“I’ll be fine.” I shrug then smile brightly, because I want him to leave. “Thanks for walking me.”
“I’m staying until the bus arrives.”
“You really don’t have to—”
“I’m staying,” he says firmly, his gaze dark. “It’s not safe here.”
“I wait for the bus at this stop pretty much every night.”
“You shouldn’t.”
I blow out an exasperating breath. He’s annoyingly determined, isn’t he? “I don’t have a choice.”
“You don’t have a friend to give you a lift home? Or to at least ride the bus with you?” he asks incredulously.
I shake my head, sending him a fierce look that says don’t you dare give me a bunch of sympathy because I have no friends.
He doesn’t. Instead he says, “You should take Uber. Or Lyft.”
I scoff. Literally scoff. “I can’t afford to take an Uber everywhere. I’m not rich like you.”
He tilts his head to the side, contemplating me. “How do you know I’m rich?”
Panic races through my brain and I stand up straight, contemplating him right back. “Look at how you’re dressed.” I wave a hand at him, at his expensive Nike sweatshirt, at the track pants, the very expensive Nikes on his feet. “You’re like a walking billboard for Nike. And that watch you’re wearing.” I point at his wrist and he quickly shakes his sleeve down so it covers the thick silver watch. “Probably worth one year of tuition.”
“Not quite,” he mutters, looking irritated.
I almost want to laugh. “Close enough.”
“You don’t know me.” His gaze locks with mine again, practically daring me to say something in return.
“You don’t know me either,” I say with a lift of my chin.
The bus chooses that moment to rumble up the street, stopping in front of us with a screech of brakes and the stench of exhaust. The doors whine as they swing open and a few people disembark. The driver—his name is Stan—looks at me, waves me on with a weary waggle of his fingers. “Don’t got all night,” he calls.
Without a word, I climb onto the bus and settle into my usual seat at the very back, staring straight ahead. I can feel Rhett’s gaze, hot and questioning as he studies me but I refuse to look in his direction. Not until the bus pulls away from the curb and we’re inching our way to the stoplight do I glance over my right shoulder to see him still standing there.
Watching me.
3
Nine years ago
* * *
“I want my mama.” I cross my skinny arms and tuck my chin into my neck, glaring at my father from beneath my brows. I do this when things aren’t going my way, say those mean words so I can watch him wince, witness his heart practically writhing in pain when he hears the word mama or mommy or mom.
I’m only twelve and I already know how to stick it to my father where it hurts the most.
His voice is reed-thin when he says, “You know she can’t be here with you, Jenny. I’ve told you this time and again.”
“I don’t care.” I cross my arms tighter, to the point that it hurts, and I relish in the pain. At least I’m feeling something. “Where did she go? Why doesn’t she like me?”
“She loves you, sweetheart. She just…doesn’t know how to show it.”
“I don’t believe you.” I know he’s lying. Why won’t he tell me the truth? “Why doesn’t she come see us? Come see me? Where is she?”
Daddy sighs. Shakes his head. Blinks at me like he’s trying to bring me into focus. “Gone. Gone, gone, gone.”
The thing is, he knows where she is. I know he does. I found a thin folder in his desk one Saturday afternoon a few weeks ago, when he was outside mowing the weeds in the front yard and I was supposed to be cleaning the bathroom. I got bored and started rummaging around in his desk, looking for clues. To what, I’m never sure.
I just know my life is a mystery and he’s the one holding onto all the information.
I flipped through that folder with muted fascination, reading all the newspaper and magazine articles he clipped out, all about a woman named Diane. I picked up one glossy page torn out of a magazine, clutching the jagged edges tight, making the paper wrinkle as I stared hard at her face.
Her face sorta looked like mine, especially when she smiled. And when I saw that, I knew without a doubt she was a part of me.
That I was a part of her.
“She’s not gone,” I tell him, feeling defiant. My voice is firm and my heart is beating so hard it feels like it wants to leap out of my chest.
“Yes, she is,” he says wearily, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He’s tired. He works hard but makes little. There’s never much to eat, I don’t have many clothes to wear and my shoes are too tight. I don’t remember the last time I got a haircut and I need a bra but I don’t have one, so I wear that old coat of mine all the time so the boys can’t see my boobs. They’re getting so big and sometimes they hurt, especially when I do P.E.
But how do I tell Daddy that? He doesn’t know how to get me a bra. He can barely take care of himself.
“No, she’s not.” My voice is shockingly firm, causing him to blink me into focus. “I need her. There’s stuff a girl needs from her mom that her dad can’t help with,” I tell him, lifting my chin. “We need to call her.”
“We can’t.”
“Write her then.”
“Can’t do that either, Jenny.”
“Then let’s go to her fancy house and tell her I need her help!” I scream the last word, relishing in the pained expression on my father’s face. I bet I shocked him when I said fancy house, because she lives in one. I know exactly who my mama is.
It’s that lady in the magazine. Diane.
She doesn’t have the same last name as us because she’s married someone else, even though I thought she was married to my daddy. She’s got some other rich guy who takes care of her. They have a family, kids and stuff—two that look my age, maybe a little older, and a younger one, a little girl who wears beautiful dresses and has pretty hair—and here I sit with just my daddy in a rotten old house with hardly any food in the fridge and nothing much to call ours.
I hate her for that. If she’d just come see me, if she would just help me, then maybe I could forgive her.
But I don’t think that’s ever going to happen.
“What do you need help with?” Daddy asks, his tone hopeful. Like maybe he can convince me he can take care of my problems after all. “I can help you.”
I shake my head furiously. “No, you can’t.”
“I can, Jenny. I’m here for you. I’ve always been here for you.” The look he sends me is pleading. “Let me help you.”
“I want my mama!” I sound like a baby, but I don’t care.
Anger makes his face tighten up. I made him mad, but for once, it doesn’t matter. “No. She’s dead to us,” he spits out.
He hasn’t said that to me in a long time. His words used to make me cry. I’d stomp my foot, scream no and run to my room, sobbing into my pillow. I never liked it when he said she was dead to us.
Now I realize it’s the opposite. We’re dead to her. She doesn’t care about us. She can’t. What mom would act this way? Why would a wife leave a man she’s supposed to love? I don’t get it.
“That doesn’t mean she’s really dead. I know who she is, Daddy.” I drop my arms and stand right in front of him. My father is tall, but he’s skinny. He’s not very intimidating, what with that sad look on his face all the time. People know my daddy has a broken heart, but he doesn’t do much to try and fix it. No one else does either. How can you fix a man who doesn’t want to be fixed? “Let’s go see her.”
“No.” He shakes his head, his eyes glassy. Like he might start to cry.
I’ve seen him cry a lot. You ever watch movies or TV shows where the men say they don’t cry? That they always stay strong? They’ve never met my daddy. He cries all the time. I used to cry with him.
I stopped doing that about a year ago. I’m tired of crying.
I want to do something.
“Why not?” I grab his hands. They feel paper-thin and they’re so cold. Like there’s no life in him. “Please, Daddy. I bet if she saw me, she’d want to help.”
“She left us a long time ago. She doesn’t want to help us.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want to help you, but she might want me.” That’s the only thing that gives me any hope, that my mom doesn’t realize how much I look like her, or how much I need her. Maybe she forgot about me. Maybe my daddy told her we didn’t want her, but that’s not true. I want her.
I want her in my life so bad.
He sighs again, more shaking of the head, more whispers of my name like I’m a hopeless, ridiculous little girl. I’m not. I’m growing up. Daddy might not see it, but it’s true.
“It’s not going to happen,” he says firmly. “So for the love of Christ, stop asking for her like a little baby! She doesn’t care about us, okay? She doesn’t care about me and she definitely doesn’t care about you.”
His tone is venomous. Final. He’s breathing hard when he finishes and I’m breathing hard too, tears streaming down my face, landing on my lips so I can taste the salt. We stare at each other, our chests heaving, our bodies trembling. Mine is at least, and I think his is too.
“I hate you,” I whisper just before I turn and run to my room.
“You don’t mean what you say,” he calls after me as I throw myself on my bed. “You don’t have anyone else, Jennifer Rae! And don’t you forget it!”
I push my face into my pillow, trying to drown out his words, but I know he speaks the truth.
I know he’s all I have.
I know my mama doesn’t love me.
I don’t know what I did to her to make her feel that way.
4
The only reason I’m at this college is because of him. How messed up is that? But it’s true. Rhett is why I’m at this university, and while I’m taking courses and actually doing well, all of that comes second to my true purpose.
To get close to Rhett Montgomery.
He could go to any college in the world, I’m sure, considering his family is so wealthy. But he chose to remain close to home and go to a state university near where he grew up, which is surprising. His mother went here, though, and I even read a newspaper article online that quoted him as saying he came to this university to be close to her, or some sentimental bullshit like that.
Any normal girl would say, “Aw, how sweet,”, but I don’t get it.
What I do get is that I’m done with being scared. Hiding in the shadows for the first eight weeks of the fall semester is pretty damn stupid—and cowardly. I’ve wasted half the semester alone just following him around like a stalker. But it took that long to even work up the courage to say something to him. Not that I was the one who approached him first. Of course, he had to notice me versus the other way around. The girl who pretended not to care about him, that’s the one he wanted to talk to.
Not surprising though. I discovered pretty early that boys love a challenge. I lost my virginity when I was fifteen to my first serious boyfriend, a loudmouth guy two years older than me who could burp the alphabet after draining almost half a keg at the regular Friday night parties we’d all go to after the football games. All the girls laughed and thought he was so talented and funny while I merely rolled my eyes and told my one friend—Lyssa, who I miss terribly—that I thought he should be embarrassed by his so-called skills.
Turned out he overheard my rude comment, and then he chased after me for weeks. I kept telling him no. Finally, I relented, broken down by his constant texting and walking with me in between classes. At one of those infamous Friday night parties, he got me drunk, took me up to his parents’ bedroom—they were away for the weekend, so it was his turn to hold the party—where he proceeded to kiss me all over my body and then take my virginity with a couple of swift pumps of his hips.
Once he got inside, it was all over in less than five minutes. I was left with a searing pain between my legs, a wet spot beneath the mattress, and the dawning realization that I’d sacrificed my virginity to the boy who was popular for burping the alphabet.
Talk about lame.
But once it was over, it was over, and I could freely give away my body to any boy I might be interested in and not feel shame or guilt over it. It’s weird, but it was like once the bridge had been crossed, I never looked back. Any attention is good, right?
Better than none at all.
I’m not ashamed of the list of boys I’ve had sex with, but I’m not necessarily proud of that list either. Mainly because I never loved one of them. I can’t even say that I cared for any of them. Not in a deep and meaningful way.
Does that make me callous? Probably. But sex is just sex. Love is for those who want to end up damaged for the rest of their lives. Look at my father, nursing his broken heart for years while the woman who ruined him for anyone else continues to live her life like he doesn’t even matter.
Love is for idiots who want to hurt. Love is for suckers who think they need it in order to survive.
Love doesn’t keep you alive. It bleeds you dry.
I can pretend to fall in love with Rhett, though. That won’t be difficult. I’ve gotten good at pretending over the years. And once I’ve convinced him that I really care, he’ll take me right where I want to go.
This is why I’m hanging around the gross diner just off campus, the one I know he likes to frequent with his friends on a Saturday afternoon. The place smells greasy and I want to go home so I can take a shower, but instead I’m drinking a bitter cup of coffee and messing around on my laptop, scrolling Pinterest. Really, I should be studying, or writing the essay that’s due in a few days. But I’m too anxious, too keyed up thinking about seeing Rhett and what I might say to him to concentrate on anything meaningful.
I’m not disappointed when I finally spot him either. He enters the diner within twenty minutes of my arrival, surrounded by his frat brothers. My stupid heart trips over itself at seeing his dark brown hair wind-tousled and his cheeks pink with health, wearing a black sweater and jeans. He looks like he walked straight out of a goddamn Ralph Lauren shoot, the all-American rich boy who can do no wrong. I ignore the tingles of electricity I experience when our eyes lock, ignore my fluttering, nervous stomach when he slowly makes his way toward my booth, that giant smile on his face unabashed in his pleasure in finding me.
“Why do we keep running into each other?” he asks, his voice warm, his eyes sparkling as he takes me in, as if I’m the best thing he’s seen in a long time.
“Small town, I guess.” I shrug with so much fake nonchalance I pray he doesn’t realize what a phony I am. But he doesn’t. He’s too enthralled with me, which is unbelievable. I tried my best to look like the girls he takes photos with on social media, and I did it all on a budget too, while those girls probably spent way too much money on their hair, clothes, jewelry and whatever else they own.
Me? I sorta already looked like them. I’m a dark blonde, and if I had more money, I’d pay for highlights, but that’s not going to happen. Instead, I bought a cheap curling iron at Walgreens and practiced and practiced until I got the waves just right. He seems to like girls with wavy hair. Subtle makeup. Sun-kissed good looks and big, toothy smiles. Luckily enough, my teeth are fairly straight—thanks, Dad—and I never had braces. I’m blue-eyed and pink-cheeked thanks to my mother. I’m pretty enough, and Rhett seems to like them pretty.
What a superficial asshole.
“I’ve never seen you here before,” he says, that smile still curling his lush mouth. His friends are calling his name but he’s ignoring them, completely focused on me.
“I’m usually here in the morning.” This is a lie. Though my shift usually starts Saturday afternoon so normally I wouldn’t be here no matter what.
“Well, lucky me that you’re here right now,” he says flirtatiously, hi
s deep voice making my skin tingle. His smile grows and I find myself smiling in return. I almost stop, almost wear the scowl that wants to appear whenever he’s around.
I need to smile, though, so I let go, offering him a quick one before I press my lips together, like I have to contain my excitement at his proximity.
We remain quiet for a moment, just staring at each other, and I’m not sure how this is happening but I go along with it. His friends are still calling his name, the server having already seated them at a nearby booth. They don’t want him talking to me. They want to bask in his attention for a few hours more.
I’m starting to get the sense that everyone wants to bask in Rhett Montgomery’s attention.
Maybe even me.
“Your friends are calling you,” I finally say.
He glances over his shoulder, then returns his attention to me. “They can wait.”
I’m surprised he’s putting talking to me above wanting to spend time with his friends. “Well, my homework can’t.” I gesture to the open textbook by my laptop. “Nice to see you again.”
“Nice to see you again? That’s all I get?” He slides into the booth seat across from mine, leaning across the table like he wants to get closer to me. “I bet you don’t even remember my name.”
“I bet you don’t remember mine either,” I toss back at him, tacking on an annoying giggle after I say it.
He makes a face, like he knows I’m fake as hell. “Jensen.”
“Rhett.”
His smile is back, wider than ever. “You should come sit with us.”
“No, thank you.” My voice is prim, like a snotty rich girl’s would be. Wouldn’t they find it hilarious to know that I spent my teenage years living in a mobile-home-slash-trailer, in the decrepit old fifth-wheel my dad called our new home right before I started eighth grade.
One brow lifts. “My friends would love to meet you.”
“I doubt that.”
“It’s true.” He glances over his shoulder again, and they call out to him, a couple of choice words ringing in the air. The server glares, stomping over to their table to give them a lecture I suppose, and Rhett whirls around so he’s facing me once more, his expression full of amusement. “Or maybe not.”
Love in the Dark Page 78