Gone Too Far

by Natalie D. Richards

  My stomach rolls and I try to pull away, but she pats my hand. She needs to stop touching me. I can feel Connor’s dark eyes on me, but he says nothing. His expression is a blank canvas.

  Suddenly Hadley moves away and Manny shoves in. He smells like his dad’s Old Spice deodorant for some reason and that feels better. Familiar. I breathe it in, tears welling in my eyes.

  He grabs my chin in his hand and pulls my face toward him. “You sick?”

  Connor’s phone buzzes again and I see Hadley tilt her head toward him. Connor drops his voice to explain, but I can still hear him talking to her. “Jacob’s giving Mom trouble. She’s been texting me all night.”

  Jacob’s his brother. Just got his license. Connor shows Hadley his phone and they share a wry grin at whatever text messages are firing back and forth. Which means…they aren’t my messages. Connor isn’t texting me. And I should have known that, because Connor’s number is in my phone.

  How could I be this stupid? Jumping to every possible conclusion.

  Manny pokes my shoulder. “You sure you’re up for this? I can run you home.”

  So I can dream up another ridiculous person behind these texts? It’s Harrison. I know that. I know that, and I need to just settle down and wait. Because the ball’s in his court now.

  I shake my head. “I’m fine. Sorry. I just need to eat.”

  Manny nods. He’s not buying it, but he won’t push. Manny never pushes and he’s always there, and I completely take that for granted sometimes.

  “You’re pretty awesome, you know,” I say softly, into his sleeve.

  “Uh, did the cheerleaders slip something into your soda?”

  “No, I just didn’t want you to think…you know, with the nagging and everything.”

  He laughs. “Is that why you’re worked up?”

  It’s not, but I shrug anyway.

  “We’re all right,” he says, giving me a sideways hug. “It’s going to be a good night. Candace gave me her number. You’ve got a footballer getting gooey with y—”

  “Manny, I swear to God, if you don’t drop that—”

  The band takes the stage, effectively cutting me off. Manny thumps my arm and the whole building goes crazy. People cluster tightly on the dance floor in front of the stage while the band does sound checks.

  “I’m heading out there,” Manny says. “Who’s coming?”

  “I’ll go!” Hadley says, getting up. “I think I see Tacey. Connor?”

  “I’ll be there in a minute,” he says.

  “Pi?”

  I shake my head at Manny.

  “She should wait for the pizza,” Hadley says. “Connor, make her eat some food, will ya?”

  “Technically, I’m not sure we can classify anything in here as food.”

  Everyone laughs and Manny jabs a finger in my direction as Hadley tugs him toward the floor. “Half a slice and I want your butt on this floor, Pi. No arguments.”

  He’s giving me crap, but it’s good. It’s normal. Right now, I’m aching for ordinary.

  As they head to the floor, I check my phone, discovering a text message. Apparently, somewhere in the midst of my paranoid delusions about Connor, I missed it.

  Got it.

  That’s it? Got it? What does that even mean? It doesn’t confirm or deny or tell me anything. It leaves me right back where I started—holding more questions than answers.

  • • •

  A guy who isn’t Nick delivers our pizza and drinks, apologizing for the wait. I’m still reeling from the whole Connor situation, and now I’m pissy about Nick not showing up personally. Which is…ridiculous. I’ve spent pretty much every interaction with him trying to push him away. Now I’m mad that he’s not chasing?

  I try a slice of pizza. The plastic cheese and a thin layer of tomato paste do nothing to improve my mood, so I drop it on a wad of napkins—do they even have plates here?—and scowl at everything in my general vicinity.

  Manny grabs my arm when the band takes the stage for the next set. “C’mon, Clown. Time to turn that frown upside down.”

  Leave it to Manny to make me laugh when I least want to. I try to shake my head, but then Tacey and Hadley are dragging at my arms. And frankly, I can’t sit at that table one more minute. So I go.

  I’m not much of a dancer, and I’m even less of a screamer. But for once I follow them right to the front of the stage, hoping the unrelenting press of noise and bodies will override my racing mind.

  The band isn’t bad. Maybe not something I’d listen to every day, but there’s a dark, rhythmic thread that ties the racing guitars and frantic vocals together. It’s good—loud and hard and just the thing to make me forget.

  Eventually, I feel a little smothered out here, where the air reeks of sweat and hormones. I edge over to the side near the speakers, where every beat shakes me. I don’t just hear the music—I feel it. So I close my eyes and let myself go.

  A hand brushes my arm and I whirl around, finding Nick behind me. His apron is gone, but otherwise he looks the same. His hat is still twisted backward and there’s a flour stain on Joey Ramone’s head.

  “Hey,” he says.

  Or I think he says it. I really can’t hear crap, but when his lips move, it looks like it could be “Hey.” He says something else and I can’t make it out at all. I shake my head, pointing to my ears, and he leans in with a smile. I feel his hand at my hip for a moment and I’m aware. Way too aware.

  “They’re good, right?” His words are against my neck.

  I shiver—though it has to be ninety degrees on this dance floor—and nod, because I don’t trust myself to speak. He couldn’t hear me if I did anyway. But Nick leans in again, and the entire room seems to shrink down to the pinpoint feel of his fingers against the side of my skirt.

  My hands clench instinctively, grabbing on to something for leverage. I realize it’s Nick’s arm when he starts talking again.

  “It’s loud,” he says. “Do you want to go outside?”

  Go outside? Like to the patio? I picture it in my mind—me and Nick in that weird half-lit porch where smokers and couples congregate. The place was designed for horny teenagers looking for somewhere to make out and… I nod at him.

  Because I’ve totally lost my mind.

  Nick brings me back with a smile, reaching for my hand and pulling me through the crowd. We twist and weave across the dance floor, and I don’t care if Manny’s looking for me or if Hadley saw Nick come up to me. I just know that our fingers are interlaced and we’re holding on tighter than we need to, like if we squeeze hard enough maybe it will explain what in the world is going on between us.

  There are two sets of doors leading out to the patio, and we’re heading for the ones farthest from the pick-up window. He pushes them open and we step outside, letting them close behind us. My ears ring in the sudden quiet, phantom bass beats tainting the sounds around me.

  It’s a little darker out here, but I smell the promise of snow and the sting of smoke. Through the steam of my own breath, I spot a couple making out on a picnic table. I look away, grateful for the darkness that hides my red cheeks.

  Nick suddenly seems a little sheepish. “Huh. This may have been better in theory than practice.”

  He heads to the right, and that’s when I realize we are still holding hands. I jerk mine free and try to recapture some semblance of my sanity. This is ridiculous. What am I doing out here with him? Standing on the stage catwalk, I laid out a very convincing list of the many reasons I can’t be wandering into dark spaces with Nick Patterson. Reasons like social circles and futures that are, literally, a thousand miles apart.

  “So, what’s up?” I toe the sidewalk underneath me and pretend I can’t hear the girl moaning on the table four feet away. “I mean, did you want to talk about something?”

  “Well, I hadn’t
planned an agenda,” he says, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets.

  “Well, I guess we can chitchat about all the common interests we probably don’t have.” I’m trying for playful and coming off all wrong. I used to be better at this, I think.

  He laughs anyway. “Well, I’m not sure how you could know since you’ve never asked about my interests.”

  Point to Nick for rolling with the punches. He smiles and it warms me all over.

  “You’re right. What are you interested in, Nick?”

  “You, for starters.” His smirk makes him look like trouble. It also renders me incapable of speech.

  He takes a breath. “So, there’s you and football and great pizza—”

  “Hugely shocking so far,” I say, feeling more at ease now that we’re back to banter. “And your plans after graduation?”

  He gives me a mock-harsh look. “I was trying to get to that before you interrupted. I’m working here so I can take the summer off to travel.”

  “Let me guess. Cancun? Palm Springs?”

  “I was thinking more Nepal, Tibet, maybe Bhutan,” he says, shocking me into silence. “If I can’t afford Asia, I’ll probably head to South America—Peru or Chile…”

  He trails off, probably noticing the way I’m staring at him. Like I’ve never met him. Because suddenly, that’s exactly how I feel. I try to picture it—Nick Patterson in Bhutan. Before this moment, I might have doubted Nick knew Bhutan was a country. I don’t think I like what that says about me.

  He shrugs. “I like mountains.”

  “You like mountains.”

  Nick nods. “I also like world history, water-skiing, horror movies, and Ansel Adams.”

  My voice is barely more than a breath when it comes out of me. “Ansel Adams is a…”

  “Photographer?” He looks at my mouth.

  “But you don’t—”

  “Take pictures?” He gives me a look that shouldn’t be legal. “I still know talent when I see it.”

  My heart doesn’t race; it gallops—so hard and fast that I feel it throbbing in the tips of my fingers. I think of stepping away, because I should. But I don’t. Not even when he tilts his head.

  Oh hell. I think he’s going to kiss me. And I think I’m going to let him.

  “Nick!”

  I wince and Nick turns over his shoulder, his eyes still heavy-lidded. “What?”

  “Come over here! Tate needs help.” The girl, one of Marlow’s cronies, if I’m not mistaken, looks like she’s not sure if she should laugh or cry.

  “Can it wait?”

  “I think you’d better come now,” the girl’s voice—I’m pretty sure it’s Shelby Keaton, come to think of it—is high and pinched.

  Nick heaves a long sigh and touches my wrist. “I’m sorry. I should check him.”

  I don’t know why I follow Nick across the patio, bumping past the table with the couple, and then a group of guys who probably aren’t passing around a Camel Light. My stomach is still fisted over our almost…something.

  The girl—definitely Shelby—lets us in the opposite door and we step inside the darkness again. This door is closer to the bathrooms. Not the kind of place I want to linger, but Shelby glances at the men’s room door, looking squeamish.

  “He’s in there.”

  I get it as soon as I take a breath. A potent blend of vomit and booze clouds the air in the narrow hallway. It always smells sort of rank if memory serves, but it’s much worse than normal tonight. Gives me a pretty good idea of what’s going on with Tate in the bathroom, even if the music’s too loud to let us hear any sound effects.

  Nick heads straight in, leaving Shelby and me alone. I’m tempted to leave. I spot Connor and Manny at the stage, hands in the air, having the time of their lives. Which is what I’m supposed to be doing. And who I’m supposed to be with. But something is holding me here in this nasty hallway with a girl I rarely speak to.

  That something walks back out of the bathroom, glaring daggers at Shelby. “He’s wasted, Shel! How’d he get here?”

  Valid question. The hardest thing they serve here is Red Bull, so this obviously happened before he arrived.

  “I don’t know,” Shelby says. “I just saw him come in a little while ago.”

  Nick takes a breath, his patience clearly gone. “You’ve been trying to get with Tate since last year. Don’t sit here and act like you don’t know exactly how he got here and who with.”

  She fights giving him an answer for a minute, but then her gaze shifts to the bathroom door and she frowns. “Jackson. Jackson dropped him off, but he left when Tate got sick.”

  I shift uncomfortably, not wanting to be in the middle of this anymore. It’s not like I’m helping. But now Nick’s standing in between me and the rest of the bar, and I don’t know if I can just push past him. So I wait.

  He shoves a hand through his hair. “All right, we’ve got to get him home, and we’re going to need a bucket. If you drive, I’ll keep him in the backseat.”

  Shelby visibly recoils, her pink nails digging into her soft phone cover. “Nick, I can’t! I have my dad’s car.”

  “We’ll take my car.”

  Shelby looks around, obviously panicking. “The Jeep? I-I can’t drive a stick shift.”

  Nick shakes his head, looking confused. “Then I’ll drive and you can—”

  “No, I can’t! I just…” She cuts herself off, shaking her head.

  Nick narrows his eyes, but it’s not going to work. She’s checking out. I can see reality dawn in Nick’s eyes, his big shoulders slumping.

  “I can do it.”

  They both look at me, so I apparently said that out loud.

  Dumb. These are not my people, and this is not my problem. And if Shelby’s thin-lipped look is any indicator, I’m not welcome.

  There’s something about her look that picks at my temper though. I bat my eyes, feigning innocence in my sugar-sweet voice. “Unless you want to maybe lay down some garbage bags in your car or something, Shelby.”

  She tenses, turning back to Nick. “I’m sorry. I really am,” she says, and it sounds like she means it. But even if she does, she still walks away, leaving us alone.

  Nick looks at me with an expression I can’t read. “You don’t have to do this.”

  Strangely, I’m pretty sure I do. Even if I don’t know why.

  I try for a smile that only works halfway. “How about you take bucket duty and I’ll go get your car.”

  He waits for another long moment before he hands over his keys and tells me where it’s parked. I wrap my fingers hard around the metal, grateful for something to do. If I’m doing things, I don’t have to think.

  Nick insists on having one of the bouncers walk me out. I follow a big, quiet guy to an older, white Jeep with cracks in the leather and a couple of sweatshirts flung across the passenger seat. It smells enough like Nick in here to make my fingers tremble, but the bouncer is waiting, so I start it up.

  I only stall once backing out of the parking spot, and by the time I pull it around to the staff entrance, I’ve gotten the hang of the clutch. I text Manny and Hadley while I’m waiting. I hope to God my pathetic I’m helping out a friend, they’ll drop me home, won’t generate a bunch of questions, because I sure as hell don’t have any answers.

  Nick appears within a couple minutes, one arm slung around his half-conscious friend. Tate looks up at the Jeep. His eyes are bloodshot and the front of his shirt is stained. He looks like a supermodel with a heroin addiction. Pitiful doesn’t even cover it.

  Nick loads him into the back and I settle behind the wheel, trying not to breathe too deeply.

  “I think he’s mostly done,” Nick says. “But I thought that two minutes ago too.”

  “I’m done,” Tate says.

  He’s not. One block later, he
pukes again. I can’t be sure, but I don’t think all of it lands in the bucket.

  I roll down the window a little and Nick reaches for one of his sweatshirts.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Tate says, sounding so sad that it makes my stomach ache and my eyes water. Or maybe it’s the smell. I don’t even know, I just know it hurts.

  “It’s all right, man. Just breathe,” Nick says. God, he sounds so genuine. Just soft voiced and not concerned that he’s mopping up some guy’s vomit with his clothes. My grip on the wheel goes tighter with every word Nick says and I keep wondering if I would be as cool as Nick in the same situation. I want to think so, but am I sure?

  “Take a right up here on Main,” he says to me. “He’s in Glenwood Estates.”

  “Which street?” I ask.

  “Birchview.”

  “Who the hell is that?” Tate asks, every word slurred.

  “It’s Piper. She’s cool. Just keep breathing, Tate. Get that cold air in you.”

  He doesn’t puke again, but I hear him sniffing every now and then. Nick directs me to the cul-de-sac where Tate’s house—a sprawling brick-front monstrosity—is situated.

  Nick helps him out, and a streetlight illuminates the side of Tate’s face. Tear tracks glisten under the orange-yellow glow. Nick drags the bucket out too, dropping the sweatshirt on top.

  Tate looks down at it, face crumpling. “Sorry, man.”

  “It’s cool.”

  Tate shakes his head. “It’s not cool. She’s gone.” He lets out a low sound that cuts right through me. A sound I know I will never, ever forget. “She’s gone, man.”

  Nick sighs, dropping a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get you inside.”

  They shuffle up the driveway. I don’t ask if Nick wants help. It wouldn’t matter if he did, because I feel boneless and hollow.

  I swipe at my own completely stupid tears. I have no right to be crying. Shivers crash over me in waves while I wait, so I crank up the heater all the way. It doesn’t help. I don’t think I’ll ever be warm again.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Nick drives me home with the radio low. We don’t talk much. I tell him where to turn and he asks if anyone’s home.