After giving her my much-practiced, all-is-well smile, I walk out of her room, leaving her to get ready. I’m lying on my bed when I hear the front door open then close. As soon as the locks turn, I grab my cell from my nightstand and begin dialing. Thirty minutes later, Spencer’s gone, and I’m still looking for a way to pass the time, but no one answers.
My throat constricts at the idea of having to spend the night alone, but I know what I need to do. I drag myself off my bed and head to the kitchen where my beloved Grey Goose awaits.
Pouring a glass, I down it completely alone in the middle of the kitchen, then pour another one, impatiently longing for numbness to set in. Once my cheeks are warm and I’m laughing at my own internal monologue, I know I’m right where I want to be.
Drunk.
Taking the third glass with me, I change into some awesome Jem and the Holograms pajamas that I found online and somehow land myself in bed. My head is fuzzy and my body is heavy, but it’s not enough.
Taking a deep swig from my glass, I lean over and begin to jerk the pull-chain on the lamp by my bed. Over and over I pull, darkness giving way to light then back again, until my eyes begin to glaze and I have to fight to keep my lids open.
As they lower, I think about how incredibly happy I am to have this lamp because its light is so pretty. So safe. So familiar.
My safe haven.
With each yank of the chain, I find myself muttering under my breath.
Dark.
Light. Safe.
Dark.
Light. Safe.
Dark.
Light. Safe.
I continue doing this until my arm becomes too heavy and I can no longer pull the chain. The lamp remains on while my hand drops to the surface of the end table.
I inhale deeply and force my focus on that light until sleep finally finds me.
Past—Twelve years old
“GOD . . .” I CHOKE BACK a sob. “Not again.”
The weight of absolute horror squeezes my chest, and all I see is the white of the ceiling above me as I look upward, spitting the words through gritted teeth. “Not. Again.”
I close my eyes and try to breathe in deeply, shaking my head as warm tears seep from my eyes and trail down my cheeks. My hand trembles as I reach to the side. As soon as my palm grazes the sheets underneath me, a cry is wrenched from my lungs.
They’re soaked. Again.
Tremors rake through my entire body, and I’m unsure if they’re from the terror of the nightmare that startled me awake, or the embarrassment of admitting I’m twelve years old and I just wet the bed.
My mouth pinches in disgust as I climb out of the warm dampness. Before my bare feet even hit the ground, goosebumps spring along my skin from the shock of the cool air. I strip my nightgown over my head, throwing it on top of my bed, then quickly grab the one stashed away in my dresser drawer for when this happens. Once dressed, I gather my bedding—mattress pad, sheets, and throw blanket—and hold it close to my body as I tiptoe toward the basement.
As always, I close my eyes and reach for the railing. My palm glides over the slick wood and I hurriedly make my way through the darkness, counting the steps as I go.
One.
Two.
Three.
I chant the numbers one by one, and when my feet finally land on the cool cement floor, I make a mad dash across the room, then throw the wet contents inside the washer. Selecting the quickest cycle, I pour some detergent inside before quietly shutting the lid, knowing that I have exactly fifteen minutes until they’re ready to be dried.
Repeating the same reciting ritual, I make my way up the stairs and quickly cross the house toward my bathroom, thankful my parents’ room is on the other side. Not once in the past four years have they ever been awakened by my stirrings in the night.
I don’t know how that’s possible, but I’m thankful.
They will never know. They must never know.
My jaw tightens as disgusting screams and shrieks fill my head. Their words turn my stomach, and I’m forced to swallow the bile rising in the back of my throat.
You’re dirty.
Weak.
Disgusting.
The chanting continues as I sit on the side of the bathtub and turn on the water, wishing I could run it full force to try to drown out the nasty voices.
But it doesn’t work.
Nothing ever works, really.
I run enough water to cover the bottom of the tub, then strip off my gown and climb inside. I scrub furiously. By the time I’m done, my nails ache and my skin is raw. Yet, regardless of my many attempts, I never really feel clean. After several minutes spent focusing on the washing of my body, the shouts finally dull into whispers, fading into their usual low hum, and I step out of the tub.
Ten minutes down, five to go.
I wrap a towel around my sensitive skin and pad to my room. Folding the dirty nightgown, I place it back into its usual spot in my drawer, then grab yet another change of clothing. I quickly yank on my panties and shorts, then pull a tank top over my head, before finally heading back down to the basement. The familiar smell of detergent fills the air, and I shake my head to rid it from my nostrils.
The soft fragrance once provided me a sense of security. Now, it just serves as a reminder.
Angry tears fill my eyes, but I won’t cry. I refuse to cry anymore because each tear is just a reminder of my weakness. I can’t afford the outward display. It will only lead to questions I don’t want to answer.
Once the bedding is drying and I’m back upstairs in my room, I line my mattress with clean sheets and throw an old comforter over my body pillow—just in case—then tread to the window and open it, searching for the light I know will be there.
Once I find it, my body is on autopilot.
I know exactly how many steps it takes to cross the street.
I know exactly how long I have until I need to be back.
And I know exactly where I’m going to crash for the next couple hours.
Because with her lamp always on, Spencer is the only person I know who truly understands living a nightmare . . .
Even though I will never tell her mine.
Three more steps . . .
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
The dimly lit window unlatches and slides open with no greeting. Questions such as, “What are you doing here?” and “Do your parents know where you are?” are no longer necessary. I’ve been escaping into this very bedroom across the street for a while now. The one always lit by a desk lamp, no matter how late, or early, it may be.
Once I’ve landed safely in her room, I shut the window behind me and watch Spencer climb back into the safety of her warm sheets in drowsy silence. For a brief moment, I allow myself to remember that feeling of safety, and a small pang of jealousy worms its way through my stomach.
Immediately, I push it aside and curse myself for being a shitty friend, because I know exactly why she sleeps with her light on. It’s not the sheets that provide her security; it’s that damn lamp sitting on her desk. So many years have passed . . . yet Spencer still cannot handle being left alone in the dark.
She offers me a sleepy smile as she nestles her head into her pillow.
“Bad dream again?” she asks, tucking the purple comforter under her chin.
“Yeah. It was horrible. I dreamt I was forced to attend the homecoming dance wearing a fuchsia dress that fit me like a potato sack. A real fucking nightmare.”
“Cassie Cooper!”
I grin as she snort-giggles at my inappropriate use of language and head to her closet, where my floor-pallet makings await. Pulling out the pillows, I add softly, “Sorry to wake you. Again.”
Spencer yawns, then simply shrugs. “No biggie.”
My mouth dips as I think about how much I wish I could tell her how big this is for me. How comforting it is to know that when I knock at her window, freshly bathed from waking in sheets soaked with urin
e, I have this small, safe haven of time before I have to go back home, where horrific memories lurk around every corner.
Everything.
It means everything.
And she may never know.
Not once have my parents noticed me missing. They remain asleep, content in their dreams, while I try my best to escape my nightmares. It’s become a dreadfully familiar routine. I wake, wash, bathe, dry, then escape here for a couple hours. Then I wake again and climb back through my window, only to pretend to be asleep when my mother finally enters my bedroom, completely oblivious to any changes in bedding. Already exhausted, I lower myself into Spencer’s Wonder Woman sleeping bag and clear the emotion lodged in my throat.
It’s so easy to avoid your own problems by busying yourself in someone else’s life. I happen to find immense joy in the times I get to lose myself in Spencer’s, so that’s exactly what I do.
“So . . .” I draw, settling my head into the pillow.
Spencer shifts and her tangled blonde hair tumbles over the side of the bed when she leans to meet my eyes. We’ve had countless late-night conversations in these exact positions—me lying flat on the floor and Spencer hovering above me with her chin digging into the side of her mattress.
Seconds later, the distraction that is Spencer begins to work its magic and I clench my teeth to keep from smiling before I continue. “So, that boy that your mom emergency fostered a while back, Dalton was it? Didn’t I see him at school today?”
With the mention of his name, Spencer’s cheeks redden, and her eyebrows hit her hairline.
She is so busted. Crush busted.
She nervously tucks a strand of hair behind her ear before answering, “Yeah, Mom worked to get him in on a full scholarship. He had to be tested, and she said he did well. His scores were better than most of ours.”
She sighs, then adds, “He was recently placed with the Housemans. They’re a good foster family. He’ll do well there, I think.”
Her tone is hopeful, but her eyes give away her uncertainty. Her fear that he won’t be okay, regardless of what both she and her mother have done to try to give him a better life. One that he no doubt has been running from since the day he was born. I could see it in his guarded expression the day she introduced us, and I think he saw my need to escape too, but he never said a word.
He has never said much, as far as I can tell. Sadly, I completely identify with his need for silence, to keep his secrets hidden. I get it.
Secrets aren’t meant to be shared. They’re to remain hidden, safe from the judgment of others as they remain a burden for you, and only you, to carry alone.
As I watch unsure emotions depress her features, I’m reminded why I have never told her what happened to me, even though she so willingly offered the explanation of her past.
Oddly enough, that lamp was the beacon that saved me, but I never told her why. Why I suddenly started knocking at her well-lit window in the middle of the night. Why her presence, just having someone near that I trusted, soothed me to the point of finally being able to shut my eyes again to sleep, if only for a couple hours.
And although I know she wanted to ask, she never did. She gave me, and has continued to give me, the space to work through it on my own.
Does she have any idea of what I’ve experienced? No. I don’t think so. I feel she senses something isn’t right, but not what exactly. Honestly, I would never tell her because of that troubled expression displayed on her face as we discuss her need to fix Dalton Greer. And I say that with the utmost respect and love.
Spencer is a bleeding heart, but I don’t want to be her project, as Dalton may or may not turn out to be. The focus of her need to right the wrongs in this world.
I want no part of that side of Spencer.
“He’ll be fine, Spence. Just give him time,” I offer with a sigh and then turn on my side to face her. She gives me a half-hearted grin in return. Pulling the sleeping bag over my shoulder, I continue with my original line of questioning. “Any-whooooo, I saw him after school in the parking lot talking to another boy. Olive complexion, hazel eyes, gorgeous smile. Sound familiar?”
Her giggle fills the room, and I mischievously smile while waggling my eyebrows.
She laughs outright, then answers, “That’s Rat.”
My face pinches tightly in refusal of this horrid name that has been bestowed on the beautiful creature I spotted earlier today. “Rat? What the hell kind of name is that?”
Still smiling, she responds, “My thoughts exactly. Dalton said his name is Anthony, but he picked up the nickname Rat when he was younger and it just kind of stuck.”
“How unfortunate for him,” I state.
Another giggle from above. “I don’t think he cares what other people think. That’s the vibe I get from him.”
Hmm. I like him already.
“Well . . .” I try to fight it, but a yawn manages its escape before I can finish my statement. “He’s hot. Like, he should be on a book cover hot.”
“Gah, Cass. You and your books. I don’t know how you get away with reading all those grown-up romance novels.”
It’s my turn to laugh. “I don’t. I keep them under my bed, hidden from Mom. But I’ll tell you what, the minute they come out with electronic books, it’s on. I’m all for that shit. Digital would be way easier to hide.”
Spencer shakes her head, stifling her own yawn. “You’re addicted to romance.”
I nod. “I am, but fictional only. Real-life romance doesn’t exist.”
As soon as I say the words, the air in the room changes. I don’t know if it’s because of Spencer or me, but there’s heaviness surrounding us.
As usual, I say anything I can to avoid this feeling. “I mean, think about it, Spence. All the time in my books, men are ripping the women’s panties off. Impossible. And ridiculous. That would never happen in real life.”
As usual, my words are meant only for pure shock value. It’s a sad form of entertainment for me.
Spencer shakes her head with a horrified expression on her face.
I grin to myself.
She loves me.
The smothering air around us disappears as she laughs, and we fall into comfortable silence. After a few minutes, her sleepy, raspy tone hits my ears. “Love you, Cass.” She rolls over, and I know she’s finally finding her way back to the sleep I interrupted.
My throat tightens with her words, and I think about the meaning of love as I respond in my usual, high-pitched, joy-filled response. “Love you, times two.”
But my mind refuses to sleep.
Love.
People toss the word around so freely, almost as though it’s merely an afterthought, but the power within that one word can change a life. It can be used to manipulate and control, or it can provide healing and soothe the wounds of the broken.
Sometimes I wonder if I will ever know the love of the latter with someone other than Spencer. Someone who will love all of me, including my past and the torture it brings.
I know without a doubt that Spencer loves me unconditionally, even though I’ve never found the courage to tell her my secrets. I know she would love me even if I found the strength to share. And although I choose not to for my own reasons, the knowledge that this kind of love actually exists gives me the hope that maybe I will find my way through the darkness and overcome my nightmares.
Spencer is living proof that it can be done.
I stay on my side and listen to sounds of her deepening breaths. Clutching tightly to the fabric surrounding me, I give my normally guarded thoughts freedom as I imagine myself as the heroine of some romance novel. I envision myself as the unsuspecting, incredibly broken girl, who finds the one person who can help her, heal her, save her . . .
Reality will soon cloud my mind. I will be forced to peel myself out of this rare calm and forced to go back home.
But for now, I allow myself the relief of pretending.
I imagine what it would be like to lov
e romantically.
I replay the images of the boy I saw today—the hero, as he would be in my book if I were ever to live in one—and the warmth of his imagined presence slowly lullls me into a deep, peaceful sleep.
“COME ON, CASS. WE’RE going to be late.”
Parked outside Spencer’s door, I listen to the sounds of her mad shuffling as she hurries to get ready. I, however, am already dressed because unfortunately, I don’t have shit to do. Somehow, within the last ten minutes, I fell victim to Spencer’s ploy in getting me to attend Krav Ma-whatthefuckdoesthisevenmeeeean??? class with her. I’ve been avoiding going with her for weeks, but tonight, she dug her claws in deep and wouldn’t let go until I agreed. Plus, she mockingly humped my leg while pleading with me to go. It was so ridiculous, I couldn’t not say yes.
Just as I blow what is quite possibly the largest bubble I’ve ever managed, her door flies open and my eyes land on her exasperated expression.
I suck the gum back through my teeth and inquire, “What’s your deal with this Kung Fu shit?”
She glares back at me, clearly frustrated with my lack of interest. “It’s Krav Maga. I told you that already. And it’s awesome.”
Pressing myself off the wall, I shake my head in mock disappointment. “If only we could get you this excited about dating. Instead, for the last three weeks you’ve chosen to hang out in a smelly gym with sweaty guys who are most likely overcompensating for the small girth of their dicks. I don’t get it.”
I fight back laughter at her expression. Getting under Spencer’s skin just makes me so damn happy. God, I really need to get a life.
She huffs back at me. “I didn’t ask you to. The only thing I’ve asked you to do is accompany me to this one class. It’s ‘bring a friend’ night, and since you’re like my only friend, you’re officially obligated to attend. And you never know, you might actually learn something useful.”
Another bored bubble is masterfully inflated through my lips before Spencer pops it, then wipes the palm of her hand onto my favorite retro Star Wars T-shirt. I open my mouth to scold her careless actions, but she continues, “Plus the instructor’s hot. Like, really hot. Not my type, but maybe for you.”
Out of Focus (Chosen Paths #2) Page 3
