by Brooke Moss
Moaning, I flopped onto my stomach and buried my face in my pillow. It was stupid and pathetic and wrong—oh, so terribly wrong—but I missed him. Good grief, I needed more therapy. Or a lobotomy.
Smack.
I wrapped my pillow around my head. Sometimes when Cooper couldn’t sleep, he wandered the house, tinkering around with things, until Paula or John put him back to bed. Once they’d caught him in the kitchen, playing drums on the pots and pans. That was a fun night.
Sarcasm alert.
Smack.
Great. That sounded like glass.
I squeezed my eyes shut and hissed a few swear words into the dark. Seriously, couldn’t they get that kid under control? I didn’t need to a damn autistic kid busting things around the house all night…
As soon as I thought it, my stomach twisted with guilt. Cooper was a great kid, and the way Paula and John were with him was amazing I rolled back over and rubbed at my chest. They were amazing with Cooper. Their patience was insurmountable. And the way they handled his freak-outs and temper tantrums? Awe-inspiring. I swear to all things holy, the Coulters could walk on water.
I rolled back over and rubbed my chest.
They’d welcomed me into their home and gave me my own bedroom—which I’d never had before—on the top floor of the beat up old farmhouse John inherited from his grandfather. They forgave me the other night for yelling at them, and promised to replace my iPod, even though their van needed new tires and Micah needed new basketball shoes. They loved me, even though I couldn’t love them back.
Smack.
I threw my pillow aside. That hadn’t come from downstairs. It came from outside. “What the hell?”
Smack.
Throwing my covers off, I jumped out of bed and stomped over to my window. I peered into the darkness below and gasped. There in the rain stood Drew, soaking wet and waving up at me like a lunatic.
Ignore him. He’s a dickhead. Seriously not worth it.
Drew stopped waving his hands and just smiled. Damn that smile of his.
Jerking the window open, I stuck my window out and hissed down at him. “What are you doing here? Are you crazy?”
He shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “Yeah. Sort of.”
I frowned down at him. “Go home, Drew.”
“Not until you talk to me.” He dragged his hand over his head, sending droplets of rainwater flying. “Please come down, Po.”
I rubbed my eyes. Almost every instinct I had told me to throw something heavy down onto Drew’s head.
“You should run,” I called.
“Why?”
“Because I have a combat boot up here with your head’s name on it.”
Drew looked down. “I’m sorry. I just want to explain.”
“Dammit.” I tapped my fingers on the windowsill. I’d been screwed over too many times in my life to fall for some sad choirboy act. But a teensy, tiny part of me that also wanted to hear what he had to say.
“Ugh… fine.” Ducking back into my room, I groaned and punched at a nearby pillow. I was so weak. Boys sucked.
I tiptoed down the stairs, through the messy kitchen, past Paula and John as they watched TV, and out the backdoor. They would be awake for a bit longer, so I had to be as quiet as possible when I told Drew where to shove his stupid dimples and wishy-washy attitude.
I slipped off the back porch and met Drew on the side of the house, cowering underneath the small eave. Wrapping my arms around myself, I stopped a couple of feet away from him. “Why are you here?”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“You should be.” I looked away. Seriously, those green eyes were luring me in like a tractor beam. “You were a complete tool, Drew.”
After being humiliated before school started, I’d avoided him for the rest of the day. I made it a point not to look in his direction for the rest of the day, even taking it so far as to skip lunch and sulk in the courtyard until classes started again. I was relieved when Mr. Kingston interrupted our tutoring session to lecture us on the importance of dedication and follow through. By the time he’d finished, time was almost up, so I’d packed up my things and left the library without another word.
“I know.” He took a step towards me, but I backed away. “I panicked.”
“You panicked?” I yelled. The hell with being quiet. “That’s your excuse? A pack of small-minded, backwoods teenagers made you panic? You’re even more pathetic than I thought.”
“Those backwoods teenagers are my friends,” he reminded me, a frown pulling the corners of his mouth down. “They saw my black eye, and heard that I’d been caught in my car with you and that my dad lost it. I was afraid they’d make you into some sort of scapegoat for me getting into trouble, or make up a bunch of ugly crap about you, and I lied.” Drew looked down at his drenched pant legs. “I told them I saw you on the road and drove you back to the school, but that I’d gone to Langley by myself and got into a fight.”
I jutted my chin out at him. “Seems like an awfully big story just to cover up something that wasn’t that big of a deal in the first place.”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” he muttered. “In my head.”
I harrumphed and kicked at a puddle in the patchy lawn, sending mud spraying onto Drew’s legs. “You were embarrassed of me. Don’t you think I can see that? Don’t you think I’ve been experiencing that my whole life? You’re not the first person who didn’t want to be seen with the foster kid.”
“I don’t care about that.” He brought his eyes up to meet mine, and clenched his jaw. “I swear I don’t. I just knew that if I acted like I liked you—” Raising his eyebrows, he clarified, “Liked you… they would all know I had lied. They would turn us simply being in my car together into me banging you in the backseat.”
The tiniest bit of my anger melted away. I hated to admit it, but Drew had a point. Rumors in this place grew like mold, and were twice as bad for someone’s health.
“And the part about my dad losing it would be all over town before lunch period—and my dad doesn’t like people thinking badly about him. I would pay for that, Posey. Big time.” Drew’s expression was grave. “I thought I was making the right choice, but I just wound up acting like a jerk and screwing things up. I’m sorry.”
I didn’t want to forgive him… except that I did. We didn’t fit together… except when we did. It drove me crazy. A smart girl would walk away from Drew, and protect herself from the insanity that is otherwise known as hanging out with the most eligible bachelor in school.
Drew took a step closer to me, and touched my arm. His fingers sent a wave of heat through my skin and into the bone. “Po? I promise never to act like that again. I’m not ashamed of you. I’m not.”
I ground my molars together. “Nobody calls me Po.”
“Why?”
“Because…” I kicked at a clump of mud on the ground. “It’s my childhood nickname. Only certain people can call me that.”
His fingers stroked the skin on my wrist. “Can I call you that?”
Sighing, I drug my hair back from my face and knotted it on the back of my head. “Ugh. Why did you have to come over?” I snapped. “It is much easier to stay pissed at you if you leave me alone.”
Resolve = crumbled. The vampire novels were officially cooler than me.
He released a huge sigh and wove his arms around my waist. “Does this mean you’re going to forgive me?”
I put my hands on his chest, and felt his heart thud against my palms. I could’ve sworn my heart started to thud in unison. “Have I ever told you that I don’t forgive very easily?”
“Somehow I gathered that from you.” When he enveloped me in a hug, it warmed me from the inside out. “But I’m willing to wait as long as it takes. I won’t hurt you again, Po.”
I sank against Drew’s body. It felt like six months had passed since he’d held me like this, when it’d only been since last night. “My mom
used to call me Po.”
“She did? I… I’m sorry. I can stop.”
“No, don’t. I guess I kind of like it.”
Drew cupped my face and made me look up at him. “Have you heard from her again? Did you respond? What did you say?”
I blinked up at him. “Which question do you want me to answer first?”
He smiled. “Smart alec.”
“Yes. She left me another message.” I bit my lip, and looked away. “And no, I didn’t respond. I don’t know what to say. Hey, thanks for ignoring me for seven years. Let’s be BFF’s now. Why not?”
“Maybe you should tell her how you feel?” Drew kissed my forehead, making my heart leap. “You don’t seem like the type who struggles with brutal honesty.”
“You should take your own advice,” I said, closing my eyes.
“Ouch.”
“Sorry. I know you’re trying to help. I just… just can’t.”
“I just think that if you’re pissed she lost you in the first place, you should tell her so. Maybe it would be good to tell her that.”
I nodded. “Maybe. But only if you tell your dad what you think about his temper.”
“Maybe.” Drew laughed quietly, before brushing the end of my nose with his. “Can I kiss you, Posey?”
Smiling, I kept my eyes closed. “You didn’t ask my permission last night.”
“That was before I ticked you off.”
“That’s true. Yes, Drew, you can kiss me.”
He pressed his lips to mine. Softly at first, then tilting his head to the side to deepen the kiss. My stomach turned backflips, and I felt lightheaded. If I got a running start, I could take off flying.
“Ahem.”
Drew and I jumped apart at the sound of my foster dad clearing his throat. When I blinked—clearing the post-make-out-haze from my eyes—I realized that Paula and John stood on the porch with their arms folded across their chest.
And neither of them looked happy.
Chapter Fifteen
Him.
Okay, so I’d been in a few close calls with parents before.
In the eighth grade, when I had kissed Victoria Oshenham behind the gymnasium, her father pulled up in their minivan, and we barely missed getting caught. In tenth grade, when I’d felt up Gracie Ketcher after the Spring Fling dance, her mom walked around the corner nearly catching me red handed. And if I had a nickel for how many times Maddie and I were nearly busted by Reverend Mulcahey, I would have enough to buy a handful of songs on iTunes.
But I’d never been caught. Especially not by parents like Paula and John Coulter. These people were different. They were attentive and loving and attended all the PTO meetings, but not just to ensure their social standing. They attended because they actually cared about their kids’ education. Weird.
Oh, and according to Posey, John Coulter had captained the wrestling team at his high school back in ’91. He still appeared every bit as cut as he was back then.
Which is why, as Posey and I sat on the Coulters’ couch with John and Paula pacing across from us, I thought I might crap my pants. The silence in their house was deafening, as they frowned down at us with their arms folded across their chests. I could hear the floorboards upstairs creaking as one of the kids wandered around
I decided to take the bull by the horns. Turn on that Baxter charm that had gotten my father elected twice. “Listen, Mr. and Mrs. Coulter,” I said, flashing a grin. “I apologize for not introducing myself properly. I’m D—”
“I know who you are, son.” John cut me off with one glance, so I pressed my lips together and sat back on the couch quietly.
Yeah. My ass is in trouble.
“Andrew, I went to high school with your father,” Paula said calmly, sitting down in a faded armchair across from me.
“Yeah. Yes. I mean, I know.” I cleared my throat, avoiding John’s eyes. Was it hot in here, or was I just freaking the crap out? “My mom told me.”
One of Paula’s eyebrows pricked upward, and I wished I could suck the words back into my head. My mother—after my father ditched us for dinner one night, and one too many glasses of wine to nurse her wounded ego—told me the torrid tale of how they’d met. And how they’d crushed Paula in the process. If my dad knew she’d shared that with me, he’d lose his mind. Good thing I made it a point not to talk to him unless I was forced to.
Paula turned her focus to John. “Honey, why don’t you sit down and talk to the kids?
“All right.” Groaning, he flopped down onto the arm of her chair, then took her hand. “Listen, kids, I know you’re both seniors, and almost eighteen, and—”
“Drew is already eighteen,” Posey interrupted. I took hold of her hand and squeezed it, silently warning her not to tick the Coulters off more than we already had. But she didn’t get the message. “It’s not like you can tell him what to do, so you can direct your lecture towards me.”
“It’s okay,” I told her. “I—”
“No, it’s not,” she snapped, her blue eyes flashing. “They’re not my parents. Not yet, anyway. And they’re certainly not yours.”
John looked at Posey and his expression softened. Just a little. “No, we’re not Drew’s parents, but when he is dating our daughter, he—”
“Foster daughter.” Posey locked her jaw in place.
Paula looked down at her hands and I instantly felt sorry for her.
John reached for Posey’s arm, but she jerked it away. “Posey, you are our daughter. Every bit as much as Jessa, Tabitha, or Lacey are our daughters.”
“Please,” Posey scoffed, fixing her eyes on a spot across the room. Was she trying to make things worse? Why couldn’t she just shut up?
“Po,” I whispered. When she dragged her eyes back to mine—reluctantly, I might point out—I added, “Stop.”
She narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth. For a second, I thought she might tell me to go screw myself, but then her shoulders dropped and she fell against the back of the couch. “Fine,” she mumbled.
“What I’m trying to say, is…” John took a deep breath and offered a small smile to his wife. “In our house, no matter who the kid is, or where they came from, or what their status in the system is, they’re considered our child. And when that child starts dating someone,” he said, turning his gaze on me, “we expect that person to come to our door. Shake our hands. And introduce themselves.”
“Yes, sir.” I swallowed. How had I avoided having this conversation with half a dozen dads up to this point? I held my breath, waiting for the second part of his statement. Which would undoubtedly be something like: if you ever stick your tongue down my daughters’ throat in my backyard again, I’ll pound you into a coma, you moronic little twerp.
Instead, he leaned forward, and stuck out his hand. “Hi, Andrew. I’m John Coulter.”
“Um, hi.” My voice cracked and I cleared my throat. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“You as well.” John smiled patiently at Posey. “Was that so bad?”
“No.” She looked at him through her bangs, fighting a smile of her own. “And he goes by Drew.”
“Fair enough. Drew.” John rested on the back of the seat, and put his hand on Paula’s knee. “So how long have the two of you been seeing each other?”
I squeezed Posey’s knuckles again. She was trembling. “It’s new—”
“Not long.” Posey shifted in her seat, her hands trembling. The old couch groaned underneath us. “Why?”
“We just had no idea,” Paula said, smoothing down the front of her bathrobe. “We didn’t know you were interested in dating any boys here in town.”
“Did you think I was a lesbian?” Posey deadpanned.
“Po,” I blurted. It was like she couldn’t help but sabotage herself. Was this the self-destructive streak she’d talked about before? I shrugged at Paula. “It’s sort of new. Posey’s been helping me with my Lit homework everyday. We became friends.”
I looked between the Coulter
s and Posey a few times. “She’s been doing a great job. It was my weakest class until she helped me see the purpose in classic literature. Now I might actually kinda like it.”
“No kidding?” John laughed, his eyebrows high on his forehead. “Posey, I’m so proud of you. That’s great.”
Paula looked a little misty-eyed. “I knew you were brilliant. The first day you were here, you used Aristotle to insult Micah. I knew the whole I don’t give a crap about school thing was bogus.”
Posey seemed to relax a bit, the corners of her mouth not quite pointing upward yet, but not quite pointing down anymore. “Well, it’s helping my grade, too.”
“Good.” John grinned. “This is great. Have you given some thought to what colleges you might like to apply to yet? It’s not too late.”
“Or you could start at Island Community College,” blurted Paula. “You know, then you could still be close.”
She glanced at me, and my heart pulled. “I, um, I don’t know.”
Posey wanted out of this town as badly as I did, but the Coulter’s clearly didn’t want her to go away anytime soon. As they continued talking, I looked around the room. It was so different from the living room in my house. My mom hired an interior decorator from Bellevue to take the ferry to our house five days a week for three months straight to get our place up to snuff. We had Persian rugs worth more than the Coulters’ minivan, French wallpaper that could only be found in something like eleven other houses in the world, and every surface was either white or gold. No other colors allowed in Blair Baxter’s home. Period.
This place was different. Lived in. There were piles of laundry everywhere. Some folded, some not. And toys covered every surface of the room. The dull wood floors were covered with mismatched throw rugs, all nappy and torn at the corners; and the walls were pained different colors of the rainbow, and decorated with framed pictures of the kids. Some were their school pictures, awkward stances against the boring gray background, but others were framed snapshots from things like birthday parties, camping trips, and even mundane activities like washing the car. In each shot, everybody was smiling or laughing, even the little one—who, if I remembered right, had autism, or some such problem.
