Stevie’s mom steps onto the porch, pulling an oversize Jets sweatshirt over her head. She rubs her eyes, makeup smudged underneath. Even though sweat breaks out on my palms, it’s cool her parents actually waited up. My parents have never waited up for me, claiming they trust my judgment, when in fact they’re probably lazy. But that’s only on the infrequent nights they don’t have an industry party or social engagement. They always have to make an appearance, like it’s not a choice. But of course it’s a choice—it’s their choice to leave me home alone. When I was little it was a rotating door of nannies and now—well, it’s only me.
“I lost track of time. I’m so sorry,” Stevie says, picking at her finger. That dog’s paws are pressed against the window, each maddening bark echoing through the quiet street like he’s announcing to the neighborhood how badly I fucked up. “This is Drew Mason. He’s in the band with me.”
I step forward and extend a hand. Stevie’s dad glances at me, but he doesn’t smile. He doesn’t take my hand either.
“It’s my fault,” I say, burying my hand in the front pocket of my hoodie.
“Stevie can make her own decisions,” her dad says. “You should head on home.”
No way am I heading home. I’m not stepping off this porch until he understands it was my idea to go to the beach, not Stevie’s.
“Caleb.” Stevie’s mom puts her hand on his shoulder, but he doesn’t relent. “Give them a minute to explain.”
“Come inside, Stevie,” Caleb says calmly. Too calmly. He gestures at the entryway, which is completely bare—not even a coatrack or photo on the wall. He glances across the street at the dog, which is about to hurl itself through the glass window. “You’re going to wake the whole neighborhood.”
“I don’t care about the neighborhood. Since when can I make my own decisions?” Stevie’s voice rises. “Nothing in my life is my decision. Your job dictates everything.”
Caleb’s expression stays frozen, undecipherable, which is worse than him screaming at us. Dad’s a yeller. Mostly at his clients or at his staff, never at me. When I was little, I hated the yelling, but then it became normal, a barometer of how pissed he was. At least if Caleb yelled I’d know where we stand. My heart rams into my chest and part of me wants to get the hell out of here.
“It really was my fault,” I say. Stevie bites down on her bottom lip, like she’s stuffing in tears. She glances at me and says under her breath, “I’m sorry.”
“You need to leave,” Caleb says, his eyes serious and holding my gaze. He’s not fucking around. I back down the porch steps, my hand slick on the railing.
“I’m sorry,” I say again to all of them, stumbling backwards. They don’t respond and head inside the house, the front door slamming shut. I’m not sure if it was Stevie or her dad, but my bet’s on Stevie. Once I’m back in my car, it’s quiet. The dog stops barking, and the porch light flicks off, this whole night gone to shit.
When I pull the Jeep into our driveway there’s no spotlight waiting for me. The house is dark and quiet. Mom must still be out with the finance guy she met last week. He donated a ton of money to her charity and Mom says he’s nice. But I think her standards should be much higher than nice.
Once I’m inside, I peel off my hoodie and throw it on the baby grand. I consider texting Stevie to make sure she’s okay but then think better of it. Her parents are probably still up lecturing her or, worse, grounding her. Me and my impulsive ideas. I never should have brought her to the beach, so far away from home. I hope her parents can forgive me and most of all I hope Stevie’s not mad.
The light in Dad’s office is on, taunting me. It reminds me of being little and getting up in the middle of the night scared of some dream. Dad loved to work weird hours and would always be in there, obsessing over a contract, on the phone, or sometimes playing one of the guitars softly. I would scamper in, rubbing my worried eyes and rambling about the nightmare. Dad would smile and say I got you with outstretched arms. Once I was safe, wrapped in his embrace, the monsters didn’t seem as big. They didn’t seem real at all. He would show me what he was working on and talk to me like a grown-up. I couldn’t wait to grow up and be just like him—successful, confident, a person who makes his dreams a reality. But last year I realized it was all smoke and mirrors. He’s cocky, not confident. He’s careless with his success and his family. I see him clearly now—he’s a man who pissed all over me and Mom, the two people who unconditionally had his back.
I push the door open to flick off the light and jump back when I spot Dad, his feet propped on the desk.
“Andrew,” he says, standing. He slides his glasses onto his face and steps toward me. I don’t smile. “It’s late,” he says, like he’s actually trying to parent me.
“Since when do you care how late I stay out?” I inhale deeply but this anger, this pure hatred for the one person I loved the most bubbles up inside me. I’m afraid if I keep talking it’ll boil over and I’ll never be able to take it back. “Why are you here?”
“Where’s Mom?”
“I don’t know.”
He scratches the back of his head and pulls on his gray hoodie. Dad’s the only sixty-eight-year-old I know who can get away with wearing a hoodie.
“You still in your band?” he asks, leaning against the desk and crossing his legs at the ankles. His salt and pepper hair is thinner and shorter, a physical reminder that I haven’t seen him in months.
I kick at the carpet, but when I look up my demo is in his hand. “You never listened to it,” I say flatly.
“Andrew, it’s good. It’s really good.”
“What?” I say, a few bricks falling from my fortress of hate. “When did you…”
“Just now. I was supposed to meet Mom, and well, she’s not here. It got late, and I was about to head back when I saw your demo. You can really sing.”
“Thanks,” I say, stepping closer to him, thinking of the Dark Carnival show booked for next week. My heart double times it, a woodpecker knocking against my chest. A small voice from inside my head whispers just ask him. “You know, we’re playing a show after the first football game. Old Silver Tavern. You should stop by.”
I try to sound casual but hope soars from my mouth into my words.
“I’d love to,” Dad says, like he’s been waiting for this invitation. For a brief moment I catch a glimpse of the man I knew before the cheating and the leaving, and my heart lurches in my chest. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for a while now.”
“I know.” Maybe Shane’s right and all I have to do is give him a chance. “I’ll pick up next time.”
“I’m glad I saw you, Andrew. You really shouldn’t be out so late though.” There he goes trying to parent me again. I can’t say I mind it. “Tell Mom I left something for her.” He pats a manila folder on the desk.
The next thing I know he envelops me in a hug, tight and long, and for these few seconds I’m safe again. But after he’s gone I sit in his huge leather chair and flip open the manila folder. Divorce papers. They’re not signed, a blank box full of hope. But deep down I know better. Fuck it. My hands grab for my phone and I tap out a message fast.
Me
Hey Stevie. It’s Drew. I hope you’re okay.
But she doesn’t respond.
CHAPTER 7
Stevie
SEPTEMBER
I reread the text from Drew for the hundredth time. I hope you’re okay. I’m not okay. I’m rattled, thrown completely off balance, my mind consumed by thoughts of the beach, Drew’s hands through my hair, inhaling his scent, like getting lost on a trail in the middle of the woods. After that night, everything changed. For the first time since moving to this New Jersey suburb I’m ready to start over again, excited even. Being near Drew shifts this black-and-white town into color. But once I saw the look on Dad’s face, the way he eyed Drew’s Jeep like it had cast an evil spell over me, I knew I was done for. Dad would never flip out in front of Drew, but seconds after Drew’s
Jeep sped away from our street, he stormed into our kitchen, pacing between the island and fridge.
“What were you thinking?” Dad’s voice rumbled low and serious. He braced his hands on the corner of the kitchen island, glaring at me. The wall clock ticked away each second, grating my nerves. “Why didn’t you text us? You’re over an hour late.”
“I lost track of time,” I said, picking at my cuticle. My thumb and pointer finger pulsed in pain. “I guess I wasn’t thinking.”
“Exactly, you weren’t thinking,” Dad said, his voice rising.
“Listen to her,” Mom said, putting her hand on his shoulder. For a split second Dad’s expression softened, but then his nostrils flared in the way they do when his quarterback throws an incomplete pass.
“You’re too easy on her, Naomi,” Dad said, which isn’t true at all. Mom remembers what it’s like to be young, unlike Dad, who always seems tired.
“C’mon, Cal,” Mom said, her doe eyes apologizing to me. But her protests won’t matter. In the end it’s Dad’s call. It’s been that way as long as I can remember—Mom the jury, always eager to hear every side of the story, and Dad the unfair judge, slamming down a gavel without really listening.
“He’s not good for her.”
“How do you know that?” I yelled, stepping in front of Dad so he had to look at me. “You’re barely around. How can you possibly know who or what is good for me?”
Dad flinched, like he felt my words in the pit of his stomach. We stood in silence for a moment, a standoff. My phone dinged with a new text message, but I didn’t dare check it. Dad paced back and forth in front of the kitchen island, then stopped abruptly.
“I know I’m not around,” he said softly, shaking his head. “You don’t know how much I wish I could be here every time you need me.” His shifted his gaze from me to Mom then back to me again. “It’s because I’m not around that I try so hard to protect you. And trust me, I’ve heard enough locker room talk to know when a guy is up to no good.”
If Dad wanted to overcompensate, he could spend more time with me instead of obsessing over old games and rewriting old plays. Even when he is around, when I try to talk to him it’s like he’s far away—physically in the same room but mentally somewhere else entirely. There’s no way my overly distracted father could’ve judged Drew’s character in those five minutes on our porch.
“You don’t have to protect me,” I said, trying to sound older and self-assured, like someone who has it all figured out, but my voice stumbled on the way out of my mouth. “He’s a good guy, I promise.”
“Let’s at least meet Drew properly,” Mom said, and I held my breath, my eyes darting between them.
“Please, Dad.” My voice caught again, and I swallowed it back.
“Okay,” he sighed. “Bring him over to the house so I can talk to him. But you’re grounded for the week, and no seeing Drew outside of school until I meet him.”
I didn’t say anything else, too afraid to ruin the momentary reprieve from Dad. If only he would put half the amount of energy into our family that he does into football. Maybe then he would trust me to make the right choices. But the truth is he doesn’t know Drew and sometimes I wonder if he even knows me.
* * *
A sea of nameless faces blurs past me as I make my way down the hall. It’s always like this in the beginning, a barrage of new people, fast introductions, and overwhelming first impressions that are almost never correct. I prepare myself for the inevitable, fully knowing that I’m never going to remember the names of all the people I’ll meet in the next few hours. The thing is, there’s only one face I want to see in this crowded hallway, my eyes desperately searching for a glimpse of Drew’s dark waves, his ripped jeans. Sneakers squeak on the linoleum floor and a couple guys high five each other over my head. I duck, my fingers curling around the strap of my backpack. When I reach my locker I click through the numbers like a pro and yank the door open, the metal vibrating against my hand. I’ve already memorized the combination, a personal record for me. I check my phone, but nothing from Sarah. I texted her right after the beach, my excitement an overfilled helium balloon about to pop. I haven’t told anyone about that night and I’m starting to wonder if it even happened. Some things in life feel more real when you share them with someone.
Shane heads down the hall, drumsticks peeking out of the top of his backpack. His face brightens as he spots me, his hand shooting up in an enthusiastic wave. Tension releases from my skin at the sight of a familiar face, a friend among strangers. I wave back, about to make my way over to him, but suddenly his arm drops and his face falls. I follow his gaze until my eyes land on Brent Miller hulking down the hall. Shane ducks around the corner, disappearing from sight.
“Jets suck,” Brent yells in my direction, walking in sync with another football player. It’s only the first week and I’m already the coach’s daughter. I should expect this, but every time, in every new school, I’m caught off guard. Brent pumps his fist in the air like a belligerent fan. A Mustangs hat sits backwards on his big head, making his forehead protrude. There’s a Band-Aid above his right eye, probably an injury from practice. My stomach clenches.
“Fuck off, Brent,” Ray says, appearing at my locker. She flips him the finger and Brent laughs, like they’ve been through this routine before. Ray rolls her eyes at me and says, “Welcome to Millbrook High.”
I laugh as Ray pulls a stick of gum from her bag and pops it in her mouth.
“Sorry about him,” says the other football player, the name Walker written on the back of his jersey. He must be Tom Walker, the quarterback who texted Drew about the concert tickets. He doesn’t walk over to us, he swaggers, like he owns this school. Brent trails him until they’re standing beside us.
“What happened to your eye?” Ray asks, squinting at Brent’s face. When she reaches up and touches the bandage he flinches.
“It’s nothing,” he says quietly, staring at his sneakers, his bravado stripped away by one innocent question.
“It doesn’t look like nothing,” Ray presses, examining the wound.
“Drop it, okay?” Tom says, stepping in front of Brent. Ray eyes Tom and Tom holds her gaze, serious. No one looks at me. It’s obvious that Band-Aid isn’t hiding a football injury. Like I said, first impressions never tell the full story.
“Guys, this is Stevie,” Ray says, cutting through the silence. She gestures at me like I’m a shiny diamond in a display case. “She’s the one I was telling you about. Stevie, you’ve met Brent,” she says, her eyes skimming over the bandage. “And this is Tom Walker, our quarterback.”
My hand shoots up in a small wave as my stomach knots, my mouth going dry. I repeat the names in my head, trying to keep everyone straight. Three sets of eyes all on me. When people know about you before actually knowing you, they have a certain expectation of what kind of person you should be, when in fact you’re nothing like they imagined.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, as my hand self-consciously runs through my hair.
“That’s so cool about your dad,” says Tom, as he adjusts a gym bag on his shoulder. “What’s he saying about the season?”
“I don’t know,” I say, picking my cuticle. “We don’t really talk about football.”
“He must tell you something,” says Tom, twisting the cap off a water bottle and taking a long sip.
“Jets are a lost cause.” Brent leans against the row of lockers, his hand grazing the bandage.
“Cool it, guys.” Ray steps in front of me. “She doesn’t want to talk about her dad. Leave her alone.”
A petite girl with auburn curls breaks free from the hallway crowd and sidles up to Tom, putting her arms around his waist. Her wrists are covered in bangles and rings hug half her fingers. She stands on her toes, kissing him on the cheek, her crop top riding up and exposing a toned stomach.
“Hey, baby,” Tom says, nuzzling into her neck.
“Jenna Reed,” Ray whispers in my ear, nodding
at Jenna, whose hand is now buried in the back pocket of Tom’s track pants. Another person. I do my best to smile but she doesn’t notice me. “Cheerleader. Junior. Tom’s girlfriend.”
“Gotta go,” Tom says, and I exhale an overwhelmed breath of air. “See you on the field, Ray. Nice meeting you, Stevie.”
I yell bye as the guys head down the hall, Jenna’s arm curled around Tom’s bicep. Ray’s eyes are still on them as she says, “God, our quarterback looks like Michael B. Jordan, don’t you think? Ugh but completely off limits. He’s been with Jenna since they were freshmen.”
She sighs, still eyeing Tom, before snapping her head back to me. Ray’s words barely register as I try to commit the new names, people, and stories to memory. With each new school it gets harder. Maybe it’s because I know this place, these people, aren’t permanent.
“What happened to you Saturday night?” Ray asks, fiddling with a stack of beaded bracelets that dangles from her wrist. She chews on the piece of gum like it’s a steak, mouth slightly open, her lips shimmering with gloss. I grab books from my locker and shut it. “Where were you? I thought you were going to stop by Dino’s?”
“I had another party,” I say, even though I never made it there. The hallway begins to thin out as a warning bell sounds for first period. Ray doesn’t budge. I’m dying to tell someone about the beach and the waves and the almost-but-not-quite skinny dipping. Ray narrows her eyes at me.
“Who is it?”
“Huh?”
“That look on your face.” Ray clutches her heart and swoons dramatically, swaying back and forth, until she stops and looks me square in the eyes. “Who is it?”
Every image from Saturday night bursts from my brain, demanding to be let out. Ray crosses her arms over her stomach and taps her right foot impatiently.
“Wait, let me guess…” Ray’s pointer finger touches her chin as her eyes shift to the ceiling. Drew rounds the corner, a beat-up notebook stuffed in the back pocket of his ripped jeans. All at once sand squishes through my toes and salty air dances on my tongue.
Where It All Lands Page 7