He flinches. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say it like that.” His voice rises and cracks a little.
I dismiss his apology with a shrug as if the hurtful words don’t matter. But his words sting like salt on a never-healed wound. Echoes from the past reach out to me with cold bony fingers, scratching at my chest and squeezing my heart, and I’m hit with every backhanded blow, every push and shove, every unwelcome touch, every hurtful word all at once. The weight of it all pushes into my shoulders and makes me want to fold in half again and again until I disappear.
“It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.” I make a “go on” gesture, but it doesn’t hide my defensive tone.
I’ve lost count of the many times my mother told me she should have aborted me or tossed me in the trash. Or the times she kicked me out of the house, only to beg my forgiveness hours later. Her rejection was branded on my skin just as much as the physical blows. But none of it hurt as much as when she turned her back on me when I needed her protection most. That pain rushes back in now, pushing aside my anger. I’m choking on the bitter taste of it all over again. It sours in my stomach, knots my throat, coats my lips.
“When did you find out about me?” My voice trembles, matching the erratic cadence of my heart. I hate myself for this small display of weakness.
I hook both feet under the chair legs, anchor myself to it, square my shoulders and push down the knot in my throat. Allow the anger in again. Rekindle the flames. Anger is a far better companion than self-pity. I’m a mess of conflicting emotions, forced out of balance as if the ground is shaking underneath my feet.
He takes a sip of coffee, and I remember the cup I hold in a death grip. I will my fingers to relax, but my body rebels, tensing with the effort to stay grounded.
“About seven years later. I ran into an old high school friend, and he mentioned your mother and her kid. I realized then that she had kept you. I looked her up and called her.” He shakes his head, then looks around the room. I follow his gaze. His eyes fix on a man sitting with a young child. The man is cutting pancakes into bite-sizes for his kid. Another reminder of what I never had.
His gaze cuts away from them. He looks down. Does the image of that father and his child hurt him as much as it hurts me?
“Your mother said she had a boyfriend and didn’t want me coming around.” His fingers draw invisible lines on the table. “I asked to meet you, but she refused.” He glances back at me, blinks a few times. His voice lowers. “She said she told you I was dead and seeing me would mess with your head.”
I look into my cup. “She lied.”
“What?” He leans into the table and tilts his head to the side. I didn’t intend to say the words out loud. They were no more than a whisper, but looking into his face I know he heard me.
“She never said you were dead. She said you didn’t care, that you didn’t love me.” I say this casually, as if the words don’t add fuel to the flames.
“Becca—”
“Go on.” I dismiss the coming excuse with a wave. “It’s not like you cared enough to even try.”
He sighs as if the weight of the world rests on his shoulders. “I was not in a good place when I came home. I didn’t think I had the right to come into your life and mess it up, so I agreed to stay away. I had recently left the army and was trying to adjust to civilian life. But eventually I got a great job and grew with the company. I sent her a check every month. Still do. I know money is a poor substitute for a real father, but I did what I thought was best. I regret that decision.” He speaks quietly, but his leg bounces under the table, betraying his calm speech.
“I hope…” His voice shakes. He looks away and back at me. “I hope you can forgive me.”
My heart speeds up with each word that spills out of his mouth until I'm lightheaded. I take a sip of my now lukewarm coffee, and it sours on my tongue. I push the mug away but snatch it back so I have something to hold on to.
I never saw a cent of that money. It certainly wasn't used to put food on the table or clothes on my back. My mother drank it away, or it was taken by one of the losers she called her boyfriend.
How different my life could have been if he’d been around. The thought rips at my chest and claws inside of me. But I left that life behind and vowed to never look back. I created an alternative version of myself. A new school, a new state, new friends, a perfect GPA—and yet none of it is enough of a barrier. The past catches up with me again and again. I'm so tired of running, of lying to myself, and everyone I know. I'm a farce. A lie. A parody of a carefree girl.
I’m hurting. Broken. This is eating me alive. I have no place to go, nowhere left to hide, and the one person who could have made a difference sits across from me asking for forgiveness.
I laugh and stuff the pain under a thick coat of fuck-yous and I-don’t-cares.
I stand up and push away from the table, the chair dragging on the floor with a metallic screech. The sound sharp in my years.
“My forgiveness won’t change the past.” I turn away from his pleading gaze. I can feel it burning holes in my back and trying to reach my heart, but no such luck. I killed the little bastard years ago.
I take three steps before he calls my name.
“Becca?”
I hesitate, stop, glance over my shoulder.
He’s standing now. “No, you’re right. Forgiveness can’t change the past. But it could change the future.”
His words hold my feet captive under the weight of their truth. I swallow hard, force my body to turn and walk away. But I can still feel the weight of his hopeful gaze on me all the way back to the dorm.
Chapter Four
“We’re sticking together tonight, right?” River leans down to speak into my ear. She’s a few inches taller than me, and that’s without the boots she’s wearing right now.
I nod and salute her with my red cup.
“Be right back.” She walks away toward the bathroom at the back of the house.
I don’t want to be here. My mind can’t stop racing and playing the meeting with my father again and again. It’s been three days, and I thought of little else. I promised River we would stick together tonight, but the pressure building inside me needs an escape. I need a distraction. My usual distraction comes in the form of either a hookup or alcohol. I take a sip of beer. Ugh. Warm. I stare at the red cup in my hand. I don’t really want a beer. Alcohol clearly isn’t going to cut it tonight.
I drag in a deep breath. Colossal mistake. The air is stale and heavy as it fills my lungs. The walls are closing in on me. I need to get out.
I try to move around the dancing and mingling people. Familiar faces litter the crowded space. I don’t want to see them. I’m in search of fresh faces, and I’m bound to find a few freshmen in any of the campus parties. It’s the first Friday of classes, which means a party at every frat and sorority house on campus. It’s a Riggins tradition.
I push the heel of my hand into my chest as if I could dislodge the increasing anxiety with the rubbing motion. I don’t want to think about my father and the life I left behind. I need to get out of here. I head down the hall. Where is River? I can’t find her, but I find something better. This is what I need. A distraction.
A blue-eyed freshman leans on the wall and takes turns between looking around and staring at his phone. He’s trying to act cool and fit in, but his darting eyes and stiff shoulders betray him. He’s nervous. He wants out of here as much as I do.
The weight in my chest gets lighter with each step I take to him. The rush of taking charge, of being the one to choose, gives me the control I crave. It pushes aside the pressure in my solar plexus. I’m a thousand pounds lighter by the time I’m close enough to touch him.
I lean into him and speak loudly enough for him to hear me over the music and the chatter of dozens of people crammed into the frat house living room.
“Hi. You look a little lost. Freshman?”
He’s quick to smile. “That obvious, huh?
”
“You seem a bit out of place.” I tap my red cup to his in salute. “Welcome to Riggins University.”
He’s beautiful, in a boyish Captain America-minus-all-the-muscles way.
“I’m Becca.” I hold my hand out to him.
“Tommy.” He hurries to move his cup to the left hand, and fumbles, spilling some liquid over his fingers. “Sorry.” He wipes his hand on his jeans before shaking mine.
I like him. He’s sweet. Perhaps too nice. I don’t want to hurt him or string him along. I just need to get lost for a while. A part of me wants to retreat and let this boy go. But the other part, the part that needs a distraction, wants this. My hands are sweaty, and I cross my arms, drying a hand against the fabric of my sleeve. I hold on to the red cup tighter as not to drop it.
“Do I make you nervous?” I’m unsettled—like I’m on the verge of something big. My heart beats erratically.
“No.” He shakes his head. “I don’t like crowds.” He blushes, his cheeks turning pink, and he clears his throat before taking a sip of his drink.
I almost change my mind, but he gave me a perfect opening.
“Want to get out of here?” I throw the overused line at him.
“Sure.” He nods, hair falls over his eyes, making him look even younger.
I set my cup on the nearest flat surface, already littered with empty and half-full cups. He follows suit and trails behind me. I grab my phone to text River.
I look at him over my shoulder. “Anyone you have to say goodbye to?”
“Nope, came alone. Don’t really know anyone here.”
I text as we pick our way out of the crowded space, the loud thumping of an obnoxious Kanye West song gradually getting softer as we move away from the speakers and make our way to the door.
Becca: Bailing.
River: Dude!
Becca: Sorry.
River: You said you wouldn’t hook up with anyone tonight. I left you alone for five minutes!
Becca: I know I suck. But Skye can pick you up, right?
River: You do suck. Yes. I’ll call her. Be careful.
Becca: Always am.
River: Ha! I call BS on that.
Becca: I’m the worst best friend ever.
I add a sad face emoji and a heart. River replies with two emojis.
A kissing face and a peach. Kiss my ass.
Laughter bubbles up. And guilt. I promised River I’d stay with her. It weighs on my chest, but nowhere near as much as how I felt before.
I’m so relieved to be leaving the party, I can’t make it out of the house fast enough. I need this. I need to numb the pain. And this beautiful boy next to me is my drug of choice.
He follows me out of the house and down the sidewalk.
“My car is over there.” I point to the ten-year-old Toyota across the street. I shiver. It’s too early in the season to be this cold. Heck, it’s not even fall yet.
Tommy notices. His jacket is off and over my shoulders in seconds.
“Your momma taught you right.” I nudge him with my elbow.
His face drops a little, he smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He shrugs and follows me to the car.
“You okay to drive?”
“Yeah, I didn’t really drink.”
We don’t talk during the few minutes it takes to get to my dorm. Despite the chilly night, the streets are busy.
“Lots of people out tonight.” Tommy watches out the window.
“Yeah, it’s tradition for every Greek house to host a party the first Friday back on campus for the fall semester. They have an unspoken competition for who’s hosting the best back-to-school party. And tomorrow all of them will claim to be the winner. A lot of people party-hop from one place to another. It’s easier to walk than drive for most of them.”
I park in the lot behind my building and hesitate in the car for a second. Do I really want to do this? Tommy looks at me and smiles. A genuine smile this time. It eases me.
“Ready?”
He nods, and we get out of the car. I make a beeline to the door and the heat inside. Tommy trails behind me.
“I’m on the third floor,” I say as we get into the elevator. We’re silent on the way up and as we walk in the hall. The dorm is eerily quiet. I guess everyone is out and partying. My heart skips a beat when I get to my room. He looks so sweet and innocent. I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing. Do I really want this? Another guy I don’t care about? A temporary fix to my emptiness?
I unlock my door with the keycard and push it open, gesturing for him to go in first. I follow him in, close the door and lean on it with my hands behind my back. Tommy looks around. There’s not much. I haven’t troubled to make the room mine. Why bother? It’s all temporary.
I try to see what he sees. The faded blue walls and windows facing the campus Green. There’s a twin bed tucked against one wall with a gray comforter and an extra blanket on the foot of the bed. A small black and gray area rug takes up most of the free floor space. On the opposite wall there’s a desk, my four-year-old laptop, a lamp. The door to the small closet which holds all my possessions. The only personal touch is a poster of a sunny beach with sugar-white sand in stark contrast with the turquoise water and clear blue sky and the words Turks and Caicos written in white across the top. I found it in the trash outside a travel agency.
“It's cool you have a single. I'm sharing a dorm room with two guys. They snore so loud I have to wear earplugs to bed every night, which means I don't hear the alarm on my phone. I was late to class twice already, and it's only the first week of school.” His face pinks.
If he notices the bare setup, he doesn’t show it.
“Yeah, seniors and juniors have the option for singles. They say the room assignment is done through a lottery. But I have my suspicions. Every person I know in a single room has a perfect or near perfect GPA. I think it’s more of a reward system.”
“That must mean you’re smart, then.”
I shrug. I work hard for my grades. If I were really that smart, though, I would have figured my shit out already. But I’m the same mess now that I was nearly four years ago when I left home and never looked back.
His eyes are intent on me, and suddenly, he looks much older than I imagine him to be. There’s too much knowing in his eyes. As if he’s lived more years than indicated on his birth certificate.
Tommy tilts his head, his eyes locked on mine. “Why me?” Hands in his jeans pockets, he waits for me to answer.
My heart speeds up with each second his eyes stay on mine. I don’t have the power to look away. He’s so honest in the way he gazes at me, so completely open and the opposite of everything I am.
“What do you mean?” I feign ignorance, but the lie heats my cheeks. I know exactly what he’s asking me.
“Of all the guys at that party checking you out, older and more experienced, why did you pick me?”
No one has ever asked me that before. I always make the first move, and they follow along. For a moment, I'm at a loss for words. It's not like I can tell him the truth.
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen. You?”
“Older than you,” I hedge. I don’t know why I don’t tell him the truth. I never lied about my age before. Well … that’s not true either. Damn it!
He takes a step closer to me, hands in pockets still. “You haven’t answered my question yet.”
I don’t want to lie to him.
“You're cute and sweet. I liked you as soon as I saw you.” And there's something familiar about him. Something I'm drawn to.
The words don't have the effect I expected. Flattery usually wins them over and feeds the ego well enough that the guy stops thinking about me and ponders his own greatness.
He doesn't smile or puff up with pride like every other guy I’ve been with and paid a compliment.
He runs a hand through his hair. “No, that's not it. I mean, I know I'm easy on the eyes, but there were a dozen oth
er guys at that party much better looking than me. I'm not complaining, I didn't expect to leave that party with someone.”
I'm surprised again by his response. Even as he says he knows he's good looking, he’s not cocky. He watches me as if trying to read me. I cross my arms, my defenses coming up. I’m about to tell him to leave, but he stops me with a gesture of his hand.
“I like you too.” He waves his hand between us. “But this liking each other—it feels like the beginning of a beautiful friendship. And I’d hate to mess it up with a meaningless hookup.”
For the third time in as many minutes he surprises me. And I surprise myself as well. I expected to feel rejection, but instead I'm relieved. I smile, and for the first time in a long time, there’s a flutter of lightness inside me. Before I can say anything else, he speaks again.
“I could use a friend more than a hookup. In case you didn't notice, I'm a little on the introvert side, and it would be cool to have a friend who can help me find my way around campus.”
I like that. I like that a lot. This may not be the distraction I set out to get, but maybe, just maybe, this is even better. His friendship offer cracks a tiny fissure in my armor, but instead of scaring me, it gives me a little more room to breathe.
He gives me his hand to shake. “Let’s start over. I’m Tommy. Do you want to watch a movie and eat junk food?”
I laugh. A real laugh. “All right, Tommy. Friends it is. I'm Becca. Nice to meet you.” I shake his hand as I introduce myself to him for the second time tonight.
A smile lights up his face. “Now that we got that out of the way, what kind of chips do you have?”
I reach under my bed for the large plastic box where I keep my junk food and snacks handy. Open the container and survey my bounty. Tommy peers into the plastic tote and points at the salt and vinegar potato chips bag. My favorite. I knew I liked him.
A bag of chips, two cans of soda, a whole sleeve of chocolate chip cookies, and two hours later, we finish watching The Breakfast Club. That's another first. I have never had a guy pick that movie to watch with me. It's usually some mindless action movie, or they ask if I'm into porn.
Because of Dylan: A forbidden student teacher slow burn romance (Riggins U Book 3) Page 2
