When we dropped her off at her house, Hawk made her promise to see a doctor about her cut. The look she gave me told me she had no intention of doing that, but she agreed anyway.
Now that it's just the two of us, Hawk can't seem to wipe that stupid grin off his face.
“What are you so giddy about?” I ask, rubbing my chest. It's starting to get tight again. My medicine must be wearing off.
Hawk stops walking and looks at me. “Are you serious? You don't know why I'm so happy? I found her, man! I found her!”
“Yeah, that's pretty wild,” I croak, trying not to sound like the wind had just been knocked out of me.
“It's not wild. It's fate. I was meant to find her.”
I can't help but get mad. “Why? Just because you share the same birthday?”
He looks at me, shocked. “Not just the same birthday, Tobs, the same hospital. Can't you see that it's fate?”
“Fate, huh? I was born that day too, in case you forgot. In that same hospital. Why is it that you get to have a fate of being with her while I get stuck with the fate of dying?” I hiss, unaware of how angry I really am.
“Wow,” he whispers. “I didn't know you felt that way about her.”
“This isn't about her,” I lie. “It's about how you're always getting what you want. Always. It just—pisses me off sometimes.”
Shaking, I start walking again trying to calm down. I can't believe I just said that out loud. Although I may have secretly thought it for years, I never dreamed I'd actually have the balls to say it. Now that it's out, there is no way to take it back. He'll probably never forgive me. Not that I'd blame him. That was a pretty shitty thing to say.
I only manage a few yards before he catches up to me and steps in front of me, forcing me to a stop again. His eyes are pinched tight.
“You're pissed at me because I get everything?” he asks. “You have got to be kidding me.” His face is red and his lips are drawn into a tight line. “You're the one who has everything.”
Of all the things, I thought he might say, that wasn't one of them.
“What do I have, Hawk, that you could possibly want? Asthma? You can have it. Or would you rather have the diseased lung that's going to kill me one day? Take it! It's all yours!” I shout.
He turns away from me and his shoulders slump. No. I didn't think so. No one would want that.
“At least you have someone who actually cares about you,” Hawk says. “I'd give anything to have a mom like yours.”
Um, that came out of left field. Although it was true that he and his folks don't have the closest relationship I didn't think it could really be that bad. I mean, they were rich, at least compared to us. He’s never wanted for anything. How could he ever be jealous of me?
“Hawk, what are you talking about? Your parents care about you.” At least I assumed they did. He always hung out at my house, but that was only because they worked all the time. Right?
He laughs quietly and kicks a rock into the ditch. “They care if I make quarterback or get a scholarship, but they don't care a damn for me.”
“You're over exaggerating,” I say, hoping I'm right.
He shakes his head.
“I'm not.”
His voice is sadder than I've ever heard it before. It makes me stop and realize how little I know about him. What a huge chunk of his life he's chosen to keep to himself. I always just assumed he had nothing to complain about, but looking at him now, I wonder how much he’s held back.
“Sometimes I get so angry, you know?” he says, looking out into the woods. “It's like, this rage comes from out of nowhere. I don't know what to do with it, so I take it out on them, I guess. I don't know. We yell a lot at my place. They don't get me. I guess that's part of the reason why I like to hunt. It seems to calm me down somehow.” He pulls his hair in frustration. “I sound like a crazy man, huh?”
I don't want to admit that he does sound a bit out there, but I can sense that edge to him. He has some anger issues sure, but it's just hormones. He's just got a lot of them.
“Sounds like pretty normal stuff to me,” I lie.
“Let me ask you something,” Hawk, says. “What do I want to do when I graduate?”
That's easy. Anyone who knew Hawk knows what he wants to do with his life.
“Hunt,” I say.
He nods. “So how come you know what I love and my folks don't, huh?” He runs his hands through his hair, pulling at the roots. “God, can you even imagine if they ever found out that I was hunting those turkeys?” He gives a weak laugh. “They'd probably call the cops themselves just to be rid of me.”
I want to tell him he's wrong, but something in the way he hangs his head makes me think he might be right. That's the sort of posture one has to earn.
When finally he looks up at me his expression is tired. “That's why finding Jada... ” He says to the sky, “is so important. I feel – calmer with her. I know I just met her, but it feels like she belongs with me. And… ” He pauses. He wants to say something, but he's struggling to get the words out, so I wait. “I have to believe that there is someone in this world who was meant for me. To love me.” His last sentence is so low that I don't really think he meant to say it out loud.
And right there in the street, seeing Hawk look more broken than I have ever seen him before, I let my feelings for Jada go. What sort of friend would I be if I didn't?
Jada
When I get home the first thing I do is jump in the shower. My hands are covered with mud and blood from my gash. The soap stings like a son-of-a-bitch, but I can't risk it getting infected. Infections mean hospitals, and hospitals aren’t the type to over look a girl who carves her name into her own flesh. They’d ship me off to the loony bin for sure. Hence the soap.
I’d have to think of something to tell Hawk when he asked about what I was hiding, but there would be time to think of an excuse later. Right now, I just needed to take care of my latest scar.
After my shower, I dump out a healthy dose of liquid band-aid to seal the gash, and then change into some old sweats and a long sleeve shirt to try and mask the mess that is my arm.
I head down stairs to see if Dad's home yet. Noticing that the coast is still clear, I run back up the stairs and into his bedroom. I know just the thing that will take away not only the pain but the memory as well. Dad's anti-anxiety tabs. He's been on them for years. They are a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, it kept him from being so damn sad. But on the other, if he was on them when he drank, he would often forget his cruelness. Years of experience have taught me it's better to find yourself out of the reach of his right hook when he pops one of these babies.
Of course that also means he forgets where he puts the damn pills, so I always have to re-hunt for them whenever I need one. I don't dare take more than a few at a time in case he does remember how many he had. Even the pills wouldn't blur the memory of that punishment.
After looking through all the usual spots, I find them tucked safely inside an envelope behind his dresser. He's getting crafty.
I'm about to slip a few in my bag when I hear him come in downstairs. Panicking, I shove the whole bottle inside and race down the stairs, doing my best to look casual.
“Get dressed,” Dad grunts when I walk into the kitchen.
“I am dressed,” I blink, annoyed.
He looks at me but doesn't really see me. “Ms. Philips invited us over for dinner tonight to thank me for fixing her water heater.”
I groan. I don't want to eat dinner at some strange woman's house.
“We need to be there in an hour. Wake me up. I'm taking a nap,” he says, before he heads up stairs. He takes a 'nap' everyday. Of course, he doesn't actually sleep. He holds vigil for her.
For years, I actually believed that he was sleeping, until one day I was playing downstairs and I thought I heard him sobbing. Worried, I ran to his room to make sure he was okay.
It was the one and only time he had neglected to shu
t the door all the way. Through the crack, I saw my father on his knees, weeping. Above him lived this mini shrine of Mom. There was a photo of her on what looked like their wedding day and a candle burning softly beside it. In his hands, he grasped a Rosary.
It wasn't seeing my father so upset that changed me. I saw that everyday. It was what he said that day that scarred me forever. He said out loud, for his wonderful and precious God to hear, that he wished I'd never been born.
I was seven.
My mother was dead and my father had just forsaken me.
On that day, there was a definite shift inside me. A closing of doors. A hardening of the heart. I learned in one day how toxic love really was. It didn’t help that it was also the day he started taking the pills and the fun really began.
I started cutting shortly after that. I think it was because he always called me my mother's name, Jeanne, when he hit me. I started etching my name into my skin to remind me I wasn't her. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn't. On those darker days, I had to remind myself that I was made out of titanium. He couldn't hurt me no matter what he did. No one could. Over the years, I'd closed myself off so much. There was no chance in Hell anyone was getting in here. Not anymore. My heart is dead-bolted behind a wall of titanium now.
Outside a rumble of thunder booms in the distance. I glance out the window. The sky has taken on a greenish glow. It's actually scary. Guess they weren't lying about storms coming. The electricity surging outside is almost palpable.
The ominous clouds bring with them a marked shift in the temperature as well. The humidity is starting to roll in. Groaning, I head back upstairs and dig around in my room for something that isn't so damn hot, but will also cover my new scar. All I can find is my dark gray knit lace-up summer sweater that I used to wear all the time when we lived in Phoenix. When I pair it with a black tank, it actually manages to hide my marks and look somewhat intentional. The way the sweater falls off my shoulder makes the fact that it's way too big, look hip. Even the cut-off jeans, which I used when I painted my room, looked suitable. The globs of black paint covering them look neat. Not exactly, my Sunday best but they'll have to do. My wardrobe isn't exactly compatible with these sudden shifts in temperature. All the other cities we've lived in never had this level of humidity. It didn't make sense. We lived in New Hampshire. Why was it so damn hot?
At six o'clock, Dad and I make our way over to Ms. Philips' house in silence. We walk across our connecting yards stepping on the overgrown grass on her side. The paint on her trailer is chipping in several spots and some of the windows have duct tape along the edges. It looks like our house isn't the only one on the block in need of some serious TLC.
Planting on a smile, Dad knocks on her door.
This is going to suck.
When Ms. Philips opens the door, however, my heart stops.
My limp smile turns into a real one. But I have no idea why. Looking at her feels like finding a long lost friend. Kari! A voice in my head shouts. I blink at how strongly the name comes across. The only problem is: I don't know anyone named Kari.
Aside from being uber-familiar, she's also gorgeous. Ms. Philips is gorgeous. She's old, like my dad, but still has an undeniable beauty. Tall and lean, like a dancer. I glance at Dad, who has gone a little red in the cheeks. No wonder he spent all day fixing her water heater.
“So good to meet you, Jada,” Ms. Philips says, holding out her hand.
“You too, Ms. Philips.”
“Please, call me Kari. Ms. Philips makes me sound old!” She smiles.
My eyes widen. How did I know her name was Kari?
Dad must have said her name before. That has to be it.
“I don't know what I would have done if your Dad hadn't offered to help me,” Kari continues, ushering us into her living room. She gestures toward her fake leather couch for us to sit. My thighs squeak against the material.
Her place is smaller than ours, but vastly homier. She's got handmade blankets lining all the edges of the chairs in her tiny living room. A place like this probably gets pretty cold at night. Even though everything in her house looks worn, it's like someone actually lives here. Our places always look like we're ready to move.
Running my fingers over her pleather couch, I can actually see myself living here. Ratty carpet and all.
Behind the couch there is an entire wall dedicated to picture frames. It's wild. We don't have a single one up in our place. Not even a digital one. Pictures evoke memories, you see, and memories are banned at our house; especially ones of my mother.
“Thanks again for inviting us over,” Dad says, clearly uncomfortable.
“It's my pleasure. It's not often I get to cook for someone.”
She's pretty and she cooks. Interesting.
“So Jada, will you be starting school Monday?”
I nod. “Yup. Senior year. And before you ask, I'm not going to college.” That’s always the follow-up question. Might as well nip that conversation in the bud. I brace myself for the adult lecture about college being essential, but she surprises me.
“I wish I'd never gone. College proved to be hell for me,” Kari says. I can't help but notice that her eyes have teared up. “Will you excuse me,” she says, after a moment. “I need to check on the roast.”
As she tinkers in the kitchen, I get up and walk over to her wall of frames, curious to know more about our lovely neighbor. There are the traditional family style portraits of Kari as a child. She was stunning even from early on. Then there are some of her in her teens dressed in a purple leotard and rainbow legwarmers. I knew it. She was a dancer.
It's the photos just over the couch that pulls my focus though. I hone in on one black and white still. It's a shot of two dancers: a man and woman. The woman isn't Kari, though. This dancer has super pale skin with jet black hair; the contrast is simply amazing. She's reaching out one of her hands towards the other dancer. He's the stark opposite of her. His skin is dark and he has black curly hair. His face is terribly scarred – but it doesn't, ironically, deter from his overt beauty.
My heart races. I know these people. How do I know these people?
Breathing heavy, I look at the picture of the two of them reaching out to each other. There is such a deep and palpable longing in their eyes that I've never seen captured on film before. It's beautiful and heartbreaking at the same time. I can't pull myself away from it. It's like her pain is my pain. Familiar.
“That's from a production of Romeo & Juliet,” Kari says, from right beside me, scaring the daylights out of me.
“Oh,” I say, trying to find my heart again. “That's the one where they die, right?”
Her face drops. “Yeah. That's the one.” She blinks a few times, almost as if she's fighting back tears. “Dinner is ready.” She turns and walks back into the kitchen.
There's a story there. I need to find out what it is. I just don't know why.
Chapter 6
Tobias
When we get home, Hawk's folks aren't there yet, so I invite him over to help me make lunch since we never actually got to eat earlier. He grabs clean t-shirts from off the line before we head inside. We have a dryer, but my mom is so old school that she refuses to use it when its sunny out.
Since Mom is still sleeping, we busy ourselves in the kitchen. Hawk pours himself a glass of powdered milk while I look through the pantry for our options. I opt for something simple, spaghetti and frozen meatballs. Hawk fries up the meatballs while I boil the water.
Neither one of us mentions the strange silence that's managed to wedge its way between us.
“I can't stay long,” Hawk finally says. “I've got practice at 2:30.”
I nod. He's been going to football practice for the last month now, leaving me to twiddle my thumbs in boredom. Today, I think I might welcome his absence.
“How's that going?”
He taps the spatula on the edge of the pan. “I'd rather be out in the woods.”
“One more year
, dude, then you'll be free.” It's a weak reply but it's all I can come up with.
Hawk smiles. “And won't the folks be happy when I tell them what they can do with their college fund?”
I knew college was out of the picture for me with my limited time left on this planet, but had always assumed Hawk would go until now.
“No college, huh? What's the plan then? Sit around and wait for me to die?” I say, only half-kidding.
He laughs. “As much fun as that will be, I guess my plans are dependent on what Jada wants to do.” He turns the heat off the stove and drains the fat as I stand there and stare at him in disbelief.
“What are you talking about?”
He brushes past me, grabs a pot hanging from the rack, and tosses the browned meatballs in.
“My plans are contingent on hers.” He stirs in a jar of sauce.
“Hawk,” I say, carefully, “You just met her.”
He looks me in the eyes. “And now that I found her I'm not going to lose her.” Something shifts in his expression. His jaw is set, determined. For a second he looks down right dangerous. Then it shifts back and he looks like himself again.
Mom starts to come down the stairs just then. I glance at the clock and notice that she hasn't slept enough.
“Hawk, sugar,” Mom says, rubbing her eyes. “You staying for lunch?” She asks.
“If you'll have me,” he beams. Hawk adores my mom and she him. It's hard for me to grasp that Hawk doesn't get this at home. I wonder, suddenly, what that sort of cold shoulder might do to a person?
As we eat, Hawk talks my mom's ear off about everything except Jada, for which I'm grateful for, but can't help but wonder why. Maybe he wants to keep her all to himself. When he tells her about my asthma attack though I want to haul off and punch him.
“Tobias Daniel Garret,” Mom growls. “You march your asthmatic little butt up those stairs and put your nebulizer on this minute!” I glare at Hawk who gives me an 'I'm sorry' look.
“Ma, I'm fine.”
She crosses her arms and cocks her head. “Now, mister.”
Pulled Back (Twin Flames Series) Page 5