by C. C. Hunter
I’m trying to grasp what she said when she continues, “We’d both had a few drinks, and he was kind of upset because you had broken up with him. It happened, and when we woke up the next morning—”
“Together?” My mouth falls open.
Her eyes round. “It wasn’t supposed to happen. Just like the first time, he was all upset. Carter and I had met, but we hadn’t really gone out yet.”
Oh, shit!
Her shoulders drop. “Jacob came over, and he was having problems with Jamie, and one thing led to another, and…” She closes her eyes. “It was wrong, yet…”
“You like him,” I say.
She brushes a few tears off her cheeks. “I’ve liked Jacob since I was in fifth grade. He never seemed to look at me like…a girl. After he broke up with Jamie this last time, I thought…maybe things would be different. But he met you.” She exhales. “Then Carter woke up, and Jacob will hardly talk to me now, and I know it’s because he feels guilty. And I thought maybe. I mean, if you like Carter—”
“Hayden,” I say.
“If you like Hayden, then all of this could work out and no one would have to feel guilty. I could pull away from Hayden, and Jacob wouldn’t feel upset anymore. We might even…” She blinks and stares at me as if she’s trying to understand what I’m feeling and thinking. Good luck with that, because I’m not even sure. I’m mad at Hayden. I’m mad for Hayden. I wish my fingernails weren’t dirty. I want the damn rose.
She gives me a piercing look. “You’re angry at me. Wow, you still like Jacob.”
“No. I… Look, you need to talk to Hayden.”
She frowns. “I was thinking of breaking up with him, but…”
I kind of grasp an inkling of what she wants. “You want me to be the reason you break up with him?”
“No. Well… Yes. Wouldn’t it be better for him if he thought that was the reason? I mean, I think he’s into you, too. Since you came up to the hospital, he won’t even hold my hand. He doesn’t return my calls.”
I shouldn’t be happy about that, but I am.
“If I said I’d seen you two hug and I knew you had feelings for him, it’d be a good reason for me to call things off.”
A scratchy, slightly unsophisticated noise escapes my throat. “No, I refuse to be a pawn in this. You need to pull your big girl panties up and be honest.”
She shakes her head. “I can’t tell him about Jacob. And you can’t, either! It would tear their friendship apart. That wouldn’t be right.”
I’m not sure if she’s wrong about that, but… “Then don’t tell him about Jacob, but find another break-up reason, because you aren’t using me.”
Brandy leaves. As I’m sitting there, I get another text. I look down. It’s not from Hayden this time.
Dad: Got a meeting. Don’t wait up.
Emotion bubbles up inside me, and I let out the sound of a caged hyena. I stare at my phone as if it’s the culprit instead of my father. Then I start texting back.
Me: Why do you keep lying?
Turning off my phone, I storm up the stairs to have the pity party I’d planned and postponed.
But when I walk into the room, I see the painting, the one I was sure symbolized my mom’s love for me. Now, knowing she still hasn’t called, I feel as if it’s mocking me. I hate that I have her DNA in me. I hate that I care. Hate that it hurts. Hate that there’s still a part of me needing her to love me.
Suddenly, I’m feeling less pathetic and more pissed-off. At Mom for abandoning me. At Dad for drinking. At Hayden for spending time with Brandy while comatose. At Jacob and Brandy for having sex and being disloyal to Hayden. And let’s not forget I’m pissed at the creep out there who thinks it’s okay to kill someone.
I walk over to the painting, heart throbbing, fury thriving, feeling forsaken. I punch the canvas. It falls. Then the easel itself hits the floor. Good, because it belonged to Mom.
I snatch up the painting, grab the scissors from my desk drawer, and I stab it. Like a psycho in a bad horror movie, I stab it over and over again. Only when it’s shredded do I stop. Then I go to my bed, fall back, and sob.
I think I fell asleep around seven, but something wakes me up, and I roll over and listen. Dad coming home? Glancing at the clock, I see it’s 2 a.m.
I bounce up and go to the window. There’s a car out in front of our house, lights on, but it’s not Dad’s car. I continue to stare down and finally realize it’s a yellow cab.
Dad gets out of the car and staggers up the sidewalk. He’s drunk. But I guess I should be glad he didn’t drive.
I go back to bed and close my eyes, but my mind rejects the idea of sleep. I hear the door opening, slamming, and heavy, uneven footsteps downstairs. It hurts.
Rolling over, I see my phone on the bedside table. I pick it up and turn it back on, only to see I have ten new texts, eight missed calls, and five unheard voicemails.
Eight of the texts are from Hayden. Two from Kelsey. Missed calls are from Hayden, Kelsey, and…another number I don’t recognize. I swipe over to the voicemails. Three are from Hayden, one from Kelsey and…one…the anonymous number.
My breath hitches. Mom. I somehow instinctively know it.
I sit up. With one swipe I could hear my mom’s voice. I don’t swipe. Considering I was so angry the earlier call wasn’t from her; it baffles me that I hesitate.
Tears fill my eyes. I blink them away, then I put my finger on the screen and shift it to the right. Insides shaking, I press the phone to my ear.
“Hi… Riley, this is your mom.” Air catches in my throat, and I make a sad sound. She’s alive. I’ve known it, but now I feel it. She continues, “God, this is so hard. I’ve been trying to do this for days. I…know you have questions, and I want to see you more than anything. Can we meet? I…love you. I never stopped loving you. Call me back. Please.”
The recording cuts off. The hurt keeps flowing. I turn my phone back off.
I thought I’d wake up in a better mood. Didn’t happen. I lay there, Pumpkin at my side, watching the fan go round and round.
Somehow, I manage to get ready for school, ignoring the bed that begs me to crawl back in. Two more days until the weekend, I tell myself. As I brush my hair, I listen to see if Dad’s up. There’s not a peep of noise. Once downstairs, I move to his door and listen. Nothing. I almost knock, wake him up so he won’t be late for work, but I decide he’s gotta learn the hard way.
I’m almost to Kelsey’s when I realize the hard way might land him back in the unemployment line. Freaking great!
I still don’t turn around.
When I pick up Kelsey, she’s giving me a strange look. My guess is that Hayden has been calling her. Three seconds after she’s seated in my car, I know I’m right. “You want to talk about it? Or are you cutting yourself off like you did your phone?”
Cutting myself off. Funny how accurate that sounds. “Nothing to say.”
“Okay.”
I back out of her driveway. My gut says her “okay” isn’t the last word. She’s kind of pushy like that.
I’m still on her street when she says, “Hayden called me eight times yesterday. And twice today.”
“Then tell him to stop,” I say.
“Don’t you think you should hear him out?”
“Not now.” I blink away the sting in my eyes. “I can’t deal with this and deal with my dad and deal with my mom and deal with a killer.” I slam on my brakes when I see I’m about to run a red light.
“Your mom?” Kelsey asks.
I swallow a frog-sized lump of hurt. “She called.”
“You spoke with her?”
“No. She left a message.”
“And?”
“She wants to see me.” My chest hurts.
“And?”
“And what?” I say a little bit too loud, then add, “And Dad didn’t even wake up this morning. And he didn’t get home until after two. And he took a taxi home. And I went psycho and ripped my painting to
shreds. And my mom abandoned me at four years old, and she has the nerve to say she loves me! And Hayden was seeing Brandy when he was seeing me during his coma. He’s just like dad, he wasn’t honest!”
“He swears it’s not how you think—”
I turn and stare daggers at her.
She lets out a deep gulp of air. “Okay, I get it. That’s between you two.”
Looking away from her, I focus on my hands white-knuckling the steering wheel. She doesn’t say anything else. I don’t say anything. All I do is listen to the sound of my motor.
“Riley?” she finally says in almost a whisper.
“I don’t want to hear it!” I say.
“I’m not… The light’s green. And there are six cars behind you.”
I look up, release my foot off the brake, and drive to school.
Kelsey hugs me before we get out of the car. I mutter, “I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you. In fact, you’re the one person I’m not mad at. I just need some time to deal with all this. I’m overwhelmed.”
“I know,” she says. “You want to skip school? We could go out for pancakes.”
“No. I’ve already missed two days this week.”
She nods. “Not to piss you off, but you do need to know one thing. A good thing. Hayden said Barbara deleted her profile and all pictures from the website. He thinks she believed you guys.”
I let myself have one second of relief. Then I get out and head to the front entrance.
At least I don’t have auto tech today, so I don’t have to face Jacob or his band of buddies, but right before I walk into my first-period class I recall why I need to see him. I do an about-face and hurry down the hall to his locker.
He’s there, surrounded by a group of popular kids who probably don’t know my name. But I don’t care. I shoulder my way through the group. He’s giving everyone an update on Dex. When he sees me, he shuts his locker and stops talking. I deepen my frown and glare up at him. “Hayden will need a ride to his physical therapy this afternoon. And you’re doing it.”
I expect him to say something arrogant, something ugly, to reaffirm my pissy attitude. Instead he just nods and says, “Okay.”
I swing around. When I hear him call my name, I hotfoot back to my class.
When the last bell on Friday afternoon rings, I’m the first one out of class. Kelsey drove her mom’s car to school this morning because she had to leave early to take her mom to the doctor, so I grab a few books from my locker and head out. I get to my car and see someone standing there looking into my windows.
As I get closer, he straightens, and I recognize him. Coach Ericson.
“Hey,” he says and smiles too wide. “Just admiring your car.”
“Yeah,” I say, remembering him asking me where I live the other day at the donut shop.
“How does it drive?”
“Good. Uh, I gotta go.” I know I’m being rude, but I don’t really give a damn.
I’m not halfway home when the car goes ice-cold.
“Are you going to meet her? Tell her I’m dead because of her?” Shane’s voice, pure hate, spills from the back seat, and I feel it roll over me.
I look in my rearview mirror. “No. I’m going home.”
“She called you. I know because I heard her.”
“Yes, she did. But…I’m not ready to see her.”
“You promised!”
“And I’ll keep that promise. Just not now.”
Her bitterness seeps into my pores.
“Don’t you get it?” My voice raises. “She abandoned me when I was four. It’s going to be hard to see her. And my dad lied to me. Don’t push me!” Air locks in my rib cage. I know it’s her emotions driving me to yell, and I try to push it back down. Pulling in air, I continue to stare at her in my rearview mirror. “Let me do this in my own time. Please.”
Her lips thin. Her pupils become snakelike.
She pushes back against the seat. In that tiny rectangular reflection, I can see the knife sticking out of her chest. Blood oozes down the front of her dress. The delicate lace neckline soaks up the sticky red source of life.
She leans forward. “She’s a terrible person. She deserves to hurt! If she hadn’t broken Samuel and me up, I would never have tried to sell the dress, and I’d be alive. It’s her fault. All of it.”
I stop short at a red light, put it in park, and twist around to face her. “Did you have a mom? Can you imagine how you’d feel if she abandoned you at four? Look, I promise I’ll talk to her later about you and Samuel. But give me time.” I stare right at her snake eyes, right at her fury, and attempt to tamp down mine.
She hesitates, blinks, her pupils round, and I swear I spot a shadow of understanding in her silver eyes.
“Promise?” She places a hand on the back of my seat. “You’ll still call her out for what she did to me? Even if you decide to forgive her?”
“I promise.” But I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive my mom.
Shane sits there as if thinking. “I saw him check his messages the other night. He got angry. I got the feeling it was about the girl he was supposed to meet. It sounded like she cancelled their meeting. Did you do that?”
“Hayden did,” I say, and just saying his name has me putting up emotional roadblocks to stop the boy hurt. I stop by the grocery store and pick up snacks and multiple quarts of ice cream.
The next twenty-four hours, my phone stays off, and so do I. Kelsey dropped by unannounced on Friday night, and we chatted for a while, but she finally got the message that I wasn’t in the mood for company and left.
I don’t brush my teeth. I don’t shower or comb my hair. I stay up most of the night binging on a Netflix series, knocking down my to-be-read list, eating junk food, and telling myself I shouldn’t feel guilty about shutting everyone out. And I don’t, but I do feel sick.
Of course, that could be a side effect from eating four quarts of ice cream and a ten-count box of marshmallow treats.
Saturday night at nine-thirty, I’m in bed, giving Pumpkin a chin rub, when I hear a phone ring. Not my cell—it’s still off—but the home phone.
I shut my eyes, cover my ears, and swear I’m not going to answer it. But a very real, painful thought hits. Dad?
I jump up, tear down the stairs, and snatch up the phone, already feeling panic. “Hello,” I say, unable to get air to my lungs.
“Riley?”
It’s a female voice, and I flinch, thinking it’s Mom.
“Who is this?”
“It’s Ms. Duarte. From the funeral home.”
Another wave of fear washes over me. I drop to the floor, and I know this isn’t good. Tears fill my eyes as I wait to hear it. Wait for one of my biggest fears to come true.
I hear her breathing, then she says, “There’s been an accident.”
I drive to the funeral home as fast as I can, park, and bolt out of my Mustang. The door’s locked. I bang on it. In only takes a few seconds for Ms. Duarte to open it. She has blood down the front of her shirt.
“I’m sorry,” she blurts out and heads to the back. I follow her. “I can’t get him to go to the hospital. And the gash is bad. I can’t get it to stop bleeding.”
I follow her to Dad’s office. He’s sitting at his desk. Blood oozes down his face. His eyes are as red as his blood, and there’s a bottle of vodka on his desk.
“No.” He looks at Ms. Duarte. “Why the hell did you call her?”
“Because you won’t listen to me! You need stiches.”
“It’s not that bad. But damn, I just fell and hit my head.”
“It is that bad, Frank!” she says. “You can be mad at me. But I care about you, and I’m not going to let you do this to yourself anymore. You need to go to the ER.”
Her tone has me thinking that these two might be more than just boss and employee. Not that it matters. I move in. “Come on,” I say to Dad. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”
He blinks. “You shouldn’t have to deal with
this.”
“You’re right. I shouldn’t. But we’re going. So get your ass up and let’s go.” Anger is pumping through my veins and coloring my voice.
“I’m fine. I don’t—”
“Get up!” I order him.
His shoulders drop. “Make me some coffee first,” he says. “I don’t want to go…like this.”
“I’ll make it.” Ms. Duarte walks out of the room.
I follow her, not because I have something to say to her, but because I don’t want to stay there and see my dad bleeding and drunk.
I stand in the small kitchen and watch her start the coffee. She looks back. “I can usually reason with him. But these last few days…” She inhales. “He’s hurting so bad, Riley.”
“He told you?” I ask.
She nods.
“Well, I’m hurting, too.”
“I know. And what he did was wrong. But losing you would kill him.”
“Drinking will kill him.” I wipe tears off my cheeks that I didn’t know I’d cried. “But he won’t stop.”
“He can.”
The coffee maker gurgles, and the robust smell that reminds me of morning fills the air. “How long have you two been dating?”
She looks down, then up. “Since not long after he started here. I wanted to tell you, but…”
“I wouldn’t have disapproved.”
“I didn’t think so, but he wanted to wait until things got better between you two.” She reaches for a cup from the cabinet. “Do you drink coffee?”
“Not now,” I say.
She sets two cups down. “Have you seen your mom yet?”
I’m not sure I like answering to her, but then, I don’t see a reason not to. “Not yet.”
“He’s certain she’s going to turn you against him. I wish you and your father would talk.”
“I’ve been home every night, and he hasn’t spoken to me. If he wanted to talk, I was there.”
“He said you were so angry at him.”
“I have a right to be angry!” I fight to keep my voice from shaking, but it trembles anyway.
She comes at me as if to hug me, and I step back.