“Shit,” he’d whispered angrily, and flung the receiver away from him.
“Thomas!” a voice admonished from the floor. “This is fucking serious.”
It can’t be, can it?
He slammed the phone to his ear again. It took a few head scratches to register that old “Teflon D” was ordering him around like they were back in seventh grade. His nickname had emerged from his ability to come away unscathed from every form of trouble. Apparently, he’d done it again.
“Okay, okay. Got it.”
The reality that Deacon was alive had sobered him to his feet. He stepped into his jeans and the room rotated like a carnival Tilt-A-Whirl. He sat back down until it stopped. His throat blazed from the vodka and coke, making him drum up some nasty phlegm that he launched into the trashcan.
He thought he’d been partying to forget. The pit in his stomach, however, revealed something else: he’d been relieved by the news of Deacon’s death.
No matter his efforts, Deacon remained the one person he could never beat. From surpassing him on the school swim team to the countless classmates who revered him and the swarm of hot girls who longed to be in his bed, the guy aced at life.
Thomas stared at him now, sitting on his roommate’s bed. He’d been struck, when Deacon walked through the door, by how tall he now was, how broad his shoulders were, and how his mug had grown more handsome than ever. Fucking shit.
In between unrolling and rerolling his shirtsleeves, Thomas pushed out his chest and raised himself up on his knuckles to make the two of them closer to eye level. He couldn’t stand how Deacon had shot up and left him behind, making his commanding presence larger than ever.
“There’re these guys that have been following me for a while . . . you wouldn’t believe it if I told you.” Deacon side-eyed him and lowered his brows.
Thomas stopped fidgeting. “Wait, the same ones who jumped you?”
“Nah, these losers have wanted my scalp longer than that.”
“More like your territory.” Thomas smirked. He could feel his crooked smile dragging at the corner of his mouth. It got more pronounced when he drank.
“No.” Deacon’s lips contorted slightly.
Thomas’s eyes stretched wide; was he about to see his ever-so-tough friend lose it for the first time?
Deacon’s head sank between his shoulders. “They’re cops. Federal agents, actually.” He exhaled somberly. “They want me to work for them.”
“Sounds sort of kinky.” Thomas laughed dryly, trying to lighten the mood, which was far too intense for his beer buzz.
“No, it’s some scary shit they want me to do.” Deacon carefully rubbed his shoulder. “Pretty bogus.”
Thomas lost his smirk. He could see that Deacon wasn’t playing. “What now?”
“Chill here until I can shake them . . . and I need my half of the cooler, too.”
“It’s secure.” Thomas nodded. He’d buried the cooler near the lake and hadn’t touched it since. Frankly, he hadn’t needed it.
“I want to find a way to get Hannah back. With everyone, well almost everyone, thinking I’m dead, it shouldn’t be too difficult to get a message to her and get her out of there.”
“Your parents think you’re dead too?”
Deacon flipped his beer cap toward the trashcan in the corner. It hit the inside edge and dropped in. “Yeah, even got a gravestone in the family plot right next to my lunatic grandmother, the same old bat who jumped to her death way before I was born.”
“Sheesh, you saw your tombstone, dude?”
“Nah, Jade told me.”
“That bodacious babe who works for you? How the hell is she still in the picture?”
“Uh-huh, the same. She’s going to check on Hannah for me.”
“Wait, what exactly did your family bury?”
“Dunno, but I have a feeling that the Feds managed something.”
“Dude, you can’t go back there.”
Deacon nodded like he’d heard it all before.
“So, what’s the plan?”
“At the moment, drink a few more of these.” Deacon drained the last of his beer, then tipped his chin up toward Thomas. “May I have another, sir?”
Thomas sat transfixed, watching him propel bottle caps into the can. Deacon clenched his jaw harder after each successful bucket. Finally, he stopped and rubbed his brows with both hands. He jammed the edge of his palms into his forehead, turning his skin white. Whatever was going on inside of him, there wasn’t enough alcohol in the world to numb it.
“So what’s it like to be . . . you know, dead?”
Deacon sighed sharply though his nose. He examined the ground between his feet and scooped up another bottle cap. His pinched face didn’t match his words. “Good, actually . . . freeing . . . except for the complications.”
“Hannah—”
“And the Feds on my tail.”
“What about that dipstick half-brother of yours . . . what’s-his-face?”
Deacon guffawed. “Hopefully Toby’s locked up for shooting me—but more than likely, he’s gotten away with it thanks to our dear ole dad. Probably living in my house as we speak . . . the fucker.”
“Pretty lame.”
Deacon shrugged. “Everybody’s happy now that I’m gone . . . except . . .”
“Her.”
Thomas could see his old friend struggling and tried to lift his mood. “Come on, D, it’s like getting a redo. Remember those when we were kids? Our swim team days? Every time one of us messed up, we’d call redo! Belly flop off the diving board, redo!”
“Yeah, I remember,” Deacon said wistfully. “I wish this felt like that.” He took a long sip of beer. “So . . . interested in doing a little business while I’m here? Big Bad Buddy still driving?”
“He sure is.” Thomas grinned, then swung his arm around and caught Deacon’s bad shoulder.
“Ass-hole!”
CHAPTER 9
darien, Connecticut
“WE WERE JUST THERE A COUPLE OF DAYS AGO . WHY DO we have to go back?” Hannah stared out the window at the passing cars. She knew she was whining and didn’t care. Her mother hadn’t been so kind to her during their last visit to rehab. Why return for more?
Her father shot her a look. “Because she’s your mother . . . think of your sister, what it must be like for them.” He gritted his teeth. “These doctors will fix things and help put this family back together.”
“Fix things? Mom’s a pill-popping addict and most likely an alcoholic, Dad.”
“Don’t call her that,” he snapped.
“She’ll always be drawn to that stuff because she never learned to cope with losing her first child,” Hannah persisted.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“And that’s part of the problem.”
He exhaled and tightened his jaw. “I’ll drop you off with the donuts. Sign in and I’ll park.”
“Yeah, okay. Wait, are these considered contraband?” Hannah said, lifting up the Dunkin Donuts box.
He motioned his head toward the entrance, her signal to get out of the car already.
She stepped through the double doors and the attendant promptly confiscated the donuts. “All incoming food must be sealed,” he announced robotically, eyeing the box. She noticed how he helped himself to a big bite of one of the donuts before she even made it halfway down the hall.
Hannah heard the arguing before the elevator doors opened on her mother’s floor. She stepped out into the corridor and spotted two men in suits. The larger man had a red face and was angrily poking his sausage finger into the other man’s chest.
Beyond them, a pair of patients in matching sweats headed her way. They awkwardly made eye contact with Hannah as they steered around the two arguing men. Hannah’s shoulder skimmed the wall, knocking a cardboard Yule log decoration to the floor. She bent to pick it up, and heard the suits’ conversation as they passed.
“They were supposed to watch him!”
“He couldn’t have gotten far, boss,” the other one said, puffing hard on a cigarette.
Hannah reattached the decoration back to the wall and took a deep breath before entering her mother’s room.
“I forgot to tell you I saw one of your friends here,” her mother said as Hannah walked in, foregoing a simple hello.
A friend? “Who was it?” Hannah asked, screwing up her face. A couple of minutes into their visit, and so far her mother was playing nice.
“A tall, striking boy. I think he was visiting someone down the hall.”
“I have no idea, Mom.”
Her mother frowned and smoothed out the front of her tracksuit. She sat down next to the window across from Hannah. A 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle (according to the colorful box top) featuring a partially completed pair of angora cats was spread out on the table next to her.
“My head’s been foggy lately,” she said gazing down and wrinkling her forehead. “I think I saw him once in the neighborhood?”
“Oh, you mean Peter. I’m not sure why he’d be here. Guess I’ll have to ask him.” Hannah smiled politely. She hadn’t spoken to Peter—to anyone but family—since the night Deacon died, less than a week ago. She didn’t want her fears confirmed that she could have done more to save Deacon.
“Where’s Kerry?”
“Therapy.”
“And you? How are—” Hannah began.
“What about me?” her mom said sharply.
Hannah’s face flushed. She picked up one of the puzzle pieces, shaking her head. Nice. Still acting all superior, Mother.
She sensed an onslaught coming in the way her mother’s eyes burned into her.
“I wish you’d brush your hair more, Hannah.”
“It’s curly. If I do that, it’ll just be frizzy.”
“It looks better when you straighten it. Didn’t your father buy you a curling iron to smooth out your hair?”
“Yep.” Her father had arrived home after work Christmas Eve with a bag of drugstore gifts from the Pathmark near their house for her to wrap: for her mother, perfume and a quilted toiletry bag; for Kerry, a couple of knock-off Care Bears; and for Hannah, a curling iron and makeup from the bargain bin to cover her acne—another aspect of her appearance that caused her parents, especially her father, displeasure. She should have known that her mother had briefed him on what to get.
“Well?”
“I didn’t know I was supposed to come here all dolled up,” she retorted, her ears growing hot. She scowled turning back toward the door, wondering when her dad would make it upstairs and yell about the donuts. She’d welcome that over waiting for another dart to fly out of her mother’s mouth.
Part of her longed to tell this woman everything that had happened over the last three months—about dating Deacon, finding the pictures that led to their breakup, and the horrific night that had permanently ended it all. But how could she confide in her about the dark and dangerous boy she’d fallen in love with when something as basic as her naturally curly hair was such a constant source of disappointment?
“How you look is a reflection on me,” her mother suddenly said, raising her chin.
Hannah swallowed hard; her eyes stung like she’d been punched. If only she could look the way her mother wanted her to and stop disappointing her all of the time. Maybe then she wouldn’t have needed those pills. If she’d worked harder, maybe she would have been enough to help her mother forget her pain over losing baby Michael.
She knew it wasn’t rational. It sure felt real, though.
Hannah riffled through the remaining puzzle pieces in the box. She moved aside the ones with pink on them for the triangle noses and ears, those for the white whiskers and green eyes, and so many others with fur that it was hard to tell which way was up—until she found the one befitting the moment.
“That’s funny, Mom,” she said, “considering you’re the one in rehab.” She snapped the puzzle piece with the cat’s claws into its rightful place.
CHAPTER 10
milton, Massachusetts
SLEEPING IN HIS FORMER DORM WA S GETTING OLD FAST and it only had been a few days. Deacon relied on Thomas for everything: food, extra clothes, company, etc. He couldn’t afford anyone seeing him walking around campus or going into town and discovering that he was still breathing. In some ways, it felt like old times.
When Deacon attended boarding school in seventh and eighth grade, he and Thomas were the only ones who stayed on campus over winter break. He told everyone he was in between homes, which was basically true. Thomas’s family, meanwhile, didn’t celebrate Christmas, and his parents liked to take separate vacations. Whether Thomas was invited to join one of them, Deacon never asked. The two of them didn’t elaborate when it came to family. Their mutual hatred for most things parental was enough of a bond.
Deacon was already dealing on campus when Thomas suggested a joint partnership. They could expand his territory by working locally for Thomas’s father’s commercial transport business in the mailroom, distributing packages to each of the buildings via a golf cart.
At first the freight drivers they approached, like Big Bad Buddy, were skeptical, sizing up the young teens and wondering if they could manage such an operation and have the constant cash flow to make it worth the risk. Turned out, their cover was perfect; their age and general awkwardness let them move about without suspicion.
The drugs came in from the harbor. The boys met the drivers at one of their designated spots and loaded up an ice cooler. They transported it in the golf cart and later stored it in one of their dorm rooms. The route was so rich that they pulled in around five pounds of coke a month.
Thomas still used the route and a willing driver or two these days, but not to the same degree as when they worked together. The bulk of the profits was hidden in a secondary cooler on campus. Deacon’s share of it was his ticket to a new life.
“Dude, I’m going to go crazy if I have to spend another minute cooped up in this room,” he growled upon their third morning together. He’d forgotten how uncomfortable the dorm beds were. His feet hung off the end now.
Thomas was already up, madly opening and closing bureau drawers.
Deacon’s sleepy lids barely lifted; his voice was still rough from another restless night. He woke up to the sound of his father’s gun firing, sweating, his heart caroming inside his chest at seeing Toby and Hannah’s faces and the shiny metal pistol between them, so vividly. Jumbled images haunted his night, twisting up his bed sheets and tying him down.
In his dream, he saw Hannah pressing the tip of the gun to his head. In another, it was his father smugly grinning behind the trigger.
A dark gloom enveloped him when he realized where he was that morning. Another day without you. Seven days since the shooting, and there never seemed to be enough air.
“You’re beginning to reek, dude,” announced Thomas, already dressed and grabbing his wallet from the jeans on the floor.
“Fuck you.”
“Yeah, you too. Going out for food, dick. What’s today’s bag-O-barf?”
“Filet mignon.”
“Be back.”
“Not with my wallet, douche.”
Thomas slammed the door behind him, and the sound of his footsteps faded down the hall.
Deacon rubbed his eyes, contemplating taking a shower. He knew it wouldn’t be enough to clear his head, help him shake off the ghosts from the night.
“Screw it. One trip outside isn’t going to kill anyone.”
Deacon rounded the corner, choosing the shortcut between the dorms. He knew where he wanted to go, but the path looked different than he remembered—the trees taller, the grounds and spaces between the buildings tighter. He buried his head further into his collar and ran hunched over. He’d stolen one of Thomas’s knit hats and it already itched.
He cut through one of the alleys and stopped where the path split off. Where the hell am I? He spun back, facing the direction he’d come from,
and heard a car door slam. He dropped behind a stairway. He was too far from the dorm entrance. He pressed his lips together and waited.
Several minutes passed. The morning wasn’t getting any warmer. He didn’t have much time before Thomas returned. He told himself it was probably some family touring the campus. He listened again and didn’t hear anything. He crept slowly along the side of the building, repeatedly checking over his shoulder to see if anyone was coming. A few steps in, his foot went into a hole. He struck something hard and fell to the ground.
He gazed up, shielding his eyes from the sun. A large, roundish man in a tan overcoat towered over him, smiling like a kid on Christmas.
CHAPTER 11
darien, Connecticut
THE AFTERNOON SKY BEGAN TO DARKEN WITH THE NEW snow falling all around her. It’s going to be a beautiful night, Hannah thought sadly, making deliberate crunching sounds with her boots along her driveway, just as she had as a child, when her world was far less complicated.
Over her ripped jeans she’d pulled on the same fisherman sweater she’d worn with Deacon, pretending it still carried his scent. During those sweet days when everything was new, he’d always managed to slip it off her, her skin tickling at his touch.
She lifted her face to the sky, wrapping her arms around her waist. Frozen wet flakes flew to the hair tied loosely atop her head, some sticking to her lashes and cheeks.
What would we be doing tonight?
She kept finding herself fantasizing about these what-ifs in between wallowing in her room and staring at the TV with the sound off. She was sick of her house, especially its pounding silence, and finally ventured outside.
She remembered her conversation with Deacon about New Year’s Eve. It had seemed so far away then. They were going to spend it together, her first one with a boy—well, other than Dick Clark on TV, but he didn’t count.
She slid down her driveway, taking long strides toward the street. In the middle of her daydream, a car slowed in front of the house. The driver appeared to be lost. The car passed by, then turned around at the end of the block, pulled back up, and stopped before Hannah. The window lowered.
I Love You Like That Page 3
