by Amy Sparling
He lifts an eyebrow. “That doesn’t answer my water question.”
The corners of my lips twist into a grin. “I don’t need water, but I do need you to stop treating me like I’m breakable.”
He frowns, and lifts his hand to my cheek. “You are breakable, baby.” I catch his eyes flick to my neck, where I know the bruises remain, though they’ve faded some.
The swelling in his eye has gone down, but it’s still purple and red. I shake my head and grab onto his wrist while he holds my face. “I’m fine. I’ve been through a lot. As long as someone doesn’t put a bullet in my head, I’m gonna be fine.”
His expression hardens. “Don’t talk like that. God, I can’t even think of that—” He looks away, his chest heaving. “If anyone hurts you, or tries to hurt you, or even looks at you wrong—I’ll destroy them.”
“Apparently they suspended Aubrey, right?” I shrug. “It’s fine. I don’t have any other enemies, just a bunch of jealous girls giving me dirty looks.” Then, because Jett’s expression is so painfully angry, I smack my fist into my palm, pretending to be tough. “I’m not worried about those girls,” I say, grinning.
He smiles, but it’s a sad expression. He leans forward and kisses my forehead, so slowly that his lips linger on my skin for a few seconds. “This is all my fault. If I hadn’t been such a fucking player all my life—” He heaves a sigh and then shakes his head, his hand tightening on my cheek. “My dumbass past has hurt you and I’m so so sorry, Keanna.”
I feel his eyelashes flutter closed on my temple. I lean into him, wrapping my arms around his body.
“Don’t blame yourself for some jealous psychopath,” I whisper.
He seems like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. He just stretches back and lies down on my bed while I snuggle up into his arms. I wrap an arm over his stomach and his chin rests on top of my head.
“I’m scared to go to school tomorrow,” I whisper against his chest. His shirt smells like laundry detergent and lavender, a clean scent I’m beginning to think of as home.
“You could skip it,” he says, stroking his fingers through my hair.
“Nah, I’ll be okay. It’ll just suck without you.”
He snorts. “Tell me about it. D’andre and Maya said you’re still welcome to sit with them at lunch.”
I let out a long breath, closing my eyes while I relish in the feel of his fingers running through my hair. “Cool.”
We go back to watching the TV. Becca pokes her head in the door and tells me she and Park are heading to the grocery store. As soon as their car pulls out of the driveway, I watch it through my window while it disappears down the lonely county road. The current episode on TV ends and the credits roll. I lean up on my elbow and look into Jett’s eyes.
“Hey there,” he says, peering down at me.
“Hi,” I say. My eyes narrow seductively and I move until I’m on top of him. His hands slide down to my hips and I lean forward, kissing his neck, trailing my lips up to his ear. He sighs and his hands dig into me, holding me steady while I roam my hands down his chest and just to the edge of his jeans. When my lips meet his, he parts his mouth and runs his tongue along mine, sending a shiver of delight down my spine. He tastes like Dr. Pepper and slide my hand up his chest while we make out, letting my body mold to his and move with him while our hands and mouths explore.
I keep to the right side of his face since the left side is all bruised and I notice Jett makes no move to kiss my neck like he usually does. As much as I want him, we can’t exactly make out like normal right now.
I kiss him hard on the mouth, and feel his excitement pressing into my belly. I look up at him and get an idea—risky but sexy—and I decide to act on it before I chicken out.
I lean forward and lick my tongue up his neck. He throws his head back and closes his eyes, his hands pulling my hips into him.
I push up on my elbows and swing my leg around him, until I’m straddling him. I lower myself down to his stomach and kiss the skin between the bottom of his shirt and the top of his jeans. His tanned stomach has a sharp white tan line just beneath the elastic of his boxers and I push it down with my tongue.
I slide my hands down to his zipper. He freezes. “Key,” he says, breathless. His hand covers mine. “Don’t. You don’t—have to do that.”
“I want to,” I say, trying again to undo his pants.
He shakes his head and sits up. His arms slide around my waist and he pulls me back up to him, holding me snugly around my back so I can’t move back down. “We don’t need to do that,” he says, avoiding my gaze. If anything, his thoughts seem far away.
My lip pouts. “Why not? I thought it would be fun.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t—that’s just—it’s too soon, okay?”
Alarms go off in my head. It definitely seems like he’s lying to me. But why? And do I really want to know why my boyfriend is denying the one thing that guys love more than anything?
I mask my disappointment and worry and roll over to my side, taking the remote control and turning up the volume. “Okay,” I say, trying to focus on the television and not my shattered ego. “Whatever you want.”
Chapter 22
The walk home is a lonely one. It’s just after eleven and although we spent the last couple of hours watching TV and laughing at all the funny parts, there was definitely something off in the way things felt. I know Keanna is probably upset with me for stopping her advances, but I just couldn’t. The thought of her getting sexual with me kept bringing me back to what Ashley told me in class. Flashbacks of getting wasted at parties, flirting with girls—it’s all too much. I can’t seem to get into being with Keanna when the guilt of my past is killing me slowly.
I’d all but convinced myself to tell her about my past of being a serial dater—to really tell her, in detail—but then on Friday after my talk with my parents, I got to her house and saw her angelic face, her kind eyes—and I just couldn’t do it.
I can’t let her know what type of person I used to be. I mean, I know she has an idea but I need her to know the truth, to hear her either forgive me and accept me or kick me to the curb. She deserves better than me. I swallow the lump in my throat as I step up onto the deck by my back door. It’s dark tonight, with only a sliver of the moon glowing in the sky. I know deep down that Keanna deserves to know who she’s dating, and she deserves to make the choice to keep dating me or not. But god, would I love to ignore it all and just live in the moment with her, allowing myself to have the greatest girlfriend on earth, burying away all the guilt I feel.
The pool glows from the single light that’s on near the diving board. That light is always on, and the rest of the pool’s lights have to be turned on manually. But it’s just enough glow to beckon to me in the darkness. It’s close to midnight, but it’s not like I have school in the morning. I kick off my shoes, pull off my shirt, put my cell phone on the patio table and dive in.
The water is warm on the surface and cooler the deeper I sink. I dive down until my fingertips graze along the bottom of the pool at the deepest end. Then I lift my head toward the sky and let my body slowly float back up.
I can’t stop thinking about finding that guy choking Keanna in the stairwell. The image of it haunts me, mostly late at night. It surfaces in my mind now.
There was actually a split second where I didn’t know who he was assaulting. A tiny fraction of time where I saw a guy choking someone else, and I dove forward to stop it. In the very next instant I caught a glimpse of her face, saw that this innocent victim wasn’t just any student, but Keanna, and I’ve never felt so much rage in my life.
It also feels like fate had a hand in it. I don’t normally walk that direction and we don’t meet there between classes. It was a fluke that I’d happened to be the first person out of my class and therefore I was in the hallways quicker than usual. I took a different route just to avoid seeing Ashley, and it led me to Keanna. What would have happened if I hadn’t
been there?
Even in the warm pool water, my body gets the chills. I wish I’d had five more minutes with that guy—more time to bash his head in before I was pulled away. I almost wish the whole thing had gone viral—that for once some dipshit with their phone had caught the whole thing on film and posted it for the world to see. I want everyone to know that you can’t mess with Keanna and get away with it.
But we were the only ones in the hallway until someone heard the yelling and called a teacher. There are no videos, and I’m suspended for a week. By the time I come back, it’ll probably be old news.
At least I hope it will. Violence isn’t the option, I know. But high school shouldn’t be this hard. It’d taken everything I had to convince Keanna to come to school this year and be with me, hoping we’d be normal high school students with normal high school lives.
Three days in, and that’s all gone to shit.
I swim a few laps to get my anger out, and once I’m exhausted, I climb out of the pool and take a hot shower.
I text Keanna that I miss her, knowing she won’t be able to write back since she’s asleep, and then I try to fall asleep, ignoring the guilt that plagues at me every second of the day.
It’s one thing to be haunted by the fact that my past is full of a couple dozen girls who all wanted to be “the one”, that’s a shitty fact of my life that I just have to deal with. It’s not like I slept with all of them—most of them were just casual drunken make outs. I could get over it. I could shove it to the back of my mind and forget it ever happened—call it my old days of being crazy before I settled down.
But it’s not that simple.
My past has resurfaced and hurt my girlfriend. She has bruises around her neck to prove it. So even if I could forget it all and pretend it never happened, could Keanna?
Would she care about me the same way if she knew how shady I was? How many girls I let text me without ever getting a reply? How many lips have touched mine when I was partying too hard to think clearly?
Would she still love me if she knew this?
Does she even love me now?
Chapter 23
My car smells like the homemade blueberry muffin Becca handed me on my way out of the door this morning. I nibble on it while I drive to school, careful not to spill any crumbs in the interior of my gorgeous car. I haven’t driven it much since Jett usually takes me to school. I glance down at the odometer: 326 miles.
The small number makes me remember when I was little, when Dawn was bragging that her piece of crap car had just broken two hundred and fifty thousand miles and was still running. She’d gotten the car by trading it for a guitar she’d stolen from an ex-boyfriend, so in all, it was a pretty good deal. I don’t think she’s had a new car in her entire life, and here I am driving one at the age of seventeen. Funny how that works.
I pull into Jett’s parking spot and cut the engine. Holding my hand under the muffin to catch any crumbs, I eat it all and then wish I’d brought a coffee or orange juice with me. Now I’m dying of thirst.
With a heavy heart, I shoulder my backpack and make my way toward the school. Head down, blank expression. That’s the only way I’ll get through this humiliation. Thank God, my bruises are a lot better, and I’d used concealer and a carefully-placed fluffy scarf to hide my neck. It’s summer and hot as hell, but Becca had assured me that skinny jeans, a tank top, and this flowy scarf would be in fashion. The fact that they even sell scarfs at all in Texas is a testament to them being worn merely as fashion accessories.
I stop at the café kiosk and get an apple juice, then I make my way to first period, sliding into my usual desk before anyone else is in here, including Mr. Ellis.
I read an eBook on my phone and eventually everyone files into class and the bell rings. Mr. Ellis passes out our test reviews, the ten-page assignment from hell that is meant to prepare us for our first benchmark test, and I’m pleasantly surprised to see a big red 97 on the top of mine. Not bad at all.
The door opens and an office aide hands Mr. Ellis a green slip of paper. You know those weird moments of clarity, where you instantly know something is about to happen? Well, it happens to me now. I don’t know why or how, but I know that note is for me.
Mr. Ellis looks up, eyebrows raised. “Keanna? Ah, there you are,” he says, walking toward me. He smiles and hands over the paper. It’s an office memo telling me to report to the counselor immediately.
Mr. Ellis turns to the board and begins talking about the problems that most people got wrong. Now that Aubrey’s desk is empty, there are no more threatening or insulting gazes thrown at me, and that’s nice. Everyone else in this class seems pretty chill. I pack up my things and duck out of the classroom.
This is probably just some getting-to-know-you new student orientation thing. At least I hope it is. During our principal meeting last Friday, I wasn’t in trouble. Jett was, but not me. Plus, this is a visit with the guidance counselor, so I’m not exactly worried.
The office is big and decorated like some kind of fancy home accents store threw up in here. There’s a wax melter on every little end table, burning some kind of autumn scent that smells like orange and cloves. The receptionist looks up when I enter and her gaze goes to the green paper in my hand.
“Counselor?” I ask.
She points to the right and I follow the hallway until I reach the right office. Mrs. Albright is a short, chubby woman with blond hair and an even stronger wax melter scent in her own office. This one smells like linen, I guess, and it has me wishing for the orange and cloves scent again.
“Hi, um,” I say, holding up the paper slip. “I was called here?”
“Keanna Park?” she says, standing to shake my hand. I nod, still not used to hearing my new last name.
“New student orientation?” I say, only it comes out sounding kind of sarcastic. Whoops. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad to be called out of math class,” I add with a laugh.
Mrs. Albright’s smile flattens. She motions for me to sit in the chair across from her desk and she sits, too.
“This isn’t an orientation, Keanna. I’ve actually called you here to talk about what happened last week, among other things.”
I frown. “I feel like I’ve already talked a lot about what happened. It’s over now.”
She nods. Her cell phone goes off, her ring tone sounding like birds chirping. She grabs the phone and shuts it off. “Well, then we can only talk about that really quickly, if you’d prefer. I wanted you to know that Aubrey has not only been suspended, but she’s decided to transfer to another school.”
She leans forward, lacing her fingers together. “You no longer need to fear being bullied by her, Keanna.”
The way she keeps saying my name is kind of annoying, and I wonder if it’s some therapist type of rule to make a student like you or feel at home, or whatever.
“Okay, thanks. That’s cool I guess.”
She studies me for a moment. This isn’t my first time seeing a school counselor, so I should be used to it by now. And the good thing is that now I am a new person—now I don’t have to talk about being homeless, or the endless parade of men in my house, or my mother—my old mother.
Mrs. Albright draws in a deep breath. “So I had a talk with your mother this morning—Mrs. Park.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Okay?” Becca already knows about the Aubrey thing—why are we still bringing it up?
Mrs. Albright reaches for a pen and turns to a new sheet of paper in the legal pad in front of her. “Your mom shed some light on your situation with me, and I’d like to spend some time discussing it with you.”
My arms fold in front of my chest. “What situation?”
“Tell me about your childhood, Keanna. Let’s talk about your biological mother and your recent adoption.” Her eyes light up like she gets some sick satisfaction in talking about people’s screwed up lives.
I sigh and look around her office. There’s a ton of family photos filling the s
helf behind her desk. One of the girls looks to be about my age and she’s often dressed in a Hornets cheerleading uniform like Maya’s.
“Tell me about you, Keanna.” She leans back in her chair, pen and notebook poised like she’s ready to settle back and listen to a long story.
“Do I have to?” It’s the first thing I think of, and I don’t really care if it’s not polite.
“I thought you were happy to get out of math class?” she says, lifting an eyebrow.
I sigh. “Okay sure. What do you want to know?”
*
By the time Mrs. Albright is done with me, I’ve lost track of how many times the bell has rung. She’s like some kind of psycho, needing to know my whole life from its messed up beginnings of my mother not wanting me and choosing to remind me every chance she got, to my newest development of getting new parents who actually care about me. She takes a ton of notes and I am so freaking bored. She probably hopes I’ll have some kind of cathartic experience by telling her my whole ordeal, but it doesn’t do anything. I am just bored and ready for it to be over.
“This was wonderful,” Mrs. Albright says after another bell goes off. The sounds of students filling the hallways can be heard even from deep inside her office. “I’d like to continue these sessions weekly.”
“What?” I practically fly out of my chair. “What else do you possibly need from me?”
“Keanna, it’s not what I need from you. It’s what you need from me. You’ve been through a lot and you’ve had quite the hard life. These sessions will help you heal.”
“I’m already healed,” I say, throwing my backpack on my shoulder. “My life wasn’t that bad.”
“The fact that you think that tells me we need more sessions.” She stands and puts her hand on my arm, giving me this pitying look that’s probably also in the school therapist handbook. “This will help you transition into the young adult that you are. You’ll be able to work out your issues and be confident going forward and graduating.”