In Another Life

by C. C. Hunter

  He sat back down. She settled behind her desk. When he noted the way she was staring at him, his panic picked up again. Not staring like she knew he was lying. Or that she had a clue what he’d been up to. But like she wanted to fix him.

  How many times had he sat across from a counselor’s or psychologist’s desk and had them try to get in his head? As if they thought by getting him to spill his guts, they could make him better. They couldn’t.

  No one could change his past. No one could change what had happened. Or the terrible things he’d done. Talking about it only made it worse.

  “Do you know why I wanted to see you?”

  “I assumed because of the fight,” he said.

  “Well, yes, but I also wanted to just … see if you’re okay?” She focused on his bruised face. And talk.”

  Yup, here it came. He inhaled. “Ms. Anderson, I don’t mean to be disrespectful. And if you want to talk to me, dish out a punishment for the fight, I’ll sit here and take it. But I really don’t want to talk about other things.”

  She looked down as if to collect her thoughts. “Okay,” she said, but took a few seconds to resume. “I heard what really happened with the fight. I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too,” he said.

  “Bullying isn’t allowed, period. What Paul was doing was unacceptable. I was told that you even tried to walk away.”

  He shrugged as if it weren’t important, but he felt validated. He didn’t get to feel that way very often.

  “But I don’t think you know your own strength. I’m sure you didn’t mean to hit him that hard.”

  Yeah, I did. The asswipe had pounded his fist into Cash’s eye socket. He’d wanted to hurt that son of a bitch. But he didn’t say that.

  She shifted in her chair. “Thank God, Paul’s nose wasn’t broken.”

  He had to work to hide his disappointment.

  “Point is, I know how teenage guys are. And I know he hit first. But we need to make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

  “I won’t get in his face,” Cash said.

  “But what if he gets in yours?”

  Cash didn’t answer. He couldn’t. To say he wouldn’t defend himself was a lie. And believe it or not, he didn’t like lying.

  “Look. In two months, you’ll be eighteen and Paul will still be seventeen. If a fight erupts, it could come with serious consequences for you.”

  Air caught in Cash’s lungs. “So you want me to leave school?” This was exactly what the Fullers didn’t want. Getting him graduated from high school was their goal.

  Her eyes widened. “No. I just want you to be aware so you can avoid any legal complications.”

  He nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind. Can I go now?”

  If her expression was any indicator, she heard the emotion in his tone. “Just one more thing.”

  He braced himself.

  “My parents were killed in a drunk-driving accident when I was eleven. They were the drunks. My grandmother didn’t think she could take me on. I grew up in foster care.”

  That wasn’t what he’d expected her to say. “I’m sorry.” He meant it, but he still didn’t want her in his head. Didn’t want her story in there either. Didn’t want to get anywhere close to caring about anyone else. Caring for the Fullers was bad enough.

  “So am I,” she said. “What I’m trying to say is that I know about growing up in a world of dysfunction. If you ever want to talk, I’m here.”

  Yeah, I’ll do that when Satan starts serving snow cones with cherries on top in hell. “I’ll remember that.” He got up and walked out.

  * * *

  I walk into the lunchroom. The smells, the crowd of strangers, and the noise have me wanting to pull my head into a shell.

  I look at everyone sitting side by side. They don’t hear the noise, because they are part of it. They don’t see strangers; they see friends.

  Five minutes later, I’m feeling lonely and pathetic while eating my cardboard pizza.

  Then someone drops down beside me. It’s Lindsey. Her arms are folded over her chest. She looks upset. At me.

  Just like that, I know why. She heard about David’s visit to my locker. “I don’t like him,” I spill.

  “You sure?”

  “Positive. I like dark hair and brooding types.” If I could delete the last part, I would, because that sounds too much like the one-eyed brooder who’s creeping me out right now.

  She looks up. “But it doesn’t matter. David likes you.”

  “No. He doesn’t even know me. I’m just new, and ‘new’ to guys is the same as flies to shit. Or, as my mom refers to it, it’s the ‘new cow disease.’ Bulls see a new cow, and they immediately want it. Their nostrils flare, they paw at the dirt and drool.”

  Lindsey settles in the chair, looking more defeated. “I don’t want a bull who goes after new cows. I’ve already done that.”

  I didn’t mean to discourage her. “You can’t judge David. He’s not your bull yet. When you get him by the horns, brand your name on his ass, and he’ll come when you call him, then if he chases a new cow, you can take him to the slaughterhouse. You can have him sold as dog food and pickle his balls.”

  Lindsey laughs. “Pickle his balls.”

  “Hey, that’s my mom’s dream. To have my dad’s cojones floating in a jar while my dog, Bo, munches on his ass.”

  We laugh; then Lindsey’s smile melts away. “So why do we do this? Why do we fall in love if all guys are cheating bastards chasing down new cows?”

  “Because there’s maybe one or two who aren’t like that,” I say, and the hurt of being an offspring of a man who has a severe case of new cow disease grows heavy in my chest, but Lindsey and I share a sad smile.

  And just like that, it hits me. In a matter of minutes, I’ve gone from being an alien in a strange world to being a part of it. I’m putting down roots.

  My friendship with Lindsey is moving past the awkward stage and heading to the part where we mesh, laughing at things that aren’t really funny to help each other.

  It feels good, but there’s a part of me that wants to lift my feet and clip the roots because I know it’s going to hurt when I’m pulled out of this life to go to college. Hurt like it hurt when I was plucked out of El Paso.

  I stop laughing and Lindsey follows suit. I let out a sigh. Lindsey looks at me. “Your mom really said she wants to pickle your dad’s balls?” She’s not saying it like it’s funny anymore. She’s saying it like she knows it hurts me.

  I nod. “Doesn’t your mom take verbal stabs at your dad?”

  She seems to consider it. “A little, but … They’ve been divorced fifteen years. She probably did and I don’t remember.”

  I know she’s saying that just to make me feel better.

  “Shit,” Lindsey says.

  “What?” I ask.

  “There’s Jonathon. In the black T-shirt. Flirting.”

  I remember seeing him a couple of times this summer. He has sandy brown hair and is sort of good looking, but not really. “David’s hotter.”

  * * *

  Cash got permission to visit the library during study hall. Phones were frowned upon there, but last year, the librarian did a lot of looking the other way. If you were quiet and didn’t cause waves, she pretty much left you alone. Know the rules before you break them was another lesson his old man had taught him.

  He pulled up the images on his phone and zoomed in so he could read about Chloe Holden.

  The first piece of information he collected was her birthday: November 18. Emily was born on November 6. But if kidnapped, they’d be sure to change that. The second piece of info was that she was smart. Her scores on the PSAT were higher than his. But if she was working a con, she’d have to be smart.

  Then he learned her parents were recently divorced. If they were really her parents?

  He read a note Ms. Anderson had written. Mother, JoAnne Holden, has cancer. Well, allegedly. Cash “had cancer,” too. His dad had shaved
his head and eyebrows and posted pictures of him on a GoFundMe page.

  As far as his dad was concerned, there wasn’t anything off-limits. He’d even put Cash on a strict diet the month before so he’d look sick.

  Cash read some side notes from her old school. She played soccer.

  That was just the tidbit he needed. He jumped over to Google to find the name of the soccer team from her high school. He found it, and then went to search for images.

  It took five minutes of clicking on links before he found her. He stared. Of the three girls in the image, Chloe—if that was her real name—stood out. She was taller, curvier. Hotter.

  Not that he hadn’t already noticed. Hell, he still remembered how she’d felt against him. But he could stare at an image with appreciation in a way he couldn’t do in person. Or the way he tried not to do in person.

  Too many times, she’d caught him staring. Not all those times were ones where he was checking her out like a guy checks out a girl. Sometimes he was comparing her to Mrs. Fuller. And damn if he didn’t see the resemblance even more in these photos.

  Clicking off that image, he searched for her Instagram account.

  He found one, but she hadn’t posted anything in the last three months.

  If this was a con, she’d have kept up the posts, wouldn’t she? Or maybe not.

  The images and posts he could see appeared real. He checked out her photos. There were several of her with a guy, Alex. Hugging. Kissing. Looking happy. In one, she was sitting on his lap.

  Lucky bastard.

  He remembered what she’d told David Drake about her boyfriend: We’re practically engaged. The lie sounded in her voice and in her body language.

  He saw that Alex had commented on one of the photos, “You look hot, babe.” He clicked on the link to his profile, hoping the pictures wouldn’t be set to private. They weren’t. And … Ha. There it was. The truth. A picture of the guy with another girl. Posted last week. He looked back at the older photos and found one with Chloe at soccer practice.

  So, it looked as if she really was from El Paso. Not that this ruled out a con. He’d just scratched the surface.

  5

  The bell rang the following Monday. I’ve now completed one week at the new school. I don’t like it any better, but I hate it less. Or maybe I’m just getting used to it. Used to being the new kid. Used to Cash Colton staring at me like I ate his last cookie.

  Used to not having a dad. He hasn’t even called me.

  I’m halfway out of school when I realize I forgot my history book. I backtrack to get it and run into Lindsey.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  Lindsey nips at her bottom lip. “I’m … I’m going to go home with Jamie. She wants to talk about her ex-boyfriend.”

  I knew Lindsey’s plan for us becoming the musketeers was doomed when the plans for us over the weekend fell through. This is why moving in the twelfth grade sucks. You can’t just become friends with someone. You have to be approved by their friends.

  “See you later.” I even smile.

  “Yeah.” She turns, then turns back. “I feel bad. I asked if—”

  “It’s okay. You two have history and haven’t been together all summer. I get it. Really, it’s okay.”

  She walks away, still looking guilty. I feel bad for making her feel that way.

  By the time I grab my book and get outside again, the parking lot is emptying out. Most of the cars are lined up at the exit to leave. Horns are blowing. School’s-out laughter leaks from windows and makes me feel lonelier.

  I pull my keys out of my backpack and hit the clicker. Once I’m behind the wheel, I notice my car’s sitting funny. Off-kilter. Kind of how I feel.

  I jump out, my gaze flying to my back tire. My flat back tire.

  “Shit!”

  I reach for my phone to call Dad. Then stop. Dad’s no longer available to help me with this stuff. And—bam!—I remember how right after I got my driver’s license, and right before Dad’s affair came out, he taught me to change a tire. He made it a game, and we timed ourselves to see who could do it the fastest. For every time I won, I’d get ten dollars. We had a blast. I ended up winning thirty dollars.

  Now that memory feels tainted because I wonder if Dad knew he was going to bail. Knew I wasn’t going to be able to count on him.

  Pulling back from feeling sorry for myself, I focus on the positive: At least I can change my own tire. Dropping my backpack, I go open my trunk.

  “Need a hand?”

  I catch my breath. Cash is leaning against a Jeep parked beside me, as if he’s been there all along. How did I miss him?

  “I can help.” There’s no accusation in his eyes or tone now. I don’t think there is. I’ve never been so bad at reading people—or is it that I’ve never met someone so good at staying unread?

  “No. I can do it. Thank you.” This guy unnerves me, for numerous reasons.

  “I’ve got some Fix-a-Flat. It’ll just take a second.”

  “Some what?” I ask.

  “Fix-a-Flat. It inflates your tire and seals up any possible leaks. Then you can drive on it.”

  “That’s okay. I have a spare.”

  He moves in. Butterflies wake up in my stomach. “You can change a tire?” He tucks his right hand into his jeans pocket.

  I lift my chin. “You don’t think girls can change tires?”

  He seems to consider my question. “I think most girls don’t want to change tires.”

  “Well, this girl is fine with it.”

  I lean into my trunk and loosen the nut to get to my spare. I don’t hear him move. Is he planning on watching me. Annoying. But fine. Maybe I’ll get the nerve to ask him my questions.

  “You’re new?” he says.

  “Yup.” I pull the tire up and drop it on the ground. Then I get my jack out.

  “Where are you from?” he asks.

  I set the jack down and reach for the wrench. Only then do I look back at him and work up some courage. “What did you mean at the gas station, about me pulling something?”

  He doesn’t appear shocked by the question. “You were right. You look like someone I used to know.”

  “But obviously, you’ve figured out I’m not her, so why have you still been staring at me?”

  His green eyes crinkle around the edges, and his lips turn up in an amazing smile. “Why do guys usually stare at girls?”

  “Because they’re perverts?” I say, remembering the old-cow-disease chat with Lindsey.

  He laughs.

  I’m caught off guard by the sound, and oddly enough he looks surprised as well. As if he doesn’t laugh that much.

  We stand in silence and stare at each other.

  “Like who?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “Who do I look like?” I kneel to put the jack in place.

  “She’s dead.” His voice sounds solemn.

  I look up at him. “Sorry.”

  “Me, too.”

  He kneels beside me to see where I have the jack, as if he thinks I’m screwing up. His leg brushes mine. It’s innocent, but it feels intimate. His scent, like wild grass, fills my nose and chases away the smell of oily tires.

  “So what brought you here?” he asks.

  My mind’s busy savoring his scent, and it takes me a second to answer.

  “What brought you here?” I counter, trying not to think about the tingle radiating from his jeans-covered thigh.

  His left eyebrow over his black eye lifts, and his jaw clenches. “You don’t like to answer questions, do you?” It sounds like an accusation.

  “Obviously, neither do you.” I fit the wrench on the nut and go to turn it. It won’t budge. Shit.

  “Can I help?” He shifts closer.

  “I got it.” I readjust and put my weight behind it, remembering how Dad showed me to lean into it. My weight’s not enough. Crap. Whoever put this tire on did a number on it.

  “Now?” He moves even closer.


  “What?” Frustration leaks out with the one word.

  “Can I help now?” He’s smiling again. “I promise not to think less of you.”

  “Not funny,” I say.

  “Sorry.” His lips tighten his smile, but it lingers in his eyes.

  I relent and move over. “These tires are brand-new. I shouldn’t even have a flat.”

  He moves in, and with one turn of his wrist, one bulge of his biceps under the gray sleeve of his T-shirt, the nut comes loose.

  He glances over at me. Even with his lingering shiner, his smile sets off alarm bells in my head. One of those crooked grins that leaves his mouth and goes right to my stomach and wakes up more butterflies. The kind Alex used to give me.

  “You loosened it up for me.” He moves to the second nut. I go back to watching his muscles bunch up again. The butterflies are having a parade.

  After several beats of silence, he looks up. “I didn’t fit in at my last school.”

  “Oh.” Because he gave, I do the same. “My parents got a divorce.”

  “And Joyful just seemed like the place to move?” He continues working on the tire.

  “No. My grandmother lived here. She passed away, but Mom still owned her house.”

  “So you used to live here?” The question seems weighty, but I’m too busy watching his muscles to consider it.

  “No.” Then I realize it’s a lie. I lived here a few weeks after I was adopted. “I mean, yeah, but I don’t remember.”

  “Why wouldn’t you remember?”

  “Because I wasn’t even three when we moved.”

  He stops working the wrench and gives me a long look. “Okay.”

  “‘Okay’ what?” My tone’s short and sharp.

  “Okay, I believe you.”

  “But why would you think I’d lie? What is it with—?”

  “Everyone lies.”

  “I don’t!”

  He lifts his brow over his black eye again. “You lied to David about still going out with Alex.”

  “You were eavesdropping?”

  “Guilty.” His gaze collides with mine.

  I press my palms on the asphalt pavement. “How do you know Alex’s name? I didn’t tell David.”