Preston unbuckles and reaches over the seat, taking a swipe at Barrett, who slumps backwards. Both are laughing and trash-talking when up ahead, on the shoulder of the road, a small car sits halfway hidden in the tall grass, the flashers blinking.
“Hey,” I snap my fingers, calling their attention. “Isn’t that Rayne’s car?”
Silence falls around us as I pull off the road behind them, the headlights reflecting off the back glass, silhouetting two figures in the car’s front seats. I get out first and sprint to the window, giving it three sturdy wallops.
“Rayne. It’s Gage Howard. Y’all okay?”
The driver door swings open so fast I have to two-step out of the way as Rayne bolts out, face-to-face with me. She leans forward and wraps her arms around my middle.
“Thank goodness it’s you. We couldn’t see anything except your headlights, and Jaycee had me convinced you were a mass murderer who’d leave us for dead beside this country road.” She says it between laughs, but her hands are still trembling. Go figure. Jaycee stirring up drama. “We tried to call Jaycee’s mom but she’s not answering. And my 11 PM curfew… I’m in big trouble.”
Big trouble for less than 10 minutes late and a valid explanation? Damn, I thought my mom was hard. But then again, Mrs. Davidson’s reputation is well known in town. Super overprotective. And now with Rayne missing curfew after that episode at the Pig earlier, Preston’s chances may have just swirled down the drain.
Jaycee’s door squeaks open and she stumbles from the car through the grass clods. “You do realize you better come up with a good excuse now?” She pauses then snaps her fingers. “Ooh, I know. Tell her you stepped in shit and had to clean up and then—” She stops short at the back fender where two more people join our roadside party, her sneer morphing into a fake, toothy grin. “Barrett? I didn’t realize you were here, too.” Her voice fills with honey as she reaches out to stroke his arm.
Preston steps around them and in between me and Rayne, taking her by the shoulders. “What happened?”
She shrugs. “We just pulled out when the car shook and this womp-womp-womp sound started. We were trying to call someone when y’all drove up.”
The diagnosis is immediately clear. She has a flat tire. I check the first two. Everything’s okay, but the back right tire is flat, the black rubber puddling onto the ground. I squat down and run my fingers over the tread’s peaks and valleys. Near the bottom, they snag on a hard, metallic lump. A screw, diagonally protruding from the tire. “Can’t fix this. The sidewall’s punctured. I’ll have to change it.”
“You know how to do that?” Jaycee taunts me from her position under Barrett’s arm, snug and smug all at the same time. I stare at them for a minute, wondering what in the hell he’s thinking and when she’s going to take that fatal bite.
“Please. I practically rebuilt my Scout. This is just a tire. Tires are easy.” I pop the trunk and lift the carpet cover. Nothing.
“Apparently, it’s gonna be pretty hard if you don’t have a spare tire,” Jaycee says with a smirk.
Rayne runs over to the trunk and peers in, eyes fixed as if she’s willing a tire into existence. As if she could make one magically appear through her concentrated thoughts. Still nothing.
“Ooo-oh no-oo.” She holds it out for like, five syllables and slams the lid, slumping against the side.
Jaycee hops up on the trunk, her feet resting on the bumper, arm still linked in Barrett’s. In one of those up-down preschool sing-song tunes she says, “You know what this means.”
“Mama. That’s what this means. I have to call home.” Rayne pulls her phone from her pocket as if it weighs a million pounds.
Everyone exchanges glances. Rayne tries to play it cool, fashioning her finger into a gun, which she holds to her temple, rolling her eyes for exaggeration. But I can see what’s really there.
Fear.
Uncertainty.
And total embarrassment.
“Tell your mama we’ll give you a ride,” I offer.
“In this?” Jaycee pipes up, taking a minute from sucking face with Barrett to point at the Scout. She wrinkles her nose and sticks out her tongue.
Not like I want her riding in my Scout anyway. She needs to thank Rayne and Barrett for that privilege. If it was just her out here, she’d still be waiting come morning.
“I can tie you to the back bumper. That’s usually where I put roadkill.” I shoot back as Jaycee rolls her eyes then smooshes back into Barrett’s face.
Rayne darts her gaze between the phone and everyone else as she punches in each digit then holds it to her ear like a loaded weapon. It’s obvious when Mrs. Davidson picks up because Rayne’s eyes widen to the point they look like they’ll pop out of her head at any moment. A few beads of sweat trickle down her forehead.
“Yes, Mama. I know I’m late. I’m okay. It’s just a flat tire…”
Shrill sobs bleed through the phone and spill out into the night air. Even Jaycee and Barrett stop long enough to gawk at Rayne, who turns sideways, trying to use her hand to block out the sounds from the other side.
“No, Mama. Don’t put Daddy on the phone. There’s no reason… hey Daddy.” She side-eyes me, her cheeks flushed, shoulders slumped. Something about it resonates with me. My mom freaks out on me the exact same way, but I guess I’m lucky. She only does it in private, never in front of a crowd. I turn my back, blocking Rayne from the rest of the group and corral everyone toward the Scout. Jaycee and Barrett scramble into the backseat, still attached at the face, while Preston and I wait at the front fender.
“No, it’s just a flat tire. I’m fine.” It has to be the hundredth time she’s repeated it, and I contemplate recording it on my phone so she can play it over and over on a loop.
Rayne exhales and pushes the red button, staring down at her phone for a minute. Preston pats me on the arm and walks to her, leaning down to whisper something in her ear. She nods, grabs her purse from the car and locks it with the key fob. I slide behind my steering wheel to wait. In the back, Jaycee and Barrett are still lip-locked, half sprawled out over the seat. My poor Scout. He’s going to need a good disinfecting after tonight.
Preston holds the door open for Rayne. “Why don’t you ride up here between me and Gage?”
Her eyes rove over the bench seat like she has a mental yard stick and is doing the math. Yes, it’ll be a tight fit, but anything’s better than riding in the backseat with… that. The rearview glimpse sends shudders down my spine.
Rayne slides in across the bench seat to the center, having to straddle her legs around the stick shift.
And my hand.
Preston slides in beside her and slams the door. Her left thigh squishes into me, her right into Preston, and I’m shifting gears between them. In the back, the serenade of lip smacking and quiet moans continues. Awkward. Made even worse by the fact Preston keeps prodding around Rayne’s fingers like he’s trying to hold them, but she’s not biting. Her palm is pressed flat into the edge of where her shorts meet skin. He squints and chews his bottom lip, the way he does when working on homework. Trying to figure out what’s going on. Most girls would’ve grabbed his hand without hesitation. Hell, most of them would’ve been like that one in the backseat.
Maybe she’s not into PDA. Maybe she’s worried about her mama. Whatever it is has Preston rattled. He finally pulls his hand away and rubs it along his jawline instead.
I’m in the middle of a freaking soap opera—and I hate drama.
First gear.
Clutch. Pull the stick back to second. My forearm grazes her thigh. She shivers. Just a small one but enough for me to sense the vibration as it runs down her body.
Clutch. Push up to third gear.
Clutch. Pull back to fourth. My skin once again makes contact. This time hers is freckled in chill bumps.
She fidgets, readjusting herself—crossing her arms, uncrossing her arms, one knee up, one leg stretched out. �
�I’m a Howard sandwich,” she finally laughs, pointing between the two of us.
Preston smiles but says nothing, like he’s trying hard to think of a snappy comeback but isn’t getting anywhere. The words are on my tongue, however, before she even quits speaking. “We’re the white bread to your bologna.”
“Bologna? Honey please. I’m grade-A, thin-sliced roasted turkey.”
Battle of wits? Bring it on.
“My bad,” I shoot back immediately. “Bologna’s made of crap. You just stepped in it.” I stop and sniff the air close to her. “At least you don’t smell like it anymore.”
She sniffs back, a wicked grimace painting her smile. “More than I can say for you.”
“A challenge, huh?” I counter, leaning in toward her.
She straightens her spine and mirrors me. “Absolutely. And I don’t back down.”
Preston watches us like a sideshow, then wraps his arm around her shoulders with a little tug so slight most people wouldn’t notice, but I do. Her thigh’s no longer pressed into mine, her elbow no longer grazing my side when she fidgets in her seat. This smells distinctly of territory-staking. I hope he doesn’t pee on her to prove a point, but I have to wonder why he even feels the need.
He’s never been good with the roll-off-your-tongue banter with anyone except me, and that’s only because he’s had 18 years to practice. Preston’s not spontaneous. He follows a strict set of rules and procedures, either set up by mom or himself. She’s challenging him—the way he said earlier he wanted to be challenged. Now he doesn’t have a clue how to deal with it.
Still, Rayne’s a girl. A smart girl but a girl no less, and they always want Preston.
Not me.
He’s safe.
I push myself against the door, and we ride the rest of the way in silence, the three of us in the front keeping our eyes straight out the windshield to the tune of slurping and smacking in the backseat. Consequently, the only talking comes from Rayne shouting over her shoulder for Jaycee to button her blouse and reapply gloss. Red blotches and swollen lips parading in the front door of the Davidson house is a no-go—especially with her mama already on the warpath.
When we pull into the drive, a silhouette darkens the front triple windows and the curtains push back slightly. Rayne immediately stiffens against the seat.
“Maybe if we go in and explain…” Preston starts.
“No!” Rayne almost yells it, stop-signing her hand in his face. “We’ll take it from here. Thanks for the ride.”
Preston leans in, eyes closed, lips puckered. It’s about damn time he makes a move. But the closer he gets, Rayne’s eyes turn to saucers, and she begins backpedaling, jerking backwards and inadvertently into my lap. Her feet nail Preston in the side, knocking him halfway out the open door. In the dim glow of the streetlight, her cheeks fire up. The flames dance in mine as well.
“Sorry,” she mumbles, struggling to get herself out of an almost full-on sprawl she’s doing in the front seat. She uses her elbows to scoot her butt to the end of the bench, sliding out the passenger door onto the grass where Preston stands, eyes downcast.
She reaches out and grabs the tips of his fingers. “I can’t,” she whispers, darting her eyes toward the house. “Not where Mama can see.”
He smiles and nods, finally making eye contact once again though he chokes on a reply. “I’ll… call you.”
That’s all he can eke out? I’ll call you? My brother the stud has transformed into my brother the dud.
Preston slams the door and watches as Rayne struggles to pull Jaycee across the yard, all the while finger-combing her hair and de-smudging her make-up. I stare at Preston, the idling bass of the engine vibrating around us.
“What?”
“You croaked. If your conversation on the hay bales was anything like that, you’re through.”
“It wasn’t, okay? The hay bales were nice, relaxed. We talked plenty. But…”
“But what?”
“It’s when she gets around you… it’s like you bring out this whole other side to her. Y’all have this witty back-and-forth and I’m totally out of the loop.”
“You go back-and-forth with me all the time.”
“Yeah, but you’re my brother. She’s… a girl.”
“Then when you’re with her, just pretend you’re having a conversation with me.”
“Perfect. Just what I always wanted. To date my brother.”
Barrett pops his head over from the backseat, traces of pink lipstick smudged all over his face. “You guys are jacked up. Know that?”
The guy who makes out with Jaycee thinks we’re jacked up. Damn. I believe that’s an insult.
Chapter 7
Rayne
S
he stands by the staircase, holding onto the banister like a crutch, a wad of mascara-streaked tissues in the other hand. The oscillating fan sweeps by and billows out her blue cotton nightgown like a tent over her terry socks and slippers. A few graying tendrils, loosened from her ponytail by the breeze, circle her head like a wiry crown.
No one would believe Mama was once the local beauty queen. Not that many of the kids my age know. I’m sure the older people in town remember, but seeing her now, they probably wonder what sort of tragedy befell her. Best I can guess is she had me and lost her ever-lovin’ mind, because she didn’t always look so haggard and nervous before—back then she was beautiful, warm, and lighthearted. I have evidence—teenaged versions of my parents hugged together in 3x5 glossies that now lay tucked away in a memory box in her cedar chest. Those pictures don’t look anything like the scrapbooks on the hallway shelf cataloguing my childhood.
It was somewhere around the time she got pregnant with me that the real smile, the genuine one, left her face. In all the pictures after that, it’s forced, as if she put up barriers between us before I was even born. She never told me why, and I don’t think she ever will.
Daddy steps out from behind her, completing the united front, but his eyes are downturned. Mama’s clearly strong-armed his participation in the intervention of their delinquent daughter. I take out my phone and hand Jaycee my purse. “Take this upstairs. I’ll be up in a minute.” She darts up the stairs, eager to get away from the impending third degree.
Daddy sweeps his eyes between me and Mama. She’s staring at me as if running some sort of internal lie detector, waiting on me to screw up so she can nail me. She sighs loudly and shakes her head. “No good comes from late-night gallivanting with boys. I’ve told you this.” She locks her jaw, unwilling to budge. The fictional scenarios she’s crafted in her own mind are the only truths she’ll accept because in Mama’s world, everyone’s a suspect. We can’t all be as righteous as she is. “Where were you all night? Were you even at the bonfire or was that a lie? And why did your tire just suddenly go flat? It was perfectly fine earlier!”
“I don’t know, Mama. Why does any tire go flat? Preston and Gage said something about the sidewall being messed up…”
“See? Suddenly Preston’s there. Why was he even there? What were you doing when you discovered this flat tire?”
“I was sitting on the side of the road with Jaycee when the boys stopped to help us, Mama.”
“And suddenly it’s boys. Plural,” she says with air quotes. “Where did all these boys come from?”
“They were all riding together and saw us on the side of the road! Excuse them for being gentlemen and stopping to help us. I guess you’d rather they just drove off?” My eyes blaze, and I throw my hands in the air.
Mama has this habit of sucking her tongue across her teeth when she’s pissed off. She’s doing it now. I hate the squeaky, squishy sound of it. “I think you should have called us.”
“I did call y’all. You freaked out on me!”
“Only because we didn’t know where you were or what you’d been up to…” she starts.
“Check it.” I shove my phone in her face. “There are se
lfies of me and Jaycee from the party with timestamps. Call logs and texts. I have nothing to hide!”
Daddy steps forward and pats my shoulder. “No one thinks you’re lying.”
“She does!” I stab an accusatory finger at Mama. “She always thinks I’m lying or sinning or something because I can’t possibly live up to her holier-than-thou standards. What are the church ladies gonna say? Who might be talking about you? Really? Talking about me? They’re talking about you, Mama!”
I stagger backwards as the words come out of my mouth. Everything that’s been building inside is splattered in front of me via word-vomit. Preston’s words ring in my ear. Do what you have to do? I love my Mama. Really. But I can’t keep doing this.
She huffs and fingers a piece of peeling paint on the railing, refusing to look at me, but fresh tears streak her cheeks. Daddy immediately steps back to loop his arms around her shoulders, drawing her in, protecting her from me, her own evil spawn of Satan. “That’s enough, Rayne,” Daddy says.
“No, Daddy. It’s not gonna be enough until something changes.” I lower my voice. “I’ve never given y’all a reason to doubt me, but you treat me more like a suspect than a daughter.”
“That’s not true,” Mama whimpers. “We’re protecting you.”
“I’m seventeen. You’re smothering me.” I walk toward her and grab her hand, tears stinging my eyelids. “Quit putting walls between us.” She tilts her head further away from me, peeling a strip of the white paint from the wood rail. “Good night, Mama. I do love you.” I kiss her on the cheek, salty from the tears I caused, and trudge up the stairs.
Jaycee’s already changed and lying across my bed, posting bonfire pictures on social media. She rises off the pillow, leaning forward on her elbow. “What happened?”
The only thing I want now is silence, so I can slip back into my head and drag out all the happy moments from earlier to ease me into sleep. I kick my sandals off, unzip my shorts, and peel off my blouse, leaving them in a pile on the floor, and slip my old t-shirt over my head. “We’ll talk tomorrow,” I say, ignoring her gaping mouth, and turn off the lamp.
Meant to Be Broken Page 5