Defending Taylor (Hundred Oaks #7)

by Miranda Kenneally

  “What’s wrong?”

  I looked down at his body. It was bigger than I expected. “I don’t see how it will ever work. You know, if we—”

  He gently touched my cheek, urging my face to meet his. “Don’t worry, Tee. If and when you’re ready, we’ll figure it out together. I love you no matter what.”

  My phone buzzes, jolting me from the memory. Ben’s picture flashes on the screen. I don’t pick up. Hot tears burn my eyes.

  The last time he and I were together was last Friday night. The night I took the fall for him.

  That Thursday, St. Andrew’s had a game against Grundy County. When I scored the second goal, my team circled me with hugs, jumping up and down, and the thrill carried me until the end of the game. I was pumped about our win, but I had to scramble for a quick dinner before studying for my first college test.

  I had signed up for advanced calculus and economics at the University of the South. Along with those two college classes, I was taking four high school classes, including AP trigonometry and AP chemistry. I’d wanted to take an art course about color theory but couldn’t fit it in the same schedule Oliver and Jenna had taken their senior year.

  To stay awake to study for my calc quiz, I took two Adderall pills Ben had gotten for me. He knew who to get them from. I didn’t take pills regularly or anything, and I had no stash, but it wasn’t the first time I’d used them. If I was going to be the best student, then I needed to be alert when it mattered most. After I made it through the test—I think I did okay, though I wonder if I’ll ever find out—I was practically shaking from the stress. My right eyelid was twitching, and all I wanted to do was sleep, but I was too on edge.

  Ben called after I frantically texted him about my freakish eye twitch. “Babe, you need to relax.”

  “What if I failed the quiz? You know how much I hate calc.”

  “Tee, you knew the material backward and forward. I know you did great. It’s Friday night. Come outside with me.”

  I met him on the Card House porch, where he kissed me long and slow, then twined his hand with mine. I handed him my sweater to put in his backpack, in case it got chilly later. Then he led me toward the woods beyond the soccer field.

  “What are we doing?” I asked.

  “Relaxing,” he said with a big goofy grin. He patted his backpack, the black one I had bought him for his seventeenth birthday over the summer.

  In the woods, Ben found a small clearing. He collected sticks and built us a cozy campfire, like we had done on a few other occasions. From his backpack, he nonchalantly pulled a two-liter of Coke and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

  “Where’d you get that?” I exclaimed.

  “Brought it from home. My brother got it for me.” Ben mixed us each a cocktail, and we leaned against a fallen log, staring up at the stars above the lush trees. With each sip of Jack, I relaxed into the romantic atmosphere. My eye stopped twitching. I took my ponytail out of its tight knot, letting my hair tumble down my back. I felt like I’d lost ten pounds.

  My boyfriend unbuttoned my shirt and slipped a hand inside as I loosened his blue tie and unzipped his khakis. He pushed up my plaid skirt, pulled down my panties, rolled on a condom, then crawled on top of me. We had been sleeping together for a few months. At first, it made us both nervous, but I was totally in love, and sex was becoming more comfortable. This was one of the times it felt really, really good for me. When we were finished, I adjusted my skirt back into place, let out a contented sigh, and curled up in his arms. But I wanted to cry—I had to get up in six hours to drive to Nashville for a debate tournament.

  “All I want to do is sleep in,” I murmured to Ben. “Maybe I’ll skip. I’m exhausted.”

  He stroked my hair and back. “Shh,” he said, and I snuggled closer. We both knew I couldn’t skip. The college acceptance committees wouldn’t care that I was tired. All that mattered is that I had perfect grades and was perfect at all my activities. Colleges want awesome students, not failures. I could not be a failure.

  Right as I started to nod off, Ben whispered, “I need to use the bathroom,” and left me curled up in front of our campfire. My eyelids felt heavy. I couldn’t keep them open.

  That’s the last thing I remember.

  I woke up with a pounding headache to a flashlight shining in my eyes. What time was it? Had I missed curfew? Where was Ben? He couldn’t be far. I spotted his backpack. The fire was still crackling. It must have been only a few minutes since Ben had left for the bathroom.

  Two dorm mothers stood before me. They’d found the bottle of Jack, and when they searched the backpack to see if I had more liquor, they found a little weed and silver packets with rows of little white pills. Ben was nowhere to be seen.

  I was groggy and didn’t have time to think, to weigh the consequences. I didn’t even have time to wonder why Ben had all those pills. I just knew that the teachers thought the backpack was mine because my sweater was in it and I was the only one there.

  Dad’s modeling integrity motto flew out the window when Ben appeared in the clearing with a panicked look on his face. I gave him a subtle shake of my head, silently willing him to keep quiet. My mind raced. Ben’s on scholarship. He’ll get kicked out. My dad’s a senator. A school trustee. They’ll give me detention. Or community service.

  The dorm mothers already thought the pills were mine.

  I didn’t correct them.

  What Won’t Dad Do for a Vote?

  Where in the hell should I get coffee?

  If I go to Donut Palace for a proper latte, I might run into that landscaper again.

  But if I go to Foothills, which does not have proper lattes, there’s the very real possibility Ezra will be there…and the slight possibility that one of the old dudes might want to play gin rummy like that man at the nursing home.

  Starbucks by the interstate it is.

  By the time I drive out there, the parking lot is packed. Who knew the interstate Starbucks was so hot right now? I find a spot on the side lot and am walking up to the entrance when I do a double take. Wait. Is that Mom’s Lexus? Oh my God. If she’s been hiding a secret coffee fetish, I am going to kill her. And then force her to buy us a Keurig.

  I slide inside to find Mom schmoozing with Tennessee citizens. It’s a meet and greet. Mom and Dad often ask me to go to these events whenever I’m home. It’s weird she didn’t invite me to stop by before school.

  I wave at Mom. She sets down her white paper cup and rushes over to me. “Taylor, what are you doing here?”

  “Getting my coffee fix.”

  She purses her lips. “You know it’s not good for your skin.”

  “But it’s great for my soul,” I say, feigning seriousness. “What are you drinking anyway? Black coffee with a shot of espresso, I hope.”

  “It’s green tea.”

  I make a face. “Green tea tastes like grass.”

  “Taylor,” Mom whisper-yells. “Stop that. The camera crews will be here any minute.”

  That’s when I spot Dad.

  He’s staring me down from behind the counter, where he’s wearing a green apron and holding a white cup and Sharpie. Dear Lord, what won’t Dad do for a vote? If he had to, I bet he’d shovel elephant poop at the Nashville Zoo.

  Dad has a tough race coming up in November and is doing everything he can to rock the vote. Hence the Starbucks excursion. Tennessee has always been super conservative, so his real competition is usually during the Republican primary in August, which he won by a landslide. But this time, the Democratic opponent—Harrison Wallace—is getting a lot of voter support. He’s young, cool, and seems very real in his TV commercials, which play over and over and over. Especially the one where he’s unloading groceries from the car like he’s a regular guy, even though he’s been a congressman for six years. He wants to move from the House to the Senate.

 
; Dad stops playing barista and comes over to me. “What are you doing here?”

  I nod at the marker and cup in his hand. “I’ll have a grande skim latte, please.”

  Despite his obvious discomfort at seeing me, he actually laughs at my joke, but Mom scowls. When an elderly woman pushes her walker by us, Mom’s frown turns into a smile, and they exchange pleasantries. It takes the lady a good twenty seconds to move out of earshot. Then Mom turns to me again.

  “Shouldn’t you be at school?”

  “I need my caffeine first. Dad, do you need to know how to spell my name for the cup? It’s T-A-Y—”

  “I’ve had enough of your sass,” Mom says, glancing around Starbucks. “We’ll talk about this later. You need to get to school before the cameras get here.”

  “Are you embarrassed by me?”

  They hesitate for a moment before saying, “Of course not!”

  But they are. And I’m not sure whether to feel hurt or ashamed or angry. Hurt because they’re my parents, and even if they’ve always been a bit overbearing and expected a lot, up until today, they had always been proud of me and wanted me by their sides.

  Ashamed because I fucked up big-time, and I can’t blame them for being embarrassed by me. I’m embarrassed by me.

  But I’m also angry because I’ve always done exactly what my parents asked of me. Sure, I bent the rules here and there, like when I used my sister’s driver’s license to get my ankle tattoo, but overall, I’ve been a very good daughter. Have they forgotten the real Tee all because I made one mistake?

  “I’ll see you later,” I mutter and turn to leave. My parents don’t try to stop me. I climb into the Beast and drive toward school.

  “God, they suck!” I yell to my empty car.

  At a traffic light, I lean my head against the steering wheel. Coffee. I still need coffee. I will not survive without it. I quickly flip a U-turn and speed down the four-lane.

  Five minutes later, I swing open the door to Donut Palace and beeline to the counter. “Grande skim latte, please,” I tell the barista.

  “It’s on me.”

  I groan under my breath. The sexy landscaper is back. I mentally repeat my No more boys mantra, give him a curt smile, and say, “No, thank you.”

  “C’mon, you know you want me to buy you coffee. A coffee that’s hot and dark, just like me.”

  I snort and burst out laughing. “You did not just say that.”

  “How about it?” He winks at me.

  “No, thank you.” I turn back to pay the cashier.

  “C’mon, bab—”

  “She said no.”

  I whip around to find Ezra. Landscaper Guy eyes Ezra, who’s wearing a Hall’s Construction T-shirt.

  “Dude, why would she want a construction rat when she could have a landscaping lion?”

  I crack up again.

  His pickup line was so ridiculous, I expect Landscaper Guy to send a horny pelvic thrust in my direction, but he vamooses when Ezra gives him the glare to end all glares.

  I can’t say I’m not glad the landscaping lion ran off to rejoin the pride, but I’m not thrilled to see Ezra again either. My heart skips at the sight of his green eyes.

  No. More. Boys.

  When I give my debit card to the cashier, Ezra hands the woman a twenty-dollar bill. “I’ll get yours.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I say.

  “Would you rather the landscaping lion buy it for you?” he says with a laugh.

  “I can pay for it myself.”

  Hearing the hard edge of my voice, Ezra lets me buy my own latte.

  Ezra places an order for a coffee and six cinnamon doughnut holes, then turns to me.

  “I figured you might come here,” he says.

  “How’d you know?”

  “You love lattes, and this place has the best ones in town. You always ordered them at the Friendly Bean at St. Andrew’s.”

  I smile a little. He noticed that when we were in school together?

  “Donut Palace is so much better than the Friendly Bean,” I say.

  “Yeah, I’d forgotten how much I love the doughnut holes here.”

  The barista calls my name and holds out my drink to me. I take it and nod at Ezra’s tee. “What’s the shirt for?”

  “I’m working for a construction firm.”

  “Why?”

  He looks into my eyes for a long moment, then shrugs. “I just like it.”

  As a kid, Ezra loved taking things apart and putting them back together. Computers, car engines, microwave ovens. It drove everybody batty. One time, Ezra convinced my brother to disassemble Dad’s riding lawnmower. My father grounded Oliver for a week for not being assertive enough to stand up to Ezra. Another time, Ezra got detention at school for taking apart a teacher’s SMART Board.

  So it’s not totally surprising he likes construction. But why is he doing it during the school year?

  “What about college?” I ask. “Aren’t you going to get in trouble for missing classes?”

  Ezra’s coffee is ready. He picks it up at the counter along with a white paper bag of doughnut holes. “I’m not going back this semester.”

  I touch his forearm. “Is everything okay?”

  “I’m fine.” He stares down at my hand on his skin. He clears his throat, then gruffly says, “Look, I need to get going.”

  I take a long sip of coffee and watch him stalk out into the parking lot. What’s up with him?

  Then I remember he’s not my problem, and I don’t want him to be.

  • • •

  I made it to the weekend!

  I celebrate by going shopping at the Gap for new jeans, followed by a long run. After showering and dressing to earn Mom’s approval, I head down to the kitchen to see what’s happening for dinner.

  There, I find Mom and Marina working on hors d’oeuvres. Two platters filled with lean meats, cheeses, olives, and a loaf of bread sit on the granite countertop. Mom is circling a separate veggie platter like a vulture.

  I slide onto a stool at the island. “What’s going on?”

  “Peter and Maura Phillips are coming over to discuss your father’s campaign,” Mom replies, popping a baby carrot in her mouth. She passes me a cocktail plate and gestures for me to grab anything I want. I choose a few olives and a slice of salami.

  “What’d you do this afternoon?” Mom asks.

  “I drove over to the Galleria and got some jeans.”

  “Did you get any other clothes?” she asks eagerly. Mom loves shopping.

  “Nah. I didn’t want to use any more of my allowance.”

  She furrows her eyebrows. Then a sly look crosses her face, and she smiles conspiratorially. “Do you need anything else besides jeans?”

  Every year, Dad gives us kids a clothes budget, but Mom has always felt it wasn’t enough—certainly not enough money to buy clothes befitting a senator’s kid, so she’s been known to slip us some cash here and there if we need something in particular, like when I needed a new outfit for the governor’s Independence Day Ball this past July. According to Mom, nothing in my closet “would do,” so she swore me to secrecy and swept me off to Nordstrom for a new cocktail dress.

  “I could use leggings and a few more shirts for school,” I whisper in case Dad is lurking about.

  “We’ll get you some,” Mom says with a smile. “You know, you could probably afford more clothes if you’d kick that coffee habit.”

  “Get us a Keurig and I’ll stop blowing money on lattes.”

  “Amen,” Marina says, while Mom rolls her eyes.

  I pop an olive in my mouth, then open the folder Miss Brady gave me during counseling today. It’s a list of all Hundred Oaks’ clubs and activities.

  “What’s that?” Mom asks.

  I sca
n down the page. “I need to choose another extracurricular besides soccer.”

  “Why? Don’t you feel like you have enough on your plate?”

  I shrug. “Not as much as at St. Andrew’s. I need to add to my résumé, or Yale will wonder why I started slacking during my senior year.”

  “But Taylor,” Mom says quietly, not meeting my eyes. “Don’t you think you should relax a little? I don’t want you turning back to Adderall.”

  “But my early decision app for Yale is due November first! I can’t stop working now, Mom.” My voice is full of desperation. “Not after all these years.”

  “I know you work hard, Tee,” Mom says, squeezing my hand. “But we can’t risk another incident like this.”

  Another incident?

  “You need to concentrate on taking care of yourself right now,” she adds. “I’m sure Yale will accept you. You’re a Lukens, for God’s sake.”

  Clearly, she is not in the know. “Dad said he won’t give the alumni association a heads-up that I’m applying.”

  Mom practically chokes on an olive.

  “My application is no different from anyone else’s,” I add. I have killer grades, and I do amazing work. I shouldn’t need a name to get ahead. I can do this on my own. And I’m going to do everything in my power to get in.

  Dad strolls into the kitchen, looking tired, probably because he flew back from DC this afternoon, but he perks up when he spots the food. He loads a cocktail plate to the brim with cheese and ham, which earns him a slap on the wrist from Mom.

  I continue to pore over the list of clubs and activities. Maybe I could do Quiz Bowl. I mean, who doesn’t like shouting answers at the TV when Jeopardy! is on?

  The Dinner Club sounds fun too, but it turns out to be cooking. I’d join if it were only about eating. Then there’s the Polar Bear Club. They jump into freezing cold bodies of water. Ooh, skeet shooting!