The final whistle sounds, and we all freeze. This part is uncharted. Normally we just collect our things and slink off the field. The team is celebrating, and a few members of the squad trickle onto the grass to share their congratulations. I remain in place, just witnessing the scene. I can’t bring myself to go out on the field, even to congratulate the guys I’ve spent years cheering for. Who I’ve seen disappointed over and over again. Because I’m too uncertain about what the guy responsible for this victory might say or do.
I feel eyes on me as I pack up my gear and head for the locker room. Usually, I lounge around on the benches following a game. Tonight, I’m a woman on a mission. I’ve finished showering before the full team is even back in the locker room. Paige lets out a low whistle as she opens the locker next to mine.
“Damn.” She eyes the short, blue dress I’m wearing. “Someone’s got big plans tonight.”
“We’ll see,” I reply, unclipping my hair so it tumbles down my back.
“Uh-huh,” Paige smirks as she changes out of her cheer uniform.
For once, Paige is the one waiting for me to finish getting ready. Actually, most of the squad is. There’s absolutely some intrigue about what’s going on between me and Ryder, and I don’t actually mind it.
Strolling out into the parking lot to double takes and whispers doesn’t feel terrible, either. It actually feels pretty damn good. I’ve got plenty of confidence, but this feels different. I feel bold, and it’s a feeling I cling to as I approach the moment I’ll see Ryder again.
I head for Betty, and Paige walks over to her sedan in the spot next to mine. “Did you see Kennedy’s dress?” she asks as we step out of earshot from the rest of the squad.
“Yeah,” I reply. Kennedy’s wearing the same dress I am. Ever since I made my interest in Ryder known, she seems to have doubled down on imitating me. “Probably just a coincidence.”
“Or she buys all the same clothes as you do to increase the odds.” Paige rolls her eyes.
I shrug before climbing into my car. Kennedy’s fashion choices are low on my list of concerns at the moment. I ride the boldness I’m experiencing right into the post-game celebration, striding into Robert’s kitchen ten minutes later like it’s a catwalk.
I study the array of alcohol out on the counter, settling on ginger ale and vodka. Paige and Kinsley both look surprised, but neither say anything as I lean against the kitchen counter, sipping my simple cocktail.
Some football players start to filter into the kitchen, and I congratulate the ones I should have said something to earlier.
I’m talking to Jack Rodgers when I feel the energy in the room shift. I tense before I glance over. Green eyes slam into mine, emphasized by the darker shade of his hair thanks to the shower he must have taken right after the game. His friend Tommy is with him, and Danielle Collins leaves her spot at the island to beeline toward them. But Ryder’s eyes stay on me.
Electricity crackles between us, tangible as the smell of alcohol in the air. I raise my cup and tip it toward him, the same way I did in Brewed Awakenings earlier.
He stays stoic. Ryder James has one hell of a poker face. But for some reason, I feel like I can sense he’s amused. Finally, he returns the motion, gesturing back to me with the beer bottle he’s holding.
Danielle says something to him, and our eye contact is broken. I nod along to what Jack is saying, without really listening to what is coming out of his mouth.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m still in the same spot. A few more people have joined my conversation with Jack, requiring even less input from me. Allowing for more time to watch Ryder. His group has expanded as well. I finish my drink and pour another one. Then finish that one as well. Alcohol and impatience are what propel me across the room.
“Want to dance, James?” Ryder just looks at me. His gaze drops to my dress, and his jaw clenches. I hold my ground. “Limited time offer,” I add.
Finally, some emotion breaks through. “How long do I have?” He takes a sip of beer.
“Ten seconds,” I throw back.
He’s grinning now. “Okay, I’ll take it.” Ryder sets his bottle of beer on the counter and grabs my hand, pulling me into the living room. There are a few couples dancing, but not many. I have a feeling we’d be attracting this many stares even if it were packed, though. Especially since Ryder pulls me to him like there’s a slow song playing, not an upbeat pop one.
“Does this mean you’re not mad at me anymore?”
“I’m plenty mad at you,” I assure him. “Just got sick of waiting for you to do anything but stare at me.”
He laughs. “Yeah, that’s fair.”
“Why did you decide to play? Why didn’t you tell me you had decided to play? We could have avoided that whole fight.”
“We weren’t fighting about football, Elle.” He glances away, then back at me again. “I’m never going to be that guy who fits in your life. Even if I had the money to go to college next year, I wouldn’t. I’ve always hated school. I want to do something where I can sit back at the end of the day and see what I’ve accomplished. I like working at the garage.”
“How do you know you don’t fit in my life?” I reply. “I don’t even know what my life is going to look like yet.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Things change, Ryder. Plans change. You may think you know me, but you don’t. Not yet.”
He raises one eyebrow in response to my flirty tone. “What don’t I know about you, Elle Clarke?”
“Well…” A familiar song starts to play, and I let a sultry smile unfurl across my face. “I’m a pretty good dancer.” I twist so my back is to Ryder’s front. I am a good dancer, especially when I have a planned routine. And it just so happens Paige and I spent last summer choreographing moves to songs we knew the administration would never let us use for the cheer team. “Lil Bit” was one of them, and it’s currently blasting through the living room. I lose myself in the pulse of the beat of the music as I spin, twirl, and grind. Some of these moves are ones which definitely would not be approved for a school event, even paired with a tamer song.
Ryder appears pretty stunned when the song ends and I twist back around, and there are some shocked expressions on other people in the living room as well by the time the next tune begins to play.
“Shit,” he breathes, and it’s pretty fantastic for my ego.
I kiss him, letting the same wild energy that’s governed me ever since the end of the football game take over again. “I’m going to grab a drink. Meet me upstairs?”
Ryder nods, still looking a little dazed. I smirk, then head for the kitchen. Awed glances track my progress to the fridge. I open the door to grab a bottle of water, and then someone slams it shut.
“Please tell me you didn’t do the ‘Lil Bit’ routine at a party in front of Ryder James, and I missed it.”
“I didn’t do the ‘Lil Bit’ routine at a party in front of Ryder James, and you missed it,” I tell Paige.
She rolls her eyes. “Damnit. Last time I’m playing beer pong in the garage.”
I reopen the fridge and grab a bottle of water. I unscrew the lid and guzzle some. Turns out dirty dancing on a guy is really dehydrating.
“So?! How was it?”
“I remembered all the moves. Ryder definitely enjoyed it,” I give her a sly smirk.
“Yeah, I’m sure he did.” Paige returns it.
I gulp some more water, and then screw back on the lid. “He’s waiting for me upstairs, so I’ll see you later.”
Paige shakes her head, smiling. “Okay, we’re going to need to have a long talk tomorrow. And you also need to reenact the dance as part of it.”
“Deal,” I agree. “See you later.”
“There’s a banana on the counter, if you need a quick tutorial on—”
“Shut up,” I hiss.
Paige laughs loudly, then heads toward the living room. I walk toward the stairs. The front door is slightly ajar, and I go to close it. Ju
st as I’m about to, I hear a quiet sniffle. I pull it open wider instead. I’m shocked to see Danielle Collins sitting on the railing, staring out into space. I glance back behind me. No one else is in the entryway. Everyone’s congregated in the kitchen or living room.
“Danielle?” I say softly, stepping out onto the front porch.
Her head jerks upright, and she hastily swipes at her cheeks.
“Uh, are you okay?” I ask awkwardly. It’s pretty obvious she’s not, but we’re not exactly close friends.
“Yeah. Fine.” The words are clipped.
“Do you want me to get anyone? Tommy? Or Ryder?”
She sniffs, then scoffs. “Absolutely not. Tommy will say he told me so.”
“Told you what?”
Danielle stares straight at me. “That Ryder has feelings for you.”
“Oh,” is all I can say. The pieces suddenly fall together. She’s out here because she’s upset about me and Ryder. Meaning I’m the absolute last person she probably wants to witness this. Her animosity at the pond makes a little more sense now. “I’m really sorr…”
My apology is drowned out by sirens. Not a single, passing one. By multiple ones that are suddenly here and on top of us. At least three police cars park haphazardly on the street, blocked from getting closer by the dozens of vehicles filling the driveway and lining the road. The front door opens, and people start to pour out of the house, running for cars and slamming doors. I get swept up in the swell of movement, looking around for Paige or Ryder. I can’t find either of them.
Eventually, I give up, heading for Betty and climbing inside. Cars peel out to the left and right, filled with panicked students hoping this night won’t end up on their permanent record. I commiserate with the alarm a little more when I realize it’s not just Fernwood police here. Some of the police cars are from Brighton, the neighboring town. It’s larger, and much less affluent. They usually only step in on larger incidents and have a reputation for being far less forgiving than Fernwood’s two officers. Their presence is what jolts me into motion.
I turn on my convertible and follow the line of taillights down the street. My parents are mad enough already. I let out a sigh of relief when none of the cops pursue us. Rather than go home, I head for the field. I park in the same spot Ryder left his truck in the last time I was here and pull out my phone to text him. I drum my fingers against the steering wheel as I wait for him to respond, filled with nervous energy.
My phone finally buzzes, but it’s not a text. Paige's calling me.
“Hey,” I answer. “How crazy was that? Did you get out okay?”
“Yeah, I did.” There’s a weird note in her voice, but I’m too buzzed to let it register.
“It seriously was like something out of the movies. Although it wasn’t the worst timing ever. I was talking to Danielle, and—”
“Where are you, Elle?” Paige interrupts.
“At the field. I'm waiting for Ryder.”
There’s a long pause. “He’s not coming,” Paige finally says.
“What are you talking about? Are you with him?”
“No. He was… arrested.”
“What?! They actually arrested people for underage drinking? Seriously? I’ll go down there now. I can get my dad—”
She interrupts me again. “That’s not why they arrested him, Elle. They’re saying…”
Paige keeps talking and talking, but I stop registering anything she’s saying. I stare out at the field I equally love and loathe. This is where we started. Maybe it’s fitting this is where we end.
It sounds arrogant, but I’ve always considered myself the type of person who bad things don’t happen to. I haven’t suffered any direct hits, but I’ve caught plenty of collateral damage. The shrapnel seems to always hit my heart.
I think of Ryder's mother, who’s struggled so much already. Of Christopher, who relies on Ryder. Of that sad, stray dog who’s probably curled up behind the trailer waiting for Ryder to come home and feed him.
It’s the thought of that dog waiting forever that breaks through the shock.
Tears start falling.
They don't stop for a while.
Chapter Ten
Present Day
The easiest way to differentiate locals from tourists in the city is their pace. Any full-time resident tends to stride along to their destination. Temporary visitors lollygag in order to check maps and take selfies.
Usually, I fall firmly into the first category as a reliable speed-walker. Even if I’m just headed out shopping or going to meet Paige so we can get our nails done. I pride myself on appearing as though I always have someplace important to be. Today? I’m ambling along like I just disembarked a plane from Kansas.
My phone won’t stop vibrating, but I’m barely cognizant of the constant buzzing. My whole body feels numb.
Around me is endless activity. Horns honking, pedestrians shouting, pigeons swarming. I’m a one-woman island of apathy. And I embrace it. I can feel the emotion simmering and boiling beneath the surface. I’m a dam, and I know I’ll eventually burst.
Eleanor Clarke always deals with things head-on. Handles them. Sorts feelings into clear stages and steps.
Elle Clarke reacted impulsively. Ignored things she didn’t want to do. Was brazen and emotional and unafraid to show it.
I thought I’d left the girl who did things she wasn’t supposed to back in high school. That I’d had bouts of rebellion because all teenagers do.
Today’s events suggest an entirely different cause.
The glass lobby of my father’s law firm appears on my left. Without realizing it, I just walked fifteen blocks. I put on a cute pair of wedges this morning, intent on looking my best as a newly engaged woman. I’m pretty sure they must have left blisters by now, but again—I’m numb.
I give my name at the front desk and am whisked into a shiny elevator to be transported up to the ten floors that are my father’s pride and joy.
“What number?” the attendant asks.
“110,” I reply.
He gives me a long side glance. “110?”
“My father’s the managing partner. Michael Clarke,” I state. I don’t recognize my own voice. It’s the tone of someone who just learned the world’s a different place than they thought it was this morning. “I’m in a rush,” I add, with a bit of the native snark my last few sentences lacked.
No idea if it was name-dropping my father or dropping the polite tone, but the elevator finally begins to rise upward. The attendant doesn’t make any small talk, just holds an arm out to keep the doors open when they slide apart to reveal the swanky entrance to the floor that houses the senior partners’ offices.
I stride into the swanky reception area and down the hallway leading to the largest corner office. My arrival causes a stir. Clients don’t venture here. The 110th floor is reserved for the fat cats at the top of the food chain, and those who serve them. I leave a series of scrambling secretaries in my wake, trying to figure out why I’m here and whether I have any right to be. I ignore calls of “Miss! Miss! Excuse me, miss!” and home in on the door engraved with Michael Clarke. It’s shut. Probably means he’s in the midst of an important meeting or on a phone call with an associate in London.
I barge in anyway.
The young blonde leaning over my father’s desk lets out a startled screech, straightening and stuttering back a couple steps. My father’s seated at the desk, signing some documents. I’m assuming the woman is here to collect them. I’m also surmising that’s not all she’s here for, based on her not-so-innocent reaction to my unexpected entrance.
I ignore the blonde and focus my attention on my father. “I need to talk to you, Dad.”
“Come back for these later, Sharon,” he instructs the woman.
She scurries out into the hallway, shutting the door behind her.
“My newest secretary.”
I scoff as I drop into one of the cushy armchairs that face the Boston skylin
e. I don’t know—and don’t want to know—if my father has ever outright cheated on my mother, but I’ve seen his eyes wander enough it’s a wonder they’re still in their sockets. “I got a call from a nonprofit this morning,” I state.
“I don’t know why you bothered applying for other jobs, Eleanor. This is one of the best firms in the city. Only an idiot would turn down a position here to work at a nonprofit—”
“It was about Ryder James. They’re working on his case,” I tell the soaring skyscrapers.
No response, and I shift my eyes from the view to my father. He leans back in his chair, expression inscrutable. I study him; he stares back.
“You knew,” I realize. “You already knew.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
My father lets out a beleaguered sigh, like answering my question is beneath him. “I played golf with Brent Andrews a couple weeks ago. He mentioned it. His firm has done some pro bono work with Until Proven Guilty.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” More accusation leaks into my voice with each syllable I speak.
“It didn’t seem important.”
“Didn’t seem important?” I can’t recall the last time I dared to raise my voice to my father, but that last word creeps into my upper register of volume.
My father leans forward, resting his forearms on the massive mahogany desk sitting between us. “Do you know why Brent mentioned it to me? Because he remembered how people talked about how obsessed you were with that boy in high school. My daughter was besotted with a boy who ended up a convicted criminal, and seven years later, we still haven’t shaken the association.”
Neither my parents nor I have touched the subject of Ryder James since the night I came home crying from Homecoming seven years ago. The condescension and anger in my father’s voice once would have deterred me from ever speaking his name again. But new knowledge buoys me.
“What if he didn’t do it?”
“He pled guilty, Eleanor. No organization of bleeding hearts who attended law schools so low in the rankings you’d need a GPS to find them is going to overturn a guilty plea.”
Come Break My Heart Again Page 13