate advocate for black lives.
It would just be nice if when someone looks at me like I’m the shit on their shoe, she held my hand. I’m willing to defend her, to face off with her father, why can’t she?
I shake off my thoughts and turn the radio up. The steady thrum of hip hop drowns out my thoughts. One more shot. I’ll give her one last shot to prove me wrong. I don’t want to lose this, whatever the hell that’s grown between us.
Maybe it’s the forbidden. The danger that allures both of us into this trap that could only ever end in misery.
But I want it, and god damn it, so does she. It’ll work this time—it has to.
There’s a whoop from behind me, and red, white, and blue lights reflect back at me in my rearview. Shit—how long have I been cruising? Driving on autopilot, zooming down the road without a solitary fuck to give.
Fuck all, okay. Pull over, car in park, emergency blinkers on. Driver’s license, registration, proof of insurance in hand. Both hands on the wheel, window rolled down. Wait. Keep a pleasant look on your face, don’t look threatening or irritated.
As always, it takes him forever to make it up to the window. This one is cranky, just reaches for my paperwork without a word. I keep my eyes down, and my mouth shut. I could ask how he’s doing, but it’s the middle of the night and he probably already thinks I’m drunk. I don’t want him to think I’m taunting him, too.
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