The Choices We Make (Relentless Book 4)

by Barbara C. Doyle

  “You should stick up for yourself,” he adds.

  I glare at him. “You didn’t say anything either.”

  His frown reappears. “I should have.”

  I just shrug.

  “I’m sorry, Opal.”

  I open my mouth to reply, but close it instead. Does he want me to say it’s okay? I know it isn’t.

  He looks at a closet we’re standing next to and opens the door. He gestures for me to follow him in. I hesitate, but end up following him anyway. He finds the light and turns it on, revealing an empty janitors closet.

  I lean against the wall across from him, and he does the same. “You don’t want to be seen with me, do you?”

  He shoves his hands in his pockets. “It’s not that. I just …” He looks everywhere but me. “I hear things. Around town. At school. Things about your family.”

  My heart stops. “What things?”

  He picks up his shoulders and drops them. “Just some stuff. Rachel told me it was better to steer clear. I don’t like how she treats you though. I’m not like that.”

  I brush my hair behind me ear. “We’re talking in a closet, Bash. You’re more like her than you think.”

  He wants to argue, but stops himself. He can see the truth in it, whether he wants to admit it or not.

  “My family …” My voice shakes. “People don’t like my father. He’s going to run for mayor.”

  “That’s why she doesn’t like you?”

  “I guess,” I whisper. I know. “He can be a little…um, I think people say aggressive. You know, with what he wants to change and stuff. He wants to do a lot with the town.”

  “But you’re not him.” It isn’t a question.

  I shake my head anyway, a silent answer.

  “I hate what she calls me.”

  I look up at him.

  His eyes are a dull brown instead of the rich color I know they can be. “I keep telling her it’s Bash, but she says Sebastian sounds cooler.”

  “Is that what you want? To be cool?”

  “Don’t we all?”

  No. Not all of us.

  “Maybe,” I say instead.

  “It’s hard being a new kid,” he admits, nudging his shoes against the concrete floor. “I liked my last school, but we couldn’t stay. I miss my friends.”

  “Why did you move?”

  “My father.”

  He doesn’t explain, and I don’t push. I know what it’s like when people pry, so I’m not going to do it to somebody else.

  “I …” He sighs. “I’m sorry I haven’t talked to you, Opal. I wanted to fit in, so I let her convince me who to talk to. I should know better than anybody that we’re not defined by our families. I don’t know you or your family enough to judge. My mom taught me that.”

  My heart lightens. “I like your mom.”

  I wonder why his mother tells him that and can only think of the reason being his dad. He isn’t in the picture, and I can tell it’s a touchy subject.

  He smiles. “Me too.”

  I nibble my lip. “So…” I clear my throat. “You should go back to Rachel. She’s probably wondering where you are.”

  He gapes at me. “You want me to go back? Even after everything she’s said?”

  I shrug again. What else can I do?

  “You’re too nice for your own good,” he states.

  “There’s nothing wrong with being nice,” I snip defensively. Daddy wouldn’t like me taking a tone, so I dial it back, feeling guilty.

  “It is when people walk all over you because of it,” he argues, crossing his arms on his chest. “My mom says—”

  “Does it matter what your mom says?” I ask abruptly, cutting him off. If Daddy were here, he’d yell at me for it. I brush the thought off. “My mama says it’s best to be nice. You get into less trouble that way.”

  And she would know. I don’t add that part.

  “Like back there?” he doubts.

  “Rachel is …” I look away from him. “She won’t change. So why should I spend time trying to get her to be nice to me?”

  “Because she’s mean.”

  I reach for the door and open it. “Well she’s your friend. Maybe you should do something about it if you don’t like it.”

  He stops me. “What if I want to be your friend?”

  I look over my shoulder at him. “I don’t expect you to choose, Bash. Believe me. Rachel will make your life rotten if you drop her. I’ve learned that I don’t need friends. I don’t need anybody here.”

  He doesn’t let go of my arm. “That sounds lonely, Opal.”

  I brush off his hand, and quietly say, “You get used to it after a while.”

  ***

  I help set the table as Mama finishes cooking dinner. She rushes around the kitchen, her eyes frantically checking the black clock on the wall. I know what she was doing. Who she’s waiting for.

  She always worries when she doesn’t have dinner ready before five, because Daddy wouldn’t be happy. She always says he has a stressful day at work, but I know better than to believe that made all the yelling he did okay.

  “Hurry up with the silverware, Opal,” she orders, setting down the mashed potatoes in the center of the table. “And did you clean your room like your father told you to?”

  I pale.

  Her eyes widen.

  “I’m sorry, Mama—”

  She grabs the remaining silverware from my hands. “Go upstairs right now! He’s going to inspect your room when he gets home.”

  She shoves me toward the stairs, anxiety crackling in the air between us.

  “Mama—”

  The doorbell rings.

  Mama curses, causing me to stare wide-eyed at her. She always tells me cursing isn’t ladylike.

  “Go to your room, Opal,” she tells me.

  She heads toward the door, smoothing out her dress and smiling. She always smiles like that, painting on the image Daddy wants her to have. It’s fake. All of us are.

  I stay at the landing on the top to see who it is. Nobody ever stops by this late, not unless Daddy is expecting them.

  “Is Opal here?” a familiar voice asks.

  I dip my head down to see Bash standing at the doorway. He has his hands stuffed nervously in his pockets, and a shy smile on his face.

  “You must be the new neighbor.”

  “Uh, yeah. Sebastian.”

  I bite my lip, wondering why he’s at my house. When I left him in the closet earlier, he didn’t follow me out. He didn’t say anything the rest of the day to me.

  “Sebastian,” Mama says distantly, “Opal is very busy. It’s best you come back another time.”

  Mama’s low tone indicates that she doesn’t want him back at all, but she won’t say that out loud. But I know her too well.

  Without thinking, I walk downstairs. “He can help, Mama.”

  She grows pale. “Opal, your father—”

  “Won’t be home for twenty minutes. If Bash helps me clean my room, we’ll get it done quicker. Please?”

  I glance at Bash for help, my eyes pleading for him to step in.

  He looks at Mama. “I can help her.”

  She hesitates, indecision thick in her eyes. She’s afraid, I can see it. But she relents. “Well, okay. But you should leave after you’re done. I’d offer you dinner, but I only made enough for three.”

  Liar. She always makes leftovers for Daddy to take to work for lunch. I don’t call her out on it.

  Bash nods, walking over to me.

  I peer at Mama, who has worry carved into her face. Instead of reassuring her, I pull Bash up the stairs behind me. When we make it to my room, I close the door behind him, the soft click of the latch easing my tense muscles.

  “Sorry about that,” I murmur sheepishly, staring at the clothes thrown on the floor. I pick up each piece, setting them in the hamper.

  Bash studies my room, taking in the girly pink walls and purple comforters and curtains. Suddenly, the stuffed
animals I have on the bed seem embarrassing.

  Too late to hide them now.

  “Your room is very … pink.”

  I give it a once-over, cringing at the frilly pink rug next to my bed, the princess dolls sitting on the shelf, and the teddy bears staring at us in disarray on my mattress. “Mama painted it. It’s been like this ever since I was a baby.”

  “Do you like it?” he questions, picking up some books that are stacked near my bed. He puts them on an empty spot on the bookshelf.

  I glance at the bright pink walls. “I … I don’t know. Nobody asked me that before. I’m used to it, I guess.”

  He sneaks a peak at me, his eyes dulling over my answer. “You’re used to a lot of things. Doesn’t mean you have to like them.”

  I nibble on my bottom lip as I straighten out my bed, folding the corners. I fluff my pillow, pile my stuffed animals in the corner, and fold the extra blanket to put on the end.

  “Blue,” I blurt out.

  His eyebrows arch.

  My cheeks heat up. “My favorite color is blue,” I elaborate. “I think I’d prefer if my room were blue, too.”

  He smiles. “Why don’t you paint it?”

  “With what money?” I doubt. “Paint costs money last I checked. Plus, Daddy …” I pick up my shoes, placing them on my closet floor. “He wouldn’t like it if I painted my room. Besides, blue is a boy’s color.”

  “Says who?”

  “Everybody.”

  “Doesn’t mean you can’t like it.”

  I don’t reply.

  He picks up the picture I have on my desk. It’s a family portrait Daddy insisted we took last summer at the county fair. Mama looks happy in it, a rare occurrence. Her eyes shine brighter when she’s happy, the yellow-green color more of an off-olive tone.

  I make sure all my clean clothes are hanging up on the hangers, and then close my closet door. I do a quick sweep of my room, seeing the spotless floor as a sign of being done.

  Bash walks over to my window, looking down at the roof. Right outside is a large maple tree, and sometimes the branches knock on my window when it’s windy. It used to scare me when I was little, like there was somebody out there to get me.

  “I don’t think your mom likes me,” he states quietly, taking me off guard.

  My reply is automated. “She’s just stressed.”

  “Why?”

  I sit down on my bed, tucking my knees into my chest, hugging them. “Daddy’s planning on running for town election. Things get … busy around here.”

  He nods like he understands, but not even I do. Not really. Mama always tries pretending everything is okay when it isn’t. When Daddy gets upset over certain things, she pays the price. I hear it all. The arguments, yelling, and Mama crying but pretending she isn’t.

  I don’t tell him any of that though.

  “People around town seem to talk about your dad a lot,” he notes, leaning against the windowsill. “I can’t tell if people like him that much though. People at school don’t seem to.”

  “You mean Rachel?”

  He frowns at her name.

  “We used to be friends. Rachel and me.”

  He doesn’t hide his surprise.

  I sigh. “It didn’t last long. It ended a long time ago. She wasn’t allowed to come over anymore. Then people at school …”

  I don’t need to finish. “Stopped talking to you?” he guesses.

  I nod.

  “I don’t want you to be used to it, Opal.” My eyebrows pinch in confusion. “Being alone, I mean,” he adds softly. “I know what it’s like to not have anyone, and it doesn’t feel good. We think we’re fine with it, but we’re not. Everybody needs somebody to talk to—needs a friend.”

  I avert my eyes.

  “I want to be your friend, Opal.”

  My head snaps up.

  “I don’t care what Rachel thinks.”

  But you will, I silently warn him.

  “No more being lonely, ‘kay?” he says.

  Slowly, I nod.

  Mama’s shaky voice trails up the stairs, calling up, “Opal, your father is home. Tell your friend to go home now.”

  Friend.

  He smiles, putting his hands back in his pockets. “I’ll see you in school tomorrow by your locker. Is your mom still making you take the bus?”

  I blush, nodding.

  “We’ll walk to class together then.”

  “Okay.”

  “And Opal?” he calls from the doorway.

  I just stare at him.

  “I’ll save you an Cherry Cola.”

  I smile as he walks out.

  The front door of the café opens and the distant expression on Noah’s face paired with Addy’s averted eyes tells me something happened on their morning walk.

  “We need to talk,” he tells me quietly, eyes darting around the half-empty room. Besides the Wittman’s sitting in their usual back table, and Roy, the owner, there’s nobody around.

  I walk around the counter, kneeling to Addy’s height. She still won’t look at me, a sure sign she did something bad.

  “Addy,” I prod sternly. “What happened?”

  She sneaks a peek at me for a microsecond, her eyes pools of melted led rather than the usual mixture that match my own.

  I sigh, peering up at Noah.

  He rubs the back of his neck. “She ran off when I was looking at my phone. It was only for a second, I swear.”

  My lips twitch, disappointed at them both. For one, Addy knows better than to run off without supervision. Clinton may be a small town, but that doesn’t mean there’s no danger. And Noah … since he got promoted at his father’s law firm, he’s been plastered to his phone. When he says he only looks for a second, it’s more like five minutes. Plenty of time for Addy’s attention to wander along with her.

  “She’s not hurt, is she?” I inquire, assessing every inch of her that I can see. No scrapes or bruises, nothing is bleeding, and aside from her apparent guilt, she seems to be in decent spirit.

  “No, it’s not that.” I finally stand up to meet his eyes. “It’s …” He lowers his voice. “It’s who she went up to.”

  Addy takes the moment to butt in. “I just wanted him to push me on the swing! I know I’m not ‘posed to talk to strangers, but he was the only one there.”

  “Addy, I was there,” Noah says, somewhat put out.

  She sticks her bottom lip out. “Nuh-uh, you were on your phone.”

  He winces when I eye him.

  “You-know-who was there,” he tells me rather than letting me get my two cents in on the matter.

  I cross my arms on my chest, irritation taking over any rationality. “Voldemort is in Clinton? Maybe you should have used your phone to get a picture with him instead of replying to your millions of text messages.”

  His lips twitch. “I deserve that, and take full responsibility on letting her out of my sight. It was reckless, and we can talk about it later.”

  I want to point out that we’ve talked about it numerous times, but he’s so focused on his new job that it doesn’t soak in. Not completely. He’ll apologize after something happens, but never try to prevent it from reoccurring.

  The frown on my face only deepens when it sinks in who he’s talking about. And when the realization hits, it’s like a punch to the gut.

  “She talked to him?” I whisper-hiss.

  He palms his face. “He was sitting at the bench across from the playground.”

  My heart stops.

  That was our spot.

  “Oh,” is all I manage to rasp out.

  Noah rubs Addy’s head. “For what it’s worth, not much was said. We went our separate ways, no harm done.”

  No harm done, I scoff silently.

  I suppose to him it is, but knowing that Addy met her father? And I wasn’t even there? It’ll make telling Bash the truth ten times harder once I decide to tell him the truth.

  Closing my eyes to escape reality for mere
seconds, I think about what to do.

  I sigh heavily, rubbing my temples. “I can’t deal with this right now, Noah,” I admit defeatedly.

  “Opal—”

  I put my hand up to stop him. “Just take Addy upstairs please.”

  He stares at me, trying to read my emotions. There are too many painted on my face to pick apart, so he gives up. I see it in his eyes—a dulling light sputtering out.

  “Okay,” he relents softly, nodding once. He goes in for a chaste kiss, but I turn my head, his lips pecking my cheek instead.

  I can tell he wants to say something, but he opts to walk Addy upstairs instead. Returning behind the counter, I see Roy giving me a funny look, his eyes scrunched so his crow’s feet are more visible.

  “What?” I ask distantly, counting the money in the drawer. My focus is set solely on the twenty-dollar bills in my hand, I narrow in on the crisp feel of the worn paper, so I don’t think about anything else.

  “You got that look,” he grunts, wiping down the table to my left.

  I refrain from rolling my eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Once I’m done with the twenties, I move onto the tens until Roy is pulling the bills out of my hand.

  My eyes slowly meet his. “Last time I saw that look I had to console a heartbroken teenager.”

  “I’m not heartbroken!” I defend harshly, taking the money back from him and recounting it. “I’m just … conflicted. Everybody is conflicted over something.”

  “Well when the confliction is over the same thing it’s cause for concern.” This time when he takes the bills from my hand, he puts them back in the register and shuts it, shoving the key into his pocket.

  My lips twitch when he turns me to face him, and I have no choice but to look at him like he wants. Roy has always been a father figure to me. Certainly a better father figure than the one I had.

  “You can’t keep doing this to yourself, kid,” he scolds. “I’ll help you the best I can, but you gotta help yourself first. Feeling like crap over the same boy isn’t getting you anywhere but rock bottom. You’re stronger than that, and we both know it.”

  Tears prickle the corner of my eyes.

  “If you want your daughter to grow up and be strong, then show her how it’s done,” he concludes with a nod of his balding head.