When did everything get so complicated?
Marta’s sigh broke my runaway train of thought. “You look confused. Tell me what you’re feeling.”
“I have no idea.” Too much. Not enough. A headache pounded at my temples, and I wished I could wrap my scarf around my face and hide from the world. Not a bad idea, actually. That would solve the problem of going through my day with coffee breath.
“Just try. Whatever this is, you need to get it all out.”
I shut my eyes, trying to focus, and pressed my fingers against the bridge of my nose, desperate but unable to fully identify the emotions dancing a conga line inside my head. “Frustration.” Ah, there was one, finally. “Anger.” Yep, definitely anger over Wes ignoring me the rest of the night. “Confusion.” That one in abundance. “Regret.”
That last one got me, and I opened my eyes. Marta’s widened gaze met mine with shock. “Explain that one.”
I opened my mouth then shut it, fear creeping along my spine. Regret that I hadn’t pushed the boundaries even further with Wes? Regret that I’d snuck out and deceived my dad? Regret that I hadn’t done it all sooner?
Or was it just regret that Wes had initiated the idea of sex, and now I had no idea where our relationship stood?
Before I could decide, Luke strode across the grassy lawn toward us, hands shoved in the pockets of his hooded jacket. “What the heck are you girls doing out here? It’s freezing.”
“It’s actually forty-six degrees.” Marta pointed to the digital temperature reading flashing on the school’s roadside sign.
“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.” He tweaked her chin then rested his propped elbow on my shoulder. “It better suits Addison here.”
“Such a comedian.”
Luke frowned. “You all right?” He tilted his head, peering down into my face. If he smelled my coffee breath, it served him right for getting so close. Yet somehow his presence didn’t annoy me or make me crave distance. He just felt safe. I leaned a little into the warmth his shoulder offered, wishing I could just like Luke instead and ride off into the sunset on a white horse.
But sadly, the only thing I could see myself roaring away on was made of metal and steel, not horseflesh.
I shrugged out from under his arm. “Just having some girl talk.”
“Wes was being a jerk,” Marta blurted out.
“Thanks a lot.” I glared at her, wishing I had a superpower that would allow to me to dole out bad hair days with my eyes. She’d so have a 1980s perm.
“Wes, a jerk? Shocker.” Luke bit his lip and winced as he looked back at me. “Sorry, that was rude.”
“It’s not a secret you guys are not best friends.” Marta rolled her eyes. “And Addison, Luke put up with a lot on our double date the other night. He deserves to know the truth.”
“Whatever. It’s my business.” I stalked away from them both, knowing Marta was right and it wasn’t that big a deal. But I needed a release, and they were the closest. Better to leave now before I really exploded.
Heavy footsteps jogged after me; then a hand gripped my elbow and tugged me to a stop.
I whirled around. “What, Luke?” I wasn’t in the mood for this. If everyone didn’t leave me alone, I was going to cry. Not like I bothered to wear makeup today anyway, but still. I had enough crap about to hit me concerning my dad and Ms. Hawthorne without having to worry about blotchy cheeks and red-rimmed eyes, too. Wouldn’t that just feed the gossip sharks?
“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Luke’s blond hair dipped in his eyes, and he impatiently shoved it back. “I guess this is all just a little complicated.”
“You’re telling me.”
The warning bell rang, piercing the silence of the schoolyard. Perfect. Now we were officially tardy, and Mr. Varland wasn’t the most forgiving of history teachers. Probably because my dad wasn’t dating him.
Desperate to head to class and get this inevitably awful day over with, I gripped Luke’s arm and looked him straight in the eyes. “Do me a favor, okay?”
“Of course. Anything.” His eyes lit with anticipation, and I hated to snuff out the puppy-dog eagerness in his eyes. It made me feel even worse. But it had to be done.
“Stop liking me. I’m not worth it.” Then I ripped away and rushed into the school.
I just thought there had been whispers and stares after Ms. Hawthorne let me off the homework hook a few weeks back. Now I realized that had been nothing. I actually wished for that back. Whispers and stares were much better than pointing fingers, muffled laughter, and out-loud jokes. Pretty sad that I felt grateful toward the students who at least tried to hide what they were talking about.
Staring into the depths of my locker, I glared at my English textbook and hated the fact that class was next. I wanted to go home and start this day over. No, the week. If I had a do-over, I’d have stayed put with my homework and never climbed down that oak tree. Better yet, my dad would have never come to school yesterday, and everyone would be snickering over Lucy McPhee’s obvious boob job today rather than hating on my father and my English teacher. Instead, Lucy and her Double-Ds got off scot-free while I faced the torture chamber alone.
I shut my locker and came face-to-face with Claire, flanked by two fellow cheerleaders. “Great. I was wondering how my day could get worse.”
Claire smirked, ignoring my comment. “How was the meat loaf?”
“Undercooked. Anything else you want to know?” I shifted my bag higher on my shoulder.
“That depends.” Claire shot a look at her plastic friends, who grinned as if they knew what was next. “Is Ms. Hawthorne’s car ready, or will she be staying the night at your house again?”
“What?” My defensive act fell useless to my feet, and a fresh wave of anger rushed up my stomach into my chest. “That’s ridiculous. You know she didn’t stay over.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Claire fluttered her eyelashes dramatically at me. “Why don’t we ask Ms. Hawthorne? Maybe she could be convinced to give us some As to keep the rumor mill quiet—like she did for you.”
I’d heard the phrase about blood boiling before but never truly understood it until that exact moment. So Claire was out not only to mortify me, but now to ruin both my teacher’s and my father’s reputations—for the sake of a grade? Like Ms. Hawthorne would ever go for it anyway. She was too good a teacher to fall for bribery or extortion. When had Claire sunk to this level of jerkiness?
Straightening my shoulders, I crossed my arms and stared back. “Fine. Let’s ask her, and after that, I’ll see if we can sort out your interesting eating habits with the school counselor.” I lifted my chin, daring Claire to push me further.
Claire’s eyes narrowed to tiny slits, and one of the cheerleaders nudged her. “What’s she talking about?”
Elbowing the girl away, Claire kept her hard gaze on me. “Whatever. You’re bluffing.”
“Last week, yeah, I probably would have been. Today, not so much.” I shoved between the group of girls, purposefully bouncing my heavy backpack off Claire. “Guess you’ll have to find out.” I hurried to class without a backward glance, but I could feel Claire’s gaze burrowing into my head the entire way. What was wrong with her? Did she hate me so badly just because of Austin? It had to be more than that. Who cared about a stupid football player? How did we go from lifelong friends to this dirty level of revenge?
I sank into my seat, nodding at Luke in the chair beside mine but refusing to look him in the eye. Turned out it wasn’t possible anyway, with the way he slumped across his desk and braced his head on his palm, his hand effectively blocking his profile. Mainly his view of me.
Great. One more enemy to add to my growing list.
And apparently there was room for one more. After class Ms. Hawthorne called me to her desk. Now what? I trudged the aisle to the front of the room like I was taking a death march. My textbook suddenly heavy in my hand, I rested it on the edge of her desk and waited for her to speak firs
t, my mouth dry. I hated the influx of emotions roiling in my chest and didn’t dare look at her for fear of erupting.
“Addison, I think we need to talk.” Ms. Hawthorne stood so we were on the same level.
I swallowed. “You’ve heard the rumors, then?”
“It’s hard not to.” She came around the edge of her desk to lean her weight against the side. She crossed one boot-clad ankle over the other, and I stared at the dot of dirt smudging the toe. Maybe if I focused on that one spot, I could get this conversation over with and leave with as much dignity as I had left. If there was any.
“Are you all right?”
Ms. Hawthorne’s soft voice was enough to break the dam, and I crumbled. Literally. I collapsed against her desk, my behind knocking over a pencil organizer and sending pens and highlighters clattering to the floor. “No.” My voice broke into a muffled sob, and I buried my face in my hands, mortified.
She didn’t even seem to notice the mess I’d made. Instead she patted my shoulder with one hand, enough of a touch to be comforting but not so much that I felt invaded. I appreciated that little gesture more than she’d ever realize and let the tears flow in an incredibly unattractive display.
“It’s been a rough week, hasn’t it?” Ms. Hawthorne’s hand patted a little faster, and I fought back a hiccup as I wiped my eyes with the back of my hands.
“You could say that.” I snorted, embarrassed but feeling better for having relieved the pressure behind my eyes.
“A good cry can do wonders.” Ms. Hawthorne smiled, drawing back a step to give me a little space now that my freak-out had subsided. Then her eyes grew pensive, and her smile faded. “And single fathers not dating teachers could probably do wonders, too, huh?”
I started to agree, as hope rose in my chest that she could possibly be willing to give up her newfound relationship with my dad for me. Could it be that simple? But the disappointment in her gaze stopped me short, and I pressed my lips together into a thin line. This is your chance, Addison. Agree with her. End this nightmare already. But I couldn’t. Maybe it was the guilt over knowing what I’d gotten away with last night, or maybe it was just sensing that she truly cared about my father. Whatever it was, I shook my head, the motion feeling a lot less forced than I’d thought it would.
“That’s not what I want.”
Her eyebrows lifted with surprise, and I talked faster before I could back down. “I think you’re good for my father. It’s … weird. And the rumors suck.” I bit my lower lip then continued. “But that shouldn’t stop two adults from being happy.”
Ms. Hawthorne’s eyes lit with warmth. “I have to admit, I’m a little surprised to hear that. I thought after last night’s dinner that things were pretty bad.”
“Oh, they are.” I grinned to take the edge off my tone I couldn’t keep out. I drew a deep breath. “But this is the right decision. Your relationship with my dad is your business.” And if you still want to break up later, that’d be great. But not because of me. I couldn’t do that to either of them, even if the thought of more meat loaf dinners for three did make me want to barf. For multiple reasons.
“How can we make this work then, Addison?” She crossed her arms over her silk blouse and tilted her head toward me. “I don’t want you to be a martyr. High school is hard enough. I remember.”
Unlikely, but it was nice of her to try. I shrugged. “I guess we can start by agreeing to no special favors. The other students think you’re hooking me up with good grades or letting me slack on missed assignments.”
“That’s preposterous.” Ms. Hawthorne shook her head. “I didn’t write you up for that homework assignment because it was your first time to miss one. From what I gather from other teachers about your stellar reputation, it was your first time to miss a paper ever.”
True. Shame coated my insides. She had a point, yet I had been willing to believe Claire and the others because of my own doubt. “You’re right. You’re fair. I know that.” I picked up my book, signaling I hoped this conversation was done. “I’ll remember next time.”
“And I’ll be sure to give you a D on your next quiz just to even the score.” She kept such a straight face my heart skipped a beat in raw panic before I caught the amused glint in her eye.
“Touché.” I smiled—genuinely—for the first time all day. The warning bell rang, and students for the next class began shuffling into the room. I backed up a few steps toward the door, raising my voice above the sudden din. “I guess I’ll see you later.”
She nodded and lifted one hand in a wave before settling back at her desk.
I exited into the hallway, silently finishing the rest of my sentence. Just hopefully not at my house for dinner.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I squinted at the array of paint samples in front of me on the rack at Crooked Hollow Hardware, totally not seeing how Evergreen Dream differed from Dark Forest. But oh, Mrs. Lyons had been adamant. “We need one small can of paint on hand, in case something happens to the backdrop and it needs touch-ups before the show,” she’d said earlier that afternoon after practice. There’d been two pencils stuck in her hair, one with teeth marks, and I couldn’t bear to tell her it seemed like a waste of money for a “just in case” scenario.
Oh well, it wasn’t my cash. At least hanging out at the hardware store meant I didn’t have to go home for dinner right away and face Dad—and pretend I hadn’t climbed down a tree the other night to go out with a guy he’d all but forbidden.
I plucked Evergreen Dream from the row of color chips, wishing my conscience would hush already, and turned to the counter to have the paint mixed. A familiar, agitated voice from the next row over stopped me a few feet short of the desk.
“This is all overpriced. What are they trying to do, rob me?”
I frowned. Mr. Keegan? Great, someone else to avoid tonight. I couldn’t exactly look him in the eye, knowing what I did about his drinking problem and temper.
That is, if Wes had been telling the truth. I still found it hard to fully believe. Not that being at church every Sunday made someone perfect, but you’d think the truth would have slipped by now if Wes was right. Maybe he’d just been using the story or exaggerating it to get sympathy from me—to get to third base.
Though that bruise had sure looked real enough. And there was the matter of the constant breath mints and the odd behavior at the grocery store….
An even more familiar voice sounded next. “If you hadn’t thrown that statue at the coffee table, you wouldn’t need to rebuild it.”
Wes. My heart stopped then thudded painfully. I clutched the paint chip to my chest, mind racing. What if he wandered down this row next? I couldn’t see either of them. Not like this. Not with last night still hanging between us.
“At this point it looks cheaper to just buy another table.” Lumber rattled from aisle four.
“I doubt that,” Wes argued. “Besides, are you planning on whipping out a pottery wheel to rebuild that statue, too?”
“Who cares? That was your mother’s favorite. I don’t even know how I ended up with it anyway.”
“So it’s only okay to throw things you don’t like?” Wes’s egging tone riled my own blood pressure. I could only imagine what it was doing to his dad’s. But it seemed like they were a matched pair.
Worse yet, it seemed they were used to this sort of interaction.
“Like you’ve never broken anything when you’ve been mad.” Mr. Keegan snorted, sarcasm lacing his voice. So that’s where Wes got his snort. Genetics.
“Whatever.” I could almost see Wes rolling his dark eyes. “You were mad and drunk. Fun combo.”
“Quit judging me,” Mr. Keegan’s voice snarled. “At least I go to church and make an effort. You’re just content to sit on that stupid bike of yours and sneer down at the rest of the world.”
I braced my hand against the counter, trying to steady what felt like the world turning over on its axis. It was true about Mr. Keegan. All of it.
Not an emotional ploy by Wes.
More like a cry for help.
A heavy sigh carried over the rack of primer cans, followed by Wes’s voice, laced with weariness. “Great. A hungover father and a hardware store. Just what I want to do on a Tuesday night.”
“I’m not hungover anymore. And keep your voice down. This isn’t exactly public knowledge.”
The room dipped as opposite images of Mr. Keegan swirled through my brain. Mr. Keegan, smiling in his pressed slacks at church. Mr. Keegan, asleep with a beer can in hand on his couch. Mr. Keegan, carrying on a carefree conversation with me after the service. Mr. Keegan, using Wes as a punching bag when he’d had one too many.
“What, afraid of running into your beloved pastor and him learning the truth?” Wes laughed, the sound hollow and void.
Mr. Keegan snorted. “At least I try. You’re one to talk—you drink as much as me.”
My stomach dropped, and I covered my mouth with my hand, my earlier fears realized. I knew that wine last night hadn’t just been a special occasion.
Wes’s voice rose in aggravation. “I don’t drink like that anymore, and you know it!”
Not anymore? I’d just watched him drink a glass. In fact, if I thought about it long enough, I could practically still taste it in his kiss. Was he lying? Or did he used to drink so much he considered a glass of wine nothing at all?
“And I’ve never broken furniture,” Wes continued.
“Help me carry this.” Boards clattered against each other. “And before you get high and mighty, remember you put a hole in the wall a month ago.”
There was a long pause. “That was an accident.”
“Oh so you accidentally punched the wall? While ticked off? How convenient.”
Wes’s voice rose with disgust. “It was either that or punch you back.”
I gasped then slapped my hand over my mouth. My stomach churned as my mind desperately tried to mesh what I just heard with what I’d seen over the years. What I’d seen in Wes. I felt like a page opened before me, allowing me to read a few more lines of his story. I knew he felt unwanted with both his parents. Bounced back and forth. Knew he carried a lot of resentment, a ton of anger. But all I could think when I pictured Wes’s string of rash behavior was, No wonder. And through my shock, one thought resonated louder than the rest.
Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK Page 19