Forever Kinda Love

by Clara Stone

  And tastes like it, too.

  “You going to be part of the auction, Ace?” I ask her as she slips into a spot a few spaces from me, trying to avoid eye contact.

  I wait nervously, since the answer she gives will tell me whether she wants to be single or not.

  But before she can speak, Lisa answers for her, “Of course, she is.”

  “You are?” Annoyance grinds inside me.

  Ace bites her lip, and once again, I find myself needing to discreetly adjust my pants. Her eyes flicker to mine for the first time since last night, and butterflies blast off in the bottom of my stomach.

  I’m turning into such a fucking pussy.

  “Yeah.” She clears her throat. “I’m MCing the event. Mr. Thomas asked me about a week ago,” she says with a shrug before turning away from me.

  “Come on, Iceman! We just need one last spot filled for the guys,” Lisa pleads.

  I ignore her and continue to stare at Ace. I know she knows I’m looking at her. But her stubborn ass isn’t budging.

  Jason slaps my back. “Come on, man. Stop being a wimp and say yes!”

  “Take one for the team!” Troy jumps in.

  After another moment of staring at her while she pretends to ignore me, I respond, “Fine.”

  Ace stiffens, and her eyes flicker toward me for half a second. My lips twitch. She can pretend all she wants, but she’s not as unaffected as she wants me to believe, and I’m going to draw it out of her eventually.

  I pretend to enjoy the rest of my lunch, making small talk about the auction, lacrosse, and graduation in two months, all while keeping a close eye on Ace.

  When I see her get up to dump her trash and return her tray, I follow her. I watch her throw her head back, letting out a frustrated groan, her hands balled into fists at her sides.

  “Frustrated about something, Ace?” I say, making her jump.

  She turns to me, her face draining of color. She pushes her hands into the back pockets of her shorts. “Jesus, Iceman. You trying to kill me?”

  I growl and close the space between us in two long strides. She takes a step back. I prowl forward, and she retreats until her back hits the wall. A slight smirk of satisfaction carves over my lips. I place my hands on either side of her face, against the wall, remembering the way I’d trapped her against the wall of her bedroom.

  I don’t let any part of my body touch her, letting the closeness press against us instead.

  “W-what are you d-doing?” she stammers, her chest rising and falling like she can’t breathe.

  Yeah, try and get away now, sweet, sweet, Ace.

  I lean down, letting my chest graze hers, and she shivers.

  “Tell me, baby,” I say, making sure to keep my voice low and seductive, staring into my favorite eyes. I could easily get lost in her beautiful gray. “Why are you running away from me?” I bury my nose in the curve of her neck, where I know my hickey is hidden, and inhale deeply.

  Her body arches toward me in response. I run my nose along her jaw. God, she’s so beautiful, and her smell . . . I’ve never smelled anything sweeter.

  Something vibrates between us, and I push back slightly. Ace’s chest rises up and down as she breathes, taking in deep gulps, her eyes closed.

  “Baby,” I say, kind of entranced by the sight of her. “Your phone’s ringing.”

  Her eyes fly open and, without looking away from me, she answers her phone. “Hello?” she says, her voice sultry. “Oh, hi!” Her eyes become big and round, like they do every time she’s caught off guard. “One sec.” She covers the phone with her hand and says, “I need to take this.”

  I nod. Before I can stop her, she walks briskly away and disappears around the corner. I thrust my fingers into my hair and pull at it. Leaning my back into the wall, I sigh, telling the excited parts of my body to calm the hell down.

  “You can’t ignore me forever, Ace,” I say to no one in particular. “Not when I’ve finally got you.”

  I SHOVE MY HEAD into my locker and scream. What’s Heath playing at? He was like a whole new person after lunch, like he’d changed his mind about us. I thought I knew his answer by the way he’d reacted this morning—stiff and distant. But now, I can’t tell; his actions are hot one minute and cold the next.

  “Sounds like you’re having one hell of a party.” Rock’s voice startles me.

  I jerk my head back, out of the locker, hitting the inside edge of the door in the process. “Ah-ow,” I bellow. Rubbing the side of my head, I slam the locker shut.

  Rock smiles.

  “Finally, a face I missed,” I say, still rubbing the tender spot.

  Pink creeps up his neck, reaching his cheeks. “I know. Ladies can’t seem to keep their hands off of this.” He points to himself and laughs. “Maybe that’s why they always run the other way when they see me coming.”

  I laugh. “You’re kidding me, right? They’re freaking scared of you, with all your tattoos and those badass bruises you wear like a badge of honor.” I poke at his shoulder.

  “Whatever. Girls at this school are total bitches. They aren’t worth my time.”

  “Hey,” I say, raising my brows. “I’m a girl at this school.”

  “You are?” He laughs, grabbing me in a headlock. “Well, I guess I never noticed.”

  I shove at him, but he doesn’t budge. “Seriously, you and your brother are complete assholes.”

  “Aww, Ace. That hurt right here.” He points to his heart.

  “Yeah, well I’d believe that if you had a heart, buckaroo.”

  “I know you love me.”

  I roll my eyes and don’t respond, but my mouth twitches at the corners. I nibble the inside of my cheek to stop myself from smiling, but it’s too late, he sees it. We both laugh.

  A familiar tingle stirs in the pit of my stomach, and I stiffen. I look over my shoulder and find Heath boring holes into my back. His nose flares and his hands clench into tight fists. He takes a step toward us, but Troy and his teammates block his way.

  I shake my head and turn back around, walking in the opposite direction from him. I’m not in the mood for his caveman bullcrap.

  “You know, you two should just get on with it,” Rock says as we walk to our U.S. History class.

  “Get on with what?” I ask, my mind occupied.

  “Come on, you can’t be that blind. Iceman’s got a thing for you. A thing that wants to strip you bare and ride you into the sunset.”

  Heat pools in my cheeks, spreading down to my toes. I bite my lip. “No, he doesn’t. He’s my best friend.” Or is it was my best friend? God! I don’t know. He acted so different after lunch from the way he did this morning.

  Rock and I enter the class, and I slide into my seat. He slumps into the one next to me. “Wow.” He tears a piece of paper from my notebook, takes the pen stuck behind my ear, and scribbles. “Here,” he says.

  I arch an eyebrow and look down at the paper. It’s a stick figure with hands extended as it bumps into a wall. Below it, in big, bubbly letters, are the words:

  Lifetime Idiot Award: Carrigan Ace Casper.

  I glance at him and he makes that annoying sound of people screaming in a stadium. I laugh, completely caught off guard. I don’t know if I’m impressed by his wit, or insulted by this honorary, exclusive award. “Thanks, I’ll frame this and make sure to show it to my kids.”

  “Kids that you and Iceman are going to pop out as soon you graduate high school.”

  “Um, so not going to happen. It takes nine months to pop ‘em out. Besides, didn’t your mom and dad ever tell you how babies are made?” I lean closer to him and whisper like I’m about to tell him the world’s biggest secret. “You gotta get down and dirty for that to happen. And that, my friend, will never happen between him and me.”

  He simply smirks and turns his attention to Mr. Hill as the lesson starts.

  Around seven p.m., I wake up to a cramp in my stomach, like a herd of elephants squished my organs. Holding onto
my stomach and clamping a hand over my mouth, I rush to the bathroom. I fall to the ground, pulling up the toilet seat. Half a second later, the contents of my stomach spill out forcefully. Seconds turn into minutes until I finally start to dry heave.

  I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and stand on shaky legs. My head spins from the sudden change in height. Holding onto the wall, I lean forward and flush the toilet before stumbling to the vanity. I stare into the mirror. My eyes are hollow, and I look paler than ever before. A small blotch of red hides in the corner of my nose. Turning on the faucet, I wipe away the blood before rinsing my face with warm water.

  My throat burns from literally spilling my guts, so I cup my hands under the water and drink from my palms, hoping for some relief. My head spins again. I place my wet hands on the vanity for support. After a few deep breaths, I turn the water off, and head toward the kitchen. Maybe some food will help.

  I shuffle to the fridge and find the soup I’d made two days ago. Smacking my lips, I pour some into a bowl and place it in the microwave, pushing the start button.

  Bringing my hands behind my head, I massage my neck and shoulders as I watch the soup spin in lazy circles. Everything in me feels stiff and achy. I roll my neck, hoping I’m not getting the stomach flu or something.

  When the soup is done, I fill a glass with tap water and head back to my room. I hear soft sobs as I pass the dimly lit living room. I pause and walk over to find Dad sprawled on the couch, his body half-spilling onto the floor, a bottle of whiskey held loosely between his fingers.

  He doesn’t notice my arrival. Instead, he takes a drag from the bottle, and lets his hand fall to the side. The amber liquid sloshes inside the glass. His other arm lies across his face, hiding the tears streaking his skin.

  “Dad,” I say, placing my bowl and glass on the end table and crouching beside him. My heart clenches with sadness when he doesn’t respond. I know I have it better than some kids. My dad drinks himself to tears and then falls asleep, instead of doing drugs or abusing me. But that doesn’t make my situation any less scarring.

  “Come on, Dad. Let’s get you to bed.” Prying the whiskey bottle from his fingers, I place it on the end table next to my soup. I drag his right arm over my shoulder and haul him back to his room. I gently lay him down on top of the covers and kiss his forehead. Feeling winded, I lean against the wall, taking a moment to catch my breath.

  My father had been a good man once. He’d worked in nonprofits, always wanting to help those less fortunate. He’d volunteered at as many fundraising events as he could. He’d even brought a homeless person home every Christmas eve, saying that no one should be alone during the holidays.

  But all that changed when Mom died. All that changed because of me, because I’d been too stubborn to listen. Because of my mistake, he’d died that night too.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” His words come out slurred, his face scrunching like he’s in pain.

  A little hope stirs inside me. “It’s okay, Dad.”

  I look around the meager room for something to help him with—another pillow, an extra blanket, something. But the room is very conservative. There’s only a queen-sized bed with a nightstand. Pictures of our family hang around the room, in the same places Mom had hung them all those years ago.

  “I should have been a better husband. A better father.”

  My attention snaps back him. “Dad . . . ?” I reach for the hand on his chest, but he rolls to his side, moving out of my reach. A piece of paper falls to the floor, next to my feet.

  I pick it up and place it on his nightstand, glancing absently at it. I freeze. My hand trembles as I reach for it again, the glossy paper heavy between my fingers. Blood pounds loudly through my temples as I stare at the picture.

  My knees give out under me, and I sink to the hardwood floor. Seconds trickle away as I continue to stare at the paper in my hands. My hand wipes at my cheek, the unushered tears rolling down my cheeks. Bile shoot ups my throat like acid, once again. I cover my mouth to suppress the sobs that sound like hiccups.

  Dad’s apologetic mumble brings me out of my shock, and I tear my eyes away from the photo. “I’m sorry . . . couldn’t protect you. I’m sssorry, Cara. Sso sorree.”

  I finally understand why I lost both parents that day.

  I didn’t just kill Mom. My vision tunnels onto the photo again—the black and white snapshot of an ultrasound, labeled “Girl.”

  I’d killed my baby sister, too.

  I WALK UP THE pathway toward Hudson’s house, swinging my car keys around my finger. When I see Carrigan’s beat-up car in the driveway, I run, taking long strides. It’s nearly midnight. Ace never stays this late on a school night—even during the girl-nights she and Blake used to have. That can only mean one thing—something’s wrong.

  Blake sits on the kitchen island, flipping through some fashion magazine. She glances up at the sound of my footsteps and points to the ceiling.

  The entertainment room.

  I nod. “Thanks.” I take two, or maybe three, steps at a time, cursing under my breath when I trip and fall.

  Opening the door, I step inside. Lady and the Tramp is playing on the projector screen—our favorite movie.

  Ace doesn’t acknowledge me until I’m standing right in front of her. Her head tilts up slowly, and her swollen, red-stained, teary eyes connect with mine.

  I fall to my knees, and she hurls herself at me. I falter backward, one hand breaking my fall. I pull her into my lap, letting her legs fall on either side of my hips. Her arms wrap around my neck and she buries her face my chest.

  “Shh . . .” I tighten my hold and run my fingers through her soft hair, trying to comfort her. I don’t care about the fight we had, or that she threw away what happened between us last night. Because right now, she needs me. That’s all that matters.

  She squeezes closer, and her cries became muffled in my shirt. My heart breaks with each tear that soaks the fabric. “I’m right here, baby. I’m not going anywhere,” I assure her, because that’s all I can do. She needs time to go through whatever it is that’s making her miserable, and I’m going to be here, waiting, until she’s ready.

  Ten or so minutes pass before her cries come out as small hiccups. A few more minutes later, she lifts her head, looking at her hands placed against my chest. It’s like she’s afraid I’ll think less of her.

  I slide a finger under her chin and tilt it up. “Look at me, Ace.”

  Her tear-brimmed eyes look up at me through wet lashes. She looks like she hasn’t eaten or slept in days. I don’t know what to do, how to help her. “Do you want to talk about it?” I wipe the tears that roll down her cheek with my thumb.

  She shakes her head.

  “Okay.” I kiss her forehead. I get it. She needs time, and I have nothing but time. “Did you eat?”

  She chews on her lower lip and shakes her head again.

  “Okay.” I run my thumb across her cheeks one more time. “Let’s get you somewhere comfortable, and I’ll make some PB&J.”

  I expect her to fight back, to reject my offer, but she simply says, “Okay.”

  “Okay,” I repeat.

  She stands, pushing off me, and extends her hand. I take it, jumping to my feet without pulling on her. Once I’m certain she’s comfortable and back on the sofa, I head to the kitchen, prepping the PB&J.

  “Is she any better?” Blake asks, slipping into the kitchen.

  Startled, I drop the knife on the plate. “Jesus, Blake.” I hadn’t expected Blake to wait up, but I should have known better. Blake can’t rest until she knows things are okay.

  “She wouldn’t talk to me, Heath,” she says, like she’s answering my question about why she’s still up. “I couldn’t go to bed, and since Hudson got called in, I didn’t—”

  “She’ll be fine,” I assure her, picking up the knife to spread strawberry jam on a slice of bread.

  “Did she say what’s wrong?”

  I shake my head, c
utting the sandwich in half—rectangular, just like Ace likes it.

  “Okay,” she says in defeat. “Why don’t you take that to her? I’ll make some more and bring them up.”

  Walking around the island, I pull her into a hug. “I have a better idea.” I push her to arms length. “Why don’t you go to bed while I clean this up? I don’t need shit from Hudson about making you slave for me.” I wink at her, hoping she understands that I need this time with Ace.

  “Fine,” she says, patting my cheek. “But, if you need something—”

  “I promise to wake you,” I finish for her.

  She smiles gently before turning in for the night. As soon as she’s out of sight, I clean up the mess I made and walk back upstairs to the entertainment room. I don’t see Ace when I enter so I head to the guest bedroom—my room. When I don't see her there, either, I set the plate of PB&J on the nightstand and head to the last place she could be.

  The bathroom.

  “Ace?” I tap the door. No response, but I hear faint cries and the sound of running water seeping through the wood. Without thinking twice, I push open the unlocked door. Scanning the room, I find Ace sitting inside the bathtub, her legs pulled to her chest, her arms wrapped around them. Her shoulders are shaking. I doubt she even realizes I’m here.

  I turn off the faucet and step inside the tub to sit by her legs. I reach over and pull her to me, so that we’re sitting perpendicular to the tub. She snuggles into the side of my body. My legs are crammed in the small space, but I don’t mind.

  “Baby, please. Please don’t cry,” I plead, pulling her as close to me as I can. What’s bothering her so much? Could it be because of what happened between us? Does she hate it so much, or is she afraid of what’ll happen? Or hell . . . my heart skips a beat . . . does she think I took advantage of her? Maybe that’s what has her scared shitless. “Ace, if it has something to do with last night—”

  “It’s not that, Heath,” she says, her voice hoarse.

  I pull back and place the tip of my finger under her chin. Her red eyes and tear-soaked cheeks make my heart clench painfully. She looks up from under those wet lashes.