[2016] Bad Judgment

by Meghan March

  Justine is the one with a hell of a lot of explaining to do, and if I’m anywhere close to right about how much she would have had to drink to get this hammered, she’s going to have a monster-sized hangover tomorrow.

  I lower her and pull open the passenger door before settling her into the seat. She bats at my hands as I fasten the seat belt, but I don’t stop.

  Don’t speak. There’s nothing I want to say to her here. I want her home, in my bed, where I can figure out how everything went so fucking sideways.

  I close the door and round the hood to slide into the driver’s seat. Justine’s head hangs to one side and then flops toward me.

  “They’re dead,” she mumbles.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Her dark eyelashes flutter as her eyes open, and she pierces me with a pain-filled gaze. “My parents. They’re dead and I hate them.” Her eyelids squeeze shut as tears spill over and down her cheeks.

  I’m shocked by her words. What I know about her parents—beyond the fact that her mom broke into her apartment—wouldn’t fill a single page, but the fact that they’re dead shocks the shit out of me.

  “Jesus Christ, Justine. When? Why didn’t you call me?”

  “No one cares. I hate them. They hate me. You hate me. I hate me.” Her babbling words make no sense, but the tears that continue to fall say everything I need to know.

  I reach over and grab her hand. “It’s going to be okay, baby. I promise.”

  “Just wanted to forget everything. I can’t even do that right.” Her voice is raw, and her words break my heart.

  She passes out before we get back to my apartment, and I carry her from the car to my bed. I smooth her hair away from her face after I tuck her under the covers in one of my T-shirts.

  “I don’t hate you, Justine. I love you. So fucking much.”

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Justine

  Everything hurts and my stomach is staging a mutiny.

  Someone, kill me.

  I’m hanging over the toilet, gripping the porcelain rim as capable hands pull my hair into a ponytail at the base of my skull. Once it’s secure and I’m done heaving, a bottle presses against my lips.

  “Drink, baby.”

  Ryker.

  Cool water hits my tongue as he tips the bottle, and I swish and spit before taking a little more. The bottle disappears, and a cold washcloth presses against my forehead before gently moving down to my mouth to sweep the nasty residue from my lips.

  I release my death grip on the toilet to keep the cloth there. Silently groaning against the fabric, I bow my head.

  “What did I do?” I assume my mumble is inaudible until Ryker replies.

  “That’s a story for when you’re feeling better. You think you’re good for now? Want to go back to bed?”

  The thought of moving an inch from where I’m slumped is more than I can handle. I shake my head.

  “You want to sleep in the bathroom?”

  I nod, carefully, so as not to wake my calming stomach.

  “Okay, then come here.” He slides his hands under my arms and pulls me back into the cradle of his legs.

  “Towel—”

  “I gotcha.”

  Ryker guides my face to his shoulder, and a soft towel cushions my cheek. Now at least I know I won’t drool on him. He must grab another towel, a bigger one, because something thick and fluffy covers us both.

  “Try to sleep, baby. I got you.”

  “No one has me.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  When I wake again, I’m no longer in the bathroom but tucked into bed. My head pounds, my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, and once it unsticks, the nastiness is enough to gag the strongest stomach.

  I’ve had hangovers. Not a ton, but enough to know better.

  What the hell did I do?

  As I roll over, one arm flops like a dead fish . . . and lands on something solid and warm.

  “How are you feeling?”

  I blink twice because my memory is still a little faulty. How did I get here? I flip backward, attempting to grasp my last solid thought . . . and I come up with blackness. And pain. And regret. And sorrow.

  My parents. Dead. Organ donation. The bar. Walking to the bus stop. Accepting a ride from some kids headed to campus. More booze. And then it all gets a little disjointed. Loud music, laughing, yelling. Running through every memory is a solid dose of self-loathing.

  I managed to block out reality for a few hours . . . but it didn’t last. And somehow I ended up with a concerned-looking Ryker studying my face and wrapping his body protectively around mine.

  I don’t deserve it.

  “You hate me. You drove drunk into a guardrail because of me.”

  His concerned expression hardens into something more serious. “I don’t hate you. Fuck, Justine, I’m in love with you. I could never hate you. And I drove drunk into a guardrail because I was a fucking idiot. That’s on me. Not you. Everything that’s fucked up is because of me—not you.”

  His words wash over me like some kind of healing wave, but they can’t repair everything. I’m too broken for that easy of a fix.

  “You can’t love me.”

  “Fuck if I can’t.” His tone is unyielding. “And you’re not pushing me away. You can try, but I’ll push back every time. I’m finally starting to understand you, and the more I learn, the more sure I am that I’m not letting you go.”

  “But what about the money, your dad, our deal—”

  He lays a finger over my lips for a beat. “I don’t fucking care about any of that. I care about you.” His blue eyes darken as he lowers his hand to grasp mine. “Tell me what happened to your parents.”

  Sharp knives of pain slice through me and I squeeze his fingers, seeking some kind of connection. “They’re dead. There was an accident with one of those fucking trains. They didn’t make it.”

  Ryker sucks in a sharp breath. “Jesus, I’m so fucking sorry, Justine. I saw it on the news. I had no idea. How did you find out it was them? Emergency contact?” The sympathy he feels is almost tangible, and his thumb sweeps back and forth over the back of my hand.

  I let the whole story spill out. What my mother said when I caught her breaking in. About fighting the insurance company, and the check I’ve never seen or heard about.

  “We’ll figure it out, babe.” Ryker’s grip tightens on my hand.

  We. He says it so easily, but there’s nothing easy about where we stand right now.

  “Don’t we need to figure us out first?”

  He hauls me closer, pulling me across his body before cupping the side of my face and wiping away my lingering tears with the pad of his thumb. “Look, we both fucked up, and unless you’re going to tell me that you don’t love me, then there’s nothing to figure out. We move on from here together.”

  This is the moment. The moment I could follow all of my past habits and push him away for good, or I can grab the best thing in my life and hope to hell it lasts.

  My decision is an easy one.

  “I’d be lying if I told you that.”

  “Then fucking tell me you love me. I want to hear it.”

  I meet his stare. “I love you, Ryker. So freaking much.”

  As soon as the words are out, I’m locked in the circle of his arms, my face pressing against his chest, his lips close to my ear.

  “I fucking love you too. I’m not letting you go. Whatever happens, we’re going to get through it. We’re a hell of a team, Justine. There’s nothing we can’t do.”

  “I love you.” I whisper the words again, getting more comfortable with the feel of them on my tongue. Getting more comfortable with the warmth that fills my chest when I say them. The self-loathing isn’t gone, but its sharp edges are blunted.

  Maybe he’s right. Maybe we can do anything.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Ryker

  The rest of the week passes by in a blur. A minister sa
id a blessing over the ashes of Justine’s parents, even though she said she didn’t need to hear it. Someday, I hope she’ll be thankful she had the closure. We went to all our classes, and I took notes when Justine would space out, her fingers stilling on her keyboard.

  She needed to get away, and because figuring out what Justine needs and giving it to her has become one of the most important purposes I’ve had in my life, I decide to take her away from everything.

  She looks out the window of my dad’s truck as we drive up into the hills, lost in her head. This weekend is about getting her out of her head and back to the land of the living. She’s had it rough, and I want to give her easy. I want to give her peace.

  I turn down an unmarked drive and Justine still says nothing. I wonder what she’s going to say when she sees my family’s summer cottage. To me, it’s fancier than some, less fancy than others, but Justine has made it clear that my childhood and hers were light years apart.

  When she drops her hand from the window and sits up straighter as the house comes into view, I try to see it through her eyes. The white clapboard house with a giant front porch sits at an angle on the lot, facing the river that flows by below. A large covered wooden deck sits at the edge of the bluff, marking the top of the stairs that lead down to the water.

  I pull to a stop in front of the house.

  “This is your cottage?” A tinge of awe colors her words.

  “My great-grandfather built it, and it’s been handed down to each generation. Someday, it’ll get passed down to me.”

  So many of my best memories were made here, and I want to give those kinds of memories to Justine.

  “Come on, let’s get inside and get the place warmed up. I can impress you with my manly fire-building skills.”

  We both climb out of the truck, grab a few bags—our clothes and the groceries we picked up before we left—and I lead the way up to the front door and unlock it.

  The tour of the inside doesn’t take too long, but Justine stays quiet through most of it. It’s that quiet I brought her here to fix. I want the real Justine back. The one full of life and fire. The one who didn’t hesitate to tell me to go to hell. We’ve got two nights and two full days before we have to go back to the real world, and I’m hoping it’s enough time for her to find that girl again.

  We end our tour in the kitchen, and I pull two bottles out of the six-packs we brought in. Popping the tops on both, I hand the cider to her. “Do you want to put away the groceries, and I’ll get the hot water and furnace going?”

  She sips her cider and nods. “Yeah, divide and conquer. Sounds good.”

  I lean in to press a quick kiss to her lips when she lowers the cider. “I’m glad we’re here. We needed this. Just you and me.”

  Her smile isn’t bright and brilliant yet, but it’s still a smile nonetheless. “I’m glad we’re here too. Now, go do manly things.”

  When I return to the kitchen twenty minutes later, I find it empty. The grocery bags are gone, and so is Justine.

  With the winter shutters down over the windows, I can’t see a damn thing out the front side of the house. From the side windows in the kitchen, the car is visible, but she’s not out there either.

  I head out of the kitchen, through the porch to the screen door, and down the front steps. A large gazebo-like roof covers the deck that sits at the top of the bluff before the stairs heading down to the river. The furniture has all been stored in the garage for the season, but the built-in benches are still there.

  That’s where I find Justine. Curled up, a blanket from the sofa inside wrapped around her shoulders, tears streaming down her face.

  “Baby, what’s wrong?”

  She doesn’t even notice my presence until I speak. Her head turns toward the river, and one hand comes up to swipe away the tears.

  A crumple of plastic draws my attention. The blanket falls from her shoulder at her movement, and I catch a glimpse of a bag of marshmallows clutched to her chest.

  “Sorry. I’m—”

  “Shh.” I don’t let her finish. Instead, I sit behind her on the bench and lift her onto my lap before closing my arms around her, the blanket, and the marshmallows. “It’s okay.”

  She turns sideways, curling into my body, and I squeeze her tighter. I don’t ask for an explanation, but I know I’ll get one if she wants to share.

  “I didn’t know you grabbed these at the store.”

  “You were getting orange juice, so I thought we could make s’mores. It’s a little too cold out here for a campfire, but you can make just as good ones inside over the fire.”

  “Do you know that I’ve made s’mores once in my life? The only time I’ve ever been ‘camping.’” She uses her fingers like quotation marks around the word camping.

  “How old were you?”

  She curls closer to my chest and I tighten my grip around her shoulders, as though my strength can be transferred to her.

  “Seven.”

  “What happened?” I don’t want to push, but I have a feeling she needs to get this out.

  “I thought it was an adventure. We packed up the car with a tent and sleeping bags and everything, and headed out to the campground. My mom made my dad stop at a store to get hot dogs and marshmallows and all the stuff. Everything about that night seemed magical. My dad didn’t have a swearing fit when he put up the tent. My mom didn’t yell at me for sneaking chips out of the bag before we ate. My dad rounded up firewood and long sticks so we could cook over the fire, and I thought it was the coolest thing ever.”

  A tear slips down her face, and I wipe it away. I suspect the part of the story I probably don’t want to hear is coming next.

  “And?”

  “And then we were about to make s’mores. I’ve got my stick and my marshmallows ready, and the chocolate and graham crackers are out. I had my marshmallow up over the perfect spot because I wanted it to be golden brown and delicious . . . that’s when they started arguing. My parents must have cracked open some booze or something. I remember my dad yelling that it was her fault this time. Couldn’t she have been nicer to the landlord to buy more time? I don’t know how I knew it, but I did. We were homeless. It wasn’t a camping trip. S’mores weren’t a treat. They were something to keep me occupied because we had nowhere else to go.”

  I can’t imagine being seven years old and knowing you were homeless. Growing up with that kind of knowledge would change everything.

  “How many times did you have to move as a kid?” I can’t help but ask the question. I want to understand.

  “Before I finally moved in with Gramps? Dozens. I lost track. We’d be one place for a few months before getting evicted or my parents packing up fast and moving us somewhere.”

  This is the part I still don’t have a grip on. “What did your parents do?”

  Justine is quiet for several moments. “They were scam artists. They ran cons. Petty theft. Worked odd jobs when there was nothing else available.” She finally turns to meet my eyes. “They weren’t good people. And I feel like I’m just like them.”

  I release my hold on her in favor of cupping her jaw with both hands so I can keep her gaze on mine. “You are not fucking like them. Nothing like them.”

  “But—”

  “No. Don’t even think it. You’re not like them.”

  She swallows. “All I wanted when I was growing up was to be normal. I wanted a normal family. A normal house. A normal existence. I wanted parents who tucked me into bed, read me stories, and told me they loved me. Why couldn’t I have that? Like you did.”

  I press a kiss to her forehead before lowering my hands to wrap my arms around her once more and crush her to my chest. “Baby, no one’s family is perfect. Even the ones who seem normal and tuck their kids into bed and read them stories. There’s no such thing as normal. And for the record, you became an amazing woman in spite of everything. You’re smart, strong, resilient, resourceful, and fucking mind-blowing. The fact that you’re all those
things should prove to you that you didn’t need normal. They didn’t do you any favors, but they gave you a gift—just look at how much you’ve accomplished. You’re the most capable, intelligent, and incredible woman I’ve ever met. That’s why I wouldn’t give up asking you out. I knew you were everything I could ever want.”

  The tears that fall from her eyes now are happy ones. “I thought you just wanted a piece of ass.” The words come out on a laugh.

  I shake my head. “I told you, since that day you opened your mouth in Torts class, I knew you were a hell of a lot more than a great rack and perfect ass. I wasn’t going to stop until you were mine. Now I’m the luckiest fucking guy in the world because you are.”

  She leans forward, her tears wetting my cheeks as she presses her lips to mine before drawing back an inch. “Can we agree that we’re both lucky?”

  “Definitely.” I smooth the hair back from her face as her stomach growls. “Now, it’s time to feed my woman.”

  She nods. “That too.”

  I lift her up and carry her to the house, determined that this weekend will be the beginning of all good memories. She deserves it, and I’m going to work like hell to give it to her.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Justine

  My lips are sticky with melted marshmallow as I finish chewing the fabulous concoction that also includes melted chocolate and crunchy graham crackers. I never thought I would be able to laugh and make s’mores, but Ryker is helping me systematically replace all my sour memories with sweet ones.

  And who knew the guy I thought could be crowned King of the Douche Bags once upon a time would turn out to be the best man I know. Gramps would approve.

  Ryker has been giving and giving, and now it’s my turn. I need to right the balance and give him back some portion of what he gives me.

  “I love you.” The words come easier to my lips every time, and his face lights up in the glow of the firelight when I say them.