I Love You Like That

by Heather Cumiskey

  PRAISE FOR HEATHER CUMISKEY’S

  I Like You Like This

  “Hannah's story is primo, and the surprise twist of the epilogue will have readers stoked with anticipation for a sequel. Overall, a tubular story for readers looking for their next great melodramatic love story.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “The two teens’ unpredictable melting pot of emotions and attempts to find their place resonates.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A poignant coming-of-age read full of heart-pounding drama and a swoon-worthy romance, I Like You Like This is guaranteed to captivate readers from beginning to end. Think Riverdale, but set in the 80s.”

  —BuzzFeed

  “For fans of 13 Reasons Why, Heather Cumiskey's new novel takes a spin on a classic.”

  —PopSugar

  “This teen narrative will pull at your heartstrings. I Like You Like This is a book you’ll definitely like!”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “The romance between Hannah and Deacon, the unexpected ending, and Hannah's transformation make this book a compelling read.”

  —Readers' Favorite, Five Star Review

  ALSO BY HEATHER CUMISKEY

  I Like You Like This

  I

  Love

  You

  Like

  That

  Copyright © 2019 by Heather Cumiskey

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

  Published August 2019

  Printed in the United States of America

  Print ISBN: 978-1-63152-616-9

  E-ISBN: 978-1-63152-617-6

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019933687

  For information, address:

  She Writes Press

  1569 Solano Ave #546

  Berkeley, CA 94707

  She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

  Book design by Stacey Aaronson

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  To all of the Hannahs and Deacons out there,

  may you find your tribe . . . and thrive.

  DARIEN, CONNECTICUT

  June 1985

  (six months after that night)

  CHAPTER 1

  A SIREN PIERCED THROUGH HANNAH’S BRAIN, CATAPULTING her straight up in bed. Her cheeks were wet. No, no, I want to go back. The jarring noise came from outside her window then stopped. She pulled on both sides of her scalp and squinted at the shadows sitting around her room. She jumped when the noise cut through the air again, vibrating from the floor. Shoot. She fumbled for the phone. She reeled it up by its cord and grabbed the receiver.

  “H-hello?” she croaked, clearing her throat at the same time.

  A shiver slid down her back into her damp sheets. This one felt more real than the others. His phantom scent of spicy vanilla and leather hung in the air. Her head whipped around. Wait, he was just here.

  In her dream she’d bolted out the front of her house when she saw Deacon’s car from her bedroom window, not giving a flip if she got caught.

  Standing before her, he’d gently moved her hair off her eyes. His deepening gaze had summoned her heart to crack open . . . for him and only him.

  He’d tugged her shoulders toward him. “You look incredible. God, let me kiss you.”

  She’d almost forgotten the sweeping angles of his face, how beautiful he was, dressed in his clothes from that night, the bloodstain from where the bullet entered his shoulder somehow gone.

  She’d searched those soft chocolate brown eyes of his, the ones that spoke more to her than his words ever had. She’d known what she wanted, what she’d always wanted. “Will you stay this time?”

  He’d swooped down as if to kiss her, stopping inches from her lips, and whispered, “Forever, Hannah.”

  Then he was gone.

  “Hello?”

  She cut off her breath, straining to hear anything at all as she pressed the receiver tighter to her ear.

  “Hello . . . ? Peter?”

  A sharp click, and the phone went dead.

  It was always the same. Stupid kids, she thought. She changed her clammy tank top and dove back into bed with her eyes still closed.

  CHAPTER 2

  december 21, 1984

  “IS HE GOING TO BE OK AY?” JADE ASKED, WISHING SHE were still high, her body already jonesing for another hit.

  “The bullet went through the right side of your brother’s chest and out the back of his shoulder. Luckily, though, it didn’t pierce any vital organs. It appears he hit the back of his head pretty hard and bit his tongue . . . see here?” explained the bobble-headed guy with the pencil neck and oversized white coat who kept pulling Deacon’s mouth open for her to see. Deacon didn’t wake—he didn’t even flinch.

  It hadn’t been hard to convince this alarmingly young doctor, who seemed incapable of knowing much about medicine aside from maybe having earned a merit badge in first aid, that she was family and not Deacon’s drug-dealing associate.

  Jade rolled her eyes, watching how he held the clipboard annoyingly close to his shiny face, squinting over the information as he spoke. If it weren’t for the smell of antiseptic keeping her awake, she’d have blown out of here hours ago. Just tell me when he can get out of here.

  “From the trauma to the head and chest, his body went into shock and lapsed into a coma. Was he coherent for long after he got shot?”

  “No idea, I wasn’t there when it happened . . . two others were, in addition to his, I mean, our half-brother . . . th-the shooter. I heard that his girlfriend applied pressure to his chest, trying to stop the bleeding. Then he passed out. I got there when those two cops were loading him into the back of their car. I followed them here.”

  The young doctor swiveled his head to either side while poking the bottom of Deacon’s feet with one of his shiny instruments. “He’s not responding to any of my tests. It may be a few days before he comes out of it. Well, best case, that is. Then we’ll know if any oxygen was cut off to the brain.”

  “Geez. So he may be a vegetable?”

  “Hmm,” he answered, jotting something down on Deacon’s chart.

  “Doc, do you know why those cops put him in that body bag? He’s clearly alive.”

  “Giroux . . . Giroux?” a woman’s voice bellowed from down the corridor.

  “Fifth door on the left,” someone called out from the nurses’ station.

  Jade shrank back into the room and away from the lights streaming over Deacon’s bed. Shit, shit. She shouldn’t be here.

  Her chance to escape vanished at the appearance of a woman’s shapely silhouette in the doorway, her hands resting elegantly on either side of the frame. Babette Giroux sauntered in wearing a red fitted suit and gobs of pearls circling her neck, her head held high like a lioness. The young doctor’s jaw scraped the floor.

  Babette took a couple of small steps toward her son, her brow hardening in a severe line as she fiddled with her wedding ring like it was a rosary, her lips mouthing something no one could hear.

  “Is he . . . ?”

  “Lucky . . . yes, very lucky,” the young doctor beamed as if he’d single
handedly saved Deacon from having the bedsheet pulled over his head.

  “Oh . . .” Babette replied, the corners of her mouth dipping slightly.

  Jade had seen his mother before, but never this intimately. Her eyes began watering from her heavy Giorgio perfume. She knew some stories about Babette Giroux, but was unprepared for the prickly sensation running through the center of her back from being in the woman’s presence.

  Babette smiled sweetly. “Doctor . . . ?”

  He quickly cleared his throat and plastered on a horsey smile that Jade hadn’t seen until then. “Klondike, Dr. Adam Klondike, madame.”

  “Doctor . . . Adam, I’d appreciate if you let me tell his father about our son’s medical state. He’s not in town at the moment. And there’s already some reporter skulking around outside. We need to keep this incident quiet, if we can, so the family can have some privacy before the tabloids get ahold of this . . . you understand, don’t you?”

  Babette leaned over the bed, pushing her breasts forward in her suit jacket, her bejeweled, red-manicured fingers forming pop tents next to Deacon’s body. Her violet eyes lured in the young doctor while her backside wiggled ever so slightly, as if she were purring.

  “O-of course,” he stammered, his face blooming pink blotches while the rest of him jittered like a pubescent sixth grader. He was clearly enjoying the show.

  “Thank you, Adam,” Babette said tenderly, straightening herself up, her boobs leading the way. She kept her gaze on the doctor’s widening eyes and her back arched as she skimmed her hands along her hips, ensuring nothing was missed.

  Wow. Jade tried to stifle a cough from the post-nasal drip she was experiencing, which was now part coke, part Babette’s perfume.

  “Now . . . Adam, can you give me a moment with my son?”

  “Of course,” the doctor replied, his lips gleaming with saliva. He bowed his head awkwardly, sending his glasses down his nose, before ducking out the door.

  Jade backed away to exit behind the doctor. She sensed a plan percolating inside the older woman’s head and wished Deacon would wake up already. She’d have to come back later—maybe then, she hoped, he’d be talking.

  “Young lady?” Babette’s voice lost its sugarcoating and sounded more like a car’s tires on gravel.

  Jade froze. She reluctantly faced her, folding her arms tight across her chest, her shoulders up around her ears. She hadn’t realized how chilled she was until now.

  “You’re not to speak of this. As far as you know, he’s dead . . . can you remember that?”

  Jade’s eyes fell to the ground.

  “Do you understand English? He’s dead.”

  “B-but . . .”

  “I’ll take this pillow and smother him right here,” Babette snarled, exposing her side canine and twisting the bed pillow in front of her.

  Jade flinched. “G-g-got it . . . he’s dead. Totally.” Oh my god, oh my god.

  “Now leave us.”

  As she backed away, Jade’s foot caught a chair leg near the corner of the room, sending her stumbling toward the door. Ignoring the screams inside her head, she looked back. Seconds strung together, holding her afloat, as she took in the sight of his mother still gripping the pillow. Finally, she fled.

  CHAPTER 3

  christmas eve Day, 1984

  DEACON’S EYELIDS STIRRED. IT FELT LIKE TWO SMALL weights were pressed upon them. Brenda’s humming of “Silent Night” tickled his ear, as it had long ago when he was a small boy sitting on his father’s campaign secretary’s lap, watching her type like a maestra pianist.

  He sensed her sweet breath on his neck. He fought to push his eyelids open, longing for the comfort of seeing her round, fleshy face again. When he succeeded, the humming ceased, and his dream was replaced by a young woman in teal-colored scrubs and a stethoscope who was standing next to his bed and busily scribbling something on his chart.

  He batted his eyes a couple of times, unsure of his surroundings and the stranger before him. He watched her flit around the room with quick, short movements befitting her closely shorn, jet-black Sheena Easton hair and the pink Chiclet gum squares stuck to her ears.

  He attempted to speak. His tongue floated like a large, misshapen rock in the center of his mouth. His head, chest, and right shoulder ached like hell. He tried to swallow, but the arid layers lining the inside of his mouth and throat restricted him. He managed a grunt and the young woman’s head snapped to attention.

  “Han-nah . . . w-where . . . is she here?” he garbled in hoarse, drawn-out syllables.

  “Shhh, no visitors until you’re stable. I just turned away your sister, again.” The woman smiled swiftly, tucking short strands behind her ears as she spoke. “Good to see you’ve come back to us.” Her eyes darted nervously from his face to the monitor next to him.

  “My sis . . . ?” Had to be Jade, he reasoned. She would be the only one to track him here—mostly in hopes of finding clues to where the drugs were stashed. He never shared his hiding spots with anyone, especially her.

  “Have my parents . . .”

  “Not that I’ve seen.”

  “Are you my doctor?”

  “Surgical nurse. I assisted Dr. Klondike in your procedure.”

  He winced. “I can’t lift my arm . . . my shoulder . . . kills.”

  Her demeanor cooled as she changed his IV bag. She adjusted something on the monitor next to him and then rechecked the spot where the IV was inserted in the top of his hand.

  His eyes wandered the room. “Where am I? . . . I need to call someone.”

  He didn’t notice the needle with the brownish fluid in her hand until she began injecting it into his new IV.

  “Wait, what’s that?”

  “Shhh . . . this will help you rest,” she said steadily.

  He could see her eyes fully now, a whitish gray, the color of fog. His head began to spin, along with the rest of him. “I think I’m going to get sick . . . I need something . . .”

  “It’ll be easier if you just cooperate,” she whispered woodenly.

  “W-what . . . what did you . . .” The corners of the room began curling in as the beeping on his monitor quickened. He saw her pick up the phone next to his bed just before his eyelids crashed again.

  He was dead. That’s what they’d told him.

  For two and a half days, the world outside, besides Jade, had believed him to be gone. The thought made him feel strangely at peace. He could hit the reset button on his life. His days and nights would finally stop running together. Things could be made right for once. For now, he needed to disappear. Before those two cops returned.

  Jade had to come through.

  They’d spoken on the phone, but he never really knew with her.

  Deacon swung his legs off the side of the bed and gingerly pushed himself up with his good arm. Accompanying his sudden head rush came the curdling smell wafting from the meal delivery cart rolling down the hall, its pungency unwavering regardless of its menu.

  He barely nodded at the redheaded aide when she dropped off his lunch tray. The small movement ignited a stabbing pain to run through his shoulder. She was the only person, besides his demon-eyed nurse and that Dr. Dork Klondike, he’d seen since coming out of a coma. She was definitely working overtime.

  She quietly closed the door behind her and Deacon’s pulse fired off into a gallop. He focused on the folded clothes in the plastic bag next to his bed. He filled his lungs, holding the air inside, and carefully rose to his feet. He closed his eyes, trying not to give into the wretched pain. Don’t wimp out, asshole.

  He laid out the flannel shirt he’d worn the night of the shooting. The bloodstain draped over the shoulder was a deep brown and the size of a baseball mitt. He stared at it for several seconds, remembering everything that had gone down. Remembering her. The way she had applied pressure to his chest even though the sight and smell of blood made her queasy. Remembering how she’d cried for him to wake up . . . and how he’d tried.

&n
bsp; After the evil nurse had zonked him out, Deacon had woken again—in more pain than before, and this time flanked by the same two federal agents who’d been following him for months. They’d stared down at him, their faces evolving from pensive to the excited expressions of kids on Christmas morning. He’d closed his eyes, hoping they’d go away. If I act dead . . .

  It hadn’t worked. The scarier of the two, a guy with red, protruding jowls and a bulbous nose who called himself Kodak, had proceeded to kick the side of his bed, jostling his injured chest and shoulder to the point that he’d wanted to hurl. He’d automatically lifted his right arm to stop him— and the pain had pierced through his shoulder turning the whole room white. The tears running down the sides of his face had set the two officers into a fit of menacing laughter. The skinnier agent, a man by the name of Eastman who sucked his cigarettes like he was trying to move berries through a straw, had doubled over and actually belly laughed.

  We’ll be back, they’d told him.

  I have to disappear. I can’t do what they’re asking.

  He scanned the pile for his jeans. Pulling those on seemed like an easier task than getting his shirt around him. He used his good arm to guide his feet through, dismissing the second head rush that hit between his eyes when he leaned over. He pulled his bad arm through the shirtsleeve and draped the shirt over his bandaged shoulder. He then repeated the sequence with the jacket. When he reached around his back, pain shot like a knife through his chest and shoulder, making everything take ten times longer. Hurry up, fuckhead.

  A sudden heaviness came over him. He stopped. Hannah’s perfume still lingered on his clothes from that night. He sank down on the bed, wishing he weren’t in this nightmare. Everything had gotten so screwed up, so fast. He was back to running again, just like when he was a kid living with his grandfather—running from him, running from the bullies in the park. He’d stopped running when he met Hannah. Now nothing would be the same.