When Tomorrow Starts Without me

by Stacy Claflin

  "It's not my story to tell. Sorry."

  "Where did you meet her?"

  I take a deep breath. "This is serious. I need to check on her to see if she's okay."

  Sutton's brows knit together. "Why didn't you say so? Yeah, I think I know where Mom keeps that key. I saw her get it when Avery locked herself in the bathroom."

  "When was that?"

  "Oh, when she was younger. Aunt Tracie and Uncle Anthony were on vacation or something, and she was staying with us."

  "I don't remember that."

  We head for Mom's room.

  "How'd she lock herself in the bathroom?"

  Sutton turns to me. "It's a secret. I can't tell you."

  "You can be such a brat sometimes."

  "I guess we both have things we can't tell each other." She opens Mom's door, heads for the wardrobe, and pulls out a box. "We have to put this back exactly as it is, or Mom will know we took it."

  "I doubt she'll care. When was the last time she actually used it?"

  "When you were grounded and declared a food strike."

  "That was at least two years ago. Maybe three."

  "She was pretty mad at you." Sutton's tone has a song to it.

  "And there was no reason for it."

  "Really?" She returns the box and slides the key into her hoodie pocket. "You were at a party that was busted by cops."

  "Flaming Combustion was playing there," I correct. "I hadn't had a drop of anything."

  She arches a brow.

  "Fine. I had some booze. Like, one cup. Notice I didn't get arrested. I walked a straight line and everything. The cops knew they had nothing on me."

  "Whatever you have to tell yourself."

  I hold out my hand. "The key."

  Her mouth falls open. "Seriously? You want my help but you won't tell me where you met her or let me know if she's okay?"

  I reach for my hoodie. "You'll be the first to know if she's fine or not. Hand it over."

  "Fine. I have better things to do, anyway." She drops the key in my hand, stands as straight as possible, then marches out of the room.

  I leave, closing Mom's door behind me. Sutton's waiting for me in the hall. "I thought you had better things to do."

  "Yeah, like trying to figure out what you're keeping from me."

  "Don't you have finals to study for?"

  "We call them exams now, old man."

  "Old man?" I shake my head, and walk past her. "I'm three years older than you."

  "Four."

  "You're sixteen. Do the math."

  "I just turned sixteen, and your birthday's almost here. Sixteen and twenty. That's four years difference, old man."

  "Go study for your exams."

  "I'm taking a break."

  My stomach twists. If something has happened to Kenna—and I hope to God nothing has—the last thing I want is for my sister to see anything. "Sutton, please." My tone comes out harsher than I meant, but it does the job.

  She huffs and storms away.

  I breathe a sigh of relief and promise myself to make it up to her later. For now, I just need to check on Kenna, even if I end up with both of them mad at me.

  Rogan

  I hold my breath as I slide the tiny skeleton key into the barely-visible slot above the knob. Will I walk into a quiet room and find Kenna sleeping soundly? Or will it look like something out of a horror movie?

  My mind conjures up the most bloody and graphic images possible. I try to shove them aside but can't help worrying that's how I'll find the girl I'd only met a day ago.

  The lock clicks, and I turn the knob. I give another light knock and wait. After a moment of silence, I open the door.

  It's as dark as night in here. Mom likes to use blackout curtains for the guest rooms in case someone arrives jet lagged. I open the door more, letting light in.

  My eyes adjust, and I don't see anything out of the ordinary. I tip-toe over to the bed. Once standing there, I see the covers move up and down as she breathes.

  I finally breathe. Kenna's fine. Just sleeping. She hasn't done anything to harm herself. Maybe the thing at the train tracks was just a mixture of stress and fatigue.

  Kenna had gone to bed around ten, so she'd been asleep for well over half a day.

  I can relax. Go back to my guitar and practice for tonight's gig. Maybe she will even come. I like that thought more than I care to admit, even to myself.

  Kenna rolls over, knocking some of the blankets off. I reach over and pull them back up.

  She gasps and sits up, wide-eyed, looking around. Her breathing becomes harried and she stares at me, pulling the covers up to her neck.

  "Kenna—"

  She flings herself toward me, fists flying.

  Pain shoots through my jaw and then my chest. It takes me a moment to realize what's going on. She hits my side and then my stomach. "Get away from me!"

  I put my hands on her arms and stare into her eyes. "Kenna, it's me. Rogan."

  She freezes. "Rogan?"

  "Yeah. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. You've been asleep so long, I was worried."

  She just stares at me.

  "I would've let you sleep, but it's been like sixteen hours. You can go back to sleep if you want. Or we can have something to eat."

  Kenna relaxes and drops the covers. "I didn't mean to hit you. I… Well, I thought you were someone else."

  "Who?" And what did that person do to make her so mad? Was he or she the reason she'd thought the train was her only way out?

  She looks away. "Nobody."

  I want to push for an answer. I want to push so hard. To find out who hurt her and what they did. But something tells me if I do that, it'll only push her away. "Okay."

  Kenna glances at me, but doesn't speak.

  "Are you hungry?"

  She shrugs.

  I sit on the edge of the bed and take a deep breath.

  Kenna jumps back and pulls the covers up to her neck again.

  Instinctively, I return to my feet. "I'll let Miss Alice know we'll be eating. I'll meet you in the dining room?"

  "Sure."

  I take a step toward the door, but pause. There are so many things I want to say—need to say—but can't. I need to know what happened to her and then I have to protect her from it ever happening again.

  She lowers the blankets again. "I'll meet you in five minutes."

  "Take all the time you need."

  I close the door behind me, put the key back in Mom's room, and head downstairs. My mind races, trying to figure out what would make Kenna react like that. An abusive boyfriend or dad, maybe? A traumatic event, like waking up to a robber? It could be any number of things.

  My insides prickle. I don't know who hurt her, but I need to find out so I can hunt the coward down and beat him to a pulp.

  I draw in a deep breath. These thoughts and feelings are so out of character. I've had plenty of girlfriends—people I'd known for a long time and deeply cared about—but never have I felt the things raging through me now.

  Sure, I've gotten into fights over girls before. Who hasn't? But it was always things like a guy trying to move in on my girlfriend.

  These protective emotions are totally new, and I just met Kenna. It doesn't make any sense, unless saving her life had somehow forged a deeper bond.

  I could probably write a full album of songs with just the thoughts coursing through my head and my desire to protect and fight for her.

  Downstairs, I grab my guitar and take it to the kitchen.

  Miss Alice is scrubbing the sink. She turns to me. "Hi, Rogan. Do you need anything?"

  I nod. "Kenna's awake, and she's going to need something to eat."

  "Last night's leftovers? She seemed to like those."

  "Sounds good. Thank you." I head over to the dining room and start playing. Instead of practicing for tonight, I just let my fingers do their own thing.

  "Is that new?" Sutton's voice breaks my rhythm.

  I pull
myself from my thoughts. "What?"

  "It's different. Gritty and angsty. I like it."

  "Thanks."

  "Is Kenna okay?"

  That's a loaded question. Is she okay? She's alive, at least. "Just sleeping. Looks like you've met your match."

  "Maybe. She and I will have to have a sleep-off after my exams. Then we'll see who the best sleeper really is."

  "Hey, sorry for snapping at you earlier. I didn't mean it."

  Sutton frowns. "You sounded like Dad."

  "Ouch. Guess I deserved that."

  "You're nothing like him. Don't start turning into him."

  "If I do, hit me."

  She smirks. "I'll do a lot more than that. Trust me."

  Kenna

  I tighten the fluffy towel around myself and stare at my reflection through the steam. Just a fuzzy mess. I wipe a small oval and study my face. The dark circles under my eyes are lighter and my coloring isn't as pale as usual.

  My stomach rumbles, reminding me that Rogan is waiting for me in the dining room.

  He must think I'm totally crazy for pummeling him. But what else did he expect when he came into a girl's locked bedroom?

  I reach for my clothes. Dirt falls from my shirt—probably from crashing onto the ground with Rogan. I don't want to wear dirty clothes, but it wouldn't be the first time. One of my stepmom's favorite punishments is to disallow me laundry privileges.

  Knock, knock!

  My throat closes. It isn't Rogan, is it? No way I'm opening the door in a towel. "Who is it?"

  "Me." Sutton practically sings. "I thought you might want some fresh clothes."

  I throw open the door. "You're a lifesaver."

  She grins and holds them out. "These are extra-small. Think they'll fit?"

  "Perfectly. Thank you so much." I take them. They smell just like the bedding.

  "You can have them. I had a growth spurt last year, and sadly all my extra-smalls won't fit. Let me know if you want more, 'kay?"

  "Are you sure?"

  "I'd rather see them go to good use. Oh, and use whatever styling products you want. Make yourself at home, sweetie." She spins around and bounces down the hallway.

  I watch her in disbelief for a moment before closing the door and breathing in the sweetness of the clothes again. They don't just smell good. They're so incredibly soft too.

  How had I gotten so lucky? I seriously had to have ended up in Heaven. Rogan and Sutton are too good to be true—both angels in their own right.

  I hold out the shirt, a slightly low-cut teal shirt with some embroidered flowers on the side. Even the skinny jeans are ultra-soft. I rub them against my face, and as pathetic as it probably makes me, I don't care.

  Sutton had even included undergarments. I don't have to put on a single item of already-worn clothes.

  If only I can somehow pay them back for their kindness.

  I hurry to get ready, using products I've never even heard of before. I have to read the directions to know what some of them even do. It's so fun to try them.

  Finally, I make my way downstairs. Music plays from somewhere, but I can't see any speakers.

  In the dining room, Rogan sits on the floor playing the guitar with his eyes closed.

  The music is him, not the radio! He's seriously that good.

  I sit against a wall kitty-corner from him and watch him. He's not wearing a flannel, just a V-neck tee. I see each muscle move as he strums. The long-sleeved shirt the day before had hidden some seriously muscular arms. It's hard not to stare. I try watching his fingers race across the strings, but it doesn't work.

  So I close my eyes. It really feels like I'm at a concert, but this one is just for me.

  * * *

  You're a well of mysteries

  I'm drowning in your beauty

  In your pain

  All your burdens I want to ease

  I want to set you free

  Want your sorrow to wane

  * * *

  My heart soars when I see you smile

  I get lost in your eyes

  You are my destiny

  Let me hold you for a little while

  Do you not realize

  What you do to me—

  * * *

  Suddenly, the music stops. I open my eyes.

  Rogan's staring at me. "How long have you been there? That song isn't finished. I'm still working on it."

  "It sounds great to me. You're really talented, Rogan. Will you keep playing?"

  He laughs. "Only if you don't hit me."

  I stiffen.

  His smile fades. "I shouldn't have said that."

  "You shouldn't have come into my locked room."

  "I know, but I was worried about you."

  A strange feeling runs through me. Since when does anyone worry about me? "Worried about what?"

  Rogan looks away. "Just worried."

  He probably thought I'd tried to kill myself again. In fact, he probably thinks I'm pathetic.

  After some awkward silence, he looks at me again. "Are you hungry? Miss Alice is warming up some food."

  I nod. "Then I'll get out of your hair."

  He sets his guitar down. "Do you have somewhere to go?"

  "Maybe."

  Rogan crawls over and holds my gaze. "I was hoping you'd come see Flaming Combustion play tonight."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah. If you like what you just heard, you'll love the whole band together. We're playing at Shenanigans. Have you heard of it?"

  "No."

  "It's an über popular club that talent scouts like to frequent. We've already got several keeping an eye out on us from our videos online. We're growing in popularity, but getting an agent will shoot us to the next level."

  And he wants me to go with him to watch? Me? The girl who has eaten lunch in a bathroom stall more times than I can count to avoid the popular kids who loved to make fun of me?

  "Do you want to? I'll tell them you're with the band, and you'll probably get all kinds of free food and drinks. Just help with set up or something."

  I can't even find my voice.

  "Or if you don't like that, just boss us around and pretend to be our manager. We don't actually have one."

  I start to laugh, but then notice a bruise on Rogan's jaw.

  "What's the matter?"

  My heart races. He's going to be furious with me. "I… I think I bruised your face."

  So much for watching Flaming Combustion play at the fancy club.

  He rubs his jaw. "Yeah, it's a little sore, but I've had worse hits."

  "But it's your big night."

  "A bruise won't change anything. If anything, it'll make people think twice before messing with me."

  I raise an eyebrow. "People are going to give you a hard time?"

  "It happens. Dudes get jealous or whatever. Think their girlfriends like me more than them. Stupid crap like that."

  "Still, I didn't mean to hit you."

  "No big deal. I probably would've hit me too."

  The corners of my mouth twitch.

  "Besides, Sutton can help me cover it up. She's used makeup to cover my black eyes so Mom doesn't see them."

  "That's good." I probably should've offered to help him cover it up—I'm an expert at covering marks—but I don't want to get close enough to him to risk touching him. I can hardly stand to be near a guy without stiffening at the very least, wanting to punch him to near-death at the worst.

  The sound of Rogan's breathing when he moved my covers had been all it had taken for me to fly into a rage without thinking. It was nothing short of a miracle that I hadn't screamed at him.

  The aroma of pot roast fills the room and my stomach rumbles loud enough to be heard clear across town.

  Rogan pretends not to hear it and stands, offering me his hand.

  I stare at it, my pulse drumming in my ear. Clearly, his hand isn't a snake about to strike, but I can't bring myself to reach for it. Instead, I push myself up.

&
nbsp; Disappointment darkens his expression, but he smiles and gestures toward the table where the delicious meal awaits.

  Maybe I should feel bad. That's probably what someone else would feel, but I'm not someone else. I've never been like all the other girls. Not even close. But I do want to show gratitude to both him and Sutton. I just don't know how. I literally have nothing to offer, especially not to people who already have everything.

  We sit across from each other. The food makes my mouth water. I dig in, and my taste buds practically sing. It seems unreal that I would eat such a delicious meal again.

  Between bites, I sneak looks at Rogan. His muscular arms keep drawing my attention. It's so hard not to stare.

  Every once in a while, he catches me peeking. I look away immediately.

  Kenna

  I pull on the end of my sequined dress—Sutton's dress—and wiggle my toes. They barely have any room in the tight heels. I'm beginning to get used to them, I think. I'd be a lot more comfortable in sneakers and track pants, but she insisted I had to wear this outfit to the club.

  Thankfully, nobody's paying me any attention. Rogan's band is busy setting up their stuff. I'm just walking around, pretending to be useful. Part of me wants to run out to the parking lot and stay in Rogan's car all night, but at the same time, I'm also curious. And besides, he said he wanted me to watch them. Maybe this could be my way of thanking him for everything he's done for me, weird as that was, considering I couldn't even get inside without him. Or his sister's clothes.

  The entire place sparkles and shines. Shenanigans actually has glitter-painted walls. I can only imagine what it will look like when the normal lights are dimmed and the fancy colored ones on the ceiling are turned on.

  "Can you hold this?" Lathe, one of the Flaming Combustion members, held out a shiny blue guitar.

  "Sure." I take it but have no idea how to hold it.

  "It's not going to bite." He laughs, takes it back, then plugs it in.

  I shrug.

  "How'd you meet Rogan?"