by T. L. Martin
I spin around, and each step toward the stairs is like trudging through mud. My dad’s right on cue to be getting home. I don’t know why my palms sweat at the thought when it’s not like he’s going to notice I’m here. But I make his coffee anyway. Because there’s a chance. A chance he’ll look my way, a chance he’ll ask about my grades or football. I’m living on fucking coffee and chances.
I leave his steaming mug by his briefcase on the counter and carry mine to the island, where I slip my backpack off my shoulder. After heading to the fridge, I fill up a tall glass of orange juice. Sometimes, Eva doesn’t drink it. But sometimes, she does. Heat flares through me as I remember the way she chugged it last week while I watched. The deliberate swipe of her tongue across her lips, the slow, stubborn smile.
Forcing the distracting image away, I remove my laptop from my backpack and log onto my online college courses. I knock out as much as I can before school. Guess Eva can have her fucking secrets, because I have mine too. Kind of pathetic I don’t even have to try to hide them. My parents are more likely to move to a nudist colony and grow their own vegetables than to ever ask what I’m working on. Besides, I don’t think I want them knowing I want to get my undergrad and then pass the bar exam anyway. My mom would get excited and pressure me even more to give up on becoming a cop, and worse, my dad would think I’m just doing it to try to prove something to him.
Heels click-clack down the staircase. The same moment my mom enters the kitchen, I hear the shower turn off upstairs.
Eva.
I keep my eyes on my work, but my knee starts to bounce. My mom’s not usually out of her room this early. With any luck, she’ll be gone by the time Eva gets down here. Eva’s so careful in front of my parents. Their presence suffocates the fire from her eyes. As much as I hate seeing her change for them, I get it too. She’s being smart. One ruffled feather under this roof, and she could be sent away.
I take a sip of my black coffee and let it settle with the bitterness in my stomach as my mom makes her way to her medicine cabinet.
“My head is on fire this morning,” she groans while rifling through her pill bottles. “How are you feeling?”
I frown and stare at the cupboard door concealing half of her body. “Um, fine.”
“Oh, good. At least you’re better off than me. Are you still getting ready?”
“Uh . . .”
“You’re kidding. You’re there now? But it’s still early.”
It’s not until my mom closes the cupboard that I see the earpiece in her ear. I roll my eyes, feeling like a fucking idiot.
Putting my laptop in my backpack, I pull some schoolwork out and set it on the island bar, just to have something to do until Eva arrives.
“What on earth?” My mom shuts the fridge, her mouth open in shock as she approaches me. Her eyes skim my face. “Can I call you back, Cynthia? Yes, yes, I know. I’m leaving now. Just need some coffee.”
She hangs up and stares at me.
I know she’s inspecting the bruise, but I can’t remember the last time my mom looked at me like this. I shift in my seat and clear my throat. Her brown eyes are intense as they focus on me. Her hand touches my cheek, soft, gentle, and my eyes harden despite the weird burning sensation building in my throat.
“Oh, Easton . . .” Her quiet voice eases something deep in my chest I didn’t realize needed relief. Her eyes soften, her thumb brushing my jaw. But then she clears her throat, the softness fades, and the next words out of her mouth whip away that unfamiliar feeling in my chest just as fast as it came. “Don’t tell me Eva had something to do with this.”
I grit my jaw.
“I swear, if that girl is getting you into some kind of trouble, or if I find out you’ve broken your promise in any way—”
“Jesus, Mom,” I mutter, jerking away from her touch.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It had nothing to do with Eva.”
“Then, what happened? Were you at a party? Were you drinking again? Do we need to make an appointment with Dr. Baker?”
Fuck my life. She says it like I was an alcoholic—all while standing six feet from her precious pills and brandy.
“I don’t need to see a therapist.”
“Well, what are people going to think when they see my son with a black eye? You look like another Rutherford picture just waiting to go viral.”
Pretty sure my mom’s never going to let that one go.
“Do you think this will make me and your father look good?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling a damn headache coming on.
Eva
“I can’t believe someone would try to mug you. And in this neighborhood?”
I walk into the kitchen in time to see Easton stiffen as his mom touches his chin. She angles his head, scanning the bruise on the side of his face.
Mug him?
I’m surprised his mom even looked at him long enough to notice the bruise, let alone ask about it. He could’ve easily told her the truth, ratting me out and ensuring I wouldn’t be able to get away with sneaking to The Pitts anymore—or, worse, getting me kicked out completely. I slide my gaze back to him when I open the fridge. His face is emotionless as she tilts it this way and that.
My stomach tightens, the image of him standing outside my door so fresh.
I can’t help but stare at him.
“Well, it looks horrendous. Does it hurt?”
He looks at her, suspicion darkening his irises. “I’m fine.”
Bridget almost sounds concerned. I try to ignore the awkward exchange and grab the orange juice.
She lowers her voice. “Then you won’t mind if we keep this between us?”
There it is.
Pouring a glass, I roll my eyes.
“You know how quickly rumors spread. The last thing we need is gossip circulating—”
“I know the drill.” He shrugs her hand away, his jaw clenching.
Bridget nods, then digs through the purse hanging off her shoulder. “I have foundation that will work wonders to cover it up.”
“I’ll pass.” He scoots his chair back and stands, stuffing his notebooks into his backpack. “Besides, didn’t you say you have to go?”
She glances at the clock above the fridge. “Well, yes.”
Easton picks up his backpack and takes a step to leave, but her voice sharpens.
“However, you can’t head out like that. Just look at that face—I’ll get a dozen calls before lunch. Would you really do that to me? At least let Eva cover it up before you go.”
I pause with the glass of juice halfway to my lips.
For the first time since I entered the kitchen, Easton swings his gaze to me. His expression is the same blank slate he gave his mom, but he isn’t moving to leave anymore either.
“Me?” I repeat stupidly.
“Is there another Eva here?” Bridget huffs, sets her foundation on the island, and rubs her temple while muttering, “I ask her to do one simple thing . . .”
She strolls across the kitchen and stops in front of the coffee pot, then squints at the empty spot beside it like she doesn’t know what she’s looking at. “Eva. Where is my coffee?”
“Oh, sorry, I’ll make it now.”
“Can this morning get any worse?” she moans.
I shift. “I didn’t know you had such an early—”
She holds up a hand, halting my words. “Really, Eva, this many voices in the morning are completely unnecessary.”
Yeah, well, so is brandy.
“I’ll just make it myself.” She fumbles with the coffee pot, obviously having no idea how to work it. “Easton, have you spoken to your brother about the anniversary party?”
There aren’t many things that make me nervous, but family events with the Rutherfords are one of them. I have a feeling Easton’s brother, Isaac, would rather cozy up with a family of cobras than attend Bridget and Vincent’s anniversary party. Isaac was adopted before Easton was
born, when the Rutherfords thought they couldn’t conceive naturally. In the three years I’ve lived in this house, I’ve seen Isaac exactly three times; the annual Rutherford Christmas party is a do-or-die family affair.
Irritation slips through Easton’s voice. “Not yet.”
Moving to the island, I set my drink down and pick up the foundation. I look up at Easton, who hasn’t budged from where he’s standing a few feet away.
“For heaven’s sake, Easton, it’s next month. What could possibly be taking up so much of your time that you can’t spare a simple phone call?”
Finally, Easton’s expression shifts, going from blank to agitated. He drags his bottom lip between his teeth, dropping his backpack and making his way toward me. “Could ask you the same thing. Last time I checked, Yale parents were allowed to call their kids.”
“He’s been avoiding my calls . . . and emails.” Her phone beeps, and she checks it before letting out an exaggerated sigh. “Of course, Patricia cancelled. Some people are so careless. Where are manners anymore?”
Easton sits on a stool, and we’re suddenly one-on-one. His hard eyes are inches from mine, and they’re honed in on me.
It’s unexpected, seeing him look right at me while his mom is in the same room. I guess he doesn’t have much of a choice while I stand right in front of him, but still, the directness takes me by surprise. Just like earlier this morning.
I feign boredom as I shake the foundation bottle.
“I suppose,” Bridget continues, pushing the wrong button on the coffee pot, “avoiding is the wrong word. I’m sure he’s just busy. Have you heard? Isaac is practically running the entire school paper on his own now. It’s about time someone had the sense to get rid of that Stephenson character.”
Popping the lid to the foundation bottle, I watch as Easton’s expression reverts back to the blank slate he wears so well. We both know where this conversation is going.
“Not to mention, that little charity project he started last spring is making big waves. Ruby’s neighbor has a niece who attends Harvard, and she said even students over there have been discussing it.” She’s pushing all the buttons now, figuratively and literally.
Don’t do it, I inwardly beg her. For once, just let it go.
“Now, there’s a boy who is going places in his life and truly is busy.”
As far as his mother can tell, Easton is unfazed by her dig.
I know better.
Steaming-hot water pours from the single-cup side of the pot. “Dammit!” Bridget hisses as it splatters her legs. “Well, this thing is broken.”
Easton shakes his head when she pours straight brandy into her coffee cup and looks at him over the rim.
“Tell me. Are you still dabbling with that police nonsense?”
Something flashes in his eyes, but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared. “Guess it depends on how you define dabbling.”
The fact Easton wants to be a cop always stirs a flutter in my stomach. Not because I respect cops, but because he does. He wants to be kind and helpful and honest. Everything his parents are not.
“Well. You know my thoughts.” She rolls her eyes as I squeeze a small amount of foundation onto my fingers.
He doesn’t respond.
She places a hand on her hip. “You also know how hard your father worked to dig himself out of the blue-collar lifestyle. To create a better life for us, for you. Truly, Easton. All this police talk is a slap in the face to him.”
His eyes shut briefly, and I know she’s getting to him. His reply is quiet but rough. Sandpaper to her sugar. “So don’t talk about it.”
Her voice turns venomous. “Whatever your choice, in the end, you will attend university. You will earn a respectable degree. At least Isaac understands the importance of that. Of becoming something. He will make a wonderful senior partner for the firm one day.”
My eyes slide to the closed backpack at Easton’s feet. The backpack I know holds his laptop—the same laptop he uses for online college courses whenever he thinks no one is paying attention.
Bridget pushes a button on the phone piece in her ear. “Cynthia? I know, I know.” She pauses, frowning. “No, don’t leave. I’m coming—” She rolls her eyes. “Your child is twenty-four years old. If he can’t handle a breakup at this age, he never will. Okay, fine. Yes, I’ll see you for brunch. Bye, sweetie.” Bridget hangs up, sashaying across the kitchen to pull open the curtains, then she winces, muttering, “God, does it have to be so bright?” and closes them again. “Maria . . . Maria!”
Her heels fade into the living room.
I lean close to Easton. Closer than I need to. If there’s one strength I know how to use, it’s my ability to distract. My lips part as I find the bruise on his left cheek, and I let a slow exhale fan across his skin. I watch his Adam’s apple move up and down, once, twice. My thumb gently connects with his cheek, and his gaze drops to my lips.
My chest hums with satisfaction.
Until his father enters the kitchen.
Easton may get his dark looks from his mother, but he and his father share two things no one could ever overlook: the quiet sharpness in their eyes—always watching, observing—and an effortless magnetic air that attracts attention wherever they go.
Despite that, no one could ever say they’re similar.
“Darling!” Bridget shrieks, hurrying back toward us. She flashes an overly wide smile to compensate for her addiction to Botox. “Don’t you look handsome?”
Vincent grunts and heads straight for the coffee Easton already prepared. He takes a sip, twists his lips in distaste, and dumps the contents into the sink.
Easton’s jaw ticks, but he’s quick to wipe the look clean and return to watching me pretend to work on his face. I’m already done, but there’s no way I’m leaving him to the wolves.
“Morning, Eva,” Vincent sighs tiredly as he starts a fresh pot of coffee. “Are you doing all right?”
“Um . . .” I glance from Easton to Vincent’s suit-clad form, then back again. I hate when Vincent does this, pretends to care about me when Easton’s in the room. But I also know how delicate my situation under this roof is. “Yeah. Thank you.”
“Oh, honey. The coffee pot’s broken. Nearly gave me third-degree burns a moment ago.”
The bubbling sound of brewing starts, and Vincent eyes his wife dryly.
Bridget frowns. “Well, isn’t that funny?”
“Hilarious,” Vincent mutters.
Bridget moves toward me and wraps an arm around my waist. “I was just telling Eva how beautiful she looks today. Wasn’t I, Eva, honey?”
“You, what?” I look at Bridget, who is uncomfortably close.
Her eyes feign concern, and she says to me, “Maybe we need to get your hearing checked. I’ve had to repeat myself multiple times this morning.”
“No, you haven’t—”
“Darling.” She turns, taking a few steps toward Vincent, and relief floods me at the small stretch of distance between us again. “We were just talking about how well Isaac is doing at Yale. Honestly, I shouldn’t be so surprised every time he exceeds my expectations.”
There should be a contest called ‘How many shit-sandwiches can one set of parents shove down their son’s throat before school?’ I try to keep the irritation from my expression, returning my focus to distracting Easton, but Bridget does not let up.
“I always said he would do big things. I just wish I could say the same for both our sons.”
I know I’m losing Easton when a muscle in his neck spasms. I pretend to blend the foundation, moving my fingers down his jaw in a deliberate caress and making sure he sees only me. But I can only do so much.
Bridget leans toward her husband and attempts to rub his shoulders. He shakes her hands off, grabs his coffee and briefcase, then exits the kitchen without a word. Bridget clears her throat. She runs her fingers across her pearl necklace, and I notice they tremble slightly. She stares after Vincent’s disappearing form for
several seconds before shifting her focus back to Easton, and this time, she broaches the one subject that’s a foolproof way to get a reaction out of him.
“I spoke to Addison Monclay’s mother the other day.” Her movements are controlled as she walks leisurely across the wooden floors, finding another window with drawn curtains to open, wince at, and shut. “She said Addison and Charles broke up. Cheating, or something. Awful, I know, but anyway, I emailed your brother a recent picture, just a little something her mother sent me.”
Easton’s shoulders tense. It doesn’t matter that Isaac came out to his parents years ago; Bridget will pretend her perfect son is straight until the day she dies.
“Have you seen the woman’s cheekbones? The pair of them would make some beautiful babies.”
I can feel the moment Easton starts to crack. His body heat intensifies, warming my skin.
“Hmm. I should invite her to the party. Perhaps I will try calling Isaac again after all.”
Easton’s head jerks toward his mother. I catch his cheek with my palm, slowly angling his head back toward me, as Bridget moves to yet another window and drones on about Addison.
His eyes are liquid amber when they focus on me.
“It’s not worth it,” I say quietly, so only he can hear.
He arches a brow, challenging me to give him one good reason.
I stare at Easton’s cheek, running my thumb down the side of his face. As far as he can tell, I’m just checking for remaining signs of the bruise, but the truth is, my heart thrums against my rib cage as though being pulled toward him by a magnetic force. It’s not a new feeling, and I never know if the fact should comfort or scare me.
“Trust me,” I whisper. “You’re only gonna say something you’ll regret.”
To my surprise, Easton responds. His voice is calm, but something dark seeps from the edges. “Maybe she deserves it.”
“Maybe you don’t.”
Surprise flickers across his features, and his eyes flit between mine. His throat works up and down. When he finally speaks, the gravelly words that leave his lips take me by surprise. “You forgot to steal my drink.”