Collateral Damage

by Katie Klein

  I should be stoked. Principal Howell will be stoked. Chief Anderson will be stoked.

  But this—all of it—hardly matters.

  What am I going to tell Jaden?

  Maybe I don't have to tell her anything. Maybe she already knows. Maybe she knows her boyfriend hangs with Vince De Luca in Trenton every weekend.

  No. She can't know. There's no way she'd put up with that shit.

  Wouldn't she, though? She already puts up with her dad. Her brother. She already freaking puts the whole damn world ahead of herself.

  I have to tell her. If Blake hasn't said something by now, if she hasn't heard.... She deserves to know.

  My jaw smarts, teeth clenching.

  She said he was perfect.

  Fucking perfect.

  He should've been perfect for her. He has fucking everything.

  I swallow back a laugh.

  I wish I never went to that party. I wish I never saw him there.

  My arm swings instinctively, driving my helmet off the couch. It bounces across the floor and cracks against the wall.

  I would've been perfect for her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I keep my distance. I don't look for her. I don't think about her. I take the lunch she's prepared every morning, nodding a thanks. But I don't talk to her. I can't. The first time I open my mouth I'll spill everything.

  Hanson hasn't said a word. He continues on, pretending nothing happened. I catch him hanging by her locker, find him walking her to class. I watch him kiss her goodbye at her car, and it takes all of my strength—all of my self-control—not to walk over and deck him.

  She deserves to know.

  Conversations with Callie are punctuated by the thought. My dreams, when I sleep, are of me telling her what I saw. Of her breaking up with him.

  If she dumps him....

  I refuse to let myself think like that. Callie and I.... We're going to dinner with her parents. My parents. Our families. We're getting married.

  But if I wasn't with Callie....

  I wake up late on Wednesday morning after another night of tossing and turning. I slept through my workout. Again. I can't keep doing this. I can't go on like this. It's making me sick. I have to tell her.

  I shower, dress, head to school.

  She'll be there early. She's always one of the first inside the building. I'll meet her at her car. We'll talk before school starts. Maybe she knows. Maybe she doesn't. Maybe she won't care. Either way, I won't have to hold on to this burden—to keep this secret anymore.

  This is one lie I don't have to tell.

  I park along the back row, searching for signs of Jaden. Nothing. I watch the line of traffic streaming into the driveway—each car that pulls into a space.

  She can't not be here.

  She never misses school.

  She's never late.

  Time slows. The parking lot fills.

  I'm a second away from tracking down her number and calling when I spot her. She whips her car into one of the first spaces available, climbs out, tosses her bag over her shoulder—rushed, hurried.

  I make my way toward her, desperate to catch her before she reaches the building. "Jade!"

  She marches on.

  "Jade!"

  What the hell? Why is she ignoring me?

  I pick up my pace, jogging across the lot. "Jaden, wait!"

  Still, she doesn't stop.

  What is going on with her?

  I'm not even the person she should be running from! It's her loser boyfriend she should be worried about—not me. And now what? She's too good to be seen in public with me? "God! What is wrong with you?"

  I grab her arm, turn her to face me. "Jaden!"

  One look at her, though, and the anger burning inside dissolves. She's been crying. She's crying now. Her eyes, usually bright and clear, are red around the edges. And the sight of them sends this shockwave racing up my spine.

  Something's wrong.

  "What happened?" I demand to know.

  When she blinks, tears spill onto her cheeks. She swipes them away with her thumbs, but it's futile. The more she swipes the faster they fall. She takes a ragged breath, emits a strangled sob. My chest tightens at the sound. Every second that passes leaves me reeling—imagining the worst. It's her family. Her mom. Her brothers. Something's wrong with her nephew. It's Blake. Someone said something—did something—to hurt her.

  I swear to God if anyone hurt this girl....

  I stagger against an inexplicable, murderous fury—this sudden, violent need I have to protect this girl. I frame her face with my hands, forcing her to look at me, overwhelmed by the very real possibility that I will kill something if she doesn't start talking.

  "What happened? You have to tell me."

  "I...I d-didn't get in," she stammers, choking on words.

  She didn't get in?

  It doesn't immediately register—this news. I study her eyes, flicking from one to the other and back again, trying to understand, before it finally hits me.

  Harvard.

  The letter came.

  A rejection.

  Her entire world—shattered.

  My lungs shrink, all the air escaping at once. I release her face, but she leans into me, rests her head against my chest as a cool, morning breeze sweeps past.

  "Shit." I wrap my arms around her, squeezing her body against mine, breathing traces of shampoo and perfume and flowers and everything that is Jaden. "I am so sorry," I whisper.

  "I'm such a hack. No one is gonna take me seriously ever again."

  As amazing as it feels—our warm bodies pressed together—I pull us apart, gaze into those glistening eyes, something in my throat burning as I watch her suffer. "Just because you didn't get into your choice college, that doesn't make you a hack. I mean, I know it can't feel good..."

  "What am I gonna tell everyone?" she interrupts, wiping the edge of her nose across the cuff of her jacket sleeve.

  "The truth. They aren't going to think any less of you."

  "I—I can't." She glances toward the building, at the people passing. "I can't go in there."

  A familiar knot twists my stomach. I know all about wanting—about needing—to get away.

  She can't go in there.

  And I know, in this moment, everything is changing.

  I search her eyes. "Are you saying you want to get out of here?" I ask, unsure.

  She nods. "Yes."

  "Then give me your keys."

  "What?"

  "Hand them to me."

  They jingle softly as she passes them. I take her hand in mine, intertwining our fingers, and pull her across the parking lot. We move quickly, weaving between cars, not stopping until we reach the little white Civic that will become our getaway.

  "You know you could get in trouble for this, right?" I ask, chest heaving. She has to know what she's doing—what she's getting herself into.

  She nods.

  "And you still want to do it?"

  "Yes."

  "You're sure?" I study her expression, her eyes, waiting for any signs of hesitation. One pause—a single waver, and the whole thing is off.

  She nods again. "Yeah."

  I open the driver's side door. "Then we're gone."

  * * *

  She shuts off her cell phone as soon as we hit the highway, removes a package of tissues from the glove box. Is there anything this girl isn't prepared for?

  "You okay?" I ask.

  She pulls down the visor, examines her reflection in the mirror, wipes away mascara smearing beneath her eyes. Another deep breath and her lungs shudder, still unable to take it all in. "Yeah. I'm sorry."

  She's apologizing for not getting into Harvard?

  Jesus. This girl could use some therapy.

  "You're sorry? For what?"

  "For that. Back there."

  So she's apologizing for crying? That's even worse. Girls are allowed to cry. They're supposed to cry when things like this happen.
I glance over at her. "You don't have to apologize. You have every right to be upset."

  "Jaden McEntyre doesn't get upset. Not in front of people, anyway," she says.

  I try not to laugh at this. "Apparently she does."

  She stares out the window, longing, though there's nothing to see. Nothing but trees and fields and the occasional overpass as we leave another forgotten town behind.

  "It's not a bad thing, you know," I continue. "It's okay to cry. To let people know you're hurting."

  "Yeah, well, I'm the one who's supposed to keep it together."

  "No. You're not. The only person who expects that is you."

  "Still."

  "No. Not still." I exhale a sigh. I don't want an argument. Not today. "Anyway. It doesn't change anything. You're still the same, boring Jade."

  She slants a look sideways, so I do the same. And, when I do, our eyes connect. A hint of a smile plays at her lips, and it warms me from the inside out. "If anything," I continue, "it makes you more real."

  Real.

  Real and imperfect.

  Real and imperfect and wonderful.

  * * *

  We drive all the way to Hamilton. I take Jaden to the zoo because there are penguins, and it's impossible to have a bad day when you're hanging with penguins. When she asks, I spin some stupid story about my past. I'm not supposed to know anything about this zoo—it doesn't matter how many times I've been.

  I shouldn't have lied.

  I'm so sick of the lies—of keeping things from this girl.

  I pay for her admission before she can argue and hand her a map highlighting the exhibits. Hanson—what I know about him—will have to wait. Harvard is enough for one day.

  "Where to?"

  "I don't know," she replies.

  "Well...we can go left or right. Your call."

  She studies the map. The exhibits. Everything she does is so calculated and measured—every decision, every action carefully thought through. Every pro and con considered.

  She's a pathetic eighteen-year-old, but she's going to be a fucking amazing doctor.

  And staring at her, standing on this cobblestone pathway, miles away from our real lives and our real problems, everything is clear.

  I'd do anything for this girl.

  The knowledge drags a knot from my stomach to my throat, jamming it. I swallow hard, forcing it back.

  "I know. I know. I'm thinking," she says.

  "No. It's not that."

  Her eyes fix on mine, confused. "What?" she asks.

  But I can't speak. Her long, thick lashes have rendered me speechless. The specks of light dancing in her eyes have snatched the words from my lips—those pure green eyes that could make an entire life worth living. Those eyes that when I look into...I see forever.

  I want to tell her everything.

  I want to tell her who I am and what I've done.

  I want to tell her what I'm feeling at this very moment—that she has jarred my world sideways. That I'd rather have my heart ripped out of my body than to ever see her cry.

  I want to tell her that I fell for her the day she cornered me in the guy's bathroom, with its graffitied doors and broken soap dispenser, and that I've fallen for her every day since.

  I want to tell her that, if she'll give me a chance, I'll do everything I can to keep her smiling—to keep her happy. I'll be whatever she needs me to be. Whatever she wants.

  I want to tell her that it was unplanned, that it was unexpected, but that I love her.

  I love her more than I've loved...anything ever before.

  Boyfriends and fiancées and assignments be damned.

  But I don't. I can't. I can't tell her any of this.

  "It's just...your hair," I finally say.

  "My hair?" she repeats, not understanding.

  "Yeah." I move closer, brush the shimmering strands away from her face. "It's really red today."

  "Oh. I know. It's the, um...the sunlight." She glances skyward. "It's auburn, so when I'm inside or in the dark, or it's cloudy outside, it looks brown. But when I'm in the sun...." She shrugs, trailing off.

  "It's almost copper," I finish.

  And when she smiles that crooked smile—that crooked, sexy, perfect smile—I know it's worth the risk.

  I know that, whatever happens, I can't miss this opportunity. I won't look back on my life and regret letting this girl slip away from me.

  I have to break up with Callie.

  * * *

  It's after four o'clock when we finally reach the school. Most of the staff is still here, but my motorcycle is the only vehicle left in the student lot. I park in the space next to it.

  "Back to reality," Jaden mutters, clutching the postcard of a tree-lined Market Street—where we ate and shopped this afternoon—between her fingers. "But the bright side is I had a really great time today. One of the best days I've had in a long time, even."

  "I'm glad," I tell her. And I mean it.

  The doors open. I climb out, stretch my legs, feeling the sun warm my shoulders. I grab my bookbag and helmet from behind the driver's seat as she circles the car.

  "It's just that, I know I'm gonna have to explain everything now, and I don't know what to say," she says.

  "About Harvard?"

  "Yeah." She folds her arms across her chest.

  I ease closer, stare directly into her eyes. "Tell them that Harvard made the biggest mistake imaginable and didn't admit you. But it's okay, because you're still gonna go on and do great things."

  "You make it sound so simple."

  "It is simple. No one is going to think any less of you—especially not your family and friends. And if they do...their priorities are screwed up, not yours."

  I tuck her hair behind her ear, brush my fingers across her cheek. Her eyes close as she turns toward my hand, as my thumb moves across her lips.

  I can't do this. I can't wait anymore. I can't wait another second to feel her mouth against mine. And when she opens her eyes, I'm already tilting closer, everything about her sucking me in like a freaking black hole, her lips so close I can practically taste them.

  She jumps back, hits her car door, face flushing a million shades of pink. "Um, thank you. Again. For everything." She tries to tuck her hair but it's already tucked, so she drags her fingers through it instead, refusing to look me in the eye.

  I ease away from her, hiding my disappointment, giving her the space she needs. "Any time."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  "Callie? It's me. Something came up."

  I raced back to my apartment, flirting with speed limits and stop signs. I showered, slipped on a pair of khakis and a white dress shirt, and was back on my bike in less than ten minutes.

  I make the phone call just outside of Carson County, when I stop for gas.

  Every second after five-thirty beats painfully in my skull. By six I reach the outer boroughs. Everyone is getting off work, and roads are congesting. By the time the Hamilton skyline appears in the distance—for the second time today—traffic is at a standstill.

  The sun is sinking, setting the sky on fire, as I pull into the restaurant parking lot. I stuff my helmet into my backpack and check the time on my cell phone.

  Shit.

  I hurry down the sidewalk and pull on the massive glass door at the entrance. The lobby is full of couples and groups of friends waiting for tables. I shoulder my way through the crowd, struggling to reach the hostess.

  "Hi. I'm with the Donovan-Whalen party," I tell her.

  She takes my bag and jacket and hangs them in the coat closet. I follow her through the dining room, breathless, tucking my shirt in, smoothing the wrinkles in my pants. I exhale relief when I see them. Callie, my family—they're still here.

  There are plates, though.

  Empty plates.

  "I'm so sorry," I say, circling the candlelit table. "Something came up, then I hit rush hour. I got here as fast as I could."

  Callie reaches for her water gl
ass. She says nothing. She won't even look at me. I pull out the chair beside her. "I'm really sorry, Cal," I say, sitting, voice low.

  "Hey, hon," my mom says. "Don't worry about a thing."

  I nod toward Mrs. Donovan, and then her husband. "Mr. Donovan."

  "Christopher," he replies, voice cool and level.

  Mrs. Donovan smiles at Callie, who refuses to return it.

  There's no time, so I order a water and the tortellini. The waitress takes my menu and gathers some of the dirty plates, making more room on the table.

  Dad clears his throat, folds his arms across his chest. He's wearing a tie. The guy actually put on a tie for dinner.

  Shit. I am so screwed.

  "Should we assume this delay was work-related?" he asks.

  Immediately my mind slips to Jaden. The tears. The drive. The zoo.

  "Kind of," I lie.

  "Get used to it, Callie," my mom says, shaking her head. "These boys and their work."

  "It must be difficult," Mrs. Donovan begins, "not knowing what to expect day in and day out." She takes another sip of wine.

  At this, it's clear a line has been drawn. The Donovans and my father versus me.

  "You must be very close to wrapping this case up with all the extra work you're putting in," Mr. Donovan muses.

  "I can't really discuss..."

  "Christopher," my dad chides.

  "You know I can't talk about my work," I remind him.

  Mr. Donovan leans back in his seat, adjusts the collar of a suit it would take me two months to pay for, and drapes his arm across the back of his wife's chair. "After this I'm sure you'll want to stick close to home for a while. There's a lot to be done if this wedding is going to happen. I'm sure my daughter would appreciate the help."

  "Dad," Callie mutters. I can hear the exhaustion in the single word—how fed up she is with all of this.

  "I don't get to pick and choose my assignments," I remind them. "I go where I'm needed."

  "That's what's so great about being a sheriff," Dad says, sitting taller. "You have your patrol. You answer your calls. You're home by dinner."

  The words set my blood on fire. I am so sick of this same tired argument—for my father, who's supposed to support me, to remind me I will never be as good as him. To remind me that I picked wrong every chance he gets. And so I tell him, for what feels like the millionth time: "I'm not interested in being a sheriff."