“A better perspective on what?”
She folds her hands in her lap. “You say he has your back—and perhaps that’s true—but you’ve also told me he has a habit of letting you take the fall for his mistakes. Do you think that’s fair?”
“Life isn’t fair.”
“Eric, you can choose whether or not you want to keep putting yourself in these situations.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
“Next subject.”
She picks up her pen and makes a small note. This is how we operate. If she tries to take me somewhere I’m not willing to go, she’ll drop it and come back to it later. I know it’s just a matter of time before Vivienne makes me revisit my childhood. We’ve slowly been building up to it. As we get closer and closer, I feel myself detaching and giving fewer and fewer fucks. She’d tell you that’s because I’m a slap a Band-Aid on it and call it good kinda guy and she’s a we’re going to heal this wound properly from the inside out kinda woman.
Her method is far worse.
“Fill me in on what else is going on,” she encourages.
“I applied for another lawn care job.”
“Have you heard anything back?”
“Not yet.”
“Are you still saving up for a car?”
“Duh. I’m the only eighteen-year-old I know without a car.”
“What kind of car are you leaning towards?”
Any hope she had of steering me off this topic went right out the window the second she asked me that question. We spend the rest of the session discussing cars, street racing, and graffiti. I divulge where my favorite spots are to paint, and the areas I’m planning on hitting up tonight after dark. She tries to talk me out of it like the sensible therapist she is, but a hint of a smile manages to escape, betraying her warning. It’s nice to be reminded that once in awhile, she’s actually capable of being cool.
TWO
r a v e n
Present Day
I’m in love with a boy. Not just any boy, a boundary-testing, pussy-chasing scoundrel, who also happens to be one of my best friends. Eric Hansen has been corrupting my world since high school. He was a too-cool-for-school senior—a rebel with many causes—and I was your average overeager freshman, secretly vying for his attention.
I couldn’t tell you exactly when the shift happened—when we stopped being ourselves and started being us. It was gradual. A slow burn that smoldered over a series of uneventful days, weeks, months, or even years. It snuck up on us, as defining moments often do in one’s life. Then it consumed us from the inside out.
Beautiful chaos.
Unfortunately, there are a million and one obstacles standing in the way. The first one is my current beau, Brandon. We met at Bellotti’s while I was working one night. He came in to eat dinner with some friends and ended up asking for my number. I admired his confidence, so I said yes. We’ve been dating for a couple months. He makes me feel good. Cherished.
This brings me to the next obstacle: Eric’s perfected the art of getting laid. The endless string of women have become as routine as grabbing a morning coffee. Every time I turn around, there’s a new girl in his arms—or in his bed. He loves to treat them to a latté and fry them up some breakfast the next morning. Why not make them feel at home right before you kick them out, right? Eric logic? If there is such a thing. Guess it makes the Walk of Shame more bearable.
I don’t want to fall into that same trap and wind up being just another latté girl. It’s the biggest reason why I haven’t succumbed to his numerous advances throughout the years. Somewhere along the way, he stopped pursuing, and we both found ourselves trapped in the friend zone. Timing is everything, and we suck at it.
“Um, hello? Earth to Raven.”
My gaze immediately snaps to my best friend, Tori Reynolds. Anyone in need of a loyal girlfriend who’s drama free? Too bad, suckas—she’s all mine. Like twins separated at birth, we clicked and fused six years back. We were two lone chicks swirling in a sea of insecurities, dancing to a Madonna song straight outta the Guy Ritchie era. Insta-love was in motion.
I grab my straw and poke at the ice, then swirl it around and bend forward to take a sip of my lemonade. Leaning back against the booth, I give her my full attention.
“Sorry, my head was off somewhere else. What’s up?”
She grabs the pitcher and pours herself another frozen margarita. Doesn’t matter that it’s the middle of the day and she’s underage. Tori neither operates on “suit and tie time,” nor does she partake in blatant forms of age discrimination. It’s not an easy fight but someone’s got to step up and be a shining example in this morally corrupt society of ours. Honestly, what are people thinking these days?
“I was just saying that your birthday is coming up in a couple weeks and we need to plan something spectacular. Is Mia coming back for the summer?”
“Yeah. Her dad’s picking her up from the airport next week.”
Amelia Foster is another member of the crew. She lives in Kansas most of the year under the oppressive constraints of Mommy Dearest—a woman who is nothing more than an empty vessel for vodka to take human form in. No wonder she stays with her dad during the summer. Glass half-full version: she gets a three-month reprieve. That’s something, I guess.
“Aces. I’ll shoot her a text tonight and see if she wants to get in on the event planning.”
“Don’t bother. Mia despises over-the-top décor. Says people place too much emphasis on showing off and not nearly enough thought on the actual experience.”
“I’m sure she’d be willing to make an exception for her best friend,” Tori argues.
“Grudgingly. And we’d never hear the end of it.”
“What if we get her drunk and slip her some penis?”
“Got one stashed away that we can borrow?”
“Maybe,” she plays coy. “Speaking of penises, how goes the Eric and Ravenna saga?”
“Same old. Empty promises, messy emotions, insomnia, blue balls, you name it...it happens to us.”
“Common side effects of Friend Zone.”
“It’s the worst.”
“Do you ever wonder if Brandon’s pretending to be unobservant so that way you’ll be more prone to slipping up, giving him the perfect opportunity to catch you in some compromising situation that looks sketchier than it really is? Then, when you least expect it, he’ll screw you over?”
“All the time,” I respond. “But Brandon doesn’t work that way. He’s sweet and trusting. Besides, there’s nothing to hide. Harmless flirting does not a scandal make.”
“And wishful thinking does not a reality become.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you can sit there and tell yourself that flirting with Eric isn’t harmful, but we both know it’s just a matter of time before lines get blurred and feelings get crushed.”
“Nothing’s going to happen. Definitely not while Brandon’s in the picture.”
“Do you actually believe that?”
Something fiercely protective festers inside me. “It’s easy for you to sit there and make assumptions, but you have no idea how our dynamic works. No one does.”
“Oh, please. I’ve had a front row seat for years. Sorta an expert at this point. Plus, you even said yourself that it’s getting harder to ignore your feelings for him.”
“Which is true,” I admit. “But I’ve got it under control.”
“If you say so,” she says, her tone filled with doubt. She glances down to check the time on her phone. Her eyes pop out of her head. “Ooh, I have to cut this short or I’m going to be late.” Tori slides out of the booth, stands up, and slings her purse over her shoulder. “Sorry to bail on you like this. I totally lost track of time.”
“Where are you going?”
“I have an appointment to get my rainforest waxed.”
I grimace. “Lovely.”
“I’ll keep you p
osted.”
“Please don’t.”
“Prepare to say goodbye to Cousin Itt. I know you’ll miss her dearly.”
“Filthy lies.”
“Brutal truths.”
“Get out of here and call me later.”
“No promises. I have a dinner date—hence the Brazilian.”
“Now that you can keep me updated on.”
“I fully intend to. Peace out, Girl Scout.”
She bids me farewell with a backwards wave and disappears.
I finish off my plate and cue the waitress, then glance down to check my phone for any missed messages. A text pops up on the screen from my Modern Day James Dean—a.k.a. Eric.
MDJD: You down for a late-night painting sesh tonight? I’ll spring for Rudy’s BBQ if you promise to be nice.
Me: I could be persuaded with brisket and potato salad. And when am I ever not nice?
MDJD: Gee, idk. Maybe when you decided to punch me in the balls last week?
Me: That was an accident and you know it!
MDJD: Semantics. Anyway, 8. Be there or be square.
Me: Word on the street is it’s hip to be a square.
MDJD: Anyone who uses that phrase is clearly a square.
Me: Careful. My fingers are flexing for a ball busting.
MDJD: You’re a lousy flirt.
Me: Says the guy who lives for it.
I shake my head and smile, then drop the phone inside my bag.
* * *
Four Years Ago...
I fall backwards onto my bed and stare up at the ceiling. My parents would ground me for an eternity if they knew I was considering sneaking out. My clock says 11:27 p.m. I’ve been obsessively watching this thing tick by for the last twenty minutes.
Longest twenty minutes of my life.
I grab my sandals, tiptoe out into the hall, and check to make sure everyone’s asleep before journeying downstairs. This is the only instance where the sound of my dad’s snoring is reassuring, not obnoxious.
Flashes of lightning ripple across the sky, helping me see. As if this wasn’t going to be difficult enough, now I have to worry about the threat of thunder shaking the whole house. The faintest noises have me on edge. I’ve surpassed bold and sneaky and gone straight to reckless and stupid.
When my bare foot hits the bottom step, I slide my shoes on and lightly pad across the tile. I take a deep breath for some extra courage and slip out the back door, leaving a small sliver of my good girl persona behind.
It’s hard-to-catch-your-breath humid out. Beads of warm rain gently fall on my exposed skin, making me shiver with anticipation. Soon it will be pouring. Before I can talk myself out of this, I run. I’ve never been a huge risk-taker, but the freedom of breaking rules feels exhilarating.
My legs pick up speed, eager to reach his place. I can see his glowing porch light ahead. A large canopy hangs from above, shielding the deck. I count the houses as I race by, being careful not to trip and fall. My muscles ache in protest as I round on his house. I jog up the steps and attempt to catch my breath.
Now I remember why I tell people I’m allergic to running.
There’s a light on inside, but no sign of Eric. I’m afraid to knock on the door and wake anyone up. Has he changed his mind? Did plans fall through because of the rain and I didn’t get the memo? I hope that’s not the case. How embarrassing would that be? This is getting weird. I should go.
Suddenly, a moving shadow is cast on the wall. Eric appears at the window, scaring the crap out of me. He smiles and motions for me to come in. I stay put. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. I don’t know him that well. Going inside his house during the middle of the night was never part of the plan. He promised we’d stay in the neighborhood since I was scared of getting caught.
He moves to open the door. “Get inside.”
“This wasn’t part of the deal,” I say breathlessly, still recovering from the run.
“Plans change.”
That’s it?
“I’m going to need more than that.”
He props his forearm up against the doorframe. His shirt rides up an inch or two, exposing a small patch of skin.
“What I have in mind can’t be done outside when it’s raining.”
“What exactly do you have in mind?”
“Come see for yourself.”
I look in the direction of my house.
He drops his arm and straightens his posture. “Didn’t I say you’d be safe? Nothing’s going to happen. If you’ve changed your mind and don’t want to be here, I’ll grab a hoodie and walk you back home. Just say the word.”
Do I want to leave? No. But I shouldn’t be here. This isn’t me. I’m not the girl who sneaks out of her house at night, ditching her common sense for a guy. Just once I’d like to be that girl, though.
I step inside and remove my shoes.
“Are we the only ones here?”
“Yeah. My uncle left for work a half hour ago. He won’t be back until morning.”
“Does he always work nights?”
“Every day but Sunday.”
He heads for the kitchen and picks up a dishtowel, then throws it my way. I catch it and pat myself dry, tossing it back when I’m done.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
The house is clean and organized, but I wouldn’t use cozy as a word to describe it. The walls are completely bare, minus a wooden sailboat hanging underneath a plaque that reads: Captain's Quarters. A navy blue couch is sitting in the living room next to a swamp green recliner. What really ties everything together is the horrendous shag rug being used as the centerpiece. The style freak inside me is dying a slow, painful death at the sight. No excuse. You can live on a tight budget and still be trendy. I’ve seen it happen.
Eric leads me upstairs. With each room we pass, I try to sneak a peek inside. We come to the end of the hallway, and he opens what I assume is his bedroom door and flips the light on.
That’s when my entire perception of Eric unravels.
Rich, vibrant brush strokes caress my senses, luring me in. “Oh, my God,” I whisper, taking five small steps into the room and spinning around. Explosions of color breathe life into the small space. My jaw drops as I attempt to take everything in. It’s too much. All the beauty, creativity, art; it hits you all at once. This couldn’t be more of a contrast from the rest of the house. I’m not only impressed; I’m envious. He needs to come over and decorate my room. Like, yesterday.
I turn around to face him. He’s leaning against his dresser, watching me. “Did you do all these?” I motion around the room. I can’t shake the pure wonder and fascination in my voice.
“Most of them. A few are from other artists. Do you like them?”
I look at him like he’s crazy. “Like them? Eric, these are amazing. Where did you learn to do this?” I ask, studying the pieces more closely.
“When I was seven, my mom signed us up for an art class. We’d spend a couple hours a week drawing and painting together, trying to imagine how our lives could be. It was our escape. She was always running from something, and I was always looking for a distraction, so it clicked. It’s stuck with me ever since.”
I don’t know what to say. His raw honesty is unexpected. He’s usually closed off and guarded. Not wanting to let this rare opportunity pass me by, I blurt, “Can I ask you something?”
“Go for it.”
“What happened to your parents? I’ve heard the rumors, but I don’t believe—”
“What rumors?”
My mouth snaps shut. Crap. We stare at each other, unsure of what to do next. This is none of my business. I shouldn’t even be asking.
“Tell me,” he coaxes, sensing my anxiety.
He deserves to know. If it were me, I’d want to know what was being said behind my back. “I heard you were taken away from your parents because they were drug addicts.” Definitely didn’t come out as smooth as I wanted. Mentally facepalming myse
lf.
He grips the edge of the dresser, his body taut and rigid. “Not exactly. What else have you heard?”
When I don’t offer anything more, he waits patiently. My shoulders slump. “I also heard you were expelled from your last school for beating someone up.”
“That’s definitely not true,” he refutes. “I’ve never been expelled.”
“Then why do you have a bruise on your cheek and stitches in the side of your head? That wasn’t from a fight?”
“No,” he says, averting his gaze and shifting around uncomfortably.
Before I can ask him to elaborate, he cuts the conversation short and strides across the room to crack open a window. He comes to stand directly in front of me, hovering. “Tell you what, let me go get all the supplies we need and we can continue this conversation while we paint. Anything I tell you has to stay between us, though.”
If it were possible, this night just got better.
“Absolutely.”
“And you have to be willing to share some stuff too,” he bargains. “Otherwise, the deal’s off.”
I nod, more than willing to make that trade.
He bends over to pull a tarp out from under his bed. I move out of the way and crouch down to help. We cover as much of the floor as possible.
“I’ll be right back.”
He stands up and exits the room. I’m left in silence, listening to the pitter-patter of rain outside. It’s calming and serene. I’m not worried about getting caught anymore. I’m not worried about Eric turning out to be a psychopath, rapist, serial killer, or worse—totally lame. No matter what happens when I get home, tonight’s already been well worth the risk.
THREE
e r i c
“Why did you move here?” she inquires.
We’re sitting cross-legged on the tarp, an array of colors and brushes spread out before of us. My favorite Linkin Park CD is playing in the background. We each have our own canvas. I offered to let her use the easel, but she declined. I didn’t want her sitting alone on the floor, so I volunteered to sit next to her, babysit her project. It’s a real inconvenience let me tell you. My eyes won’t stay put. They keep drifting over to her face every so often. Beauty is inspiring, but Raven’s is distracting.
Catching Raven Page 2