Ciara scoffs. “Hell if I know. I just said what it took to make you look like a badass.”
Oh. “How did he seem when you told him? Like was he …”
“Isla, no,” she says, stopping my mumbled line of questioning. “You don’t need to know how he took it. You’re over him, remember?”
“Right,” I say, feeling as though my whole body itches and I’ll never be able to scratch it. “I remember.”
Friday tumbles by like the fall leaves Dad blasts away from the curb with his grass blower. Classes are over, and the final bell rings and I am home, in my own room, before it even feels like I’ve started the day. My head stings with a biting headache as pain claws up the side of my temples. Either I’m suffering from a lack of sleep last night or a lack of caffeine from the coffee Emory never brought me in first period because he wasn’t there today. Or both. Probably both.
I’m fumbling with the stainless steel coffee maker, trying to get the plastic flap thing to open when Mom walks in from work and sets a box of green and gold spray paint cans on the table. “Need some help?” she offers, reaching over and opening the thing with that mom-like ease that only she can do.
“Thanks,” I say, grinning at the prospect of chugging a cup of coffee for the first time today. I’ve come to crave the stuff after weeks of morning coffee with Emory.
“Why the afternoon caffeine fix?” Mom asks, taking out each spray can and lining them up by color. “If you’re bored, you could come with me to the game tonight.”
“I have a date, remember?”
“Ah, that’s right,” she says, giving me a knowing smile, as if we’re both in on the same joke. “When will Emory be here?”
“Oh, no, it’s um …” I say, watching the coffee drip into my mug and wishing it would whisper the right words to me.
“No Emory?” Her brows pull together for just a fraction of a second and then she’s back to that Cheer Coach Smile, polite and simple. “Well, I’m sure you’ll have fun tonight no matter what you do. Just be sure to come home by curfew.”
Curfew. I hadn’t had one when I went to homecoming. “Still ten thirty?” I ask, pulling the coffee mug to my lips as I shoot up a silent prayer that this conversation will not trail to more questions about Emory. “I mean, I’m almost eighteen so—”
“Still ten thirty,” she says cheerfully, avoiding the topic. “I’m heading out soon, but have fun, honey.”
I’m not exactly sure what a college guy will think about going out with a girl who has to be home to her mommy and daddy by freaking ten thirty at night, but by the time I’ve finished showering, I have a good excuse. I’ll pretend to get sick just before curfew.
Lies on the first date? my inner Break Up Support Group says. Not a good idea. How will you ever find meaning in a relationship if you start it out that way?
I tell my inner self to shut her stupid trap. I never lied to Nate and where did that get me? Dumped. Tossed aside as a worthless girlfriend and fed to the wolves.
And now one of those wolves is taking me out to dinner and a movie. I tell myself that if I’m the only girl on David’s mind—at least for tonight—that I’ll be okay. I need this. This is healing.
I tell myself the same kind of thing, in fifty different ways, as I dress into a shimmery cream-colored tank top I’d borrowed from Ciara and a pair of the tightest jeans I own. There are rhinestone swirls on the butt pockets, and I roll up the cuffs before stepping into my lucky bright red heels.
At six-fifty, I push back the wooden chair from my vanity and rise, taking in the sight of me in the oval mirror. I wonder if David will be early or late, or perfectly on time. I wonder what Dad will say when he sees him standing at the door, looking way older than a student a Granite Hills High should look. I decide I don’t care.
I am no longer Isla Rush, the broken-hearted idiot who gave everything to a guy who doesn’t know what he wants with his future. I’m Isla Rush—a dater.
My phone beeps at six fifty-four.
David: I’m almost there. Meet me outside?
A twinge of something I can’t describe slips into my stomach but I push it away and text back: Yep.
David’s silver Chevy truck sidles up next to the curb a couple of minutes later. Right on time. I pull open the passenger door and David, wearing jeans as dark as mine and a black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, gives me a grin.
“Hey there,” he says, his lips parting wider as he watches me get inside. Should I lean in and hug him or something? I don’t know, so I pull on my seatbelt instead. For the first time since the party last weekend, I wonder if maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. Like maybe I should have spent a week or two getting to know him before committing to this date.
“You look hot as hell,” David says.
I let my eyes do the flirting for me. “You’re welcome.”
He chuckles as he pulls onto the road. “I like that. You’re a no-nonsense chick. Just right to the point. I really like that.”
Star Cinema is the complete opposite of Hastings. It’s a massive building, for one, and was built this decade. There are thirty movie screens, and all of them serve food along with the meal. David buys our tickets, and I find myself reaching for his hand as we walk into the luxuriously carpeted lobby. His fingers lace through mine, his grip strong and warm.
There’s a long white marble bar that stretches across in a sweeping arc. Rows of liquor bottles line the back shelf and massive portraits of famous movie stars splash across the wall.
We walk past an Andy Warhol of Marilyn Monroe and David gives a helpless look toward the bar. “Too bad you’re not twenty-one.”
I flush. “One of the downsides to dating someone younger than you,” I say, trying to play it off like it’s a joke.
He squeezes my hand and gives our tickets to the guy standing behind a podium in front of theater number five. “No worries. There are about a thousand upsides to dating someone your age. Alcohol isn’t a big deal. You’ll see.”
We find our seats and although I’d been expecting regular movie theater chairs, maybe even the ones with fold up armrests, I was way off. The entire theater is separated into pairs of two seats, almost like a small couch with a walkway between each one. There are small tables in front of the seats, a stack of paper menus and tiny golf pencils.
“So we just order the food from here?” I ask, copying David when he grabs a menu and a pencil.
“Damn, you’re adorable,” he says, his body turning to face me in the black leather couch. “I could teach you a lot more than just movie theaters.” He reaches out and taps me on the nose. I guess he means it to be flattering, but I’m just left feeling like a little kid.
Lips pressed together, I look over my menu. Everything is named after movie words, like the appetizers are called the Previews, and entrees are the Feature Film. I read the directions at the top of the paper menu, wishing I’d done as much before asking David about it. All I have to do is make a check mark next to the things I want. You can order as often as you want until the last fifteen minutes of the movie. Everything is written down so you don’t have to talk to the server during the film.
David leans forward and presses a red button in the center of our table. It lights up and a woman wearing solid black shimmies down the aisle and stops in front of our table. She turns off the light and whispers, “Are we ready to order?”
We hand her our menu slips, and she turns off the table light and then disappears. More people fill up the couches around us and waiters, dark as the night, slip in and out of the aisles, barely noticeable as the previews start playing.
Our waitress returns a few minutes later, placing a large pail in the center of our table. It’s filled with ice and a six pack of beer bottles. David unscrews a top and hands a bottle to me, chuckling when I look alarmed.
“I can’t—” I start to whisper, and he shakes his head.
“No one can see you, sweetheart.” He clinks his bottle to
mine just as an explosion fills the movie screen with a burst of orange and red. “Drink up.”
When the credits roll, I’m five beers deep, the bottles lining our table like shameful amber trophies next to our two pails of ice. I’d had a burger and fries for dinner, but the starchy meal wasn’t nearly enough to keep the alcohol at bay. I know this much when I go to stand up and almost fall over.
David catches my arm, and it hurts a little, but at least I stay upright. “Thanks,” I mumble, offering him a smile as I hastily throw my purse over my shoulder and try to swat all of the stray hairs out of my face. I squint as the house lights grow a little brighter. “Is the floor moving, or am I just drunk?”
It’s supposed to be a joke. He’s supposed to laugh. But David’s blue eyes graze over me, and his lips twist into something like a sneer. “A lightweight,” he murmurs as his arm snakes around my back and holds me in place while we ascend the aisle. “Cute.”
I lean into David’s muscular chest as we walk slowly back out of the theater. The chill in the air is almost painful on the long walk to his truck that’s parked in one of the last rows. There’s hardly any other cars out this far, even for the business of a Friday night. The dark autumn air smells crisp and evergreen and as another wave of dizziness rolls over me, I tuck my face into David’s side, inhaling the woodsy scent of his cologne.
“How’d you like the movie?” he asks. His hand slides up and down my back, making a soothing rhythm that I count along to in my head.
“It was good,” I say, squinting in concentration. I shiver from the cold. “At least the parts that I can remember were good.”
“I tell you what,” he says, slowing when we reach his truck. “When it comes out on DVD, I’ll rent it, and we can watch it again in my room.”
I nod along, my eyes more focused on the stars and how they swirl and flip and dance across the night sky. Why is it so damn cold out here? My stomach clenches from the alcohol. “Cool,” I say. My voice sounds very far away. I look to the right, as if, for some reason, another me might be standing there and maybe she just said those words instead of me.
And then we’re standing in front of the passenger door. I reach for the handle, but everything blurs and I’m spun around. My back presses against the cold metal door. I gasp at the shock of cold that sears into my skin and then warm lips cover up my cry. We’re kissing. And it’s sloppy and wet and cold and tastes like alcohol.
The world is spinning, so I close my eyes. David’s hands grab my waist, crushing Ciara’s shirt against my ribs. It’s hard to kiss him back, hard to concentrate on what he’s doing. Something primal rises up in my heart, stalking around like a lion. I find myself focusing more on that sensation than the one on my lips.
David’s hands roam my body, squeezing my breast so hard I wince. “Ow,” I say, gasping for a breath between his ravenous kisses.
“Sorry, baby,” he breathes. His hands are like cobras, weaving all over me. “Maybe you’d like this better?” His hand slides to my jeans, his thumb unhooking the button and sliding down the zipper in one swift movement.
It hits me very hard that I do not want to be doing this.
“No,” I say, shuffling but I don’t go anywhere. There’s a massive truck behind me, and I’m stuck. “No, David—I don’t want to—”
My fists mash against his chest, but he presses into me, one hand on the glass window and the other slithering down the front of my jeans. I can’t breathe. Everything is spinning, and it is so fucking cold outside. Gasping for another breath, I feel the panic set in. “David, I don’t want to!”
The other me, the one who is very far away, says those same words again.
“Baby, don’t be a brat,” David says as he grinds into me again. A growl escapes his parted lips. “You’re buzzed. You should be in the mood.”
I swallow, and my throat hurts. “Stop,” I say.
It must have been the magic word because David’s body flies backward, releasing me into the frigid arms of the winter air. I see a shadowy figure, a third person. “She told you no,” the new voice says. David goes to argue, but his words slur together. On instinct, I tug at my zipper and fasten my jeans, and when I look up again, it’s just in time to see Emory Underwood slam a fist into David’s jaw.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Let’s go.”
Emory’s voice is rough in my ear. His hand on my back guides me away from the silver truck. David slurs a few choice words to Emory, and I allow myself to glance back only once. David’s hand covers his cheek where he’d been punched. He leans against his truck and points at me.
“Where the hell are you going?” he calls out. “And who is this prick?”
“I’m her ride home,” Emory says, stopping. His shoes scrape across the broken asphalt parking lot as he turns toward David, leveling a glare at him that dares him to object.
“Fine,” David spits. “Not worth it anyway.”
The words hurt more than they should. Soon, my bright red heels are my focus point as I avoid potholes, walking in silence with my biggest enemy toward that dark red Camaro. My stomach rolls with more than just alcohol. Anger. Regret. Embarrassment. It all swirls through me, somehow avoiding the frigid chill that has my teeth chattering and my skin longing for a warm blanket.
The car’s headlights blink and the doors unlock. I hear the sound of keys jingling, the shuffle of my feet as Emory’s hands guide me toward the open passenger door. “Careful,” he says, his voice calmer than it was moments ago.
With his help, I don’t smash my head against the low opening of the door. My jaw hurts from shivering as I sink into the leather seat. Everything is quiet for a moment. Emory stands there, on the outside of the open passenger door, staring at me. I look up at him, squinting from the harsh glow of a streetlamp above us.
His jaw quirks. “Good movie, huh?”
I try to nod, but I don’t think I move. “I’m really glad to see you.”
I mean every ounce of the sentiment. After a night spent with a stranger and then the rush of fear and disorientation of the last few minutes, it feels good to see a face I trust. My chest shakes and a smile tugs at my chapped lips.
“What’s so funny?” he asks, leaning down until our faces almost touch. He takes the seatbelt, pulls it out and leans over me to buckle me safely into place. “I never thought of you as a funny drunk.”
I giggle again, and my hand reaches up on its own. I touch the shaggy strands of brown hair, the ones that always fall into his eyes. I brush them back, letting my fingertips graze across his skin. “You took my fear away just now,” I say, my words a whisper. He pauses, his face still inches from mine. I draw in a freezing breath and slide my hand down to his cheek. A small part of my subconscious knows I shouldn’t do this, I shouldn’t let him in, or treat him like a friend.
But the alcohol is in charge now.
I swallow, then grin. “I was scared. I was scared, and you punched him, and you saved me,” I say, my words tumbling out with the ease of alcohol. “And I thought ‘Oh good. Emory is here, and I can trust him.’” I snort a laugh, and he flinches. “That’s why it’s funny. I trusted Emory Underwood.”
My head falls back against the seat, my chest heaving with giggles as I shake my head. “That’s why it’s so hilarious. You can’t trust Emory Underwood,” I say, glancing up at him. He stands straight, his jaw tight. I smile again and reach out my arm for him. He doesn’t move, and my fingers barely reach the zipper of his leather jacket before my hand falls back down to my lap. “You can’t. But I did.”
“Watch out,” he says, gently closing the car door. Maybe it’s just the reflection from the glass or the movie theater beer, but something seems off in his face. Those dark, penetrating eyes still stare at me like they always do, but something is weird about him. I close my eyes and lean my head back, trying to make the world stop spinning. But even with nowhere to look, my body is still dizzy.
Emory gets into the driver’s side of hi
s car and starts the engine. The heater blasts from the vents and I delight in their warmth, leaning forward so the hot air can caress my face and hands.
“So where’s your date?” I ask into the heater vent.
“I don’t have a date.”
My eyes open and I look over at him, letting the heat blast the side of my head. My eyebrow quirks. “So you were with friends? Where are they?”
He brushes dust off the dash with his thumb. “I came alone.”
“You saw a movie by yourself? Who does that?”
When he doesn’t answer right away, my mouth falls open. “You were stalking me. Ciara told you where I’d be, and you stalked me here.”
He shakes his head in a soft display of denial. “That’s not true. Not entirely.”
My eyes widen so hard and so fast, that if I weren’t drunk, I’d fear that they’d fall out of my skull and land in the cup holder. “Emory!” I sound suspiciously like my mother when she’s pissed at me. “You totally stalked me. You followed me out here. Why?” I lean back from the heater, cross my arms over my chest and glare at him. “You just knew that any guy who dated me would be an asshole, huh? You just had to come see for yourself, to laugh at me.” I roll my hand. “Go on then. Say it. Say I’m a freaking idiot.”
He just watches me, his eyes dark windows on an expressionless canvas.
On another day, I might cry. Instead, I latch onto anger, build it up and tether it to my heart, keeping all of the sadness at bay. He’s already had the satisfaction of seeing my failed date. He won’t get anything else out of me tonight. “Say it.” My chest heaves and I run a tongue across my bottom lip, drawing in another ragged breath. “Go on. Get it out of your system. Tell me I’m some delusional lunatic and remind me again that I’m not a special snowflake. That I’m just some nobody who’s never even seen snow, or the mountains, or the Pacific Ocean. I’m not special or well traveled like you are. I get it, okay?”
“Isla—” Emory exhales and rubs his brow with his thumb and forefinger.
The Breakup Support Group Page 21