Blacklist

by Geneva Lee

  I like it a little too much, so I egg her on. “A little.”

  “You don’t know me at all.” The ferocity in her tone says she means it.

  “No, I don’t,” I admit, deciding that given the circumstances I should play nice. “I’m Sterling.”

  She doesn’t respond.

  “Sterling Ford,” I add.

  No response.

  So now we’re back to not speaking to each other. I’m being punished. At least I’ve taken her mind off where we’re heading, even if I’ve replaced worry with fury. My eyes skim over her reflection in the rearview mirror so she won’t know I’m looking at her. That’s when I notice her lower lip is trembling. Maybe I haven’t distracted her as much as I thought. “Adair.” I try her name out and find I like how it feels on my tongue. “Look, I’m sorry I was a jerk.”

  “Was?” she repeats.

  I can’t argue with that, but I’m not going to explain myself. She’s behaved just as poorly as I have. She might have a get-out-of-jail-free card but that’s not enough to excuse her every sin. She jumped to conclusions earlier. She says she doesn’t want her family name but she still acts like I’m beneath her. So, yeah, I can be nice. For now. The circumstances require it. But I’m reserving final judgment on Adair MacLaine.

  “Thank you.” This time her gratitude is small and tinged with apprehension instead of being forced.

  “It’s no problem.” I wonder if she’s thanking me for driving or for talking to her. The truth is I don’t know how to distract her, because there are things I should say to her before we get to the hospital. I should tell her that it’s going to suck — walking into the hospital. I should warn her that there’s no way to brace herself for the possibility that her life might change forever tonight. An ache I haven’t felt in a long time settles on my chest.

  For a split second, I consider turning the car around and driving in the opposite direction. Driving until she’s so far away from here she forgets where we were headed. I want to give her the beautiful oblivion no one gave me.

  Instead, I lie to her. “It’s going to be okay.”

  This pries her attention away from the world outside. Adair shoots me a disbelieving look. Can she hear the lie? Does she already know what’s waiting for her?

  I think deep down you always know.

  I search for some topic of conversation that can take her mind away from the worry.

  “Did you grow up here?” Way to go, Sterling. What an original subject.

  Disbelief turns to mild annoyance, but whether it’s because she wants to take her mind off things, too, or because she actually can be polite, she answers, “All my life.” She’s not happy about it. There’s a grudging moment of silence before she asks, “You?”

  Valmont strikes me as the kind of place where everyone knows everybody. She has to know I’m not from around here. Then again, maybe she’s never spent time with the lower classes of humanity.

  “I was born in New York.” I don’t want this to turn into talking about me.

  “And you grew up there?” The question rises from her. Until now every sentence she’s uttered has been flat and lifeless. Not this one. It curves and peaks into interest.

  “Yeah.” Fuck. I don’t want to talk about my past, but here I am opening a door I’d rather keep shut.

  “Why did you come here?”

  “That’s a long story.” She waits for me to tell it. I change the subject instead. “What are you going to study?”

  First day of college and I’m already falling back on clichés. Now I know why people resort to them: it’s safer to talk about nothing than face real questions.

  “I don’t know.” She shrugs, her attention fading back to the night outside. I’m losing her again. It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to martyr myself to divert her from thinking about her parents.

  “What do you like?” Apparently, I am going to keep trying to force small talk.

  “What are you? A shrink?” She sighs like I’m burdening her with my presence.

  “I was just asking.” Annoyance surges through me. Why does she make it so hard to like her? She’s gorgeous. Obviously, she’s rich, given her last name is on a freaking building. She grew up in Perfectville, USA. What does she have to be angry about? A shrink is exactly what she needs to deal with the crazy bitch inside her.

  “Fine.” Her answer catches me by surprise. “English, maybe.”

  “Like books?” I ask.

  “Like books,” she repeats like she’s talking to a toddler.

  “What’s your favorite book?”

  She pauses. “That’s a very personal question.”

  “That’s not an answer,” I say.

  “What if I don’t have one?” She might be playing coy, but she isn’t thinking about her parents, so I move this over to the win column.

  “You want to study English but you don’t have a favorite book?” I’ll goad her into answering.

  “I didn’t say I don’t have a favorite book,” she hedges. “I said what if I didn’t.”

  She likes to play games. That much is clear. Well, little princess, you might be a player, but I’m the coach. I didn’t survive seven years in the foster care system by following rules. “No favorite book? I’d say you’re going to be a shitty English major.”

  Something incredible happens. Her head tilts back, auburn hair spilling across the supple leather seat, her mouth opens and she laughs. It’s a rainbow after a storm. It’s bird song on a spring day. It’s a beautiful sound. “I probably will be anyway.”

  “I bet you could get by if you focus on finding a favorite book.”

  “I don’t think I have just one,” she says honestly.

  Now we’re getting somewhere.

  “If you had to tell me to read one book, what would it be?” I ask.

  “Harry Potter.” She’s dead serious.

  It’s really too bad she’s such a bitch.

  “Read it.” I tap the steering wheel. “Suggest something I haven’t read.”

  “Pride and Prejudice,” she says smugly.

  “Read it.” This time I smile.

  “You have?”

  I glare over at her incredulous look. “Does that surprise you?”

  “Yeah,” she admits. “You don’t seem the type.”

  “What type do I seem?” A siren goes off in my brain. We’re closing in on dangerous territory. Do I really want to know what a girl like her thinks about me? She doesn’t strike me as the type to spare my feelings.

  “Do you really want me to answer that?” She crosses her arms over her chest, which draws my attention to her breasts.

  Not that my attention has ever really wavered from them. Not entirely. Not with her wearing that dress. It doesn’t matter how she treats me. It doesn’t matter that I’m driving her to a hospital. It doesn’t matter that she’s clearly a spoiled brat. I can’t turn off my awareness of her. In the cramped cabin of the vehicle, it’s probably impossible. Not with the air conditioning blowing her perfume in my face. She smells like magnolia blossoms, freshly peeled oranges, possibilities. Intoxicating. Tempting. It calls to me. I want to taste her. I imagine burying my face between her tits and drinking her in.

  “Not the type that reads books,” she continues finally, killing my fantasy.

  And that’s what she thinks of me.

  “Did you think I got to college because of my looks?” I ask.

  “Well, it wasn’t because of your charm.” She shakes her head. She seems to realize she’s offended me, because she quickly adds, “Most guys I know haven’t read anything besides what’s assigned in school. Actually, they don’t read that either.”

  “I like books,” I confess.

  “Even Jane Austen?” She still doesn’t believe me.

  “The more I see of the world, the more I am dissatisfied with it,” I quote.

  “And you memorized it?”

  Is it just me or does she sound a bit impressed? “I remember bit
s that strike me.”

  “And that struck you?”

  “I can relate to that sentiment.” I’m not about to explain why.

  Her mouth hangs open for a minute before she shuts it. She wants to ask why. Maybe she’s scared of my answer.

  Now she’s learning.

  This is how it should be between us. Shallow and meaningless and utilitarian. I drive her to the hospital. I distract her. We stumble into each other’s circle on occasion. More than that? No way. Adair MacLaine is money. I’m only here because someone like her pays full tuition. I’m the charity case. She’s the debutante. It’s as simple as that.

  A green highway sign reads Davidson General. Its arrow points ominously at the off-ramp. I glance over to find Adair staring at it, too. This is the end of small talk and polite conversation. Her eyes shift to the floorboard and linger there.

  “I don’t have shoes,” she says quietly.

  I hear what she’s really saying. She isn’t ready.

  “It’s going to be fine,” I tell her. It’s a lie. What is it about her that makes me want to pretend like life doesn’t suck? Like the world isn’t one big disappointment after another?

  “Promise?” She turns wide, round eyes on me.

  “I never make promises,” I say quietly. Promises are too easy to break even when you don’t mean to. I’d rather lie than break a promise.

  “Please?” The request is so small, so desperate that all my reasons go out the window.

  I know I’ll never be able to keep it, but I say it anyway. “Promise.”

  Davidson General is packed considering it’s nearly midnight. It’s the first sign that Nashville might be a real city, after all. A dozen or so people wait in uncomfortable chairs under harsh fluorescent lights for their turn to be seen. The hospital smells like bleach and hopelessness, as though it’s been scrubbed free of not just germs but life altogether. I consider offering to carry Adair again but I know she’d never allow it. Still, I can’t help but stare at her bare feet as she makes her way across the linoleum floor to the help desk.

  “I’m here for the MacLaines,” she tells them. “My brother… called me.”

  The crack in her voice breaks me open and it’s all I can do to barricade the memories threatening to flood from me.

  “There should be information soon.” The woman doesn’t look up from her files. Business as usual. “Have a seat.”

  Adair pauses and I expect her to unleash unholy fury upon her. She doesn’t. Instead, she starts toward a bank of blue plastic chairs.

  “Where’s your brother?” I ask, joining her.

  “D.C.” A hysterical edge taints her words. “He’s interning for Senator Woolritch. He lives there with his fiancée.”

  I didn’t expect this. I thought she had someone waiting for her. But she’s alone, left to wait for answers. How long will that take? Minutes? Hours?

  “He’s getting the first flight out,” she explains.

  “I’ll stay with you,” I say, surprising both of us.

  “You don’t have to do that. Poppy texted. She’s on the way with…”

  I stop listening. Her friends are sobering up. She doesn’t need me, and I can’t blame her. But it chafes a bit, especially since I can’t leave until they get here. “Then I’ll wait until she gets here.”

  Indecision races over her face before her expression settles into a mask of indifference. “Suit yourself.”

  Fine. It’s easier than pretending or making small talk. I can sit here and ignore her. In the chairs across from us a woman cradles a toddler, murmuring things we can’t hear before kissing his forehead. She brushes his downy hair from his eyes and begins to hum softly. Adair watches them with hungry eyes like all she wants is to climb into the mother’s lap and be small and safe again. My arm’s around her before I consider what I’m doing. I stiffen, expecting her to slap me or jerk away, but she settles against me. I breathe in her scent, but I don’t let myself kiss her forehead. I don’t know where the boundaries are between us. We’re racing too fast into unknown territory. I can’t afford to cross the line.

  “What if…” She doesn’t finish the thought.

  I don’t need her to. This is nothing more than survival for her.

  “Close your eyes,” I command her. “Take a nap. When you wake up, everything will be fine.”

  She peeks up at me from behind thick, black lashes. “Promise?”

  I sell my soul for a second time, hoping it’s not a lie, and nod.

  A gentle hand shakes me, and I startle to find tired eyes staring down at me. Deep lines etch the man’s face but he wears a comfortable smile.

  “Son?” His accent is so thick it takes a second for me to process. He presses a finger to his lips, nodding down.

  Adair is tucked against me. Her chest rises and falls with a gentle tempo. We’d fallen asleep. I have no idea how long we’ve been here.

  “Has there been any news?” he asks.

  I shake my head, wondering who he is. He can’t be her father. Or brother. There’s no way we’ve been asleep long enough for him to reach us. Plus, this guy is too old. Maybe he’s her grandpa?

  “We’re here now. You can leave,” he says.

  His tone is gentle, but I have to resist the urge to tell him to fuck off. I’m not leaving her here with some stranger. Then I realize he said we’re here. That’s when I spot Cyrus and the girl from earlier. My roommate is a disheveled mess, his shirt half-tucked, hair wild. The girl’s dark eyes are rimmed red like she’s been crying. Cyrus has his arm around her. Tension hangs in the air. They’re all here waiting to be whatever Adair needs. My temporary position is no longer required. I should feel grateful to be done with it. I didn’t sign up for any of this. I’ve been in Valmont less than twenty-four hours. I haven’t even unpacked my two boxes. I don’t require more baggage.

  I don’t drive Jaguars or have buildings named after my family or get off on being a dickhead frat guy. I’m not part of this world. I don’t want to be. I did them a favor. I put up with her for a few hours. Tomorrow, she’ll be back to treat me like a bug under her impractical shoes.

  Without thinking I look down to her feet, remembering what happened to those stupid shoes.

  The old man follows my gaze. “Where are her shoes?”

  That’s a long story and not my problem, I remind myself. I didn’t puke on her shoes. I didn’t force her to run away in bare feet. I tell myself she isn’t my problem but when I pry my arm from under her sleeping form, her eyes flutter open and for one brief second she sees my face and smiles. I’m pretty sure I know what the earth felt the first morning the sun rose. The smile vanishes instantly. She bolts up, spots the old man and dives into his arms. I watch as she falls apart. I was just a bit of glue to hold her together until she felt safe enough to fall to pieces.

  Cyrus stops me at the emergency room’s automatic doors.

  “Thank you for doing this, man.” He claps a hand on my shoulder as the doors slide open and shut and open again behind us.

  That’s when it occurs to me that I have the keys to his car. I dig into my pocket to find them. Noticing the charge nurse glaring at me, I step to the side to stop triggering the doors.

  Cyrus glances at the others. “That’s Poppy. We all went to school together. Felix drove us. He’s like her dad.”

  Adair had been expecting Poppy. Of course, she’d needed a ride. That’s where Felix came in, I assume. So, he’s not family. Not officially. I think of Francie. I understand better than most what it’s like to have a surrogate parent. What I don’t get is why. Adair MacLaine has everything. Money. Two parents. Probably a huge fucking mansion somewhere with gargoyles and ivy. Why does a girl like her need a second father? “I thought maybe it was her grandfather.”

  The age is about right.

  “He’s her butler,” he says meaningfully. Unfortunately, I’m not fluent in trust fund. “Her grandfather lives in the city.”

  And I can’t help but notice h
e’s not here. I’m too tired to try to figure any of them out.

  “We got this,” Cyrus continues. “You don’t have to stick around.”

  He’s probably wondering why I stayed at all. I wonder if he waited for me to drive the car back to campus. I thrust the keys toward him.

  Cyrus holds up his hand. “You need to get back. Drive my car. I can call a service if we need a ride.”

  A service? Not a taxi or a friend. The gap between us widens again. What happens when you fall in? Do they call someone for help or just scratch their heads? Maybe I’m being unfair. He’s here. They seem tight—all of them.

  “I’ll park it where I found it,” I offer. He shakes my hand and I half-expect him to thank me for my service.

  Dawn breaks over the horizon as I make my way to Cyrus’s car. The morning sun paints the sky in shades of purple. The Jaguar waits under the fading parking lot lamp. In the light of day driving it feels like a lie. Or, at least, a joke. I’m sitting in a seat that costs more than I have ever had in my bank account.

  I don’t make it out of the lot before I decide I need coffee. Cyrus may not mind me driving his car, but he’ll probably care if I crash it. This close to a hospital it doesn’t take long to find a Starbucks. The line wraps around the building, and when I finally pull to the window, the barista practically falls out the window trying to look at the car. She’s pretty, her brunette hair twisted into a knot on top of her head and her lips painted bubblegum pink. I could score her number without even trying. This must be what it’s like to have money. People stare. People covet. I consider telling her that I know what it’s like to want something you’ll never have. I consider telling her this isn’t my ride—this isn’t my life. Instead, I let her think what she wants and enjoy how it feels. I take my small black coffee, but I don’t ask for her number. Instead, I ask her to point me toward a shop. She twists her headset away from her mouth as she gives me directions to a Target. I tip her more than the cost of the drink.

  By the time I arrive at the store, I already regret dropping so much money on coffee. There’s a couple hundred in my bank account—the result of a summer spent saving with Francie’s help—and once it’s gone…