In Another Life

by C. C. Hunter

  He became aware of everything. How she tasted. A little salty, like tears. How her lips felt. Soft, warm. Moist. How she’d inched closer and her breasts pressed so sweetly against his ribs. He wanted her closer, to let his hand circle her waist, to slip his hands under her red shirt to feel skin in the places he hadn’t gotten to see.

  Realizing how wrong it was, he ended the kiss, but managed to do it slowly.

  She smiled. “That was nice.”

  “Yeah. Real nice.”

  But holy hell, he was getting in too deep. This could end badly.

  * * *

  Cash parked in the garage, walked into the house, and punched in the number to shut down the alarm. He’d left after they kissed the fifth time. Five. He kept telling himself he needed to stop, but he couldn’t. Not when she sat so close, so willing, looking up at him with warmth mingled with sadness. She needed to be kissed and he needed to kiss her.

  He bolted up the wooden steps and went down the hall to the bedroom where Mrs. Fuller kept all the memorabilia of the daughter she’d lost. Photographs, stuffed animals the child had played with, books he imagined Mrs. Fuller read to her. The dresser still had some clothes in it. It was like a museum dedicated to her daughter.

  When he turned on the light, he found the bed was unmade. He’d bet Mrs. Fuller slept in here last night. She did that when she was dealing with something.

  He walked to the shelves that held books and framed photographs. He found it. An image of Emily Fuller holding a kitten. Not just any kitten, but Felix. The red tabby almost identical to the one in the photograph at Chloe’s. Equally identical was the girl.

  He picked it up.

  Mrs. Fuller had told the story of how Emily loved Felix many times. They’d found the kitten as a stray. Hence the reason Mrs. Fuller loved the cat so much. Was this part of the puzzle? Or did all decent parents have pictures of their kids with their pets? But how could these two girls look so alike? And was it a coincidence that the kittens looked alike, too?

  He pulled out his phone to photograph it.

  9

  Aware of every little noise I hear from Mom’s bedroom, I stick the leftover pizza in the oven, hoping the smell of it cooking will draw her out. Cash left an hour ago, but Mom hasn’t shown her face. Is she crying? Moping? Pissed?

  Part of me feels like demanding she come out. She’s acting like an angry kid.

  When did I turn into the parent of this relationship?

  Oh yeah, when she got cancer. Or maybe even when Dad left.

  I take my frustration out on the lettuce, tomatoes, and carrots I’m chopping. Felix meows and circles at my ankles.

  With my hands on automatic, my mind wanders. I’m caught between angst over Mom, and walking on clouds at being kissed by Cash. Kissed five times. I initiated the first kiss. I mean, his mouth was so close and I just did it. But the other four are on him.

  I can close my eyes and feel his lips against mine. I savor the memory and the … the brand-new feelings blossoming in my chest. Hope. Excitement. Anticipation.

  Since Mom and Dad started having problems, I’ve felt like someone stole my joy. But maybe it wasn’t stolen, just suppressed. Maybe …

  Mom’s door off the hall opens. She walks into the kitchen bringing a cloud of depression.

  “I’m heating the pizza,” I say.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You have to eat.” Yup, I’m the parent.

  Our eyes meet. I see hurt in her sunken eyes. What joy I have in my chest wilts like a flower left in a vase with no water, and I feel guilty. “I didn’t tattle on you to Dad. He called this morning and I was angry.”

  “At what?”

  “He told me he’d call the first day of school and didn’t. When I called him out on it, he asked if you were bad-mouthing him and if that was why I was being ugly. I told him that, yes, you’d been talking bad about him but that wasn’t the problem. It was that I was realizing everything you said was the truth. I didn’t mean…”

  She sits down. “So he said he’d call and didn’t?”

  This isn’t helping. Now she’s going to get mad again. I borrow some of that anger. “Don’t do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “Get mad.”

  “How can I not be mad? Look what he’s done to me!” She yanks off her bandanna.

  “What happened to you being happy the other day? Telling me that it was all going to work out?”

  “Your father happened!” Tears fill her eyes.

  Tears fill my eyes, too. I sit down beside her. “Mom, you need help. You need counseling or something. You might have survived cancer, but this bitterness is gonna kill you.”

  Without a word, she goes back into her bedroom.

  I shut off the oven, stomp off to my room, and slam my door.

  Neither of us eats dinner.

  * * *

  The next morning when I step out of my room to pee, Mom calls my name. She’s sitting in the kitchen, swallowed by her pink nubby robe. “Can we talk?”

  I try to read her mood. Is she still angry? Still depressed?

  When I get closer, I pick up something else. Guilt.

  “Sit down.” She motions to the table.

  I sit across from her. The dark circles under her eyes are darker. She’s not sleeping.

  “I’m sorry,” Mom says. Tears rim her green eyes. “I had a bad day yesterday. The doctor’s office was supposed to call back about the job, and they didn’t call. I’m worried they changed their mind. And the medicine I’m taking causes flulike symptoms. I started feeling sorry for myself then your dad called, and I lost it.” She takes my hand. “I’m sorry I had a meltdown in front of your friend.”

  While I wish I could believe everything is okay now, I can’t. This isn’t her first apology.

  “I love you, Mom,” I say. “And I forgive you. But you need to get counseling.”

  “I just had a bad day.”

  I stiffen my shoulders and tell myself I’m the parent. “It’s more. You stopped writing. Stopped living. Stopped eating. You haven’t just had a bad day—you’ve had a bad year. I see commercials that says there’s all kinds of medicine for depression.”

  “Honey, I don’t need—”

  “You do, Mom.” I look her right in the eyes.

  She hesitates, then begrudgingly says, “I’ll see if it’s covered by our insurance.”

  It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no either.

  I finish getting ready, hug her, and remind her to call the insurance company. When I go outside, Lindsey’s by my car. She’d texted me last night about an hour after I’d barricaded myself in my room. I begged off going to her house, but I did call her. I didn’t tell her about Mom—I wasn’t ready to talk about it—but I did tell her about Cash. About us kissing.

  When she sees me, she grins. “Still floating on cloud nine?”

  “Just cloud seven.” I get into my car.

  Lindsey pops into the front passenger’s seat. “I can’t believe you’re dating Cash Colton. He’s the hottest guy in school.”

  “Whoa! I’m not dating him. Not yet.”

  When I pull out, I see Mom looking out the window. Make that cloud six.

  “Okay, let me rephrase,” Lindsey says. “I can’t believe you’re making out with the hottest guy in school.”

  “Five kisses isn’t making out.”

  “Hmm,” Lindsey says. “I think it is. Let’s see what Google says.” She grabs her phone, and in a few seconds, she’s silently reading and laughing.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Well, according to the Urban Dictionary, there are several meanings for ‘making out.’ Just kissing is one. Kissing with tongue is another.” She looks at me. “Did you get tongue with Cash?”

  “A little,” I say.

  “Oh yeah!” She refocuses on her phone. “Oh, here’s another: ‘Petting, dry humping, or removing articles of clothing.’”

  “We did not remove any clothes!” I la
ugh.

  She continues. “Listen to this one: ‘Anything that doesn’t include penetration.’ Penetration? That sounds so naughty.”

  That brings a snort out of me, and afterwards I ask, “So when are you going to approach David?”

  “I’m not. If he likes me, he’ll approach me.” Lindsey buckles her seat belt. “Guess who texted me last night?”

  “Who?”

  “Jonathon.”

  “The cheating dog?” I start driving.

  She nods.

  I put the brakes on too suddenly at a stop sign. The car jerks forward. “No,” I say adamantly.

  “‘No,’ what?”

  “No, you’re not getting back with him! He treated you like shit.”

  “But—”

  “No buts! I wouldn’t be your friend if I let you get back with him.”

  She drops her chin to her chest. “You’re right.”

  “Talk to David today!”

  “Maybe,” she said.

  “No maybes. Do it! And I’m not even saying to date him, but just…”

  “Just what?”

  “Feel the buzz of knowing it’s possible. Find your girl power and stop thinking you need Jonathon to make you happy. Sometimes I think we need to know another guy likes us to make us feel good about ourselves. Sometimes we just need to know we could have a guy to realize that maybe we don’t even need one.”

  “Is that what you’re doing with Cash? Finding your girl power?”

  The question rolls around my head. “Maybe. I don’t know yet.” But when I think about him, I can feel there’s more.

  * * *

  Cash walked into school early. He told himself his eagerness to get there had nothing to do with Chloe.

  Nearly all he thought about last night had been her. Wondering if she was Emily. If she’d enjoyed kissing him as much as he enjoyed kissing her. Was she going to hate him when he told her what he suspected?

  When he turned down the hallway, he saw her. He slowed down and watched. Watched the way her hair shifted across her back as she unloaded her backpack into her locker.

  He moved in and stood beside her. “Hey.”

  She turned and smiled. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” His gaze went straight to her lips and he wanted to kiss her. He’d never been one for public affection, but he could tell it would be easy to change his mind.

  Realizing that staring at her lips was awkward, he saw the math book she held against her breasts. But letting his gaze linger there would be even more awkward, so he spit out the words, “Going to calculus? Do you have Mr. Williams? I have him fourth period.”

  He knew she had Mr. Williams, since last night he’d read and reread the file he photographed in Ms. Anderson’s office.

  “Yeah,” she answered. “He seems okay. What do you have first period?”

  “History.” The bell rang.

  “I should go,” she said. “I’ll see you in American Lit.”

  “Yeah.” He leaned in. “I enjoyed yesterday.”

  She smiled, and those soft brown eyes glanced up at him through her lashes. “Me, too.”

  She eased away. He watched her move down the crowded hall. The black jeans she wore fit almost as well as the blue jeans she wore yesterday.

  He stayed there watching until his view was obstructed by other students.

  Considering he was in mostly honors, it was odd that they had only one class together. Just bad luck. Or maybe it was because he took auto tech.

  Last year, when he’d set up his classes, Ms. Anderson tried to talk him out of it. “But I can’t keep you in all honors classes if you take auto tech. You could take another math to be better prepared for college courses.”

  He explained that he planned on taking college math on his own time before he graduated. And he was. Tonight was the first class.

  “So, you’re going to college?” She’d asked as if she didn’t expect he would. Now that he knew she’d been in the foster system, he was kind of disappointed that she’d automatically thought the worst of him. Regular people did that, not people who understood.

  Or maybe she understood too well. Most foster kids who came through the system ended up in jail. When he’d read that statistic, it hurt. He thought about the few foster kids he’d actually liked. Not that he’d stayed in touch with them. Doing so was almost impossible given the number of times he’d moved.

  As he made his way to history class, he recalled Ms. Anderson’s next question. She’d asked, “Then why take auto tech?”

  He’d told her. “Because I like it.”

  And he did. But another truth was, once school was over, he didn’t plan on taking handouts from the Fullers. If something happened to his car, he’d better be prepared to fix it.

  Plus, the garage was giving him bigger jobs now that they knew he was in auto tech, and he hoped to work for an auto shop while he went to college.

  It bothered him that the Fullers bought him the Jeep. They convinced him the cash they received from fostering him had paid for it. But he knew better. And he was determined to pay them back.

  * * *

  After lunch, I go to my locker to get my books. Locker open, I pull my phone out of my purse and send Mom a text. Have you called insurance?

  She needs to know I’m not dropping this.

  I’m waiting to see if she’ll answer when I feel someone standing beside me. I’m all smiles, thinking it’s Cash. But when I look up, I see the face of a bully with a very bruised nose. The nose Cash gave him.

  “Hey,” he says. “I’m Paul Cane. Quarterback.”

  I look at my phone again, hoping he’ll go away. He obviously thinks I should be impressed with his football position. “Yeah?”

  “Chloe, right?” he asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought I’d do you a favor.”

  That has me lifting my gaze.

  “I saw you hanging out with that Cash guy. You probably haven’t heard, but he’s a foster kid.”

  This rolls over me like lemon juice on a deep paper cut. “So?” I hear the sharp edge to my one-word response, and I hope he does, too.

  He must have, because he appears disappointed. “I know some kids who go to Cash’s old high school, and rumor has it, he’s bad news.”

  I send him one of my tight, not-pleasant smiles. “Good thing I don’t waste my time on rumors, then.”

  His gray eyes darken. “They say he killed his dad. Shot him right in the heart.”

  That sends a jolt through me, but I don’t dare show it. “Like I said, I don’t pay attention to rumors.”

  I start to walk off, but he catches my arm.

  “You should.” His tone is the same pompous one he used with the sophomore he’d been bullying. As if he’s smarter, superior. But I see him for what he is: a jerk.

  I glare at his hand and pull away.

  Shoulders tight, I slam my locker a little too hard. It clanks, and the echo bounces down the hall. People turn and stare.

  As I start walking, my mind starts racing. Could Cash have killed his father?

  10

  When the last bell rings, Lindsey meets me at my locker and we walk toward my car. I’m disappointed that Cash didn’t meet me. All day I’ve thought about what Paul said. Not that I believe it.

  I know Paul’s a jerk who’d say anything to hurt Cash. And if Cash knew what he said, he’d be upset. Which is why I’m not telling him.

  As Lindsey and I get close to my car, I see him leaning against it. I recall with clarity how it felt to kiss him. A smile works its way to my lips and then to my eyes.

  Nope. He’s no murderer.

  “You want me to hang back?” Lindsey asks.

  “No,” I say.

  We walk up, and all I can see is Cash. How his green eyes are watching me watch him. How he’s almost smiling. “This is Lindsey.”

  Cash does the polite thing and says, “Hi. I saw you around last year.”

  “Yeah.” She pulls out h
er phone. “I need to text … someone.”

  She moves around to the other side of the car. I know she’s just giving us some privacy, and I appreciate it. I walk closer. “I hope your class goes okay tonight.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “I just wanted to say bye.”

  I look up at him. His black eye is fading. A brush of wind stirs his dark hair from his brow. I wonder if he wants to kiss me again. I know I want to kiss him, but I used up my gutsiness when I kissed him first yesterday.

  “Is it okay if I text or call you later?” he asks.

  “Yeah.” We trade numbers.

  “You can call me, too.” He brushes a hand down my arm. I know then he’s not planning on kissing me. But the touch somehow leaves me just as breathless.

  I stand there and watch him walk away. He turns once and smiles. This feels so good.

  “No kiss?” Lindsey asks after we get in the car.

  “No.” I offer a grin and almost tell her how amazing I feel.

  She sighs. “Do you know how crazy this is? Seriously, girls were, like, throwing themselves at him, and he ignored them.”

  “Crazy,” I say, and insecurity hits. I know he said I look like someone, and that’s what started this, but if Cash could have any girl he wants, what’s he doing with me?

  I push that thought aside and look at Lindsey. “Did you talk to David today?”

  She smiles. “I did.”

  “And?”

  “I found some girl power,” she says. “And if he asks me out, I’m going. I don’t know what it is about him, but I like him. He’s refreshing.”

  “Good.” As we wait in line to exit the parking lot, a knock sounds on the front passenger-side window. It’s Jamie.

  Lindsey rolls down the window.

  “Hey,” Jamie says to Lindsey, not even giving me a nod. “You want to ride home with me and do homework together?”

  “Uh…” Lindsey looks at me as if she feels bad.

  “Go,” I say.

  “Okay, then,” Lindsey says.

  I watch Lindsey jump out of the car and walk off with Jamie, telling myself I’m not jealous. The car in front of me moves up another space. I do the same. I look in my rearview mirror and see them laughing. I’m not jealous, I repeat, but it stings a little anyway.