This. This is the reason he couldn’t make it work with Rayne. Preston only looks at things from his perspective. How does it hurt him? How does it benefit him? What about HIM? Ugh. He never stops to consider how everyone else is affected.
A true product of his raising.
“It’s not all about you.” The acid-laced words snap off my tongue. “Lots of people got hurt tonight. You, me, Rayne, mom and dad, the Davidsons. Even the town has their panties in a wad. Everyone’s reeling. Not just you.” I blow out a loud breath and walk toward the house, yelling back over my shoulder. “I’m going to my room.”
Footsteps slap the ground behind me, and suddenly I’m falling face-first into the dewy grass. Preston lands to the side of me, taking a haphazard swing on the way down. He misses.
I won’t.
For the first time, I return fire, jabbing a left in his direction and connecting with his ribs. After regaining my balance, I take another swing, my right hook crashing into his cheek, the contact shooting slivers of pain up each knuckle.
I stumble to my feet, shaking my fingers out to extinguish the pinpricks of fire.
“Get your hands off your brother right now!” Her voice is shrill and rings out through the darkness. Mom and Dad tear through the front door. She’s definitely losing it. Never would she create such a scene otherwise.
She beelines for Preston who rolls on the lawn, cradling himself in the fetal position. “He’s not my brother,” he whimpers. “Brothers don’t do that.” Mom bends down, running her fingers over his bruised cheek.
Funny, she doesn’t give a damn about mine.
She jumps to her feet, hurdling over Preston’s body, and snatches the collar of my shirt, pulling it so tight the cotton neckline cuts into the skin. “You are a traitor, and a liar, and an embarrassment since the day you were born. And I can’t stand to look at you.”
I glance at Dad who stands, head down, shoulders slumped, and hands in pockets. Doing nothing.
“Ditto,” I growl, grabbing her fingers and ripping them from my shirt. “I’m outta here.” I jerk my keys from my pocket, slide in the front seat of my Scout and fire up the engine. The tires squeal as I peel backwards onto the road.
Clearly it’s them against me, and I’m the one leaving while they fume on the front lawn. I throw it into gear and stomp on the accelerator, the engine revving like thunder. The neighbors won’t care, though. It won’t wake them from their precious beds because none of them are asleep. They’re all standing on their front porches, outside lights off, like that somehow shields what they’re doing.
Spying. Listening. Eating popcorn as they take it all in.
The Howard Family Implosion—an event to be remembered for generations to come. A delicious piece of gossip to precede the “I told you so” and self-righteous expression.
And just like that, our perfection turned to shit.
A couple minutes later, I pull my cell phone from my pocket and tap out a quick message. The scout idles, lights off, by the stop sign at the corner of Rayne’s street.
It buzzes in my palm within seconds.
I get out and lean against the fender. Waiting on her. Intentionally.
Not a chance meeting. Not a “stuck together because Preston bailed” situation. Not even a friendly chat in the hallway. I’m waiting on her—to see her, touch her, kiss her. On purpose. Because now, she’s my girl.
The days of pretending are over.
She emerges, a dark silhouette at first, from between the bushes that edge the line between her house and the neighbor’s, tiptoeing across the lawn. I’m not surprised. No way would her parents let her parade out the front door to see me tonight. Not after everything that went down. Not after that expression on Mrs. Davidson’s face that I can only describe as some mash-up between a horror flick scare and falling off a 10-story building.
“Hey,” she whisper-yells through the darkness, her features becoming more clearly defined as she approaches the streetlight, which reflects in her eyes. They sparkle as her mouth pinches into her cheeks, her lips full and slightly parted. My heart flutters against my ribs, and I reach out for her hands, soft and warm as her skin slides over mine. “How did things go—”
I squash her question with a kiss, pressing in so hard I’m afraid I’ll hurt her. But she doesn’t pull away. Only pushes into me with increasing pressure. I let go of her hands and grab her hips, tugging her in closer, as she runs her fingers up my back, through my hair and down across my face. When she grazes the bruise, I flinch and step back. The tenderness is no joke.
“What’s wrong?” She cranes her neck, manipulating my chin in her grip to get a better view in the light. When she spots it, her mouth drops open and she slaps her hand across her mouth. “Oh my God,” she says from between her fingers.
It’s not pretty. I know because I kept looking at my reflection in the rearview mirror as I drove. Reddish-purple with the eye retracting under the skin’s new heft. The last thing I want is her worrying or feeling guilty about any of this.
“He’s just blowin’ off steam.”
Tears glisten on her lower lashes. “Your eye… your cheek… it’s horrible.” The lumpy mass is hot and hard under her gentle touch.
“His looks worse,” I laugh, shoving my hands deep in my pockets.
“Wait a minute.” She grabs my arm and yanks my hand to her face. The knuckles are bruised and scarred by erratic lines of dried blood. “Y’all didn’t—”
“Fight? It’s kinda what guys do.”
“Not y’all,” she says, dropping my hand, and sits down on the front bumper for no more than a few seconds before she’s back on her feet, pacing by the car, head in hands. “This is a mess. And your parents. What did they—”
“Not much, but apparently I’m a traitor, liar, and an embarrassment since the day I was born. Not sure what the hell that means.” My words do nothing to ease her panic-stricken look, and I’ll be damned if all this family drama is going to screw us up before we’ve even gotten started. “Maybe they’ll put me up for adoption,” I laugh, trying to diffuse her anxiety.
It doesn’t work.
She scowls. “Not funny, Gage. Your parents know everyone in town. They’ll make sure our life is hell. Your mom already hates me.”
“Don’t worry about her. Besides Preston, the list of people she actually likes is pretty slim. I’m pretty sure she hates me and Dad, too.” She stops and stares, unaffected by my comedic efforts, and then wraps her arms around herself, shivering. The fall night air is nippy, and she burrows further into her navy hoodie, pulling the sleeves down over her hands so just the ends of her fingers curl around the hem.
“Come ‘ere,” I say, folding her into my chest. She relaxes her head against me, the natural curves of our bodies melting together. “Forget it. Nothing can tear us apart if we don’t let it.” I press my lips to the top of her head, inhaling the vanilla undercurrents of her shampoo.
“But you and Preston…”
“Preston and I will be fine.” I pull her lips to mine once more, the softness of her skin and the fullness of her tongue sweeping away any lingering concerns, fading them into radio static. “And you and me? We’ll be better than fine.”
The weeks following what came to be known as Prestongate were hell. Stares and whispers lurked behind us in the hallways and nasty notes about Rayne’s supposed promiscuity appeared randomly on lockers, scrawled out in bright pink lipstick—a shade I’d seen Jaycee wear more than once. She basked daily in her newfound popularity, the queen bee who single-handedly outed the two biggest villains in the entire town.
No one directed public attacks at me, probably because word got around that Preston’s face looked like pulverized hamburger meat after The Fight. I was ostracized, kicked to the
curb by most of my and Preston’s mutual friends because, you know… loyalty. And while social media’s never been my thing, Rayne found her friends list dwindling by double digits nearly every day. There’d even been a few pissed off messages about how both of us were going to “rot in Hell” that showed up in her inbox.
It’s a running joke that we check the lawn nightly for townspeople wielding their lanterns and pitchforks and red letter As to plaster on our pajamas.
One Tuesday in French class, Madame hands me a note requesting I go to Mr. Hernandez’s office. Terrific. A date with the school guidance counselor. It’s a real mystery what this could be about. Rayne insists on coming along, and I’m secretly glad she’ll be there to navigate this with me.
Mr. Hernandez—Frank, according to his ID—welcomes us with a smile, panning his hand out to the chairs in front of his desk. He clasps his hands under his chin, looking at us over the rim of his glasses.
“You probably know why you’re here. It’s no secret what you both have been going through. We can do our best to control the harassment here at school, but the internet is a different story. The only thing I can tell you is to please report any cyber incidents to your parents immediately. They’re more equipped to handle that.”
That’s an eye-roll. My parents give two shits about the torment Rayne and I have endured. When he’s actually at home, Dad locks himself in his study and hides from the world, but mostly he’s out of town on one of the fifty million business trips that suddenly filled his calendar. And Mom rarely speaks to me unless it’s to criticize my appearance or gripe about my room.
Yeah, let me just go tell my parents. Bullies helping to prevent bullying. That’s classic.
“Is there anything else?” I grab my backpack from the floor and hoist it to my lap. This little talk must be the school’s way of covering its ass should anything arise from all this. I imagine the principal, shoulders shrugged, explaining to the six o’clock news that they did everything possible to stop it.
“Actually, there is one other thing. This is by no means a suggestion, just… information. An option.” He clears his throat and pulls out a manila folder with my name—Howard, Gage Lucas—written in black marker in the top right corner. Inside is a stack of papers with a snapshot of my school history. Is this the dreaded permanent record everyone used to warn me about as a kid?
Don’t get a referral. It’ll go on your permanent record. Don’t get bad grades. They’ll go on your permanent record. Don’t even think about stepping outside the lines. It’ll for sure go on that freaking permanent record.
I glance up. Mr. Hernandez is staring at me, waiting on me to zone back in. “An option?” I ask.
“With block scheduling and your fulfillment of all English requirements by semester’s end, you are eligible for early graduation. I’m talking diploma in hand in a few short weeks.” He reclines in his high-back chair, arms folded and looking awfully pleased with himself.
Wow. This must be how prisoners feel when granted parole. Finished with high school and these people by the New Year? Yes, please. Football’s over so that’s off my plate. The only other reason to stay is Rayne.
But she’s one hell of a reason. I shake my head. She needs me, not only to be here with her, but also to be a buffer.
“But… I can’t leave Rayne here alone to shoulder this. She—”
She blows out a loud breath and grabs my hand, squeezing so hard my knuckles pop. “I think you should do it.” I jerk my head in her direction, starting to protest, but she shushes me with a finger over my lips. “Maybe if they don’t see us together every day, they’ll ease off. Let this go.”
She’s wearing rose-colored glasses. No way is anyone letting anything go. Maybe they’ll eventually quit talking about it, but the truth will always hover there in the background, waiting for the day one of them can snatch it back to the present dialogue and reopen all the wounds. “No, I won’t leave you.”
“I can handle it. At the end of the day, I have a place to go where things are at least comfortable.” She reaches up and strokes my cheek. “You need to find some peace, too.”
“I don’t know…”
“Do it.”
The decision drops in my lap like a fifty-pound dumbbell. I could get a part-time job, put back some money, and start looking into college options for the fall. Maybe take a few online classes to get ahead.
I swallow hard, nodding. “Okay. Where do I go from here?”
Mr. Hernandez smiles and slides a packet of paperwork across the desk, then hands me a black pen. “This is a good place to start.”
Chapter 29
Rayne
T
he doorbell rings. It’s the first official time Gage is having sit-down supper with my family. It’s only taken six weeks.
Hopefully, this is the first sign of acceptance. We’ve waited long enough, not hiding our relationship, not flaunting it either, but meeting in the school basement and sitting out in his Scout is getting old. We just want to be normal. Have our chance.
I’ve been a little stir-crazy keeping a low profile in town, so Mama’s friend Sharon at the coffeehouse gave me a job waiting tables. I start next week. Mama’s happy since she knows I’ll be well supervised, and I’m happy just to get the hell out of this house for a change.
I called Preston a few times, but he refuses to answer his phone or texts. Then there’s Charlotte. She and “Legs-a-lot” were rifling through sweaters in the boutique downtown a couple weeks ago when I walked in. I’m glad the store was pretty dead because the looks they shot me would’ve turned everyone to pillars of salt. At least there was no collateral damage. Except maybe the cash register. They deserted their purchases in a pile on the jewelry counter and huffed out after commenting about the shoddy clientele.
But none of that matters now. Not when Gage is here, walking in my front door looking like a belated Christmas present in his red button-down. I whisper, “You ready for this?”
Before he can answer, Daddy walks in, wearing a silver-speckled paper hat with “Happy New Year” on the brim. At least he’s trying. Mama promised to give Gage a chance but she’s nowhere to be found. Probably in the kitchen with her head in the oven.
“Gage! Good to see you, son.”
Gage shakes Daddy’s hand. “Thanks for having me, sir.”
Daddy steps between us, one arm thrown around Gage’s shoulder, the other around mine, and ushers us toward the dining room. “Come on young’uns, let’s eat.”
Mama’s filling the glasses with sweet tea when we get there, but quickly places the pitcher on the table and stands by her chair. Gage offers her his hand. She takes it without looking at him. “Hello, Gage.”
“Hi Mrs. Davidson. Thanks for having me.” His eyes dart back and forth between Mama and me.
“Have a seat.” Her voice is somber as she motions toward the other side of the table, her gaze still directed at the rug.
We take our places, me across from Mama, Gage across from Daddy, and after the blessing begin heaping our plates from the casserole dishes lined down the middle of the table. Our simple ceramic china and Mason jar glasses are a far cry from the Howard’s multi-course feast called in by ringing a bell. If Gage even notices the disparity, he doesn’t say so. He helps himself to a scoop of Mama’s pork chops with a side of green bean casserole and chats with Daddy about college football playoffs and the Heisman winner. I toss in a comment here and there but maintain focus on Mama, who’s chewing her food ever so slowly, grappling with her neck as if she’s having to massage it down her throat.
“What are your college plans?” Daddy’s question draws me back to their conversation. Gage is using his newfound freedom to work a part-time job at the local auto mechanic shop to put back a little of his own money for college.
Daddy says something about how his work ethic is commendable. Mama keeps on chewing, but on what I’m not sure. Her plate’s still full, and the fork ne
ver makes it to her lips. Gage swigs his tea and wipes the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “Rayne tells me y’all have lived in Fountain Inn all your lives. Even went to Hillcrest?”
“That’s right.” Daddy tilts his chair onto the back legs and crosses his arms behind his head. “We started dating as freshmen. Been together ever since.” He reaches over and squeezes Mama’s hand, then winks at her when she finally looks up. “She can’t get rid of me.”
Gage sets his fork on the plate. “I bet you remember my parents moving here?”
“I sure do. The whole town was fascinated. They were the first ‘outsiders’ we’d had—”
Mama’s voice surprises everyone. “What do you know about your parents moving here?”
In an awkward moment of silence, everyone’s attention turns to Mama, who’s wringing her hands, arms drawn in tight to her chest.
Gage crinkles his eyebrows together and clears his throat. “Not a lot. I think I was a baby.”
“You were five weeks old.” How does she remember that? This from the woman who usually can’t remember her shopping list at the Pig. “Why did they move here? Did they ever say?”
“Um…” His voice is hesitant as he twirls his high school ring on his finger. Great. Everything was going fine, and now she’s made him nervous. Leave it to Mama to ruin this. “Honestly, no. All I know is they lived in Charlotte back then, but Dad was spending a lot of time in Greenville scouting out opportunities to open up a branch of the firm. I think he fell in love with it.”
“Fell in love?” She leans forward as if at any moment she might crawl right up on top of the wooden tabletop.
Gage adjusts backward in his chair, leaning away from the conversation. “With the area. He always said it’s a great place to raise kids.” He pauses, then laughs. “Plus, I guess Mom was kinda getting tired of being the brunt of jokes.”
If Gage’s trying to ease the tension, Mama’s not biting. “Brunt of jokes?” she repeats.
Gage rows his hand in front of him, the way you do when you’re trying to get someone to figure something out. “You know… Charlotte from Charlotte?”
Meant to Be Broken Page 21
