by Mariah Dietz
The sight of Isla kissing Ian replays like a scary scene out of a horror film, sudden and unwanted. My chest tightens as I close my eyes.
This shouldn’t hurt so much.
I don’t know Isla that well, but I’ve wanted so badly to vilify her the past couple of weeks, and as the image of their kiss plays through my mind again, I realize with painstaking clarity that it’s because this is what I’ve feared since Chantay told me that Isla was interested in him.
I pull in a broken breath and start my car.
Bree. I need to focus on Bree.
I arrive at Something You Boutique thirteen minutes later, though the drive felt like it took a year as my thoughts danced around every subject I’ve tried to avoid for the past several months.
Bells chime as I open the door. It smells like leather and men’s cologne. “Welcome. Is there something I can help you find?” A woman with dark hair that nearly reaches her waist greets me.
“My name’s Rose Cartwright. I’m here to pick up Bree.”
The woman’s expression changes from interest in my attire and how much commission she might make from me, to my black nails and the tattoo encircling my wrist. When her eyes meet mine again, judgment is reflected at me. “She’s back here with our manager.” She extends a hand. “After you.” Her words are curt, her gaze watchful.
Offense grates at me, but I remind myself Bree was caught shoplifting, and they’re likely assuming I’m cut from the same cloth.
The woman knocks on a black door. “The girl’s sister is here,” she yells.
The door opens, and a heavyset woman with dyed orange hair and bright red lips stares at me, her disinterest and mistrust even more apparent than her employee’s. Behind her, Bree is sitting on a chair, eyes puffy and red, nose running.
I still don’t know what to say. “Was anything ruined?” I ask.
The manager sneers. “She tried to steal a pair of pants that retail for a hundred-and-thirty dollars.”
Bree shudders, refusing to meet my gaze.
“I’m sorry for the trouble. I will definitely make sure this doesn’t happen again.”
“The pants were ripped when she tried to remove the tags,” the manager continues.
“I’ll pay for them,” I tell her again, reaching for my purse.
The manager narrows her eyes. I’m sure she deals with people who are trying to pull one over on her all of the time, and I have no idea how to prove I’m not one of them.
“I’m really sorry for the trouble. If I can pay you for the pants, we’ll get going. She’s obviously late for school, and I have classes…”
The manager turns. “You’re not welcome in my store again, young lady.”
Bree doesn’t say anything as she stands and slowly moves toward the door. She follows me to the cash register, where the manager scans a set of tags to ring up the pants. I can’t believe I’m spending a hundred-and-thirty bucks for a pair of pants that aren’t even mine. But I can tell by Bree’s expression that she’s already paid severely for her mistake.
I don’t say anything as I swipe my credit card and sign my name.
The manager asks to see my license and credit card, her distrust still high. She studies them both for several seconds before returning them and handing me a bag. “Here are her pants.”
I glance at Bree, realizing she’s still wearing the stolen pants. They’re a pair of gray joggers with what appears like bleach stains across the front that ride too low on her narrow hips. I just paid a hundred-and-thirty bucks plus tax for the ugliest pair of sweatpants in the history of sweatpants. It’s a tough pill to swallow.
I accept the bag and tags—she doesn’t hand me the receipt—and we leave, both of us still silent.
Outside, the skies are overcast as a fine mist falls on us, dampening my skin and mood.
“I’m this one,” I say, unlocking my car.
Bree looks at me and slowly follows to my car’s passenger side, where she gets inside.
“Well, sister Bree, what the heck?” I ask, passing her the bag with her pants.
She’s silent.
“I had class, Bree.” On second thought, maybe this was a good thing. I can’t imagine having to sit through class, trying to catch Ian’s attention and not knowing that he’d kissed Isla just moments before class. Still, this doesn’t negate her actions. “You can’t be the president if you have a record,” I tell her.
Bree places both hands on her face and bends forward. Her cries fill the small space, shocking me and making me feel like the queen of jerks.
I warily rest my hand on her shoulder. “What happened?”
Her cries grow louder.
I am so in over my head. I should call Anna or Olivia’s stepmom, Whitney; surely one of them knows what to do or say.
Is this supposed to be a tough love, no compassion, no bullshit speech? Do I know how to deliver that message? Are her tears an act?
I pull in a deep breath, trying to rid my thoughts that are searching for all the ways she might be using me or lying to me, realizing that though I don’t know her very well, I know I have to stop looking at everyone as trying to screw me over. I’ve been trying to work on this for a couple of months now—I just didn’t realize it until this moment.
“Bree,” I say her name softly. “What happened?” I ask again.
She wipes her hands down her tear-stained cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I’ll pay you back. I swear.”
“I’m not worried about the money. I’m worried about why you were shoplifting. Shoplifting really ugly pants.”
“They were the cheapest ones in the store,” she tells me, wiping the space under her right eye.
“I can see why.”
She wipes at the same spot on her face with the back of her hand as fresh tears quickly replace those she cleared, her breaths still uneven and ragged.
“Why’d you steal them?”
“Because my period started, and it bled through my pants, and my dad’s at work.”
My shoulders slump forward, and fresh tears burn my eyes. “Bree,” I say. “You should have called me. I would have come. You didn’t have to steal these.”
“I was going to pay them for them … eventually. This is just the first stop on the city bus, and I have a math quiz last period.” More tears slip from the corners of her eyes. “I didn’t realize they were so expensive.”
“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “Don’t worry about the money or the pants or this place. Most of their stuff was hideous and overpriced.”
She sniffs as she wipes at the fresh tears.
I reach in my backseat where there’s a box of tissues, something I always keep in my car just like Anna does, just like our mom always did. I pass them to her. “Do you have some tampons or pads?”
She shakes her head. “I used a bunch of toilet paper.”
“Oh man, I’ve been there, done that. If only every girl didn’t have to earn that awful badge of honor.” I fasten my seat belt. “Put on your seat belt,” I tell her. “Let’s go buy some underwear and pads and a pair of pants that aren’t going to make this day even worse than it’s been.”
She shakes her head. “I only have a couple of bucks.”
“I wasn’t expecting you to pay for them.”
“You just bought me pants. I can’t ask for more.”
“You’re not asking—I’m offering.”
Bree’s cries grow louder again, her face puckering.
I reach across and rub my hand over her shoulders. “I know how hard it can be to accept help,” I tell her. “But I want to do this. I want to help you, and one day, you’ll do something for someone else who is having a bad day or a bad month or a bad year. It’s the cycle of karma.”
She leans her head against the seat and pulls back in a gesture that clearly states she doesn’t want my hand on her. I oblige, noticing her eyes are closed. “This is so embarrassing.”
“Asking for help is scary,” I say. “I get. I totally get it.
Accepting help can be even scarier because then you question if there’s a price, or if it’s genuine, or if they’re simply there out of obligation. I’m helping because I want to help. Because you’re worthy of help. Everyone is.”
Bree slowly opens her eyes. “I’m sorry I had them call you.”
“I’m not.”
Without warning, she leans forward and rests her head on my shoulder, and cries even harder.
I unbuckle my seat belt and wrap my arms around her, my vision growing blurry again with more tears that I struggle to hold back.
I don’t rush her. My classes suddenly feel far less significant, and even the expensive joggers feel meaningless, but there’s a nagging in the back of my thoughts that refuses to be ignored, the realization that Ian tried so hard to show and give me kindness and a relationship built on far more than attraction and rules last spring and I’m realizing this too late.
12
Rose
“I should give up on finding the best mocha in Seattle and focus on finding the best ramen,” I tell Olivia as I lean forward and take a deep breath of the salty, savory aroma. It’s Saturday night and our second girl’s night due to Arlo being in San Francisco for his game that finished with another win two hours ago.
“We should do both,” she says, popping the top off her drink. She’s on cloud-nine after Arlo’s return to football without injury or problem and the accompanying victory. “Whitney and I had some really good teriyaki last week. She said Seattle is known for it. How did I not know this?”
I grin at the mention of her stepmom. The two had a cordial and polite relationship until last year. “Because until last spring, you didn’t want to stay in Seattle.”
Her smile falters, and her gaze dips.
“Everything okay?” I reach for my chopsticks.
“The other day, Arlo mentioned the draft and what might happen. He was talking about how he thinks his chances are the highest with Colorado and Illinois, and now I can’t stop focusing on how he might get drafted to another state, and I have no idea what will happen. I mean, he plays and trains and studies football for forty plus hours now. Can you imagine how difficult it would be if he’s drafted and playing pro in another state and trying to find time together?”
“If?”
Her gaze falls again, this time followed by a sigh. “And he already has so many girls interested in him. Can you imagine the attention he’ll receive once he’s pro?”
“Do you need me to give you the guacamole speech again?” I ask. “Because I’m ready. Arlo is the real deal. He’s not with you because of the way you look or because your dad’s the coach—trust me, you’re a little surly in the mornings, and he still loves you. It’s about the way you guys make each other feel—your connection. If he gets drafted, you go with him. It’s that easy. After all, you’re going to be writing books and changing the world.”
Olivia breaks apart her chopsticks and goes after one half of the hardboiled egg in her bowl. “But you’re here, and my family is here.”
“Arlo will be rolling in the money. You guys can have a house here and a house there. Split your time.”
She scoffs. “He didn’t talk about me going with him.”
“Of course, he didn’t. It’s Arlo. He already knows you’re going with him, so he didn’t feel the need to clarify.”
A smile starts in the corners of her lips. “Now that I’ve spilled my beans, it’s your turn.”
I take a bite of the seasoned pork and quietly hum. “This is so good. I don’t want to ruin good food with a discussion of work or school.”
“Oh, good. I don’t either. I want to talk about boy drama.”
“I don’t have any boy drama,” I remind her. “One of the perks of not dating.”
Her eyes narrow on me as she chews her bite of food. “Arlo said they had a team meeting yesterday led by Pax and Ian. He said they couldn’t figure out how to take down the site or who is even posting it and asked everyone if they had any information.”
“Did anyone?”
Olivia shakes her head. “Nope. Though, at this point, I’m not sure anyone would admit to knowing anything even if they did. That picture yesterday accusing Rockway of sleeping with a sixteen-year-old…” She winces. “It was bad, and it’s starting to gain attention. Apparently, they’re starting to do investigations about the claims that have illegal activity.”
I scrub a hand over my face, my appetite shrinking. “Do you think any of it’s true?”
She sighs. “I have no idea. Arlo and I had a long discussion about it the other night. It’s hard to see this happening, but if some of these rumors are true, then I guess they need to be held accountable.”
“Absolutely, but what if they’re not?”
“You know that freshman who was accused of sleeping with his teacher?”
I nod.
“Apparently, it was true, but only fractionally.”
“Like most rumors.”
Olivia nods. “Supposedly, he did sleep with her, but it was after he had graduated and he was over eighteen, and she was only twenty-two. A student-teacher.”
I mull over these details. “I can still see the moral discrepancy, but that headline was obviously meant to come across like he slept with her while she was his teacher.”
She nods. “For sure.”
“Thankfully, Anthony got his hand slapped pretty hard from the faculty, and he still seems afraid of me from our conversation last week after I finally tracked him down.”
“He deserved to be punched.”
“Do you think Ian still assumes I wrote that Anthony’s article? Or that I was aware of it?”
“Ian?” She tries to hide her grin as I mention his name for the first time all week.
“I kissed him,” I blurt out the words.
Olivia drops her chopsticks. “You kissed?”
I cover my face with both hands so I don’t have to see her reaction. “It’s not a big deal, it was just a kiss.”
“Not a big deal? This is huge! When? Where? Was there tongue?”
I slide my hands down my face. “Monday, at Shady Grove Park.”
“When you went to talk to him?”
I nod. “He was frustrated, and asking me all these questions, and I just … kissed him.”
“And?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. I didn’t know what to say, so I left.”
Olivia’s shoulders fall with the anticlimactic ending. “You need to talk to him. Ask him out on a date or to get coffee.”
I shake my head to catch up with her train of thought. “I haven’t heard from him all week.”
“You know, I think my dating Arlo has changed both of our outlooks.”
I take a deep breath, recognizing that she’s baiting me. “Okay, I’ll play. How has your dating Arlo changed us?”
“Because I thought you only fall for one guy ever, and after you fall, you’ll only ever be thinking of that person, and I think you did, too.”
“We aren’t talking about Christopher,” I warn her, setting my chopsticks down. “I had to have this conversation with Anna, and I refuse to have it again.”
“Oh, we’re talking about Christopher,” Olivia says as she nods.
“I didn’t stop dating because of Christopher,” I tell her. Not entirely. “He inspired the idea of setting rules and boundaries.”
“I know. Because you’re a strong and independent woman, and you wouldn’t let some sniveling, two-timing excuse of a guy change your entire mindset.”
“Are you trying to reverse-psychology me?”
Olivia’s eyes grow wide with innocence. “Me?”
“Christopher was over four years ago,” I remind her.
“I know.” She takes a bite of her dinner and chews slowly. Then, she takes a drink and sets her glass bottle down, all the while, her gaze is on me. “But I also know that pain doesn’t really follow a specific timeline. We both know that.” She smiles weakly. “I know that Christophe
r cheating on you pales in comparison to everything else you experienced that year, but it certainly didn’t help build your confidence in the male sex or relationships in general.”
I don’t respond, taking too long to eat several bites of food as her words invite years’ worth of memories and thoughts into my brain.
“Anyway,” Olivia says, brushing off her hands. “I saw Ian yesterday before the guys boarded their plane.” She stares at me, but doesn’t continue.
“You know I won’t beg for the details, right?”
Olivia giggles, knowing I’m mostly hot air at this point. “He told me about his parents moving back home. Did you know that his dad is running for governor next year?”
I hate that it hurts to hear this for the second time from a third party rather than Ian, but per my usual, I disguise this with humor. “No, we mostly only ever discussed me and my dreams and aspirations. It was basically all things Rose, all of the time.”
This time her laugh is more of a cackle. “I told him I wasn’t trying to meddle, but I told him the article wasn’t yours, and based on his reaction, I’m fairly positive he knew.”
“I saw him kissing Isla,” I say, dropping the second truth bomb on her.
Olivia’s mouth falls open. “What?”
I nod. “Exactly.”
“When? Where?”
“Thursday, before class.”
She shakes her head as though trying to make sense of the news. “Are you sure it was Ian?”
I laugh in response. “I gave her the green light. I gave him the green light. I can’t really be surprised.”
Olivia reaches forward, resting her hand on mine. Her entire face and mood seem lower. “I know how scary it is to like someone,” she tells me. “Trust me when I say that it only gets scarier. But it’s worth it, Rose. I know he likes you. There has to be some sort of reasoning for what you saw.”
13
