by K. Ryan
"Yeah, you're probably right..." I trailed off, searching for the right words here. "You okay?"
Her eyes were still on the car fading out into the distance. "Yeah, I'm okay."
"Good," I squeezed her shoulder and grinned down at her. "You think you can take your break now? I literally just sat down when what's-his-face showed up here like a bat outta hell and I'm hungry, Iz."
"Oh, come on, I see your sandwich over there on the table and it didn't melt in the sun. Promise."
"Hey," I pointed out. "My mom worked really hard on that this morning."
"Wow," she chuckled and for a moment, rested her head lightly against my shoulder. The second she realized what she was doing, her neck immediately snapped back up, lifting herself up and out of my grasp. "Maybe it's time you start making your own sandwiches, huh? You know, put on your big kid pants and make your own lunch for a change?"
"Over my dead body, Iz. Over. My. Dead. Body."
"How old are you again?"
I winked at her. "Same age as you."
She was still laughing all the way back to our picnic table and my fingers itched a little to touch her again. Thinking about how she smelled like flowery vanilla and spices or just how clear and how blue her eyes were wouldn't really be doing myself any favors right now. Or the fact that I couldn't tear my eyes away from her lips, the full, pillowy kind that made me want to know if they tasted as sweet as they looked.
Whoa...what the hell was that?
Just as I was trying and failing to come up with a way I could sit across from her on this picnic table and act like everything was normal, Isabelle solved that problem for me. Without a word, she pulled her sketchbook and a pencil from that huge purse, flipped it open, and then that pencil was scratching noisily across the paper.
I leaned forward to get a better look, but she playfully shifted so the sketch was a little too obscured for me to really see it.
"Nope," she told me with a grin. "Just wait a sec and then I'll show you when it's done, okay?"
So, I just leaned my elbows into the table and watched that pencil skim across the paper, completely in awe by her ability to sit down and do that like it was nothing. Finally, Isabelle flipped the sketchbook around and held it up. Squinting my eyes to get a clearer look, I didn't get it at first. The background sort of looked like the shop's parking lot and there was a skinny guy standing right in the middle of it with his hands straight up in the air while another bigger, burlier guy ran at him with a pitchfork.
Isabelle pointed her pencil at the skinny guy with a sly smile. "That's Nick."
I gestured with my head towards the other guy. "I take it that's me."
"You got it."
"Sorta," I leaned forward to swipe the pencil and sketchbook right out of her hands. With a few quick scratches, I fixed it up and held it back to her with a shit-eating grin.
"That," I pointed to the guy with the pitchfork again, but with huge, round arm muscles now, "is me."
Her shoulders were shaking now and she covered her mouth with one hand as she reached for her sketchbook.
"Wait, wait, wait, can I keep that? Please? That was a pretty proud moment for me back there. You know, standin' around and doin' nothing."
She promptly snapped the sketchbook shut and shoved it deep into her purse. "No. You can't have it. It's mine."
"Wow," I grinned. "How old are you again?"
Isabelle shot me that smile, the one that seemed to sear right through me, the one that reached all the way up to her bright blue eyes it made them shimmer, and I found myself leaning forward, eager to hang on every word.
"Seriously though, Caleb," she told me. "Thanks. I know you think you didn't do anything back there, but you really did. Just having a little back-up was nice for a change."
She had an edge in those last words and hell if I knew where that was coming from. It was right on the tip of my tongue to ask her what else was going on that I didn't know about, but the words died in my throat. She'd been pretty honest and open with me so far. If there was something else, she'd tell me about it if she wanted me to know, wouldn't she?
After that, we settled into our usual routine, laughing and joking around until our lunches and our breaks were over. Isabelle retreated back to her post in the office and I headed back to the shop, feeling like I was treading water again, just barely keeping my head above the surface.
My mind was elsewhere as I slid underneath the next car I had to work on and it never strayed too far from our break. At the end of the day, it didn't really matter that she hadn't needed my help. The point was that I'd been ready to give it to her. Ready to put Nick in his place. Ready to defend her. Ready to throw a punch for her if that's what I needed to do.
It felt good to be needed again and to be good for something other than pity. Maybe that was why it had been so easy, why it was so natural to just slide into that role. I'd almost forgotten what it that felt like and honestly, it felt good to need to protect someone again. To care enough about someone that I'd put myself directly in between her and whatever might potentially hurt her.
Whether Isabelle knew it or not, her little predicament had once again lifted me up and drawn me closer back to feeling human again. Every encounter, every conversation with her and I felt a little more like myself.
Life had a funny way of working itself out. Just when I thought things couldn't possibly be shittier, when I thought I couldn't possibly sink any lower, Isabelle shows up and teaches me how to put myself back together again.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Stuck In Reverse
A Few Weeks Later
Isabelle
When Brandon pulled into my driveway, I couldn't get out of his shiny new truck fast enough. I tried to tell myself it had more to do with the fact that he'd lit up a cigarette right in front of me—and in the confined space of his truck no less—than the date itself, but that was probably giving Brandon a little too much credit.
But the problem was that he'd just tried so hard.
Everything about our date went exactly as planned and exactly the way I'd anticipated. He'd picked me up on time, taken me to a nice restaurant for a nice meal, and that was probably just the most accurate way to describe the evening.
It was nice. Fine.
But as soon as my driveway came into view, relief was about the only thing I was feeling right now. This was the fourth time we'd been out together in the last few weeks and each date had been just like this. Nice. Fine. Reliable and predictable. Just like it used to be...four years ago.
His hands felt nice when they trailed up and down my body a few minutes ago and his warm breath kissing my neck made my skin tingle. I'd closed my eyes and enjoyed the feeling of a man's touch—it had been a while since I'd had any real contact like that and it was nice.
There was that awful, horribly vague adjective again. Nice. Fine.
I really needed to find a different way to describe how I was feeling. Those adjectives sucked with their general and ambiguous terms.
The problem was, I realized as Brandon followed me up to my front door, that I couldn't pinpoint exactly what my real emotions were.
After initially reconnecting with him, I hadn't realized how much I'd missed him until we sat down for a coffee on our first 'get-together' again. It was amazing how quickly I could forget all the little things, the things I used to think I'd always remember, especially after so much time had passed.
But then, it was like we just snapped right back into it, minus some initial awkward getting-to-know-you-again small talk. It was almost like we'd actually stayed in touch over those four years and that nothing had changed.
That was the part that probably bothered me the most.
The simplest answer was that I was over-analyzing, which was probably true, but that didn't make it any less difficult to swallow.
"So I'll see you tomorrow at Graffiti's, right?" Brandon's soft voice yanked me from my perpetually frustrating thoughts.
"What? Oh, right. Yeah. Tomorrow."
I'd almost forced myself to forget all about the inevitable intermingling of our very separate, very different group of friends. Any way you sliced it, this was probably the worst idea I'd ever had in my entire life. I'd just wanted my boyfriend to get along with my friends.
Talk about setting yourself up for epic, doom-ridden failure.
"You must kinda like me if you're letting me hang out with your friends, huh?" he grinned, wrapping an arm comfortably around my shoulders.
Something like that.
"Yeah, I guess so," I laughed tightly and prayed he didn't pick up on the anxiety that had to be evident in my voice.
Honestly, Brandon and his friends trying to hang out in the same bar as Caleb, Dominic, Eli, Lexie, and Becca was going to be...well, if the night ended without anyone storming off or getting smashed in the head with a broken beer bottle, then I guess it would sort of be a success.
Sort of.
In reality, I anticipated a disaster of tsunami proportions, but now that the plans were already made, I didn't know how to get myself out of it without looking like a complete bitch.
Caleb, Brandon, and beer was like the perfect storm.
Caleb and Brandon had steered clear of each other for most of high school, so it wasn't like there'd been this constant war between them or anything. It was more like a pattern of antagonism and underhanded disrespect. Whenever they passed each other in the hallway, it was just like one of those old Western movies I used to watch with my dad when I was a kid and he was still sober.
The gunslingers standing at attention when their opponent stepped within sight, fingers itching to draw at a split second's notice, waiting for the other to strike. While Brandon played easily on the cool jock vibe to get under his skin, Caleb was like a coiled snake, waiting for Brandon to step just far enough over the line so he could attack. Luckily for everyone involved, that line never got crossed while they were still in high school and after graduation, there was never another reason for Brandon and Caleb to ever interact.
Until tomorrow night.
In my attempt to keep the peace, I'd inadvertently put them on a collision course for that gun-slinging showdown anyways. All I could do was hope a public setting and some distance would be enough of a deterrent.
A girl could hope. And pray to sweet, little baby Jesus that the night wouldn't end in a bloodbath of swinging fists and smashing bottles.
"Is it alright if I call you later?" Brandon was asking me now, bringing me close enough to whisper in my ear.
That soft voice in my ear and that warm breath against my neck used to make my legs turn to jelly, but there was no point in focusing on things like "used to" or "nice" or "fine". Wasn't it enough that we were trying to get back what we'd lost? Wasn't it enough that he was doing everything I could possibly ask him to do to get back to what we used to be?
Everything was happening here on my terms and at my pace: when I wanted to be picked up, where I wanted to go, what I wanted to do, and how long I wanted to do it for. He really hadn't pushed me into anything I hadn't wanted to do and when he kissed me, his warm lips explored my mouth with a nice, easy pace.
There was that word again.
Then I registered what he'd just asked me and a fluttering of annoyance crept up into my stomach. We had literally just spent almost four hours together by the time we got to the restaurant, had a few drinks, had dinner, and then talked some more. What else did we really have to talk about tonight?
"Um, sure," I offered. "Well, I'm probably going to be working for a while tonight so..."
Please get it and please don't take it the wrong way.
A glimmer of understanding flickered across his chocolate eyes and he nodded. "Oh okay, you're gonna draw some pictures again tonight? Sure, no problem. I'll just call you tomorrow then, alright?"
I had to swallow back the sudden urge to lash out at him for calling my work, my passion, 'drawing some pictures'. He might as well have just called it doodling and been done with it. I never should've mentioned it. I should've just kept it on lockdown. No one needed to know anyways because it wasn't anybody else's business.
But, that snotty little voice whispered, who else did you tell, hmm? What about him? You didn't show Brandon your sketches. But you showed him. He doesn't call it doodling.
"Yeah, sure," I replied tightly. "That sounds good."
Brandon leaned forward and pressed a light kiss into my lips. "Can I come in for a little while?"
That sent a few shockwaves of panic right through me. The first thought that sliced through my mind was of my dad. Was he home? And if he was, what would we find? As soon as that passed, I found myself shaking off more irritation. The night was over, wasn't it? We'd said goodnight, he'd said he was going to call me again, so why did he have to push for more?
If I let him inside the house, he would expect to get something, at the very least. That was annoying too. And definitely not happening.
So I just politely shook my head no and he just grinned back at me, clearly unfazed by the rejection. He pulled me into a quick hug and I kinda wanted him to just leave already.
"Night, Brandon."
"Sweet dreams, Isabelle."
I smiled, a real, honest to goodness, genuine smile. That was something he always used to say before leaving my house and it was that breath of nostalgia that finally suppressed my budding agitation.
When the door was finally closed behind me, I leaned up against it and sighed, overwhelmed with relief. All I wanted to do was sit in my room, turn on some music, and work out whatever the hell I was feeling on paper.
I needed to rid myself of this restlessness and that was probably the only thing that would work.
I peeked in my dad's bedroom and closed my eyes. The empty bedroom was equally a source of relief and uneasiness. Sure, I had the house all to myself, but that was only until he called me, probably falling down drunk in some random bar, wallowing in grief and whiskey. That thought forced me to trudge into my own room to await the inevitable. No sense in wasting any time.
When I was sitting on my bed, notebook splayed out on the bedspread, music on, and pencil in hand, it was almost like there was too much going on in my head to focus. And when I glanced up, my room had somehow gotten smaller over the span of 30 seconds. My left leg jumped anxiously over the side of the bed and the pencil twitched in my hand.
Nothing but a clean, blank page stared back up at me.
During the last two months, all it took to get that creative spark going was shutting my door, turning on some music, and opening my notebook. Now, it was all I could do to just focus on the blank page, let alone feel even remotely focused enough to actually make the pencil dance across it.
"Crap, crap, crap," I muttered, running a hand over my face.
Nothing was going the way it was supposed to. Nothing about my life was working the way I wanted it to. And now, I couldn't even do the one thing I loved the most and the one thing was supposed to make me feel better.
I felt stunted, trapped in arrested development. My date with Brandon only highlighted what was wrong here. All the gains I'd been trying to make, but failing miserably at. All the changes I'd promised myself I'd make, but had yet to do anything about.
Moving back to Claremont seemed like an easy answer at the time. It was a solid, defensible solution to the escalating feeling that I was on the wrong path in life. I'd foolishly believed coming home would solve all my problems: I'd somehow figure out what I wanted to do with my life and help my dad see that he was ruining his.
The real problem was that I'd never really taken that extra step and thought about how I was actually going to make all that happen.
I'd been all talk and no follow-through.
And now here I was—completely stranded. Stuck in reverse. Alone in my room. All these grand plans to stop living my life for everyone else and nothing to show for it. Only now, I didn't have my mom to go running to for help. My mom w
asn't here anymore to tell me everything was going to be alright or that everything had a way of working itself out or that she would always be there when I needed her.
My mom was gone. And my dad was on his way out too.
I knew what I needed. I just didn't know how to ask for it. Didn't know who to ask for it. Didn't know how to even begin to say the words.
The twitching and jumping got so bad that before long, I just gave up altogether. I hustled out of my room, grabbed my keys, and was down the driveway before I think I even fully understood what I was doing.
Calling Becca wasn't really an option. I didn't want to bother her with this or worse, worry her. Big girls should be able to take of themselves, right? And, my dad would be calling for a ride in a little while, so I might as well already be up and around town.
Yeah, whatever you have to tell yourself.
I briefly flirted with the idea of texting Lexie, my ally in the clubhouse and who I'd somehow, inexplicably struck up a friendship with, and then decided against it just as quickly.
Maybe I just needed to drive around, stop somewhere for coffee or something, anything to get my mind back to a more normal pace. So it wasn't necessarily by choice that I ended up in the parking lot of Aimee's Diner—my recent, embarrassing stint there as the most inept waitress in history made it the one place in Claremont I went completely out of my way to avoid, but it was also the only place around that was decent and still open at this hour.
On the bright side, the coffee was good and Aimee's homemade peanut butter pie was the best I'd ever had in my life.
At this point, I think I had to take whatever silver lining I could get.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Arrested Development
Caleb
Splashing some cold water on my face hadn't helped much. I rested both hands over the side of the sink and exhaled deeply. I was so tired my body just felt heavy and I wanted to sleep; I really did, but my mind just wouldn't let me rest. There wasn't one particular thing that nagged at me—it was more like everything nagged at me.
