I wonder who Miss Alice is but don't ask. I feel so out of place, I'm sure they'll throw me out if I make one wrong move.
Sutton makes herself comfortable on a seat in the middle of the front row. She turns off the lights with a remote.
"Where do you want to sit?" Rogan asks again.
I sit next to his sister. He sits on the other side of me. Sutton chatters about the movie. I can barely breathe.
A woman in a floral dress comes in carrying three tubs filled with popcorn and hands us each one. "Do any of you need something else? Blankets?"
At just that moment, a gust of icy air gives me the chills.
Rogan nods. "Yeah, bring some blankets. Thanks, Miss Alice."
Then it hits me. They have a servant—she probably has a more distinguished title, but that's clearly what she is. I slink down in the seat. If Rogan figures out where I'm from, literally the other side of the tracks, he's going to regret bringing me to his home.
A few minutes later, we all have blankets over our laps, underneath tubs of popcorn, and drinks in the armrests. Inside their house.
I'm so out of my league.
The movie starts, giving me something else to focus on for a couple hours. Throughout the movie, both Rogan and Sutton make comments to me. Almost like I fit in, except that I don't belong in a place like this. I'm an imposter. An outsider. An alien.
Either way, I need to think about what I'm going to do once Rogan is bored of the girl he saved. Back to the tracks? Show up at a friend's house? I don't even have a friend close enough that I could just show up unannounced.
At least it's the beginning of the summer. It won't get too cold at night.
Why hadn't I made plans for what I would do if the train didn't work out? Because it was supposed to work! It was fail-proof. As kids, the adults drilled it into our heads. Stay off the tracks. Trains kill people. Except me.
After the movie, Rogan and Sutton discuss it. I watch them with interest. At my house, everyone goes our separate ways after we watch something together. There's no intelligent discussion.
There's never intelligent discussion at home. Just drunken fights and put-downs. Whoever comes up with the best insult wins the night. I stay out of it, but it never keeps backhanded comments from coming my way.
It's over. I don't ever have to go back. In fact, I'm not. They're officially out of my life now.
Miss Alice comes back into the room and looks at Rogan and Sutton. "Dinner's ready. Your mom is working late again. Is your guest staying?"
Rogan turns to me. "You want to stay for dinner?"
"Sure." I'm going to gain ten pounds if I keep hanging out with these people.
I follow them to the dining room—another room that's nearly the size of my house. My old house. The place I'm never returning to.
The dining room is just as bright and fancy as the entryway. The long table could fit an entire party. Rogan and Sutton sit near each other by the large picture window. Outside is a yard that seems to go on forever. It's perfectly manicured and off to the left I see part of the lake.
They live on the lake.
Why am I surprised?
Miss Alice brings steaming containers of food over and sets them between us. It smells as good as the restaurant. Maybe better.
We dig in. The pot roast nearly melts in my mouth, and it's seasoned unlike any I've ever eaten.
I could get used to this. But I'm not going to. I don't belong in a place like this, not unless I'm helping Miss Alice serve the people who live here.
Sutton pushes her chair back and extends her hand toward me. "It was fun, but I have to study. Exams on Monday." She makes a face. "You guys are so lucky, having already graduated."
Me, lucky. Right. I smile, anyway. "It was nice to meet you."
"You're coming back, right?" She asked me the question, but she looks to her brother for the answer.
"Go study, Sutton."
She sticks her tongue out at him, and they both laugh. Sutton turns to me. "See you soon."
"Okay."
Now it's just Rogan and me. Does he have somewhere he has to be? Where am I going to go?
My stomach twists, and it's really uncomfortable after everything I've put in it since I met Rogan.
He doesn't say anything.
I don't say anything.
It's officially awkward.
Rogan rests his chin in his palm. "Do you have anywhere you need to be?"
I laugh.
He arches an eyebrow and it disappears underneath his bangs.
"My plans ended at the train, remember?"
"That's right. I was thinking we could find out who's the better shot. You seem to think you can beat me." His mouth forms a slow smile.
My heart jumps out of my chest and into my throat. "I didn't bring my pistol."
"There are plenty at the range."
He wants to go to the shooting range? I've never been, so he would have the advantage. I twist my hair around my fingers and stare into his eyes, careful not to get lost in the colorful flecks. "Scared of the woods?"
"Scared? No, I've never been out there to shoot. Plus, do you have a secret stash of guns I don't know about? Because you don't have a gun, and I don't have a gun."
"Fair point." I really need to sneak back into my room and get some of my things. Assuming my family hasn't burned all my stuff to turn it into a game room like Theo's been begging them to for so long. He says I can live in the attic. Jerk.
Rogan
Kenna stands with the pistol aimed at the target like a pro. I've been shooting plenty of times and am more than comfortable with a gun, but she takes it to a whole different level.
She adjusts the protective goggles, then pulls off the hearing protection. "Do I really need all this stuff? It's annoying."
I point to a sign behind her. "It's the rules."
She shakes her head. "Like I said, annoying." But she pulls the earmuffs back onto her head and returns to position. She closes one eye, opens it again, then closes it.
Pow!
Directly in the middle of the target.
My mouth falls open. She wasn't kidding about being a good shot. I know I'm going to lose to her, but I'm too impressed to care.
Pow!
She hits dead center again.
I study her. Kenna is nothing like I expected. I'm not entirely sure what I did expect from the girl walking toward an oncoming train, but this feisty thing sure isn't it.
Maybe I expected her to be depressed and sullen. Full of scars on her wrists. Perhaps to break down crying and to pour out her problems to me.
Pow!
She hits the same spot.
Kenna has no scars, and I've yet to see a tear. She's as tough as the gun in her hands. Not only that, but she says what she wants to say.
She's such a breath of fresh air.
Pow!
Given Flaming Combustion's popularity, girls usually say whatever they think I want to hear. They wear skimpy clothes and hang all over me, thinking that'll impress me.
It only irritates me. Sure, it's kind of an ego boost, but I can see right through them. They don't give a crap about me. It's all about status.
And I'm sick of being a status symbol. It's been that way since the fifth grade when my dad got his Dodge Viper. The first day he dropped me off at school in it, the girls suddenly vied for my attention. Not because of me, but because of the car. My dad's car.
That's why when I turned sixteen, I wouldn't let him buy me a sports car. I opted for a silver sedan—a Mercedes, but not one that screamed for attention. It wasn't until I graduated that I accepted the fully-restored Mustang.
Pow!
Her fifth straight bullseye.
Kenna pulls off her goggles and earmuffs. "Think you can beat that?"
She stares at me with stark determination in her dark brown eyes that perfectly matches the wavy hair falling halfway to her elbows. Her confidence made her natural beauty all the more attractive.
<
br /> "Well?" Kenna scrunches her mouth like she's trying to hold back a smile. "Afraid to try and beat that?"
"Me afraid? Never."
She smirks playfully.
That makes me want to pull her into my arms and kiss her. To see if she tastes half as good as she looks. To—
No. I can't do that. Just hours ago, she'd been trying to take her own life. I'd totally be taking advantage of her.
I force my gaze away from her and get myself ready to lose this bet. There's no way I'm going to do as well as Kenna. Not a chance.
Pow!
A full three inches away from the center.
Kenna says something but I can't hear her with the protection. It looks like she said, Not bad.
Not good, either.
I turn back to the target and close one eye.
Pow!
Dead center.
She gives me a high-five.
Out of my next three shots, I only get one more in the middle.
I pull off my protection.
Kenna leans against a post. "I'm impressed."
"Yeah, right. You weren't kidding about being a good shot. I'm impressed."
She pulls some hair behind her ear. "Because I'm a girl?"
"Because you're a good shot. It has nothing to do with your anatomy."
"Want a rematch?"
I shake my head. "I know when I'm in the presence of greatness."
She looks away. "Then we'd better return this stuff."
Back in my car, I wait before starting it. "Do you need to get back home or anything?"
Kenna shakes her head. Though she doesn't tear up or frown, she seems sad. I can't put my finger on it. It's just a feeling, I guess.
"You really have no plans whatsoever?"
"Thanks to you."
I sigh, trying to imagine what could be so bad that it would make her want to end it all. "Well, I won't apologize for it, if that's what you want."
She shrugs.
"You don't want me to take you home, so do you want me to take you somewhere else?"
Instead of answering, she looks out the side window and plays with a nail.
"Do you have anywhere to go?"
Through the reflection of the glass, I see her close her eyes. She shakes her head.
It feels like a punch in the gut. How can she have nowhere to go? If I didn't want to be at home, I could go to my dad's—though pigs would fly out of my nose before that was likely to happen—or I could crash at the houses of any of my band members.
"You have nowhere at all to go?" I ask softly, careful to make sure she can't possibly misread judgment from my tone. Shock, sure. Judgment, no.
Kenna just sighs.
It breaks my heart, even though I just met her. How could life be so cruel to someone who is clearly so wonderful?
I don't say anything, hoping she'll tell me something. Anything.
She doesn't.
"We can go back to my place, if you want."
Her eyes fly open, and she spins around and stares at me. I can't read her expression. Fear? Surprise? Something else altogether? All I know is that I want to wrap my arms around her and make everything right in her world.
But I can't. We barely know each other, and she doesn't want to tell me anything about her life beyond being a good shot.
"We have several guest rooms for you to pick from." Maybe that's what she's worried about.
"What about your parents? Will they mind?"
"Just my mom. And no, she's cool."
Kenna doesn't say anything. She starts to open her mouth like she's going to, but then she closes it again.
"You know, if you want to talk, you can. I've been told I'm a good listener."
She holds my gaze, but doesn't say anything.
"Or we can just go back to the house and you can get some rest. Whatever you feel like."
"Sure." Kenna glances out the window again.
The drive is quiet except for the music. My curiosity gets the best of me. A thousand questions race through my mind, but they don't make it to my mouth.
It's going to make me go crazy before long.
Kenna
I rest my chin on my knees and wrap my arms around my legs. The soft mattress threatens to swallow me whole. It's not lumpy and it has no springs sticking out.
Despite the cheery guest room with portraits of the Eiffel Tower on every wall, a heaviness settles over me. I watch the door. Even though it's locked, I still expect the knob to rattle and the door to creak open.
Nights are the worst. There's no escaping Theo unless he has a girlfriend to occupy his needs, but let's face it. Not many want to put up with him. My stepbrother is a horrible person, and most girls can smell that a mile away.
I wait and I wait. Other than the AC kicking on every once in a while, the house is quiet. No yelling. Nothing breaking. No TV blaring.
Just silence.
Footsteps plod outside in the hallway over the plush carpet.
I hold my breath.
The doorknob doesn't jiggle.
Just more silence after the footsteps fade away.
I breathe again.
Maybe it's safe to go to sleep. I glance at the covers underneath me. They seem inviting, but I can't bring myself to move.
Once I close my eyes, all I'll see is Theo's face. The dirty-blond hair hanging over his eyes. His wife-beater tank top and boxers. It was like he was trying to be a walking cliché.
My heart races. Tears threaten, but as always, I refuse to give in. Giving in means he wins. Theo will never win. He may be bigger and stronger, and he might know exactly how to threaten me into silence, but he will never win.
I wait for the AC to stop, and then I pull the covers back and climb underneath. The bed is even softer when I lie down. My head sinks into the pillow as the mattress contours around me.
My gaze darts around the room, stopping at each picture of Paris. I try to imagine what it would be like to travel the world.
It must be nice. Just like being able to sleep in a bed like this every night.
My eyelids grow heavy. I reach over to the nightstand and turn off the lamp. Darkness settles quickly, and I pull the covers to my chin. I'm hit with a whiff of fresh, clean fabric softener.
I fight my eyelids. Eventually they win.
Theo's sneering face appears before me.
I gasp and sit up, clinging to the bedding. He's not here. He's not actually here.
Even though I'm far from home, I can't get away from him. Will he ever leave my thoughts? Can I ever forget what he did to me night after night, year after year?
I shake, despite the warm bed. Then my body goes rigid with anger. I hate Theo. I hate him for everything he's ever done to me. I wish he'd throw himself in front of a train. He never will. He thinks he's God's gift to the world.
Tears sting my eyes.
He will not win.
Then a thought strikes me. If I do somehow go on living, what if every time I close my eyes I see Theo? Sure, I left, but have I escaped? Will he always be with me?
I pull myself into a ball and try to picture something else. The Eiffel Tower. I hold onto one of the images on the wall and imagine myself there, a world away from my troubles.
Theo's face appears again.
I ball up my fists and punch the pillows until I fall asleep.
Rogan
I put down my guitar and check the time. It's past two o'clock.
Worry presses on my chest. Kenna hasn't left her room since the night before—not that I'm aware, at least. The door was locked when I checked after lunch.
She was like Sutton, who could sleep all day. Or was she?
My eyes widen and my pulse drums in my ears. Kenna had tried to throw herself at a train the day before. What if she had tried something else overnight?
Had she sneaked away in the middle of the night to find her way back to the tracks?
I whip out my phone and check the local news. Relief washes throug
h me as I see there's nothing about the trains or Kenna. Just traffic and some scandal involving the mayor and her assistant.
Relief washes through me.
Until I recall the pills in the main bathroom. The razors. What else could be used? My mind races with possibilities. I've never thought about this before.
What if she hurt herself, or worse?
I scramble to my feet, barely taking the time to set my guitar down properly, and practically fly through the hallway and up the stairs. First I check the bathroom. It's empty and clean, but there are other bathrooms.
The door to her guest room is locked. I press my ear against it, but don't hear anything. Not that I would if something had happened.
I knock lightly in case she's just sleeping and really needs a good rest. Maybe she was just tired and, because of that, thought ending everything was a good idea. I definitely have a hard time thinking clearly when I'm tired.
After a minute, I knock again.
Nothing.
I have to check on her. I just need to know she's okay. Part of me wants to pound on the door, but I can't bring myself to. I'd be pissed if someone woke me, even if it was the middle of the afternoon.
"What's up?"
I spin around to see Sutton. "Just wanted to check on Kenna."
"Still sleeping?"
Frowning, I nod.
"Wow, someone who can out-sleep me. I'm impressed."
"Does Mom still have that master key? You know, the one she keeps for emergencies?" I use air quotes as I say 'for emergencies' because she's used that key plenty of times when Sutton or I have been grounded and locked ourselves in our room.
My younger sister tilts her head. "You worried about her?"
I hesitate. It's not my place to tell Sutton what happened, even though she's completely trustworthy. She may be annoying at times, but as far as siblings go, I pretty much won the lottery. After seeing what some of my friends have gone through with theirs, I know to appreciate her.
"You are." She plays with a curl. "Where'd you meet her?"
"I can't really talk about it. Do you know if Mom has that key?"
"You can't talk about it?" She steps closer, her eyes burning with curiosity. "Seriously, Ro, you can't say something like that. I'm going to go crazy trying to figure it out."
When Tomorrow Starts Without me Page 3