Something in the Way
Something in the Way, 1
Jessica Hawkins
Contents
Something in the Way (Something in the Way, 1)
Stay Notified
1. Lake – 1993
2. Lake
3. Lake
4. Lake
5. Manning
6. Lake
7. Lake
8. Lake
9. Lake
10. Manning
11. Lake
12. Lake
13. Lake
14. Lake
15. Lake
16. Manning
17. Manning
18. Lake
19. Manning
20. Manning
21. Lake
22. Lake
23. Manning
24. Lake
25. Lake
26. Manning
27. Lake
Afterword
Preview: Somebody Else’s Sky (Something in the Way, 2)
Preface: Lake
Titles By Jessica Hawkins
Acknowledgements
Connect With Jessica
About the Author
It was a hot summer day when I met him on the construction site next to my parents' house. Under the sweat and dirt, Manning Sutter was as handsome as the sun was bright. He was older, darker, experienced. I wore a smiley-face t-shirt and had never even been kissed. Yet we saw something in each other that would link us in ways that couldn't be broken...no matter how hard we tried.
I loved Manning before I knew the meaning of the word. I was too young, he said. I would wait. Through all the carefully-chosen words hiding what we knew to be true, his struggle to keep me innocent, and infinitely-starry nights—I would wait. But I'd learn that no matter what you achieve in life, it means nothing if you suffer the heartbreak that comes with falling for someone you can never have. Because even though I saw Manning first, my older sister saw him next.
Something in the Way is book one in a USA Today bestselling saga of forbidden love.
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© 2017 Jessica Hawkins
www.jessicahawkins.net
Something in the Way extras.
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Something in the Way is also available in:
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Editing by Elizabeth London Editing
With help from Underline This Editing (beta) & Tamara Mataya Editing (proofreading)
Cover Design © R.B.A. Designs
Cover Photography by Perrywinkle Photography
Cover Model: Miranda McWhorter
1
Lake – 1993
It seemed unfair, spending three hours a day in a classroom during summer, only to wait another thirty minutes in the parking lot. There were things I could do about that, like walk home, or tell my parents my older sister was always late to pick me up—but either of those would inevitably lead to an argument or two. Dad would yell at Tiffany. She’d take her punishment out on me.
It wouldn’t do much good now anyway, with only two days of summer school left. I hadn’t gotten my license yet, so what right did I have to complain? Instead, I did what I had every other afternoon and took out one of the books I needed to read before summer ended.
Some pages later, Tiffany came around the corner, screeching to a stop at the curb. “Get in,” she said, as if I were making her late for something—even though I’d done nothing but wait in that same spot for forty-five minutes. “Come on. Hurry up.”
Gainfully unemployed, my nineteen-year-old sister lived at home, ate Mom and Dad’s food, and had an allowance my dad constantly threatened to cut off. She had one job only—take me to and from school.
Rolling through stop signs on the drive home, she explained the rush. “If Brad calls, I don’t want to miss it. I’ve been waiting ages for him to ask me out.”
It would’ve been easy not to care that she was driving fifteen miles over the speed limit—the windows were down, the breeze warm, and there were still six weeks left of summer. But Tiffany knew better. “You’re going to get pulled over, and Dad’ll take your car away,” I said.
“Maybe for a day, but I’d get it back.”
“Can’t you just call Brad and ask him out?”
“Not unless I want to look desperate,” she said with an air of knowing, as if she were imparting wisdom. In a way, she was. I had no idea about these things. “You want to watch music videos later?”
“I have reading to do.”
“You’ve been reading or doing homework all summer,” she said. “Your class is practically over. Relax.”
University of Southern California wasn’t looking for ‘relaxed’ students. According to Dad, summers were for “weeding out the lazy kids”—like my friends, who were probably at the beach. “I will, in two days.”
“Then we should do something this weekend. Something cheesy, like the Fun Zone at Balboa. Get ice cream bars, like we used to when we were kids.”
One thing about Tiffany, I could never predict what she’d say next. Most days, she didn’t want me anywhere near her. Others, she’d burst into my room, hop on my bed, and ramble on about her day. She had only two speeds—annoyed older sister or best friend. I preferred the latter . . . unless I was in the middle of studying for something important. “Maybe,” I said.
With an eye-roll, she turned up the radio for “Runaway Train” and sang all the way home. She parked along the curb of our cul-de-sac, close to the next-door lot where they were doing construction.
One of the hard-hatted men whistled at us. “Hey. Blondie.”
Tiffany looked through her window. “What?”
“Come here a sec.”
Why should it surprise me that Tiffany responded? If a man had eyes and they were aimed in her direction, she noticed. That might not have meant much if it only happened once in a while, but Tiffany was a California beauty through and through.
There’d been a lot of arguments about the construction since it’d started earlier that summer. My father didn’t like the noise, the dust, or the men he was sure were looking at my mom and sister. It hadn’t involved me, so I hadn’t paid much attention. But if he’d been that upset about the men looking at Tiffany, he definitely wouldn’t want her talking to them.
Tiffany slanted the rearview mirror, brushing her bangs side to side and forward again. She puckered her lips. “You have any lipstick?”
I carried tins of Candy Kisses lip balm in my backpack, flavors like cherry vanilla, bubblegum, and my favorite—watermelon. Here I was, entering junior year of high school, and I was still “too young” for makeup. Even though my friends wore it. Even though Tiffany had been granted that privilege the summer before her freshman year. I didn’t care too much about stuff like that, but I was still a little protective of my lip balm. My allowance was finite.
I rummaged through my pencil pouch until I found cherry vanilla and handed it over. It was nothing to Tiffany, who dug her finger into it, spread a ton over her lips, smacked them together, and tossed it into my lap. “Thanks.”
She got out of the car, her Steve Madden platforms wobbling as she stepped over the curb into the dirt lot.
I slung my backpack over my shoulder and went to interrupt her conversation with the construction worker. “We’re not supposed to be over here.”
“Then why don’t you go inside?” she asked without looking at me. It wasn’t a suggestion.
The man looked down her top.
&nbs
p; “And leave you out here alone?” I asked.
She’d rolled the waistband of her black denim skirt dangerously high. A short skirt and platforms didn’t seem like the kind of thing you wore around a construction site, but what did I know? Less than most sixteen-year-olds, Tiffany would say. Nineteen-year-olds, though—they knew a lot about a lot. Particularly how to dress around men.
“How long’s it take to build a house?” she asked him, sweeping her bangs aside. Realizing her mistake, she fixed them again. She spent at least ten minutes in the bathroom every morning plucking at them, fashioning them into a casual curl.
“Depends. We’re pretty quick.” He laughed into his fist. I looked behind us to see why. One of the workers had cocked an electric drill in front of his crotch. It spun around as he jutted his hips back and forth. It was stupid, but the other men on the site laughed.
I fingered the thin, gold bracelet around my wrist, a birthday gift from Dad. Tiffany and I didn’t always get along, but I didn’t want to leave her in a dangerous situation. These men were big and dirty. They were making me nervous. “I thought you were waiting for Brad’s call.”
Tiffany opened her mouth, probably to tell me to go away, but then shut it. “I have to go,” she told him, whirling around.
“Hey, wait,” he called after us.
We went up the brick and concrete walkway to the front door. My parents’ house wasn’t a mansion or anything, but my classmates gawked when they came over. With palm trees, a perfectly manicured lawn, and a three-car garage, our two-story home fit in with the upscale Newport Beach neighborhood. It curved gracefully at the end of the cul-de-sac and even had a pool, despite the beach being a ten-minute drive away.
“Why were you over there?” I asked Tiffany. “We’re not supposed to be.”
“Are you going to tell Dad?”
He’d said to stay away, but when did Tiffany ever listen to him? Or anyone who knew better? If I brought it up, it’d only start a war at the dinner table. “No.”
“Good.” She unlocked the house. “Problem solved.”
The next day, Tiffany forgot to pick me up altogether. After an hour passed, I hoisted my book bag and wandered home. It was hot outside, but summer was supposed to be hot, so it felt good. Living miles from the beach, we got some breeze, and our neighborhood was safe, even by my dad’s standards.
I could’ve walked home with my eyes closed. I’d grown up here, had explored nooks and crannies with friends who’d come and gone, played baseball in the cul-de-sac, run away to the Reynolds’ treehouse when I’d gotten a B-minus on a math test. Aside from all that, though, had my eyes been closed, I would’ve known I was home by the telltale sounds of the construction site.
My heart rate kicked up as I approached the lot. At dinner the night before, Mom’d asked why my bracelet wasn’t on my wrist since I rarely took it off. The most likely explanation was that I’d lost it while fidgeting yesterday. Dad had warned me it was expensive when he’d given it to me.
I kept my eyes down, even though there was no reason for the men to notice me. Mom had told me years ago that one day I’d look like my older sister. That day hadn’t come yet. My limbs were too gangly, my dishwater-blonde hair wasn’t highlighted. I didn’t even have breasts. My mom had gotten hers at seventeen and kept assuring me they’d come.
Retracing my steps from where Tiffany had parked the day before to the dirt lot, I bent at the waist and searched for hints of gold.
“Hey,” one of the men said. His voice was so deep, it gave me goosebumps on the inside, if that was even possible. “I found it. Here.”
Slowly, I turned. The enormous hand in front of me had dirt under the nails and my delicate gold chain coiled in its deep valley.
“It looks valuable,” he said.
I squinted up, and up, and up at him. I had only two concepts of men—ones my father’s age, like my teachers, and the boys I went to school with. This one didn’t fit into either category. He was bigger than my dad, bigger, even, than our vice-principal, who was the tallest man I knew. I couldn’t quite see his eyes under his hardhat, so I looked at the rest of his face. Black scruff nearly hid the dent in his chin. His nose was strong and hard with a noticeable bump.
“It is,” I said.
He held it out. The sleeves of his charcoal-gray t-shirt had been ripped off at the seams. His arms were like the guns Dad displayed in his study—hard, defined, chillingly powerful. The more my father warned me off the weapons he kept locked behind glass, the more I just wanted to touch one to see how it’d feel.
I didn’t move an inch, my heart beating harder.
“It’s all right,” he said, nodding. “It’s safe.”
I opened my hand. He poured the bracelet into it, and I put it in my pocket.
He removed his hardhat. He’d rolled and knotted a red bandana around his head, but it didn’t seem to do much; he had a lot of thick, black hair that spilled over. Picking up his shirt, he wiped his temples, giving me a glimpse of his hard, rippled stomach, and a smattering of fine dark hair. He dropped the hem immediately, but I averted my eyes anyway.
“Sorry,” he said.
“For what?” I asked the pavement.
“If I made you uncomfortable.” He removed the bandana and used that on his face instead. Dirt smeared across his olive skin. He was making it worse. I could see his eyes better now, dark brown like soda pop, but against the sun, there were lighter flecks, gold as the chain in my pocket.
My stomach tightened. I was uncomfortable, but him knowing that made it worse.
He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket and hit it against his palm. “You should get the clasp checked,” he said before he walked away.
I made it all the way to the front door when I remembered I didn’t have my house keys. I could picture them on my desk between my phone and a stack of Sassy magazines. I hadn’t even thought to take them this morning. Why would I? Tiffany was supposed to be with me. Even the gate into the backyard was locked. Dad had been extra diligent about securing the house since construction had started.
I shuffled back down the walkway, sat on the curb, and took out my book. Somehow, I could sense the man watching me. I wanted to look back. I liked his dark eyes, and how he looked scary, but he’d done something nice for me. I read the same paragraph three times and still didn’t know what it said, so I gave in and glanced up. He sat on a brick wall that surrounded the lot, his hand cupped around a lighter as he lit the cigarette between his lips. He wasn’t looking at me.
I realized what was bothering me. I hadn’t thanked him for returning the bracelet, and that was rude. I closed my book and got up. This time, he did watch as I walked back along the street toward him.
“Thanks,” I said from the curb.
“For?”
I put my book under one arm, took out the bracelet, and showed it to him. “You could’ve kept it. I wouldn’t’ve known.”
“What would I do with women’s jewelry?” he asked.
“Give it to your girlfriend.” I pretended to concentrate on getting the bracelet on so he wouldn’t see me blushing. The longer he was silent, the more uncomfortable I got. I had no idea how he’d taken the comment. Unable to help myself, I finally glanced up at him. “Or your mom. Or sister.”
“If I’d kept your bracelet, I would’ve taken it to a pawn shop.”
Heat soared up my chest, right to my cheeks. A porn shop? If he hadn’t seen me blushing before, he definitely did now. I’d never heard of a porn shop. Well, I knew what porn was. Boys at my school bragged about looking at it. My dad got Playboy in the mail. But what kind of things did a shop sell?
“You get locked out?” he asked.
I stepped onto the lot. “My sister has the key.”
He nodded. I wasn’t sure what to make of him. Because he was older and bigger, he seemed unapproachable, but I wanted to talk to him anyway. He took a drag of his cigarette. “What’re you reading?”
I gave
up trying to get the bracelet on. “The Grapes of Wrath.”
“The one with the farmers?”
“It’s about the Great Depression,” I said.
“Why’d you pick that?”
“Because it was next on the list.”
His forehead wrinkled. “The list?”
I walked a little closer to him, holding my unclasped bracelet in place. “Required summer reading.”
He stubbed out the cigarette he’d just lit. “You want to sit?”
The wall probably only came up to his waist, but for me, it was tall enough that I wasn’t going to embarrass myself by trying to get up. “I’ll stand.”
“So this list . . . you just go in order, one by one?” he asked. “What if you’re in the mood for something different?”
Was anyone ever in the mood for the Great Depression? This paperback had taken me longer to read than any other book so far and not just because it was almost five hundred pages. I hadn’t thought to tackle the list any other way. “I guess I could try something else.”
“You’re not enjoying it?”
My mouth went dry just thinking about all the lengthy descriptions—traveling across country, drought, dust. “There’s a lot of . . . information.”
“Put it down for a while. Try something else. Maybe something not on the list.”
“Can’t. School starts in six weeks, and there are more books after this.”
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