“Already?” He snorted. “Christmas break is over already?”
I nodded, blinking to prevent moisture from building behind my eyes.
“Wow. You forget how little time you get off in high school. I bet you can’t wait until college.”
If he felt my sadness cast a gray haze over the moment, he didn’t react. Levi did, though, and leaned against my calves. Levi always knew when my heart was hurting. He was special like that.
“Oh, shoot. That’s right.” Mrs. Anderson peered at me over the top of her reading glasses. “I forgot all about that. I don’t think we should leave you here alone.”
The carpet’s woven tan pattern suddenly became very interesting. The last months without Mike here had been awkward and at times overwhelmingly uncomfortable. They were not my parents. They should be empty-nesters, and if it weren’t for me, they would be. The lump in my throat throbbed.
“I’m sure she’ll be okay. You’re eighteen, right?” Mr. Anderson winked at me. “You might like a little alone time. You could have the house all to yourself.”
There was no malice in his words, his expression. No secret yearning to get away from me. Only a desire to see his son play soccer and possibly appease me in one swift motion.
Except it didn’t appease me. It made me feel inconvenient, inconsequential, and in the way.
Mike stood. “Let’s talk about it later.” He pulled me up by the hand. “I’m beat. I want to talk to Rowan a couple of minutes then I’m heading to bed.”
Mrs. Anderson stood. “Okay, sweetheart. I’ll see you in the morning.” She lifted to her toes to kiss him on the cheek. Then she put her hands on my shoulders and kissed my cheek, too.
“Good night, Dad.”
Mr. Anderson didn’t get up. “Okay, son. See you in the morning. Hey, how about we meet up with your old coach? He sent me a text earlier asking when you’d be in town.”
“Sure.”
I was glad Mike pulled me out of the room because if he didn’t, I wouldn’t have had the strength to make my legs move. Not only were my muscles exhausted from being on my feet all day at the shelter, but the thought of him leaving in just two days made everything inside of me turn to stone.
Leaving in two days, spending half of tomorrow with his dad and old coach? He’d also want to see his friends. Spend a few minutes with his mom. Poof! His time here was over. I bit my lip hard but forced my jaws to unclench before I tasted blood. I would not be one of those needy girlfriends.
At the top of the stairs, Mike dropped his bag with a thud and turned toward me. Before I could open my mouth and release excited, encouraging words that I in no way felt, he pulled me to him.
His lips were softer, warmer than I remembered. The stubble was rough against my skin. I’d grown so used to not kissing him that it felt like I was kissing him for the first time all over again. My heart erupted into manic beats. My fingers shook from the tips down through my palm and up through my arms, a wave of electricity shooting through my blood.
When his lips parted, mine followed and everything else evaporated. At least for the next hour.
LATER THAT night, long after his parents went to bed and the house fell into silence, Mike slipped into bed beside me. His body was hot, almost burning—solid, familiar, yet strange at the same time.
The room was dark, and I had been asleep with Scout snuggled on the pillow beside my head. When Mike lay down she jumped to the floor, still familiar with our routine. Before Mike left for college in August, we’d perfected how to carve out time together while living in his parents’ home. We went to separate rooms at the end of the night, but he would sneak into bed with me later.
The alarm on my phone had two settings: one for school and one for the nights Mike came in. That setting was for four o’clock in the morning so there was little chance he would be caught tiptoeing back to his room. Guilt nipped at my conscience over sneaking around, but the need to be close to Mike far outweighed it.
I threw an arm and leg over him, feeling like I was lost in a perfect dream of sunshine and roses and sweet-perfumed air. “I’ve missed you,” I whispered.
He folded me into his arms, and I was suddenly wide-awake in every possible way. “I missed you, too,” he said, his breath warming my hair.
Those were the last words we spoke that night.
I DIDN’T wake up when Mike left my room. But when the front door slammed, reverberating throughout the house like a shock wave, I jolted upright, disoriented, and confused. Scout was back on the pillow beside me, and the rest of the bed was empty. I ran my hand over the cool sheets where Mike’s warm body had lain.
The clock on my nightstand read eight o’clock. That must’ve been Mike leaving with his dad to meet his high school soccer coach. Or it was Mrs. Anderson going to the grocery store and then heading to church to see if there was anything to do. The morning spanned out in front of me like a giant, empty abyss.
I grabbed my cell phone and flipped it open. There were two texts waiting for me.
The first one was from my grandmother.
Won’t you come by for dinner? I miss you.
I deleted that one. A remote part of me, in a very deep, obsolete place in my heart, felt a flash of tenderness that she still tried so hard to reenter my life. Since May, I rarely answered her texts or calls, and her attempts to see me went unfulfilled. I wasn’t ready to move on, wasn’t ready to forgive.
The next text was from my best friend, Jess.
Meet me at the diner. I’m starving.
Jess and I had been best friends since the ninth grade when we met in a physical education class. She lived in an apartment in town with her alcoholic father who preferred the bottle and an endless string of girlfriends over his daughter.
I sent her a text that I’d meet her in twenty minutes and got dressed. With a ponytail holding my long hair back, I dug around in the drawers for a pair of designer jeans Tabitha had left me and a long-sleeved T-shirt. These shirts had been my wardrobe staple for years, ever since the first time I cut my skin with a razor blade.
I wrapped a black scarf around my neck and inserted the tiny gold hoop earrings Mike gave me months ago. It was the only jewelry I wore; the only jewelry I owned except for an old, worn-out watch with a black leather band that was cracked and dry.
For the first time since summer, I had to put a belt around my waist to keep the jeans from sagging down my butt. Whether or not I was hungry, I would make myself eat breakfast today. At least a hard-boiled egg. Maybe a few bites of oatmeal. A glass of juice.
After I dumped food in Scout’s bowl, I ran downstairs. The house was quiet except for Delilah’s gruff snores coming from the couch. Levi got up when he saw me. I let him out into the yard as I shimmied into a pair of black leather boots—another hand-me-down from Tabitha. When he came back inside I wiped his wet feet on a towel I kept in the closet, careful to make sure they were clean, and pulled the door shut.
There were only two restaurants in our small, rural town—a pizza restaurant called Mario’s and a diner simply called Diner.
I pulled into a parking space and fed coins into the meter. The front of the diner had two huge windows that allowed passersby to see every single person inside. It certainly wasn’t a place to go for privacy, but in a small town like this, privacy didn’t really exist.
I could see Jess through the windows. She was bent over a large soda, chewing on the end of the straw as she gazed toward the far wall. Over the summer, she had cut her hair into choppy layers that fell to her chin and changed the color from cherry red to ink-black—a perfect match for her somber wardrobe.
“Don’t look so morose.” I slid onto the opposite bench.
“Hey, Ro.” Her voice was flat and toneless.
“Um, did your dog just die?”
She rolled her eyes and took a sip of soda. “I can’t take care of myself, much less a dog.”
The brown liquid shot up through the clear straw then back down. Up. Down. Up
. Down. It was like watching a ride at a carnival.
“Are you okay?” Against the shabby green leather of the seat, Jess stood out like a gothic statue in a valley of evergreens. She was dressed head to toe in black—black skirt, black off-the-shoulder sweater, black combat boots. Her eyes were rimmed in heavy-black liner, thick even behind the tortoise-shelled glasses that covered half her face. The new tattoo, a scorpion on the inside of her wrist, was also black.
“Tell me your dad hasn’t seen that tattoo. He’s not going to be happy.” I yanked the straw out of her mouth.
“His head is so far up Carol’s ass he doesn’t notice when I come or go. Although he does notice when the wine rack is empty or the laundry hasn’t been done.”
I didn’t respond. What was there to say to that?
“Mr. Sumners doesn’t like it, though. He says I’m too young to have a tattoo. He got really mad, actually. Got all, like, ‘You need to be eighteen to get a tattoo. Did you forge your father’s signature? I’m going to call him myself.’” Mr. Sumners was Jess’ boss at the used bookstore where she worked.
“He won’t, will he? Call your dad?”
She snorted as the waitress, a girl named Chelsea who graduated with Mike last year, came up on silent feet. “I’ll have another Coke. No ice.” Jess didn’t give her so much as a glance.
“I’ll have orange juice. Thanks.” Chelsea walked away with a bored look on her plain face.
“Nah. He won’t call my dad. He doesn’t like him. I think he’s trying to assume the,” she crooked her fingers, “father figure role. It’s not gonna happen, though.”
Mr. Sumners was the closest thing to a father figure Jess had. She pretended that his overbearing concern bothered her, but I think she secretly liked it.
“I take it he doesn’t know about Paul.”
She snorted and opened a packet of sugar, dumping the contents onto her pink tongue. Paul and Jess had started dating last school year. They had to keep their relationship quiet because not only was he several years older than her—she was seventeen and he was around his mid-twenties—but he also used to be a substitute art teacher at our school.
The waitress brought the drinks and flipped to a clean sheet of paper in a tiny notebook. “Do you want to order?”
“I’ll have eggs. A really big plate of eggs.” Jess opened her hands in a wide oval. “Extra eggs. And bacon. Throw some toast in there, too. Maybe a muffin if you have them.” Jess pushed her glasses up her nose, dumped another packet of sugar in her mouth, and then dumped the next one on the table.
“Oatmeal or something.” I waved my hand in the air. “Jess, that’s a lot of food.”
“Yeah.” She took a long drink.
Her roots were starting to show, blaringly blonde against the dyed strands.
“Your roots are showing. I know you told me you have blonde hair but I’ve never seen it. What’s going on?”
Jess’ blue eyes, bloodshot and sunken, flashed at me. She pulled off her glasses, and I saw just how dark the circles were underneath.
“Nothing. I’m just tired.” She pulled at a strand of hair until it came out between her fingertips. She threw it onto the floor and picked at another.
“You’re lying.”
She shrugged. “Did Mike make it back last night?”
I watched her for a minute then sighed. “Yeah. He’s back. Finally. Got in late last night. Get this, though. He has a tournament, so he’s leaving again…tomorrow.”
“What? You’re kidding, right?”
I fiddled with Jess’ discarded sugar wrappers.
“He just got home. And when was the last time you saw him? It seems like forever.”
“Like I don’t know that,” I snapped. Her eyes widened. “I’m sorry. I mean, no, I haven’t seen him in…well, forever. Like once since he left in August.”
Jess watched me as she took another long sip. “That really sucks,” she said with the straw hanging out of her mouth.
“I know.” I folded a wrapper into a tiny airplane. It did suck. Big time. What good was having a boyfriend if I never saw him? And what was I still doing living in his house without him there? “His parents are going up for the game. They asked if I wanted to go. But I can’t.”
“Why not?”
The bells that hung from the main door chimed loudly. Without thinking, I whipped around as I shot out a quick prayer that it was Mike coming to find me, to squeeze in as much time together as possible. But it wasn’t. I turned and tried not to let my shoulders slump too low. It was just an elderly woman I recognized from church. She shuffled to a table one row over.
I forced my mind to refocus. “Did you forget that school starts Monday?”
She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. I may not finish the year. I mean, who needs a diploma? It’s a joke. It’s not like you can get a job or anything even if you have graduated.”
“Yeah, then you can pump gas for the rest of your life.”
Chelsea set a plate in front of Jess with a clang followed by two smaller plates. Jess grabbed her fork and shoved a mountain-sized bite into her mouth. Chelsea placed a steaming bowl of oatmeal in front of me. I filled a spoon and blew on the hot surface.
“I’m not pumping no one’s gas.” Jess’ mouth was full of food as she talked. “Paul will find a job and he can work. I’ll stay home.”
“And do what?” I sputtered. “You’re kidding me, right?”
Her eyes, as cool as ice, looked up at me.
“Jess? What’s going on?” I slammed my hands on the table, ready to demand an answer when someone squealed my name. It wasn’t the deep voice I dreamed it would be. Instead, it was my sister. Trina darted through the door sending the bells into a frenzy.
“Rowan!” she squealed again, as if the first time she said my name wasn’t enough. She bounced toward us, her face lit up with teeth and lipstick, and bright splashes of blush.
Her blonde ponytail flapped behind her like a windshield wiper as her hips swayed in a way no sixteen-year-old’s should. I slouched down into the booth. My sister was the last person I wanted to see.
Why?
Because I hated her.
“HI, RO!” Trina plopped onto the bench beside me, pushing against my hip until I scooted over. “And Jess, I haven’t seen you in forever!”
Jess’ stare was colder than the ice they’d put in her drink even though she’d asked them to leave it out. “What do you want?” Jess spat.
Trina pushed her lip out. “I just want to say hi. Jeez, Jess. Grumpy much?” Trina turned in the seat to face me. “So. Guess what?” Her blue eyes were full of fireworks—pretty on the outside, thrilling even, but with an underlying ability to set fire to anything they wanted. I wrapped my arms around my stomach. If I could’ve slid between those dingy bench cushions and disappeared, I would have.
My sister was not someone to trust. She was a lying, manipulative, psychotic bitch. In other words, she was just like our mother. Last year Trina had accused Mike of getting her pregnant. When she realized no one believed her, she accused him of rape. No, Trina was not someone to be trusted.
Jess stopped eating and flipped her head between me and my sister as if it were on a pivot. Trina’s perfume was too strong. The rose scent burned my throat and made me cough.
“You’re never going to believe this,” she continued, giving me a hard smack on the back. I resisted the urge to punch her. “I mean, it’s the most amazing news ever.”
I braced myself for the avalanche that was coming.
“Dad’s back.” Her lips parted to flash perfectly straight teeth smudged with lipstick.
Dad’s back. Dread washed over me like a cold rain and threatened to drown me, to consume me faster than a starving, ferocious tiger could consume a terrified rabbit.
JESS’ EXPRESSION was a mirror image of my own—full of disbelief, confusion, fear. My dad was back.
Last year, my dad had used my face as a punching bag when he found out Trina was pregna
nt. It didn’t matter that she was the one who’d gotten knocked up, not me. But ever since my baby brother, Aidan, died when I was ten, I had been the one to blame for anything bad that happened to our family—including his death. It wasn’t until last spring that we discovered my mom had killed him. By then it was too late. Years of being blamed for everything had left its mark—inside and out.
I hadn’t seen my dad in months. He hadn’t called. Hadn’t texted. Hadn’t popped up at the Anderson’s to wish his eldest daughter a happy eighteenth birthday.
“What do you mean your Dad’s back?” Red fireballs flew from Jess’ eyes and shaped her words into little, short bursts. I was glad she was speaking because words weren’t forming in my brain or my mouth. Instead, panic was racing through my body as if I were plummeting off a building.
Trina nodded, her hair flopping up and down. If she clapped her hands and danced a jig, she couldn’t have been more excited. “Can you believe it? He’s back!”
“Yes,” spat Jess, “I heard that part. But what does he want?” She pushed away her plate of food.
I stared into the oatmeal, my thoughts more useless than the bowl of mush sitting in front of me.
“I don’t know,” she chirped. “He showed up last night. You know, it was just me and Gran at home.” She waved her hand in the air. Trina and my mom’s mom, Gran, lived in my childhood home together. My mom was in jail for the murder of my baby brother. It had turned out that Dad’s resentment toward me for killing his son was misplaced.
My mother had killed him and let me take the blame. It had been months since I’d seen either of my parents. I rarely saw Gran and tried to avoid Trina. And now my sister was saying Dad was back?
A Life, Forward: A Rowan Slone Novel Page 2
