When the Night is Over (Blackbird Series Book 1)

by Lily Foster

  Still in my corner booth, I stare at Simon through the window. He’s loading a flatbed with sheetrock for an older man. I know the pieces are heavy, having seen my dad and brother work together to carry the same kind of materials when they started the garage renovation last year that they still haven’t finished. But Simon labors alone, and waves the older man off, smiling but refusing him when he tries to press some bills into his hand for a tip.

  He’s being kind. I’ve seen that side of him before, I’ve witnessed his goodness. But I’ve also been at the receiving end when his alter ego is in charge. He’s capable of cruelty. I think of the other night when he offered me and Daisy a ride home. He couldn’t even be civil towards me when he was trying to do something nice.

  I’ve never done anything to deserve his scorn. From what little I’ve heard, I know his family is a mess, but how is that on me? Tim Wade, I’m told, sits in a state prison cell to this day—dealing to feed his habit landed him there. I can’t say I feel sorry for him, karma being a bitch and all that. The middle brother doesn’t live here anymore. I’ve never heard the back story on him, only that he was a loner, or a “faggot emo weirdo” as my sensitive, enlightened older brother tagged him. Simon’s family is poor, I’m assuming, but no one is truly wealthy here. No one has it easy. Maybe he feels sorry for himself while he sees me as some trust fund princess, even though nothing could be further from the truth.

  Taking one last look at the hardware store as I haul my tired body into the car, I decide that Simon Wade can take his rotten attitude and shove it. I’m done looking his way, done pining for that sour faced jerk. I’m just done.

  I tell myself all this, knowing it’s nothing but lies. There’s a thread between us, fragile and shaky, but I feel it, feel the connection. I know I’d give my right arm just to have him look across the street and meet my eyes, to truly see me. I’d give anything for Simon Wade to talk to me. To share his sadness, then hold me and listen as I share mine.

  Chapter Six

  Simon

  March never brings springtime to this part of Pennsylvania. The winters drag on well into April, wet and cold and depressing.

  We saw Timmy last weekend, knowing he was recently released from the infirmary following a fight. His arm was in a cast and he had the look of a spooked cat when he limped towards us. He doesn’t say it outright because he doesn’t want to alarm my mother, just plays it off as an “episode” in the rec yard, but I know he was jumped. Mom’s hands shake as she takes the coins from her purse to buy him some snacks from the vending machine. She knows it too.

  “What’s going on?” I press when she gets up from the table.

  He shakes his head. “You can’t refuse your cellmate assignment and some of these guys are fucking crazy. I mean for real, they’re mentally ill. The guy who did this,” he gestures to the healing gash on his forehead and then looks down at his arm, “he was screaming like a crazy, strung out motherfucker when they brought him by, introducing the two of us like we were gonna be best buddies.”

  “They know the guy’s violent and they don’t care?” Timmy raises an eyebrow, shooting me a look like I’m a naïve child. “Is there someone me and Mom can talk to while we’re here?”

  “No.” He lets out a tired breath. “There’s nothing you can do for me.”

  My mother doesn’t say a word for the entire ride home. I’m quiet too, silently begging for mercy, for my brother’s safety, for his life. Raising my prayers to a god who isn’t listening.

  I’m still in a funk by the time Friday rolls around. It also happens to be my birthday, but I’m in no mood to be reminded. So when I walk up to my locker and I’m ambushed by Sienna and a few of her friends bearing balloons, cupcakes and good wishes, I have to repress a sudden urge to rage, to destroy, to take the tray of cupcakes and smash them against the wall.

  “How does it feel to be eighteen?” one asks me.

  Fucking peachy. The words are pushing past my lips, itching to break free, but with some effort I manage a tight smile. “The same, I guess.”

  “I know, right?” Sienna says. “You can already drive, but you can’t have a drink. What’s the big whoop about turning eighteen?”

  “You can enlist,” Garth offers.

  “You are not enlisting.” Sienna pokes him in the chest. “Got that, mister?”

  He grabs her finger and brings it up to his lips. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Those two are an item now. Garth is asking her to the prom. When he asked who I planned on taking, I told him the truth straight away so he’d back off.

  The prom isn’t in my budget. I truly don’t know how I’m going to eat next year, so plunking down money on a tuxedo rental, flowers, prom tickets and whatever other bullshit goes into that night just isn’t happening. Hell, I’m seriously considering skipping out on graduation because the school is asking for thirty-five dollars to cover the cost of those crappy cardboard caps and flimsy gowns.

  “You can go to a strip club,” Tyler adds, earning him a swat on the ass from his girl.

  Skylar flips him off when she says, “I can go to a male strip club too, you know.”

  “You can vote now,” one of the girls adds.

  “You can gamble,” another chimes in.

  Gamble? My father was a gambler. More happy memories. “Gee, you’re right,” I deadpan. “Turning eighteen sure is swell. Thanks guys.”

  Garth keeps it up. “You can buy porn, you can get married—”

  “You can get a tattoo!” Tyler looks to Skylar. “I’m definitely getting a tattoo this summer…Your name right across one of my ass cheeks.”

  Skylar smiles as Sienna scrunches up her nose. “Gross.”

  Garth comes in close and nods, gesturing down the hallway. “I know whose name you’d be tattooing over your heart, you big pussy.”

  I follow his gaze and my eyes land on her. Charlotte’s fussing with her locker but it won’t give. Some kid comes over and gets it open for her. She flashes him a grateful smile. He takes that as an invitation, sticking around to chat her up. Her look changes; it’s subtle but I notice. She’s being polite, smiling and answering his questions, but she’s not into it. After my craptastic week from hell, this is the one thing that makes me feel like smiling.

  As the bell rings, Garth pushes my shoulder. “Almost forgot…You can also get locked up for statutory rape now that you’re eighteen.”

  I push back harder. “The fuck are you talking about?”

  He can’t contain his laughter. “I’m just screwing with you. I mean, I do notice that you stare at that pretty little thing all the time, but I can’t figure out if it’s because you’re admiring her fine ass or hating on her. I’m pretty sure you’d never so much as talk to a Mason, let alone swap bodily fluids with one.”

  He claps me on the back and then turns as Sienna approaches. The bell rang a full minute ago but the seniors are no longer inclined to rush.

  “The party is at our place tonight,” she says, looking directly at me. “You’re not going to freak out if we sing Happy Birthday, are you?”

  “Not at all.”

  She looks genuinely surprised. “Really? I thought you’d be a total grump about it.”

  “I don’t mind. I’m gonna be at work, so sing your little hearts out.”

  For that I take one right to the solar plexus, but she hits like she’s not aiming to hurt me, so I just laugh.

  “You’re terrible,” Sienna says over her shoulder, but she’s smiling.

  Garth watches her walk away. “I think I’m in lurve.”

  “Good luck with that,” I say, heading off to see my advisor. He’s got a lead on another academic grant. It’s small from what he told me, might just cover my books for freshman year, but money is money and I need every cent I can get.

  I go to knock but stop when I hear voices.

  “No, I think you’re being very proactive, Charlotte. The earlier you start working on your applications, the better.”


  “I need to earn a scholarship, Mr. Vargas.”

  Vargas hesitates for a moment. He’s probably thinking what I’m thinking: poor little rich girl needs a scholarship like I need a box of tampons.

  “Let’s make an appointment for the end of next week. We’ll plot out your schedule for next year, see what you can handle in terms of advanced placement courses, and we’ll talk about some of the lesser known scholarships I’ve been researching. If you’re willing to write the essays and put in the effort, I think we can make it work.”

  I hear a chair scape against the floor tiles. She’s getting up. “Thank you, I really appreciate it.”

  “I’ll see you Thursday during lunch period. Have a good weekend, Charlotte.”

  “You too.”

  She’s sporting a broad smile as she exits the office, but it drops when she comes face to face with me. We shuffle, both moving in the same direction, trying in vain to get around one another.

  “Sorry,” I say, moving off to the side to let her pass.

  She nods but her eyes won’t meet mine. It kills, knowing I’ve given her good reason to be wary of me. Without thinking, I turn and grab her wrist. “I heard about your mother. I-I…I’m sorry.”

  Charlotte swallows as tears well in her eyes. “Thank you, Simon.”

  She looks down at her wrist then, because I still haven’t let go. “Sorry,” I say again, absently this time as I release my hold on her. I’m still buzzing and lightheaded, the sound of my name on her lips and the feel of her soft skin doing something powerful to me that I cannot define.

  “Mr. Wade, are you out there?” Vargas calls from his office, bringing me back down to earth. I still haven’t taken my eyes off her though, and now she’s looking back at me. The moment probably lasts no more than three seconds, but it feels meaningful, important.

  Her cheeks redden when she says, “See you tomorrow.”

  That night I dream of Charlotte. I picture her standing in the shallow end of the creek. She’s wading in water up to her calves, wearing a sundress that skims her thighs. She’s laughing and smiling at me as she kicks one leg out to splash water in my direction. I rush her and she shrieks as I throw her over my shoulder. She’s mine, I’m telling myself, and I smile as I take us out deeper into the water, clamping one arm around her backside to keep her still. She’s squirming and telling me to put her down, but she’s playing with me. When I loosen my hold, she slides down the length of my body, both of us submerged chest deep now. She presses herself close and I drag her hips in even closer in response. I want her to feel me and she does, dragging in a breath when we make contact. “I love you,” I tell her. And I feel it so deeply that my heart physically aches.

  I wake up startled, one hand rubbing the center of my chest, the other wrapped firmly around my dick. I finish myself off before climbing out of bed. I’m tired, or sad, or maybe some combination of both. Standing under the steady stream of the shower, I understand that the dream represents reality: being close to her could bring me happiness like I’ve never known before, but it would most certainly bring both of us pain.

  Charlotte

  Why do I keep dreaming of you?

  That’s what I want to ask him this morning. Most nights, even the night Wes held me in his arms and gave me comfort, it’s Simon Wade I dream of.

  In my dreams he’s not the boy who shows himself to me in everyday life. No, in my dreams he’s sweet. He smiles instead of grimacing, he’s lighthearted instead of sullen. He holds me close instead of acting like the subtle brush of my skin burns worse than straight lye.

  He’s standing outside the hardware store. His chin is perched on hands that rest atop the broom he’s holding but not using. He’s lost in thought. He doesn’t look happy or sad, just lost. I think he knows I’m standing out here too, but he won’t acknowledge me. We’re North and South Korea, locked into some sad, silent cold war.

  I take another short break at ten and then another at one. He’s always outside at the same time, it never fails. I look his way, hoping for something, but I’m never rewarded. I’m restless today though, something’s off, and by the time my shift comes to a close I can feel it unraveling in me, angry and mean. So instead of turning right towards the parking lot, I march across the street and wait behind him while he moves a load of paving stones from a delivery truck. He makes three round trips to the truck, ignoring me as he hefts the stones to an area where it looks like they’ll be setting up an outdoor furniture display. A patio dining set waiting to be assembled sits there with an umbrella still wrapped in plastic perched next to it. I have plenty of time to take it all in as I stand there like a fool. I don’t even know why I came over here. I have no plan, no idea of what to say. I turn to go when I feel the first tear threaten.

  Get it together. You are not crying over him.

  “Did you need something?” He’s caught up to me in the middle of the street that divides us, taking my elbow to stop me from moving, from running away.

  I shake him off. “No, I don’t need anything from you.”

  “That’s for the best,” he says to my back, and that pisses me off.

  “Why do you hate me?”

  His eyes go wide for a split second, but then he’s back in control, cold and impassive. “I don’t even know you or think about you, so how could I possibly hate you?”

  “You hate my family,” I challenge.

  “I do.”

  “Well, I was brought up to hate your family too, but I never bought into that. No one’s a saint or a sinner. You should know that better than anyone.”

  My bold mouth and bravado abandon me when he takes one step closer. He towers over me, his expression menacing. “What exactly are you trying to say?”

  “Just,” I pause to catch my breath, “that your family, I mean, your brother’s no angel.” I’m so scared and nervous that I hardly know what I’m saying anymore. And he’s waiting me out, making me suffer, squared off and staring at me with that all familiar look of disgust. “Your brother’s negligence destroyed my brother’s future.”

  “Simon.”

  “Be there in one minute,” he answers his boss without turning back around.

  “Your brother’s future…That’s all anyone in this county cared about after the accident, as if my brother was nothing, as if he hadn’t lost everything too. They were on the same football team, both had college coaches recruiting them. My brother had just as much going for him as Christian Mason.”

  He steps even closer and forces my chin up with a rough finger. “Your brother is a piece of shit.” He nods for emphasis. “When questions were asked, he acted like my brother all but ran him over instead of admitting to the fact that they were both out drinking together that night and decided to drag race like two seventeen-year-old idiots.”

  He laughs and smiles then, but it’s wicked the way he does it. “I think Christian truly believes his own bullshit, believes he was wronged. I guess that’s what happens when you’re the golden boy and everyone’s been blowing smoke up your ass your entire life. My brother was in the same hospital, but while yours was being visited by friends, by their coach and by every fucking hypocrite disguised as an upstanding member of the community, Timmy was being interrogated by the cops. I think if they could have framed Timmy, staged it as a hit and run or something, they would have, but there were too many witnesses.”

  I was always under the impression that Tim Wade was doing drugs the night of the accident. The thought spills out before I can censor myself. “He’s a drug addict.”

  “Little girl, you don’t know shit.” He turns to go but doesn’t make it more than two steps before he turns back around. “You know what? You’re right, princess, my brother is a drug addict. He got hooked on painkillers after your brother made sure Timmy got what was coming to him. He spent three weeks in the hospital after they beat him and left him for dead…Your brother and his boys.” His shoulders fall like the heavy weight of the memory is dragging him do
wn. “I always thought it was ironic, your brother’s name...He’s got to be the least Christian-minded person on the face of God’s green earth.”

  I feel like I’ve been smacked, like the air has been sucked from my lungs. “I-I didn’t know.”

  “Like I said, you don’t know shit.”

  He leaves me like that, shaking his head, face red with anger and eyes that express nothing but disappointment.

  Daisy’s mom took us shopping at the mall later on that afternoon and treated us to dinner. I think I pulled it off. I kept up with their conversation, commenting when it was expected and smiling on cue, but I was somewhere else entirely.

  Filled with regret, I wish I’d had the courage to cross over. I should have taken those two small steps that separated us and wrapped him in my arms. I was scared of him in that moment, for sure, but I finally saw him. And then I was sorry, so very sorry. I understood now. I understood why he didn’t trust, why he kept everyone at arm’s length. I understood why he saw me as some out of touch, privileged princess. I was like everyone else in his eyes: prone to think the worst of the kid from the trailer park, while accepting the false innocence of the fortunate son—the Christian Masons of the world—without a second thought.

  On Sunday I keep to my own side of the street, too ashamed to face Simon. I use the back door when my shift ends, slinking into my car and driving off without chancing a look in the direction of the hardware store.

  When I hear voices cheering the team that just made a touchdown, I change course and use the back entrance to the house. I can’t bear to see him, to see any of them. If what Simon said is true, then my brother is a pathetic excuse for a human being. When there’s no one around to impress, when he drops the act, does he feel ashamed? He must. I want to believe that he feels remorse. I want to believe, I do.