A perk of Adam working at Scott’s Garage was that Walter Scott, the elderly owner, felt it was communist to deny a working man a beer. He came from a different time, when eighteen was plenty old enough for a cold one.
“You want?”
“Sure.” He reached for her hand to recover the emotional distance, but she left him hanging. Any other girl would’ve been grateful, but not her. She felt indebted, which was as close as she ever wanted to be to trapped—a thing her mother had been all her life.
“I want to take care of you, Harmony.”
“I know you do.” She forced a smile. “You’re more than I deserve.” She pried the top with a bottle opener and took a long sip. “I’m going to get changed.”
He wanted to help her, but he couldn’t take away the years of pain. She had made a point of keeping an emotional distance from the beginning, even if he had no idea. Loving him meant trusting him and she refused to be that vulnerable.
She sat on the edge of the bed and unloaded her clothes, which smelled of smoke and sadness. Everything her mother touched wilted, and being with her, even only for an hour, had Harmony back on a very narrow ledge.
She glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand and finished her beer, the alcohol having little effect on her mood. 2:34 AM was less than four hours away. Only one thing was going to make her feel better, assuming Brea was up for it.
Adam knocked on the door. “You okay in there?” He was almost constantly asking her how she was.
“I’ll be right out.” She had told him she was going to change, but she meant her mood as much as her outfit. She hung up the sweatshirt of his she’d been wearing and dressed in one of her own and a pair of stretchy jeans with leggings underneath, spraying them both with peach-scented body spray to erase the stench of her mother’s home.
Adam leaned against the wall just outside the bedroom, his beer all but empty.
“Can I get you a refill?”
“Sure.”
She felt a pang of guilt for what she was about to do.
“Why don’t you see what’s on TV?” She headed to the kitchen where she’d left her purse.
“Are you hungry?” Adam called out through the half-empty bedroom door.
“No, my stomach’s a little iffy.” Most likely from nerves. They’d stopped at the pharmacy for sleeping pills meant to help her get uninterrupted rest. She deposited two of the pills in the beer bottle and swirled it around to dissolve them. “You? I can make you something.”
Cooking was part of how she earned her keep, along with shopping and stretching their meager grocery allowance.
“Not very, but a snack would be good.”
Harmony took a sleeve of crackers from a plastic bag in the cupboard and sliced a brick of sharp cheddar, hoping to offset any residual unusual taste from the pills.
“Can I give you a hand?”
Harmony jumped, startled.
Adam stood in the opening between the kitchen and living room, tying his drawstring sweatpants, holding his shirt under his chin.
“No. It’s all set.” She kissed him to smooth any residual friction between them. “I’m sorry about earlier. It’s been a rough night.”
“I shouldn’t have pushed. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”
Harmony set a piece of cheese on top of a cracker and held it up for him. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen a hundred times. I don’t know why I let her get to me.”
Adam took a bite of the cracker and some of the crumbs fell down Harmony’s shirt. He tried to brush them away but they went further down, breaking into smaller pieces. Adam laughed, crumbs sticking to his lip as he tried to clean her off first with his hand then with the kitchen towel that only made it worse.
Harmony laughed, too, shaking her shirt and unhooking her bra to get the last of them. “I got it.” She handed him the beer. “Here, you’ve got cracker all over your mouth.”
She had hoped he’d take at least a few sips, but he chugged the whole thing.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Harmony, it’s two in the morning.” Brea rubbed her eyes and reached for the glasses she only wore at home.
“I know what time it is, but I have to see Bennett tomorrow and I can’t sleep.” She always referred to her court-appointed shrink by his last name.
“I’ll be right down.” Brea hung up and put on the pile of clothes next to her bed: jeans, a t-shirt, and a fleece-lined hoodie that she had to take her glasses off to get over her head.
She pressed her ear to the door, listening to see if her mother was still awake, and stuffed two pillows under her comforter as a decoy.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this again,” she mumbled, knowing she was due to get caught.
She felt between the boxspring and mattress for her art portfolio and charcoal tin and tucked them under her arm. If her mother knew about her grim hobby, she’d flip. She sneaked out of her room, closing the door behind her. The hardwood floors radiated cold through her socks as she crept down stairs. She held her breath and unlatched the deadbolt, stepping into a pair of low top black Chuck Taylors. It was colder outside than she had thought. She tripped on the uneven threshold and nearly fell, pulling the door shut harder than she intended. Times like these, she was glad her mother never caved to her pleadings for a dog.
Harmony was nowhere to be found.
The neighborhood was dark except for a smattering of lampposts and the distant streetlights outside of the recreational field at the end of her street.
Smoke billowed from the tailpipe of Adam’s Frankentruck parked out front of the tennis courts.
Brea ran as fast as she could, terrified Harmony might be reckless enough to honk.
“You could have at least shut off the engine,” Brea said, opening the passenger’s side door.
“You don’t honestly think she can hear it all the way down here, do you?”
Brea’s mother was a notoriously light sleeper.
“No, but my neighbors might.” Brea shoved the portfolio between her feet and put on her seatbelt when Harmony pulled away from the curb. “Should I ask how you convinced Adam to let you drive his prized truck?”
“Probably better you don’t know.” She tucked a cigarette between her lips. “Hand me that lighter.”
Brea pushed in the dashboard lighter and handed it to Harmony when it popped back out. “Will you at least roll down the window? My mother’s got the nose of a bloodhound.”
Harmony cracked the driver’s side window and exhaled a long breath of smoke. “Speaking of mothers, I stopped by mine’s place tonight.”
She had stopped calling the trailer home months ago.
“Did you ask her what she did to get arrested?”
Harmony shook her head. “You told me it was a drunk and disorderly. So be it. No point asking her anything the way I found her. She’s a mess. The power’s off again and someone got rough with her.”
“You want me to talk to Uncle Jim?”
“God no. Last time you asked him for a favor, he couldn’t tell your mother fast enough. You don’t need her on your case again.”
“What do you mean ‘again’? She’s still on my case. She never got off it. Even called my father in for reinforcement.”
“You have everything with you?” Harmony pulled onto the dirt road entrance of Oakwood Cemetery.
Brea nodded. “Yeah, and I brought extra charcoal if you need it. Can you believe my dad wants me to go to Arizona? I mean, we’re graduating. At what point do I get to do what I want to do?”
“At least your father cares. All I know about mine is the name on my birth certificate.”
“Ever try asking your mother about him?”
“You mean before her morning vodka?” Harmony smiled. “I’ve never been up that early.”
“Well, don’t be too jealous. My father’s nothing like how I remember him. Whatever happened before he left changed him.”
“Memories are bullshit anyway.” Ha
rmony yanked the keys from the ignition, grabbed a roll of paper and a backpack from behind the driver’s seat, and headed through the cemetery with her flashlight. “Where did we leave off?”
“Johnson plot, I think. What do you mean?”
“Tell yourself a lie long enough, Brea, you believe it. I remember this happy man bouncing me on his knee, tossing me up in the air, taking me for ice cream. My life’s so screwed up I invented a father. Bennett says I’ve convinced myself that he existed in my life as a coping mechanism.”
“Here, this is where we stopped.” Brea knelt in front of a keystone-shaped marker whose patina obscured the deceased’s name. Part of the fun of gravestone rubbings was bringing up epitaphs and dates that couldn’t be seen otherwise. “Speaking of Bennett, is your mother going to show up for tomorrow’s appointment?”
“Not a chance and I don’t want her to. Not in the shape she’s in.” Harmony set the flashlight down and took the rubber band from around her paper.
Brea tore two pieces of masking tape off a roll and fastened a blank sheet to the face of the headstone she dusted off first. “Flashlight!”
A set of approaching headlights caused her to call out the warning. They turned off their flashlights and waited for the car to round the corner. Even in the freezing cold, when no one in their right mind would be out, and with them as far from the road as they could get, there was still the fear of being spotted and having the cops called on them.
“Clear.” Harmony turned hers back on.
Brea dug through her tin for the flattest piece of charcoal and gently rubbed it along the paper. She worked from the outside in, in slow circles. A name emerged: Norma Cooper, born in 1818 and died in 1834. Brea did the mental math. Norma died at sixteen-years-old, the same age she was now. She wondered how. “Ever think of looking these people up? I think it’d be cool to find out their stories.” Harmony was staring at clock on her phone. “Harm—?” Her eyes went wide and her jaw clenched. “Harmony!”
“What?” She wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes.
“You okay?”
“Splendid.”
Brea knew better. “Want to talk about it?”
“It?”
“The appointment, your mother, whatever’s bothering you?”
“Nothing’s bothering me. I’m overtired. I haven’t been sleeping much lately.”
“You’d tell me if it were something else?”
Harmony tore down her paper and crumpled it into a ball.
“Harmony, you’d tell me, right?” Brea held her shoulders squarely and searched her eyes for an honest answer.
“Yes, I’d tell you. We should go before your mother puts bars on the windows.”
Brea smiled. The idea wasn’t that far-fetched. “You’re probably right. What time is it anyway?”
“2:34.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Adam, wake up.” Harmony shook him, but it was like waking the dead. “Walter’s on the phone. He needs to talk to you.”
He rolled his eyes open and held out his hand.
“Hello.”
Harmony climbed off the bed and picked up his jeans, making a show of taking his keys out of the pocket and setting them on the dresser. She’d put everything back exactly how it was and even drove without adjusting the truck’s seat to keep him from being suspicious. She felt a little bad about drugging him, but told herself that at least he’d finally gotten a good night’s sleep. It was nearly 3:30 AM when she crept back into the apartment and the few hours of uninterrupted sleep that followed rejuvenated her more than she’d have thought possible.
“Walter, I really can’t. Yes, I understand, but we have an appointment this morning.”
“What’s going on?” she asked. “What can’t you do?” Adam waved his hand for her to be quiet. He was fully awake now, and a bit annoyed. She was getting there. Adam telling Walter he couldn’t do anything was out of the question. He’d been too good to them and never asked for anything in return. She went into the kitchen and picked up the other phone.
“Walter, it’s Harmony. What do you need? Is there anything I can do?”
“Talk that boyfriend of yours into getting over here for starters. We’ve got a line out the door.”
She assured him that Adam would be there within the hour and started a pot of coffee.
“What did you do that for?” Adam said. “You have your appointment with Bennett this morning.”
“That’s right. I have an appointment. And I’ll take the bus, it’s no big deal. Walter never asks for anything and we could use the money.”
“Speaking of.” Adam took his checkbook out of the kitchen junk drawer and handed it to her. “There’s almost two hundred dollars in the account. Don’t pay more than you have to, but get the power turned back on.” She reluctantly agreed. She couldn’t live off of him forever. He didn’t care, but it mattered to her.
“I’m going to pay you back.”
“And I know a way you can do it.”
“Really?” She knew it wasn’t as dirty as it sounded. Adam didn’t exchange sex for anything, but she wouldn’t put it past him to make her return the empties Walter gave them to refund for the deposit.
“And it’s not the smelly cans.” It was like he read her mind. “Make me a promise and we’re even.”
Promises weren’t really her thing.
“What is it?” She expected it to be something about their relationship, which hadn’t always been monogamous on her part.
“I want you to promise me you’re going to that appointment with Bennett this morning.”
“What kind of promise is that? I already told you I was.”
“I know what you said, but I know how often you change your mind. I’m non-negotiable on this one, Harm. Promise me.”
Harmony wrapped her arms around him, summoning her sincerest smile. “I promise.”
But a promise wasn’t repayment, not by a long shot.
“There. Now we’re even.” He bent down and kissed her, his breath fresh with toothpaste. His hands slid down over her hips and his breathing slowed as the kiss lingered.
Something stirred between them, an urge Harmony was all too familiar with—the screwed up need to give him more than a promise in exchange for his help so she’d feel less indebted. She pulled him closer, the softness of her body conforming to the hard, straight line of his, and kissed him more deeply.
“Harm, not now.”
“Please?” She trailed her hands down either side of his spine, scratching him just hard enough to wind him up. “It’ll be quick. I promise.” She didn’t intend to take “no” for an answer. She traced his jugular with her tongue and crusher her breasts against him.
“You drive me crazy,” he growled, each word punctuated by the smack of a kiss. He cradled her ass and exhaled defeat. “All right. You win.”
He ran his hands down her legs, tugging off her pants and underwear in a swift, fluid motion before lifting her onto the counter. She ignored the cold, hard surface against her skin, positioning herself so her hips lined up with his. He swept her hair back from her face and kissed her.
In that moment, nothing mattered. Not the appointment with Bennett or her train wreck of a mother.
“I love you,” he said, easing into her.
She locked her legs around him and closed her eyes. “I know you do.”
She loved him, too, in her own broken way.
CHAPTER NINE
Brea sat on the stairs outside the lunchroom, finishing the short story that wasn’t due for another three days. She was hungry, but she didn’t feel right eating without Harmony. One of the perks of being a senior was that the monitors were more lenient about where upper classmen ate.
The stairs were reserved for weird girls: Brea Miller, party of one.
Burnouts ate at the picnic tables outside, unconvincingly pretending they weren’t getting high.
Jocks dominated the ‘popular’ cafeteria tables and Rachael
was in their entourage.
Brea couldn’t stay far enough away from her.
“Hey.” The deep-voiced greeting sounded distant, not meant for her, and so she ignored it. “Brea?” Her head snapped up. Jaxon stood less than a foot in front of her.
A hint of blond scruff, slightly lighter than his hair—cut long on top and side-swept across his forehead—obscured the deep cleft in his chin that was the only thing hard about his otherwise gentle face. He wore a pair of loose-fitting indigo jeans and a blue and white button-down rolled up at the sleeves bearing the moose logo that had Harmony perpetually referring to him as “Abercrombie”.
She closed her composition notebook and looked around to see who might be watching them. “What are you doing?” They’d agreed to keep their distance at school.
Her idea, not his.
“What am I doing? Wondering why you’re not eating lunch, mostly, and why you insist on hiding me. You’re a real puzzle, Brea Miller.” He smiled and sat on the stair next to her, spinning his key ring around his finger. He set his worn leather bag full of books between his feet and leaned back. “Where’s Harmony?”
“She had an appointment. She’ll be here any minute.” The double doors opened and Brea nearly jumped out of her skin. All she kept thinking was that Rachael was looking for any reason to demolish her. “You really have to go.”
But it wasn’t Rachael coming out of the cafeteria. It was Pete Mackey, the football quarterback and a friend of Jaxon’s. He ran his hands through his dark hair, knitted his eyebrows together, and did a double-take as he walked past them.
“What’s up?” Jaxon said.
Pete shook his head. “You tell me.”
It was obviously a rhetorical question because he didn’t stop for an explanation.
“Jaxon, you have to go. I mean it.” Brea’s stomach was so tied in knots she felt about to throw up on her shoes. “Please, I’ll see you after school.”
Better Left Buried Page 3
