“You know I like you in bed at a certain time, Leighlee.” Mom taps the spoon in her mug against the rim before setting it on the table.
“It’s summertime,” I answer weakly. Condensation from my water pools between my hand and the bottle.
She scoffs. “You’re not one of those girls who stays up all night and sleeps all day. I don't know what kind of home Tommy runs, but—”
“Teri,” Dad warns.
“Maybe we need to keep you home more this summer.” Mom lowers her tone, but she’s still just as condescending with the small smile on her lips and the judge at her side.
“I took a nap!” I yell, covering my mouth with my hand the moment I do. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell.”
My mom’s cheeks burn red. I can practically see the lecture building. But Dad pats her hand, and the fire in her eyes dims.
“Until Leigh gives us a reason not to trust her, you don’t have a reason not to,” he says, ending the conversation.
LATER THAT night, I’m in my room wide awake while the rest of the house has been in bed for hours. Too lazy to get the polish remover from the bathroom, I peel away purple polish from my fingernails when my cellphone rings.
And I know it’s him.
“Where were you, Thomas?” I answer.
“In Portland with Casper.”
“Why?”
“Why not? I—” He stops, breathing heavily.
“What is it?”
“It’s not as easy to kick as I thought it would be.” He takes a breath. “I’m talking myself out of not using again.”
“I didn’t know where you were.”
“Baby, I didn’t know where the fuck I was half of the time. It won’t happen again. I won’t leave you like that.”
I want to ask him to promise me. But I don’t. I know he’d break it.
“Can I come over?” he asks. His tone is low, and he’s asking as if he’s uncertain of my answer.
“Of course.”
“Then come open the door for me, girl.”
I don’t bother tiptoeing down the stairs, and I don't care about the way the metal clicks as I unlock the front door. Old hinges squeak, and my heart skips a few beats. I listen for my parents, but their TV is louder than I am.
Warm and muggy, midnight-summertime air fills the living room. The stupid dog next door is barking again, wary of the tall, beautiful boy walking up my driveway in black shorts and a white tee.
Every house on the block is sleep-dark and quiet as I step onto the front porch. My bare feet cause the old wood to creak while humidity prickles my skin, leaving me feeling sticky-sweet. Pushing my hair off my neck, I wait on the top step for love.
When he’s finally in front of me, Thomas takes a step up so we’re the same height.
This boy wraps his arms around my back and pulls me to himself. I inhale vanilla-trouble until my eyes water, because that’s all there is. No pot, no booze … Just Tide, Dove, and vanilla.
All Thomas.
He lifts my chin. “I’m sorry.”
I lead the way to my room. Our left hands hold while we take one careful step at a time. I peek back and trouble smiles, but his look is shifty, and his hand trembles in mine. When we pass my parents’ room, I hold a finger to my lips. “Shh.”
He winks.
When we finally reach my room, Thomas goes straight for my bed while I close the door, not releasing the handle until it’s all the way shut. As quietly as I can manage, I turn the lock.
Thomas toes off his shoes and tries to remove his shirt. It gets stuck on his shoulders, so I help him, and then I press the palm of my hands between his shoulder blades where I can feel his swift heartbeat the best.
“Are you okay?” I ask, scratching my nails lightly down his spine.
With the left side of his face hidden in my lavender pillow, he shakes his head.
I curl up beside him, pressing my cheek to his soft, warm skin. After a few minutes, Thomas turns in my arms. His tired eyes are glossy, but they’re returning to blue.
“Take this off,” he says, tugging at the end of my sleep shirt.
I toss it away, leaving myself bare-topped in cotton shorts. My boy pulls me beside him and scoots down a little before laying his head over my chest and wrapping his arms around my back. I light up everywhere our skin touches.
“Stay like this all night. It’s a rule.”
Love is mental.
THOMAS WAKES me up a little before four in the morning with kisses down my throat. “I have to go, little girl,” he whispers, pressing hot lips across my exposed collar bone.
“Just stay,” I say breathlessly, rubbing my thighs together.
Dusty pulls soft skin between his teeth before pulling away and getting out of bed.
The early morning air is crisp and clean, and the rising sun has turned the sky blue-orange-purple. Our neighbor’s sprinklers are on, giving the air the most invigorating scent. We’re quiet as we walk to the side of the house, hand in hand like we have been all night.
When we reach the side gate, I don’t want to let him go. Thomas hugs me tightly, lifting my feet from the cement.
“Don’t leave me,” I say quietly, looking over his shoulder at nothing.
“I’ll be back,” he says. The color of his skin hasn’t returned to normal.
I wrap my legs around his waist and grip hard with my arms. My chest presses against his, and my lips find the soft spot below his ear.
“You’re making this so much harder,” he says, letting me down.
When he leaves, I cry.
I can’t fucking help it.
I’M HERE.
Texting with one hand and brushing my teeth with my other, I reply, On my way.
Wiping my mouth, I flip off the light and carefully open the bathroom door. I avoid every floorboard that creeks and close my parents’ bedroom door before I rush down the stairs, two at a time.
I unlock the deadbolt without making a sound and open the front door quickly so the hinges don’t squeak.
Love stands in front of me, tall, strong, and smirking like he was never sick at all.
Like his trembling hands and too-hard heartbeat were all a figment of my imagination.
Like he didn’t come home last night dope-sick and helpless.
All of the blue that returned to his eyes is gone. His posture is straight and his composure is steady. The color in his face is normal, and when he says, “Are you going to let me in or what?” It’s completely typical: arrogant, challenging, and smug.
There is something calming about it, though.
It’s familiar.
It’s what I know best.
It’s our deal.
“Are you nervous?” I ask.
Becka’s eyes meet mine in the bathroom mirror, blue-devil and leading. “What’s there to be nervous about?”
I shrug, rubbing the soft cotton towel through her wet hair. A few pink strands show, but I’m careful to keep most of it covered. “It’s a big deal.”
Her lips spread high into the curviest smile; she looks so much like her brother sometimes. “No way. This is going to be awesome.”
I lower my lips to her triple pierced ear. “Ready?”
My girl closes her eyes and holds the deepest breath in her little lungs. She nods. I close my eyes, too, and drop the towel to my turquoise painted toes.
“Don’t look yet,” I say. “Let’s save this.” I wrap my arms around her chest from behind and set my chin on her shoulder. Soft, soothing drum beats and lower-toned lyrics caress our eardrums from her open door down the hall.
Between Long beach and L.A., Becka says, “Can we look now?”
“On the count of three,” I say. “One … two— I can’t wait!”
Our eyes open at exactly the same time to find me and a different girl looking back at us.
“It’s amazing,” I say with a smile.
Becka sinks her fingers into her newly light-pink colored hair. She holds wet
-wavy, long and rose-tinted ends right up to her face. “Holy shit, I can't believe we did this.” She drops the locks and places her hands on the bathroom counter, leaning toward the mirror to get a closer look.
I pick the towel up from the floor and rub my hands, trying to wipe away pinkish shine. Color is buried in my nail walls and in between my fingers, because we forgot to get gloves at the beauty supply store. I can’t bring myself to care. Not when my girl is high smiling and pink sparkling.
She looks to me over her shoulder, practically vibrating with excitement. “Do you love it, or what?”
I nod, rubbing harder.
“Chop it off,” she says, holding her hair out. “All of it. Cut it off.”
I drop the towel and shake my head. I’m a firm believer that all girls need to have long hair. Even flower-colored skater girls. “No way, Rebecka.”
She rocks her head back and forth, shaking her hair dry like a puppy dog. Pink water drops sprinkle my clothes and face, for sure ruining her white Lydia shirt I’m wearing.
“Fine, sissy Bliss baby.”
My best friend blow dries her tresses, and I sit on the counter beside her, rubbing alcohol into my hands to get the color off when Tommy comes upstairs to see what we’re doing. Tall in a pair of red-bottomed heels, she’s perfect.
“For the love of God, Rebecka, what have you done to your hair?” Tommy stands with her palm on her forehead. “You’re going to look like that during your brother’s birthday?”
Becka turns the heat off, smiles, and says, “It’s pink. I thought you liked this shit.”
BECAUSE DUSTY swears there’s nothing better than breakfast for dinner, his mom makes pancakes, bacon, and scrambled eggs, with a special order of sunny-side eggs for me. We sit around the table, drenching our meal in syrup and butter, and eat until our stomachs feel like they’ll burst.
Popping bottles of sparkling cider, Becka and I are high on sugar while my boy is high on his vice, and Tommy is drunk from the bottle of Moscato she’s polished off.
She starts to cry around 11:55 when we’re all in the living room, waiting for midnight.
“Crazy boy,” she says. Tommy pushes the hair out of her son’s face, revealing the light sheen across his forehead and the entirety of just how dark his eyes are tonight. “Why did you grow up so fast?”
Because you let him, I think to myself.
Buried in the corner of the Castors’ oversized couch, my fingers smell like maple syrup, and my lips taste like apples. My heart beats in sync with the clock on the wall as the minutes tick by, forcing time we don’t want to pass down our throats. Rebecka jumps up from the floor to grab pots and pans from the kitchen she can bang together the second her brother officially turns eighteen. Her mother wipes sadness from beneath her eyes standing with Lucas. He slides his arm across her shoulders and kisses her temple.
And Thomas sits beside me, holding my hand under the blankets that lie across our legs.
I watch in disbelief as time turns my boy into a man.
Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen … sixteen … fifteen …
At ten Thomas looks over at me and smiles.
At seven he squeezes my hand.
At three he leans over and whispers, “Be my girlfriend.”
At one I say, “No.”
At midnight Rebecka bangs metal together, and Thomas is eighteen.
“WAKE UP.” Thomas smells like beer, his hands firm on my hips. He left after we celebrated his birthday. I came to his room to an empty bed. “I need to show you something.”
I curl into a sleepy ball and turn away from my rude awakener. “Leave me alone,” I whisper playfully.
Home from wherever it is he went, Dusty slips into his bed beside me. Shirtless and burning, he presses kisses and his drunk smile into the side of my neck. Turning to face him, I lay my cheek against his too-high heartbeat, and melt.
Nothing compares to this.
We’re together almost every night. If I’m not here, he’s sneaking into my house to be with me. But it’s five minutes later each time, lessening our moments together as the warm season passes.
Thomas and I have a way of adapting to the things we put each other through: My boy never lets me go, and my grip on him is as tight as ever. He blames a lot of his crazy on me and my refusal to be his girlfriend. And I’m on the receiving end of late night phone calls that are usually him in a rage, locked in someone’s bathroom, somewhere I don't want him to be.
Summertime has turned my boy into a monstrosity, but he’s my monster.
I need Thomas’ sureness, and I crave his late night calls that last for hours but make no sense. I accept his drug-induced bullshit, because buried in that craziness is our own kind of love.
Nothing compares to that.
But love is battling cocaine for love’s attention.
She’s created a trio out of our duo. His drug is the other girl. The lipstick on his collar. She makes Dusty so unpredictable. But She’s nothing I can't or won't handle.
“What is it?” I close my eyes so I can imagine his are still blue and not deep-dark black.
“Everything.”
I give in and look up. Thomas smirks, pushing blond-red hair out of my face. He isn’t really here, I think to myself. He’s in this bed with me, but his eyes are wild.
“How long has it been since you slept?” I ask, rubbing my thumb under purple-blue bruises beneath his eyes.
He doesn’t answer me with words, but with an envelope addressed to Thomas Levi Castor; delivered on his birthday.
“My dad gave it to me before dinner.” His eyes are on my hands, on the letter … waiting.
“Are you going to open it?” Thomas asks, pulling me away from my thoughts. He stands up and pats a cigarette out of his pack.
I slip my finger under the off-colored seal flap, tear it open, and pull the papers out and set the high-grade envelope to the side. Trouble lights his nicotine, and I look up as the cherry burns orange. He smiles, encouraging me to read. As I unfold the papers, my eyes fall on a number.
A huge number.
It’s the trust he inherited when his nana died, and he hasn’t been able to touch it until now.
“Insane, right?” He laughs, blowing smoke out the window.
“This is all yours?” I’ve never—not ever—seen anything so incredibly unreal before. “What are you going to do with it?”
“Buy my girl something pretty,” he answers. The right side of his devious mouth curves up.
“Thomas, I’m serious.”
“I don’t know, Bliss. I’ll keep it. It’s for us … When we leave.”
“You can go to college,” I state the obvious.
He rolls his hooded eyes. “Yeah, I know.”
“You can be anything you want with money like this.”
The richest boy I know flicks his half-smoked cigarette out the window and walks over to me. He takes the paper from my hand, the scent of nicotine lingering on the tips of his fingers, and just says, “I don’t want to be anything but with you.”
Love is endless possibilities.
I WAKE up in Rebecka’s bed after noon. The yellow sun shining in through the cracked-open window is too bright, and my best friend is wide eyed and buoyant.
“What?” I ask, rubbing my eyes, warm under thick blankets.
“You’re in love,” she says, holding up my phone.
My heart stops, and I grab my cell from her, hoping she didn’t see anything from her brother.
“Were you trying to keep it a secret from me, Bliss?” She nudges me with her elbow, bouncing with her knees on the mattress.
My heart jump-skip-beats, pounding against my diaphragm as I touch-slide unlock my phone. But when my screen lights up, relief has never felt so good.
It’s a text message from Oliver.
Hey, it says.
I take a much needed breath and fall back with my phone over my heart.
Becka laughs. “You have it that bad, huh?”
I shake my head and sigh. “Stay out of my phone, Becka.”
“Sorry,” she says, rolling out of bed. Her new pink hair is up and mid-morning tousled. “It went off and you didn’t wake up. Tired much?”
“I didn't sleep well.”
She pulls the blanket off of me, replacing body warmth with freezing, conditioned air. “Well, get up. We have a party to get ready for.”
She tickles the bottom of my feet relentlessly before I finally crawl out of bed. I take my time finding my bra and raking my fingers through my strawberry-blond sunup mess. My eyes won’t open, so I keep them mostly closed as we head downstairs. Becka thinks it’s funny and takes a picture of me all zombie apocalypse-like.
“I’m so sending this to Oliver,” she says.
My eyes snap open. “You better not!”
I chase her down the stairs, and as she turns the corner to run into the kitchen, she runs straight into Petey.
He catches her before she falls.
“I like it, pretty in pink,” he says, twirling a lock of her ponytail around his finger.
This girl smiles and acts bashful and embarrassed by the compliment, but that’s not her style. I’m not surprised when she reaches for his hair, pulls, and says, “Thanks, dumb in blond.”
His smile is lopsided, so-in-love-with-her sneaky.
She makes him beg for mercy, and he does, but I’m over their flirting. I quietly move around them into the kitchen where the java is hot and ready, squeezing my way through the caterers to get to the coffee pot, but even then, all the counter space is being used: appetizers, main courses, desserts. Italian’s on the menu, and the house smells so good.
When the dessert guy isn’t looking, I steal a chocolate cannoli from his tray and dip it in my coffee.
“I saw that.” Tommy struts by, winking right before she orders one of the workers setting up the tables outside to—not so kindly—move the stack of chairs away from her new gazebo—now.
“Leighlee, do me a favor, baby,” she calls over her shoulder. She’s at the back door, hanging up a birthday banner. It’s crooked, but she’ll figure it out. “Go wake up Dusty.”
I shove the rest of the cannoli in my mouth and nod. The dessert guy gives me a dirty look.
Delinquents (Dusty #2) Page 4