By the way, I’ve still got a mouthful of taco. Seeing my ex-boyfriend caress my ex-friend makes me want to puke. It makes me…I’m just so…
I’m not hurt, I realize. I’m irritated. When I think about Matt, I can’t help but compare him to Zane, and next to Zane, Matt is…nothing. Inconsequential. Faded gray, school lunch, immature boy. Zane is—he’s fireworks, bursts of color, exciting, dangerous, sexy, and he makes me want. What, I’m not quite sure. All I know is if he—
“Violet.”
Matt suddenly turns around, spotting me. His blue eyes widen as I start choking on taco meat.
Ow!
My eyes water as I gag helplessly. Matt reaches for me—maybe to perform the Heimlich—but I hold a hand up. Lauren hands me a napkin, and I snatch it and discreetly spit out half a masticated taco. Ugh.
Coughing hoarsely, I glare up at Matt like it’s his fault. I turn to Lauren and hand her money. “I’ll be waiting outside,” I mutter.
Rachel looks like she's actually going to say something to me. I give her a look, and she hastily turns back around. Just because I've decided Matt isn't worth crying over doesn't mean I'll forgive either of them for betraying me.
I don't forgive people. Just ask Shauna Bradley. We were best friends in kindergarten—until I discovered she was the one stealing the fruit snacks from my desk. She lost my trust that day, and even now when I see her, I have to refrain myself from shouting, "Why? Why did you do it?!"
The rest of the school day seems to go on forever. By the time Spanish is over, I am all but jumping up and down with impatience. I can't wait to get home. To see him.
He’s not there when I get home. I do my homework, and take a quick shower. What to wear? I know, it’s not a date. My first instinct is to reach for something flattering, but I know I’d end up feeling stupid and uncomfortable. So I slip on a plain gray t-shirt and a long pink skirt with little bunnies printed all over it. How did I even get that skirt, anyway? I don’t know why I even packed it.
I’m sitting on the couch, pretending to read a book while acutely listening for the door. When I finally hear the sounds of Zane coming in, I am so nervous, I nearly fall off the couch. Scrambling to maintain a casual expression, I try to calm my racing heart, while blindly turning the page of my book.
“Hey,” I greet him, proud of how normal I sound.
“Hey, yourself.”
Zane sets a large flat box on the kitchen counter, and wanders into the living room. He looks absolutely beautiful and dangerous with his windblown dark hair and dark sunglasses.
“Someone smells good,” I blurt out when he leans over the couch to inspect my book. “No, I mean something! The pizza. It smells good.”
He just grins at me, and grabs hold of my book, turning it—oh, god—right side up.
Yes, it was upside-down. I was pretending to read Tolstoy upside down. And he caught me.
I’m such a dork.
Zane heads back to the kitchen while I sputter incoherently. “You hungry?” he asks over his shoulder.
I take a few deep calming breaths before joining him in the kitchen. I give up. I totally accept the fact that I’ll forever be making an ass out of myself in front of the hottest guy I’ve ever known.
Forget it. It’s fine—I’ll just be the awkward yet amusing friend.
Having resigned myself to a role, I feel a little of the pressure I put on myself ease up. I follow him to the kitchen. He’s opening up the box, and I find myself looking at a bizarre pizza. Why’s there green stuff on it?
“What is that?” I ask, unable to keep the horror out of my voice.
Zane chuckles, glancing up at me. “I take it you’ve never had a Greek pizza?”
I shake my head. “It…is there any meat on there?”
“No. There’s spinach, olives, tomatoes, feta…trust me, you’ll like it.”
He’s getting plates down from the cabinet, so he doesn’t see the dubious face I make. “It smells good,” I say hopefully.
He nods, handing me a plate. “Tell you what—just try it. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to eat it. And tomorrow, you can pick whatever you want for dinner, and I’ll pick it up. Okay?”
My spirits soar crazily. He wants to hang out with me tomorrow, too? “Okay!” I agree—way too enthusiastically.
We grab our pizzas and a couple of bottled waters, and move to the living room. I thought we were going to watch a movie, but Zane brings out his laptop and we end up watching how-to videos on the internet. Yeah, it turns out Zane is really into do-it-yourself projects, and alternative forms of energy. We watch videos on how to make your own greenhouse, gasifiers, parabolic mirrors, and Stirling engines. It’s actually really fascinating, and I’m impressed at his knowledge.
“What, are you gearing up for the zombie apocalypse?” I tease him, after taking a bite of my delicious Greek pizza (Zane was right—yum!).
“I just believe in being prepared.” He smiles, leaning forward to click on a link. “And I think this stuff’s really cool, you know? I have a farm in Oregon that actually runs on some of the things I’ve built. I’ll take you out there, sometime so you can see for yourself.”
I am stunned by his casual invitation. “That’d be awesome,” I say faintly.
I wonder if he really means it. Or was it one of those things that people say? Like the way I always invite my third grade friend—Janie Donnelly—over to my house to hang out whenever I run into her—even though I barely know her, anymore, and I really don’t want her to come over, because what would we talk about? The last thing we had in common was our sticker collections.
Moving on.
Once the pizza’s gone, we decide to switch to hot chocolate and some guy name Jinky’s video of the Top One Hundred Horror movies of ALL TIME. Most of the movies on Jinky’s list comes from the seventies, and I’ve never heard of them before. A few of them look pretty cool, though, so I write down the titles of the ones we might want to watch later.
I’m no good at multitasking. I’m writing on the back of a Taco Bill’s receipt, while watching the screen, while taking a sip of my scalding hot cocoa. You can guess what happens next.
The whole cup. The steaming liquid spills all over my lap. I jump up, gasping at the searing pain.
Zane immediately pulls my skirt off of me. “Sit down,” he commands, then disappears into the kitchen.
I’m still standing when he returns with a wet towel. He gently pushes me down onto the couch, crouches down in front of me, and places the cool towel over my thighs. It instantly helps soothe the burn, and I sigh in relief.
After a couple of minutes, the sting subsides. Zane lifts the towel up to check my skin. “No blisters,” he says softly. “It’s just a little red.”
He gently brushes a finger over my inner thigh, in a feather light touch that steals my breath and makes me tremble in a way that has nothing to do with pain.
I guess I make some kind of noise. Zane looks up at me, and as if suddenly realizing what he’s doing, he stands abruptly and backs away.
“Keep it covered. I’ll go look for some aloe gel,” he mutters.
I watch him walk away in a daze. Oh, my god. I can’t believe I’m sitting here in my underwear. I can’t believe he touched me…there. I see-saw between utter mortification and a nervous exhilaration. And I’ll admit it—pure lust.
Um, thank goodness I’m wearing nice underwear. Ugh, I just realized, this is the second time he’s seen them. Not the same pair, though. Today’s selection is lacy and a buttercup yellow.
God. This is so embarrassing.
Zane comes back with a tube of something and a light blanket. He drapes the blanket over my lap and hands me the tube. “Wait a few minutes, then put some of this stuff on your—on the burn,” he says gruffly.
“Thanks.” I risk a peek at his expressionless face. “Sorry I’m such a klutz.”
He allows a ghost of a smile. “You are a bit accident prone, aren’t you?”
I shrug, my cheeks heating up. I spread the blanket so it’s covering most of my legs.
He doesn’t say anything for a minute, just staring down at me. Then he mumbles something about fixing his contacts, and disappears into his room again. He wears contacts? Hm…I bet he would look really hot in glasses.
Just when I’m convinced he’s not coming back, he walks back out, and sprawls next to me on the couch. “You up for some mindless TV?” he asks, picking up the remote.
“Yeah,” I say gratefully.
So we sit there and watch sitcoms, reality shows…whatever is on. We laugh at the same things, and make fun of the people in the reality series. Zane doesn’t even seem to mind my sarcasm. He seems to enjoy it. We spar back and forth over our favorite shows.
I don’t even remember falling asleep. The next thing I know, Zane is lifting me up from the couch, and carrying me into my room—as if I weigh nothing.
Being in his strong arms is so…it’s an incredibly precious feeling. I pretend to be asleep just so I can stay there. He gently lies me down on my bed, and draws the covers over me. My eyes blink open when I sense him lean over me.
“Sweet dreams, Violet,” he whispers, kissing me on the forehead.
Sweet dreams, indeed.
Wait, I’m not quite done being the stupid damsel in distress.
Lauren and I leave Taco Bill’s the next afternoon, and discover my car has a flat tire—and I don’t have a spare. Where did it go? I may have moved it to make room in my trunk one day—I remember now. For those boxes of piñatas. Don’t ask.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m calling Zane. He laughs at my sheepish tone, and promises to be there in twenty minutes with a new tire.
He gets there in fifteen minutes. I introduce him to Lauren—who is suitably awed—and he effortlessly changes the tire, while we look on. Why is it so sexy when hot guys do manly things, like work on cars? Or maybe it’s just Zane. Everything he does is sexy. I’m not the only one who thinks so, judging by the group of girls who stop to drool over him.
Damn it, I should be the only one allowed to drool over him. I found him first! Or something not as stupid.
Lauren is appalled by my behavior. I become a giggly loser around him. I disgust myself, but I can’t seem to help it. I clamp both hands over my mouth and force myself to stand silently next to Lauren. When Zane is done, he pats my head my like a puppy, and warns me to stay out of trouble. Then he jumps into his hot little car and zooms off.
“Wow,” Lauren says, watching him drive off.
“To Zane, or to my ridiculous dorkiness?” I ask meekly.
“Both.” She eyes me sympathetically. “V, you’ve got it bad for him.”
“I do,” I finally admit, slumping back into my seat in the car. “Pathetic, right?”
“He likes you, but he doesn’t want to.”
“What?” I turn to her, eyebrows raised. “You could tell that in the five minutes he was here?”
“No.” She sighs. “I could tell by the way he had to keep tearing his eyes away from you every couple of minutes. You called him and he came running to the rescue. He hangs out with you all the time. You think a guy like that wouldn’t have better things to do than watch movies with you all night?”
“Ouch,” I say, not a little offended.
Lauren looks at me in that no-nonsense way. “You’ve seen for yourself the kind of women he dates. Have you seen him with another girl since you two started getting so chummy?”
“Chummy,” I repeat, smirking. “And, no. But he said he wasn’t going to bring the skanks home since that last time. For all I know, he’s going over to their houses, or…whatever.”
She just shrugs. “If you want him, V, I’m pretty sure he won’t turn you down.”
I scoff as I start the car. But deep down, a little flower of hope blooms in my chest.
If I want him, she says.
I don’t think I’ve wanted anything more in my life.
******
Chapter 12
“So, basically, my dad is a giant douche,” I say.
Zane and I are sitting on the chaise lounges by the pool. It’s late, but neither of us felt like going to bed, so we’ve just been hanging out here and talking. I’ve just explained how my dad left us, and didn’t look back. Not even after Mom found out about the cancer.
I stare moodily at the softly lit pool, glowing like a jewel in the night. Zane is silent for a moment.
“Your mom told me about how you took care of her,” he says finally. “That must’ve been really tough.”
I give a half shrug. “We had a lot of help. Friends and family.”
“She said you helped with a lot of the bills. But she got a little weird about it, like she didn’t want to say how.”
I shoot him a sharp glance. “It wasn’t from hookin’ or stripping, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
He hides a smile. “Never crossed my mind.”
“It wasn’t anything illegal,” I say after another long silence, in which I debate whether I should share my secret with him or not. “I…I write books.”
Zane turns to me, surprised. “You…write?”
I nod, embarrassed. “I always liked to make up stories. I used to write all the time. When my mother got sick, and we desperately needed money to cover all her medical bills—it was the only thing I could think of doing. So, I looked into it. Turns out, it’s remarkably easy to self-publish.”
“That’s awesome,” he says. When I look at him, he looks impressed. “What do you write about?”
“Um…” I shrug. “I have this series out. It’s called ‘Breaking Time.’ It’s about a bunch of teenagers who keep getting reincarnated into different lives. They have to find each other, and figure out how to stop a certain cataclysmic event in time. It’s…stupid fluff.”
Zane shakes his head, smiling incredulously. “It sounds amazing. That’s seriously cool, Violet. How many books have you written so far?”
“Five.” I fiddle with a loose string on the hem of my shirt. “I’m kind of on hiatus right now, though. Before, there was, like, a lot of pressure on me to pump out the books, you know? I guess I kind of burned out. So, now, I’m taking a little break.”
I have to squash down the urge to brag to Zane about how much books I’ve sold, the websites and videos that have sprung up, dedicated to my Breaking Time series. People not only buy my books, they talk about it, obsess over the characters. And constantly harass me about when the next book will be coming out.
“So why was your mom so secretive about it?” Zane wonders, tapping my leg to get my attention. “I would think she’d have a bumper sticker made: ‘My Daughter’s a Famous Author.’”
I scoff. “I’m not famous! And…no one knows that I write besides her and Lauren. I use a pen name.”
“How come?”
“I don’t know. I guess I’m kind of weird about stuff. I didn’t want my name out there on the internet. I don’t even use Facebook. I don’t like the thought of kids at school, judging my work. They’d tease the hell out of me. There are some real bitches at Hidden Cove.”
Zane starts laughing. “What’s your pen name?” he wants to know.
I cringe a little. “Elizabeth Bunnei. Elizabeth is my middle name. And Bunnei…well, bunnies are cute.”
He cocks his head to the side, running a hand over his mouth. “Got a thing for rabbits, huh?”
I totally know he’s referring to the rabbit on my underwear. I shift uncomfortably in my chair. “Let’s change the subject,” I say. “Um…so, what about your mom? Where is she?”
Zane leans back. His smile is still there, but the edges of amusement are gone. “She’s dead,” he says matter-of-factly.
Great, Violet. Way to bring up bad memories. “I’m so sorry,” I say in a hushed voice.
He glances over and seeing my remorseful expression, he reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Don’t be. It happened a long time ago. When she was aliv
e, I barely knew her.”
I surreptitiously study his face to gauge his mood. “What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?” I ask cautiously.
“She was a paranoid schizophrenic. She didn’t live with us most of the time.” Zane’s gaze goes distant. “I remember going to visit her at various facilities. When she did come home, she used to lock herself in the bathroom and just cry and scream for hours. When I was really young, I used to…I used to stand outside, and just listen to her talk to herself. I thought maybe she knew I was out there, keeping her company.”
It’s my turn to take his hand. “That’s a nice thought.”
He shrugs. “We thought she was doing better for a while. She was taking her meds, and sometimes she’d even ask me how my day was going. Then, one day I walk into her room and…there she was. She hanged herself with some wire from a hook in the ceiling.”
I cover my mouth with both hands, horrified for him. “How…awful.”
“Yeah, it was,” he says simply. “I had nightmares for months after. Couldn’t watch scary movies, or go out at Halloween. It was a long time ago, though. I made my peace with it.”
I really have no freaking clue what to say. “I…uh…do you want to…?”
Zane waves the topic away with an impatient hand gesture. “Seriously, I’m okay. I don’t need to talk about it. Some things happen that just don’t make sense, you know? And talking about it doesn’t help anything. Sometimes it’s better just to forget.”
“I…” I stare down at my hands. “I’m sorry.”
“No worries, Violet. Let’s change the subject again, okay?”
“Thank goodness,” I agree gratefully, and he laughs.
We are quiet for a moment. The awkwardness brought on by the topic of his mother’s suicide dissipates like fog, leaving a comfortable camaraderie. It’s nice. Okay, it’s more than nice. I can’t stop stealing glances at his beautiful profile out of the corner of my eye.
“I wish I could go swimming,” I say idly, staring at longingly at the pool.
Falling for the Ghost of You Page 8