A soft, grateful smile touches my lips. “Thanks, Lucky.”
“Don’t thank me,” he says. “I’m doing this for mostly selfish reasons.”
I continue to smile. “Sure you are.”
He presses his hand to his chest dramatically. “Are you accusing me of being selfless? You’re going to ruin my street cred.”
I roll my eyes. “The only person you have street cred with is Mrs. Fickleson, our seventy-year-old neighbor.”
“Hey, she’s a pretty cool chick, so I’ll take it.”
I back toward the narrow hallway. “Still, you’re a good brother … even if you hate admitting it.”
He picks up the remote from the sofa’s armrest. “You say that now, but tomorrow, when I use all the hot water, you’ll be telling me I’m the spawn of Satan.”
I smirk. “Nah, just Satan’s spawn’s child.”
He laughs, but his humor fades as he drops down onto the sofa. “Check on Dad while you’re back there, will you? He’s actually having a pretty good day. He’s been awake a lot and everything. I haven’t checked on him for a bit, though.”
“On it.” I exit the kitchen and walk to my dad’s closed door. Giving a little knock, I twist the knob and peer in, smiling at the sight of him sitting up in bed with a mound of pillows behind his back and the remote in his hand.
“You’re awake again.” I inch my way into his room, which is now cluttered with stacks of boxes. “And the box fairy paid a visit, apparently.”
He turns down the volume on the television and sets the remote on the bed. “Nope, just the plain ol’ Mom fairy.”
“Just for future reference, you might want to refrain from using Mom and old in the same sentence.” I peer at a label of one of the boxes closest to me. “What is this stuff?”
“A shipment for the store.” He picks up a cup of water from the nightstand and takes a sip. “She stuffed them all back here because she had some friends over this morning and didn’t want the house looking like a mess.”
“Who came over? As far as I know, she hasn’t had any friends over since we moved.”
“It’s the woman who lives next-door … I think her name is Miranda.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure how I feel about my mom being so close to a guy’s mom I’ve spent many hours secretly spying on. “How close are they? I heard they also spend Friday nights getting tipsy on wine.”
“They do. And I’m glad.” He turns to fluff a pillow, and I rush forward to help him. “I feel bad that I can’t take her out anymore.”
“Maybe this next surgery will change that.” I pat the pillow a few times, and then he rests back.
“I hope so.” He raises his hand with his fingers crossed. “Hopefully, four is my lucky number.”
“I have a feeling it is. If you really want certainty, I could always read your cards,” I say, mostly teasing.
“You know what, I think I’d like that.”
“Really?” I ask, and he nods.
Well, gutter balls. I hadn’t expected him to say yes. Now I feel super pressured to do a good job, and fingers double-crossed the outcome of the reading won’t be like Maxon’s.
“All right, I’ll get my cards.” I leave the room, returning a few minutes later with my deck of tarot cards.
I let him shuffle the deck a few times and cut it. Then I hold my breath as I flip the cards over.
I immediately free a trapped breath. “Well, looks like all good things for you.”
He slants forward, moving slowly to avoid shifting his knee from the stack of pillows and observes the cards. “What do they mean?”
“Well, this one right here means you’re going to attain a major achievement, I think.” I move my finger to the next card. “And you’ll have a lot of patience and strength while you achieve it.” I press the tip of my finger to the final card. “And you’ll find peace with the end result.”
He reclines back against the pillows with a content smile. “Well, that doesn’t sound too bad.”
“No, it doesn’t.” I collect the cards. “I see only good things for you in your future.”
“What about you?” he asks. “Have you read yours?”
I restack the cards. “Yeah, I actually do them every day, hoping they’ll change, but they never do.”
His eyebrows pinch together. “You always get the same cards?”
“No, but I always get the unpromising ones. Or, well, the ones that make promises of a very challenging future.”
“Well, as your father, I assure you that your future will be great.” He pats my hand. “You’ve always been a bright, funny, kind, and caring girl, Ashlynn, and I know you’ll do amazing things one day.”
I sketch my finger along the edge of the deck of cards, guilt crushing my chest. But I refuse to let my lips part and spew my secrets all over him.
“Pumpkin, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I was just thinking about stuff.”
He places his hand over mine. “I know you think you can’t talk to me about stuff now that my leg’s all messed up, but I promise you that my brain and heart still work the same.”
“I know.” I set the cards down beside me. “I just don’t want you thinking any less of me.”
“I could never do that.”
“You can’t know that for sure. Maybe I’ve done something terrible and unforgivable.”
The kindness in his eyes remains. “The only way to ever find out for sure is to tell me.” He gives my hand a squeeze. “Honestly, I’d love a distraction from the fact that I’ve been living in this bed for months.”
“My problems aren’t a good distraction.”
“A distraction is a distraction in any form given.”
I smile at his upbeat tone that’s been MIA for months. “You sound so much better.”
“Don’t change the subject. We’re talking about you, not me.” He overlaps his hands on his lap. “I’m tired of talking about me.”
I deliberate how much to tell him. Definitely not the crap going on between Knox, Queeny, and me. Perhaps a bit of the truth, though, because I don’t think I can stand lying anymore.
I stare down at my hands. “It’s just that … I’m not as great as you think. And I haven’t been that kind. In fact, I’ve been really unkind to people who don’t deserve it.”
“I doubt that you’re that bad.”
I can’t look him in the eyes. “It’s true. I’ve done some awful things that hurt good people.”
His silence strangles me with guilt, and I can’t bear to even look up at him.
“Why would you do that?” he asks, the disappointment in his voice almost making me burst into tears. “I thought—hoped—we’d taught you to do better than that.”
“You did.” I dare meeting his gaze. “This is all my fault, not yours. I knew what I was doing was wrong, yet I kept doing it because I wanted to be popular. That’s the only excuse I have, and it’s a stupid excuse.” My gaze declines to my hands. “A really stupid excuse.”
Again, he stretches out the silence, giving me way too much time to concentrate on how awful I feel.
“I’m not going to sit here and give you a big speech about not understanding how you can act that way,” he finally says. “Because I do get it. At one point in my life, I wasn’t a very good guy, either.”
I glance up at him. “Really?”
He nods. “During high school, I was sort of like the rock star of our football team and acted like a cocky little shit to everyone. A lot of people let me get away with my behavior because I threw winning passes.”
“How did you change?”
“I met your mom. She was actually my tutor and put me in my place when I told her she should just do the work for me because I was”—he rolls his eyes at himself—“Nick, the ladies’ man.”
I can’t stop the laugh from bubbling past my lips. “That was your nickname?”
“A self-proclaimed nickname,” he says, shaking his head at himself.
“And what did Mom do when you told her that?”
“She told me that she wasn’t going to do the work for me, and if I ever called myself Nick, the ladies’ man, again while I was in her presence, she’d stop tutoring me and let me fail. She also gave me a list of why I wasn’t a ladies’ man, despite what I thought, and then gave me a speech about equality.”
“She really did that?”
He nods. “Your mom was really intense in high school.”
“It sure sounds like it. I kind of respect her more because of it.”
“So do I.” He turns serious again. “My point is that, after she so bluntly showed me what an ass I was, I decided to change into a better person.”
“How did you make up for all the bad stuff you did in the past?”
“I didn’t. I just had to learn to let go, accept what I did, and try to do better. I did apologize to as many people as I could, though.”
“Did they all accept your apology?” I ask with hope.
He shakes my head, smashing my hope to smithereens. “No, they didn’t. Some were really upset with me. It wasn’t their responsibility to forgive me.” He slants forward to give my hand another squeeze. “That’s the thing with making bad decisions. Once you make them, you usually can’t take them back. When I realized that, it was easier to make good choices.”
His words aren’t exactly what I hoped for, but they do hold promise.
“Well, hopefully I can start making good decisions,” I say. “Because I really want to be a better person.”
He smiles. “And that’s the first step right there.”
I smile, too. “You know, you’re pretty wise for an old man.”
“Hey, I’m not that old,” he argues. “Besides, I was less wise when I was younger.”
“Yeah, probably.” I pause, considering. “Hey, Dad, how do you think is the best way to apologize?”
“That all really depends on who you’re apologizing to and what way you apologize best.” He reaches for the cup on his nightstand. “For some people, talking works great. For others, a note is more effective.” He takes a small sip of water then returns the glass to the nightstand. “I was always more of a talking guy myself, but your mom had trouble verbalizing what she meant sometimes, so she would write me notes.”
Hmm … What to do? What to do? Normally, I don’t have any trouble speaking, but I’ve never actually had to tell someone I destroyed their chance at getting a scholarship.
Dammit, this is going to be hard to get through, especially after my dad informed me that a lot of people didn’t forgive him for his unkind deeds. I need to go through with it, though.
I get up from the bed. “Thanks for the advice, Dad. I’m going to go work on some stuff. Do you need me to get you anything?”
“Maybe a sandwich and some chips, if you’re offering.” He picks up the remote. “I haven’t had lunch yet, and these pills make me hungry.”
I nod, winding around the stacks of boxes. “One fantastically yummy lunch coming right up.”
After I make my dad a sandwich, I lock myself in my room, stand in front of the mirror hanging in my closet, and practice giving Maxon an apology speech. And Clove, too, since he’s my friend and I care about him. However, I quickly learn that, while I’m pretty awesome with joking around and flirting, I suck at giving serious speeches. Like, really, really, suck me down a sewer suck. Or maybe I’m just being too much of a perfectionist. Considering the audience and what I did, I kind of have to be.
After two hours of sputtering lame-ass apologies to my reflection, I give up and try the old pen and paper routine. That way’s a bit easier, so I keep working, penning down words and emotions, hoping to God that Maxon and Clove don’t rip the papers to shreds when they read them. If they do, that will be my problem. Because, like my dad said, they don’t owe me anything.
All I can do is hope they like me enough to forgive me.
17
By the time six o’clock rolls around, I haven’t finished my apology letters yet, so I tuck them beneath my pillow, vowing to finish it later tonight and give them the letters tomorrow.
Abandoning my bed, I decide to keep on the dress I wore to school. I put my hair up in a high, messy ponytail, and then slip on some clunky boots before leaving and crossing the strip of land between our trailers. I’m feeling too-many-espressos jittery when I reach his front door.
Taking a breath, I blow out the tension suffocating me. I don’t know what I’m so nervous about. Being at his house? Knowing we’re about to cook dinner together? Or maybe writing the letter has unleashed the guilt I’ve been bottling up. Or is it my squiggly stomach from not having a finished letter in my hand to give to Maxon? Should I even be here? Maybe I should go home and work on the letter, text Maxon, and tell him something came up?
I start to turn around to run home when the door swings open and Maxon steps into the doorway. He’s wearing the same suspenders, T-shirt, and pocket pants get-up he had on at school, yet he somehow looks even sexier in the most unordinary yet completely attractive way.
“I thought I heard someone out here.” He’s all smiles, sunshine, and magical brownies.
“Yep, I’m here.” Then I do something really stupid. I make freakin’ jazz hands.
Yep, padded room, here I come.
Maxon smashes his lips together until he gets himself under control. “That was an interesting greeting.”
I sigh, disappointed in myself. “I’m sorry. I think I ate too many cookies for lunch.”
“You didn’t ruin your appetite, did you?” he pretends to scold while waving his finger at me. “Because I’ve been slaving over a hot stove all day, young lady.”
I giggle. “No, I didn’t. I’m actually starving.”
“Good, because there’s some really yummy food ready to be made.” He snags my hand and yanks me into his house.
The lyrics and beat of “Underdog” by You Me At Six sounds around me as I stumble into a small living room covered with boxes, tools, and what can only be described as pieces of a large clock.
“Sorry about the mess.” Maxon kicks some springs out of the way as he guides me toward the kitchen attached to the living room. “I was messing around with a project earlier and didn’t have time to clean up.”
“No worries.” I scan all the knickknacks flung all over the worn leather sofa, the shaggy brown carpet, and the bookshelves, my heart beating wildly in my chest.
He’s still holding my hand. Maxon is holding my hand.
“What’s the project?”
“A potato launcher.” He stops in front of the sink, still not releasing my hand, and I make no move to pull away. “I’m also working on rebuilding my mom’s grandfather clock that her mom gave her. It’s becoming a real pain in the ass.” He rubs his free hand across his forehead, frowning toward the living room. “Clocks aren’t really my thing, I think.”
“What’s a potato launcher?” I ask, hoping I don’t sound like a total moron for not knowing.
“It’s basically what it sounds like—a machine that shoots potatoes.” When he releases my hand, I restrain a sigh of disappointment. “It’s for a contest Clove and I enter every year.” He flips on the faucet and begins washing his hands. “We took second place last year, but we’ve revamped the original model, added a compressor with a higher PSI, and we …” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I’m probably boring you to death with this crap.” He shuts off the water then reaches for a hand towel. “Clove is always telling me I never know when to shut up. Like he has any room to talk.”
“No, he doesn’t. In fact, he might be the chattiest guy I’ve ever met, but in a good way. And I’m completely okay listening to you talk about your projects. I’ve actually sort of been fascinated by all the stuff you put together.”
He drops the hand towel on the counter. “You might be the first girl who’s ever said that to me.”
“I’m sure that’s not true. I’m sure Kinslee and even Cl
arissa have said it before.”
“Clarissa isn’t too into our science projects.” He opens a top cupboard to grab a bag of potatoes. “And Kinslee … she does more talking about the projects than she does listening to our ideas. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. She wouldn’t be her if she didn’t.”
I pay close attention to his tone and demeanor to get a vibe on whether he likes, likes Kinslee or just likes, but apparently, my guy-crushing-hard radar is broken, because I pick up nada.
“Maybe she just does that because she’s nervous around you or something. I know a lot of people who ramble when they get nervous.”
“Yeah, me being one of them.” He prods me out of the way and then puts the bag of potatoes on the counter. “I know what you’re getting at, though.”
“You do?”
He nods, removing the twist tie from the bag. “I know Kinslee likes me as more than a friend. She has since about the eighth grade.” He pauses as he’s about to dump the potatoes into the sink. “Ash, please don’t tell anyone that, okay? I don’t want to embarrass her.”
“Your secret’s safe with me. I swear.” I draw an X over my chest then lean against the counter. “I know I’ve been kind of crappy with that stuff in the past, but I’m trying not to be that person anymore. You know, gossip less and spread cheery quotes of the day instead. In fact, I think I’m going to make it my life mission. I’ll move to some big city after I graduate and stand on the street corner, dressed in a big sunshine costume to make sure people don’t confuse me as a prostitute. And then I’ll hand every person a little card with an optimistic quote to enlighten their day.”
His shoulders shake as he chuckles. “Sounds like you’ve put a lot of thought into your plan.”
“Oh, I definitely have.” I hoist myself up onto the counter and tuck my dress neatly under my legs, so I don’t flash him. Not because I’d be embarrassed, but he totally would. “I even have a list of quotes already. Do you want to hear one?”
He dumps the potatoes into the sink. “I’d love to hear one.”
I clear my throat and cross my legs, my stomach fluttering like a paper lantern in the wind as his eyes track the movement.
Opposite of Ordinary: (The Fareland Society, Book 1) Page 19