by Ginger Scott
Hayden hasn’t been up here. My mom is never home when he picks me up. I never invite him inside, and he never asks, yet more than anything I want to show Tory this personal window into my world.
We’re both hushed as we move in the opposite direction from my mother’s door. The spare room between is overrun with paperwork and costumes. It was supposed to be our business office, but it’s become more of a dumping ground for things that don’t require our immediate attention or that don’t fit me anymore.
I push down on the door handle to make the click as quiet as possible, then slip inside, Tory knowing he should hurry. I close the door behind him and flip on the small purple lamp next to my bed. It paints my room in color. I don’t bother to kick away the clothes I left on the floor or hide the makeup scattered around my vanity, and Tory doesn’t even seem to notice any of it’s there. He continues his trip through my life in pictures, now standing in front of the corkboard next to my closet door. It’s filled with pictures, most of them things I’ve printed out from my phone.
“Why is June always so grumpy?” He points to the one I took the night of his party a few months back, when June got locked in the garage with Lucas. I laugh and pull my phone from my pocket to sort through and find more images of my friend.
“It’s sort of this thing I do with her. I take random pictures of her expressions. I won’t lie, I love to catch her when she’s pissed off. It pushes her buttons, and maybe I like the negative reinforcement.” I laugh, handing him my phone.
He takes it, sliding through a few of them and wincing at the ones that are truly bad.
“I know,” I say, covering my face in fake shame. “But it’s not like I print all of them.”
“June knows you do this?” He turns the phone to show me the one in which her cheeks are puffed out and her face is red. She was about to punch me in the shoulder for that one.
I smile and nod.
“She does. I give her the right to rip them off the board if she hates them. She knows they make me happy, though.”
Tory’s face scrunches and his brows lift as he shakes his head, not totally understanding my most important female relationship. He doesn’t have to. I’m sure he has weird traditions with Lucas or his brother, and I so don’t want to know about them.
He hands me back my phone, but on the exchange, my hand covers his, and we both jerk back, like we touched a hot skillet mid-air. My phone tumbles to the floor, and I giggle with embarrassment while he apologizes profusely and we both bend down to retrieve it. We stop when our heads are an inch from banging into one another and I brace myself, grabbing his shoulders and falling forward to my knees.
“Whoa,” he hums, steadying me with his hands on my hips.
My adrenaline-fueled smile mixes with a breathy laugh until I look up and we come face-to-face. Every molecule between us is palpable; the air has a taste to it, somewhere between sweetness and intoxicating liquor. My lips part with a breath and his eyes flit to my open mouth. We’re slow dancing without moving, facing each other on our knees, alone in my room, which I purposely cloaked in mood lighting. I can’t lie to myself any more. I’m painfully attracted to Tory D’Angelo. I’m also regrettably committed to his brother.
We’re young, and relationships at our age are so fluid, and if it were anyone else, this would just be a life lesson, a moment of growth or an innocent mistake fanned by teenage hormones. But it’s Tory, and then Hayden.
I swallow hard. His gaze falls to my throat and back to my eyes.
“What happened at therapy?”
In his world, it’s the worst possible time for this question, but it’s also probably the best. Things are going on between us that need time to sort themselves out, just as I’m sure there are things happening in his head that need attention. I’m not sure if he realizes it or not, but Tory needs someone to listen.
“No judgement,” I continue.
We’re inches apart, a breath away from making dangerous decisions.
“Why are you with my brother?” His stare is unrelenting. My stomach is sick but at the same time, my heart is pounding. I am the center of a tug-of-war, the part of the rope that is fraying. I don’t know how to keep it from splitting, but I do know that his question cuts to the very core of it all. He reaches forward and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and his hand never leaves, his thumb tracing the small inch of space along my temple, then making a slow pass along the cut of my jaw toward my lips. I turn into it and let my eyes close, waiting for the alarm to sound in my head that makes me stop.
“Don’t,” I say, getting to my feet and shaking my head. “You’re just avoiding the question, and I know you’re struggling, too. We can be friends, Tory. Just like June and you are friends.”
He falls back on his calves and positions himself like a catcher, arms resting on his knees, head cocked to one side and a faint yet intensely confident smile playing at his lips.
“Abby . . . you and I can’t be friends like that, and you know it.” He blinks once, slowly, and I’m tempted to push him off balance and watch him land on his ass.
“I told Hayden I’d call him. You should go,” I say.
A quick inhale flares his nostrils and his body shakes once with a short laugh. He gets to his feet, his eyes making a slow drag around my room as if he’s memorizing it to infiltrate the space at some later date. He nods eventually and moves toward my door, stopping to look at my board of photos one more time. He tugs one loose and pinches it, holding it close to his face for a long second before tossing it on the floor between us.
“You tell me we look like friends in that photo,” he says, leaving me with a short, challenging glare. He pats his hand on the edge of my doorframe as he leaves my room and peers over his shoulder.
“I’ll show myself out.”
I remain frozen until I hear the click of the door downstairs. My space still smells like him, my skin still vibrates from the place his hand touched my skin, my heart still pounds so hard I feel it in my throat.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it out, knowing I’ll see the image of Hayden’s smile to show that he’s calling. I glance at the screen just long enough to swipe to answer, then fix my eyes on the Polaroid of me and Tory at last month’s school carnival. I paid ten dollars to smash a plate of whipped cream into his face to raise money for the basketball team, and I got to keep this photo as a memento. Have I never really looked at it before? Or was I just ignoring it all along.
“Hey, Abs. Sorry it’s so late. Our session was . . .” He pauses to let out an exasperated breath. “It was kinda brutal.”
“I heard,” I say, the words coming out on autopilot, the logical answer rather than the smart one. My attention is on the photo Tory tossed to the ground. I kneel and pick it up, turning it right-side up so I can absorb the way we’re looking at one another. His face is covered in cream—minus the two holes I wiped for his eyes because I felt bad—and the enormous smile formed by his laugh. I’m laughing hard, too, truly happy with red cheeks and a dot of cream on my nose. The evidence is in the nuances; not only our display of happiness, but the way our hands happened to be wrestling with one another, threaded together so comfortably in a perfect fit. His eyes are soft and affectionate, looking at me not like the girl he makes sure to hit on at a party, but like the girl he stares at in class.
“Abby? You there?”
I stand with the photo and move back to my board, startled into movement by Hayden’s voice. I push the sticky side back against the board, putting it back in its place.
“Yeah, sorry, I was balancing my phone while doing something else,” I say. I’m vague.
“Oh, I asked how you heard?” There’s a bite to his question and I wince, realizing what I said.
“June and I were texting. Tory stopped by her house.”
I just lied. I lied and I feel like shit for it, and at the same time I am terrified that Tory won’t back up my lie and I don’t even have his phone number to call
him and tell him to. I don’t fix it, though. I leave that lie where it is and let it buy me time.
“Oh,” he answers, the quiet after his short response telling me he doesn’t fully buy it.
“You wanna talk about it?” I kick off the fuzzy shoes I wear around the house and slip my feet into my unlaced tennies in anticipation.
“If you’re not too tired.” I’m sure he’s already driving toward my house.
“Of course not,” I say, flipping off my light and quietly closing my door.
“You want to start telling me about it now, or wait until you get here?” I ask, anticipating his response.
“I’m almost there,” he says.
Hayden opens up better in person. He also only really opens up to me. That happens when someone finds you on the wrong side of a bridge railing with an incredibly steep drop over some very jagged rocks, drunk from too many shots at a party you didn’t want to go to in the first place.
Not Hayden.
Me.
“I’m at the end of the block,” he says.
“Okay,” I say, making my slow descent down the stairs.
I’d gotten the call for the audition, and I went to the party in the woods to celebrate. Sean McCaffey’s parties are legendary. He’s rich, and he owns the land he throws his parties on—massive bonfires and expensive-ass booze. I went alone because June swore she’d met her party quota for life, and she’s turned Lucas into a homebody. Naomi and Lola weren’t around to play my wing woman, so I went expecting to know a few people there and with the understanding I would only stay an hour.
The guy I met that night was cute, and two hours passed with many drinks and a lot of talk. I was feeling a good buzz, and we hooked up. I didn’t go all the way, and I was fully aware of my choices and consent. What I wasn’t aware of was his motives.
He left that party with three photos of me—three compromising photos. On his phone. It only took thirty minutes for the bribe to hit my phone. What’s crazy is I knew I was too drunk to drive; that’s why I was walking home in the first place. The idea to climb out over the bridge railing was an impulsive one. A destructive choice would have kept my keys in my hand and my ass behind the wheel. All I could think about, though, for those four miles I wandered in darkness, throwing up twice, was that my dad was going to use this against my mom.
Hayden found me before reason left my head and I jumped. He brought me home, and when I woke up in his car sitting in my driveway, I spilled my guts. He spilled his. We cried, and not a single night has passed that we haven’t talked on the phone just to give each other an out, an excuse to mess up and hate ourselves for a little while.
“I’m out front,” he says, my hand cupping the phone to my ear.
“Be right there,” I say, ending our call and grabbing the sweater hanging on the finial at the bottom of the staircase. I slip my arms inside to stay warm and rush to the dining table to pick up my keys. I stop dead in my tracks, though, because sitting right next to them is a black sweatshirt that someone left behind, and I can’t help but sense that he did that on purpose.
11
Tory
“Did you sleep out here all night?” Lucas flips up the tailgate on his truck with a thrust in case I didn’t hear him blare out his question.
I pull my feet up and lift my knees, rubbing my eyes from the bright-ass sun. My hat must have fallen off because my hair feels ratty like I was raised in a cave. Goddamn, I feel like shit.
“Only half the night,” I say, rocking myself into a sitting position. Lucas tosses his backpack into the back of his truck and rests his arms against the frame, looking at me like I’m a toddler in a baby pool.
“Oh, well, that makes sense, then,” he cuts, his mouth a tight light.
I rub my face to help focus my eyes, then crank my neck right and left, trying to work out the kinks before flattening my wild hair under my black hat.
“Therapy didn’t go well. Kinda hate Hayden right now. I maybe went to Abby’s last night and made things all fuckin’ weird, and I hate that I have to live with my mom. That a good enough reason to sleep in your truck for six hours?” I lift one brow and hit him with a sleepy stare.
He holds my gaze for a second then nods.
“Yeah, that seems right. Come on, get in.” He smacks the side of his truck to rile me more.
I stand and kick my legs over the edge of the bed to jump to the ground, then slide into the much more ergonomic passenger seat and recline back as far as it will go.
“Are you going to sleep on the way to school?” Lucas asks, cranking his engine to a roar.
“No, I’m going to sleep on our way to the gas station where I plan on getting a forty-four ounce Dew.” I look at him, one eye shut.
“We’re gonna be late,” Lucas argues.
I shrug and silently dare him to come up with a better excuse. He can’t, so I tip the brim of my hat lower to shadow my eyes while he drives the four miles to the gas station near our school. We both run in and grab donuts, and I fulfill my Dew destiny, chugging a quarter of it from the exit to the passenger door.
“Better,” I breathe out.
Lucas chuckles and backs us out of the lot, taking us the rest of the way to school.
As much as I need the caffeine jolt, I have an ulterior motive for being late to school this morning—I want to avoid running into Hayden. I’ve gotten tired of conflict. Lately, it feels that’s all my life is, a connect-the-dot puzzle from fight to skirmish.
Seems Hayden has his own reasons to walk into class late, though. He knows I won’t skip completely; I take my sports eligibility seriously during basketball season. Lucas backs his truck in so my side is butted up next to my brother in the driver’s seat of our car. Abby is sitting next to him, and she’s doing that thing where she only looks my direction but not actually at me.
This day is going to be epically bad.
“You want me to just lock you in? You can sleep on the jump seats in the back,” Lucas kids.
While he thinks he’s being funny, I take a second to actually consider the idea, looking over my shoulder and assessing the room. It’s a tight fit, but as tired as I am, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t even notice. I glance back to my friend, who’s looking at me sideways.
“That was a joke,” he explains.
I know.
I grimace and pop the lock on my seat belt, leaning forward and resting my arms and head on his dash to stretch out my lower back. I managed to slip into our house to get a shower and a change of clothes, but sleeping in a truck bed didn’t do much for my wardrobe. My long-sleeved shirt is wrinkled, and there’s a line of dirt on the side of my jeans from the back of Lucas’s truck.
“Go on in. I’m gonna get this over with,” I say, wiping my palm down the side of my face and over my mouth. I open my door and make a slow trip toward the passenger side of the car, opening the door for Abby.
“Can you give us a minute,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose and doing my best to not crowd her.
“Sure,” she says in a whisper.
I look her direction just enough to catch her give Hayden a look and ask if he’ll be okay. What does she think? That I’m a monster? I wonder what version of events he told her.
She turns her body to the side and her bare legs cut in front of mine. She’s wearing a long, tight skirt and a blazer, as if she’s ready for a job interview. I open the door wider to give her space and she stands, straightening her skirt and jacket. Her hair is pinned up in loose curls, and she smells like candy. I saw her car, so I know she drove herself here. She’s just been waiting for me with Hayden, keeping him company, making sure he gets all the attention he can because, apparently, I’m some attention whore who has ruined his life.
I’m determined to pay no attention to Abby but she makes it impossible when she clears her throat and shuffles in her heels to face me, adjusting the collar of the shirt she’s wearing. She stares into my eyes with a terrified gaze and swallows.
“How do I look?”
My cold stare breaks down and my eyes narrow with inexplicable guilt. She looks beautiful. Her permanently golden brown skin is flawless, her lips pout and glow, her eyes are dewy but still the most stunning mix of brown and gold. She looks scared, yet also strong.
“Court today?” I assume, my eyes sloping with empathy.
She nods.
“How do I look?” she asks again. I scan down the lapel of her jacket to the spot where her hand is needling at a button near the bottom. She drops it as soon as she sees I’ve noticed. I move my focus back up to her face.
“You look ready,” I say. My response draws a hesitant smile from her and she gives me a tiny nod.
“Be nice,” she whispers, careful to keep her words between us.
I agree with a slow blink and wait as she grabs her bag from the floor of the car and pulls it up on her shoulder. I don’t allow myself the pleasure of watching her hips sway as her heels click down the walkway into the front office, but I imagine it. I get into the car as soon as she disappears into the building and close the door behind me, knowing Hayden and I will probably sit here for a while.
Neither of us is ready to talk. Hayden has yet to kill the engine, so the car hums enough to keep the heater on and the speakers at a low buzz. I lean forward and turn up the volume to see what he’s playing, expecting his usual barrage of R&B. It’s the one place where my dad, brother and I differ in our tastes. I don’t mind it, but I never got into that part of my dad’s music obsession the way Hayden did. I think my brother spent an entire summer memorizing every lyric to, like, fifty songs.
I’m a little surprised to hear the song I sang for Abby spill through the speakers, and I narrow my eyes as I look at his phone screen.
“Branching out?” I ask.
My brother shrugs.
“Abby wanted to hear the Beach Boys this morning,” he says. My stomach tightens, a little bit hopeful and a little bit sick. Hayden’s hands fall from the steering wheel to his thighs and his head rolls against his head rest, his eyes making the slow, suspicious trip to mine. “She said you showed her Dad’s record collection.”
