Malcolm beats through the fill, the kick drum vibrating under my feet, and Dane eases in, playing the transition while I keep time on the guitar, backed up by Lotus.
Belting out the lyrics, I feel a high hit me as I close my eyes.
Bookmark it, says the cheerleader
I promise we’ll come back to this spot.
I have shit to do first. You won’t wait a lot.
I can’t make her stay,
and I can’t watch her go.
I’ll keep her hellfire heart,
And bookmark it ‘fore it goes cold.
Malcolm is razor, keeping the energy up, and sweat glides down my back as I savor the rush of playing again. Sticks, a favorite Thunder Bay hangout, has been closed for renovations for over a month, but the owners
are still great about letting us use the space when we need to practice without an audience.
Dane’s guitar whines as he cuts off the note and stops playing. “Alright, stop, stop, stop!” he interrupts. “I think we should break it up at the point, add a riff.” He points to Malcolm at the drums. “You back me up with something creative, before we dive back in with vocals.”
“Keep it high-energy,” I say.
But he just sneers at me, like duh. “Yeah, I know what you like.”
“Alright, count it off,” Lotus calls out, but I hold up my hand, pulling the guitar strap over my head.
“I need a drink.”
I step off the stage and walk to one of the tables, taking a swig out of the water bottle.
A girl stands behind the bar—one of the owner’s daughters, I think—
her chin resting on her hand as she looks at me. She’s about my age. Maybe a year younger.
She looks like Annie. Blonde hair, pert nose, slender shoulders… Annie never listened to me play, though. She wasn’t unsupportive. She was just too busy to take an interest. Of course, I could say the same thing about myself and her hobbies. The only reason I attended as many girls’
volleyball games as I did was because she asked me to be there. She needed people to be proud of her, and I knew why.
The girl smiles at me, and I smile back and then quickly look away.
There was a time when she might’ve been my type. Cute, soft, sweet.
But just the memory of Ryen’s nervous breath across my lips before she kissed me that first time in the truck has my body stirring. She’s a complicated, temperamental little mess, but she gets me going.
I pick up my phone and check to see if I have any messages. I’m hoping for anything. A rant. Insults. A bitchy text, telling me to fuck off.
But nothing. I know I should leave her alone and give her space. There are just so many things yet to say, so much she doesn’t know, and I need to tell her before she pushes me away for good.
Maybe she’ll meet me. Tomorrow at my house, and I can tell her everything. I don’t want to ambush her, but maybe she’ll give me a chance if I open myself up and lay everything on the line.
Clicking my Facebook app, I type in her name and go to her profile, deciding I’ll just send her a message and leave the ball in her court. I have to try. If she doesn’t go for it, then I’ll wait for as long as I need to.
But when her profile pops up, I see a video she’s tagged in, and I hesitate. Without giving myself time to think, I click on it, noticing it was only posted a few minutes ago.
Ryen is standing by a pool, surrounded by people drinking and dancing, with one of her thighs turned out as some guy kneels between her legs.
What the fuck?
I watch as he dives in, licking a long stroke up the inside of her thigh, as she breaks into laughter and everyone cheers.
The asshole has his back to the camera, tips back a shot as the crowd eggs him on, and Ryen laughs, sticking a lemon wedge in her mouth and inviting him in to suck it from her.
The music is blaring, and Ryen wraps her arms around him, their mouths touching before she breaks away and starts shaking her body to the music.
“Son of a bitch.” I squeeze the phone in my hand, scrolling the comments to see the party is at Trey’s house. She’s at his house?
And people are sharing this video of some guy licking her, too.
I grab my keys off the table and stuff the cell in my pocket. How the fuck is she at a party at that asshole’s house, and who the hell is she screwing off with?
“Let’s go,” I bark at the guys.
“Where?”
“I’ll explain in the truck.”
I head through the pool hall, hearing them put their instruments down and run after me. Once outside, I hop in the cab. Dane climbs in the passenger side, and Lotus and Malcolm jump in the bed behind us.
Firing up the engine, I speed away from Sticks and hop onto the highway. I lay on the gas, determined to make the thirty-mile drive in ten minutes. Is she actually drinking at his house? She has to know how stupid that is.
She wants to party? Fine. She wants some space? Okay. But going anywhere near that asshole or being entertainment for some horny little shit who wants to touch her is pushing me too far. Ryen doesn’t do fucking body shots. She’s trying to piss me off, and it’s working.
And I think of Annie and what she did to herself, because she wasn’t thinking straight, either.
By the time we make it to Trey Burrowes’ house, I’m more worked up than I’ve ever been, but I know if I go in there half-cocked, she’ll just fight back, and I’ll walk out of there without her.
We climb out of the truck, and I can feel the vibrations of the music out to the street. “Bad Girlfriend” plays, and I glance around, seeing the houses all a good distance away from each other, but some of them have to be able to hear this noise. I’m tempted to call the cops myself, if they haven’t been
called already, just to break it up and send Ryen home. But no. I’ll let her choose.
As we walk into the house, a group of girls runs past us to the stairs, laughing and falling into the wall as they stumble up the steps.
“Nice,” Lotus laughs, making like he’s going to follow them.
But I grab his black ponytail and pull him back. We’re not here for that.
“Hey, man.” J.D. comes up, shaking my hand. “I’m glad you’re here.
You going to set off some fireworks?”
I laugh to myself, knowing he knows I would rather swallow needles than be in this house. “I wasn’t planning on it. Have you seen Ryen?”
He shakes his head. “Not in the last fifteen minutes.” And then he narrows his eyes on me. “You going to tell me what’s going on between you two?”
“No.”
He snorts. “Okay.” And then he moves around me toward the family room. “I’ll be close. If you need me.”
I nod and look back at the party, scanning the crowd as we step down into the living room.
“Well, well, well,” Trey says, stepping through the crowd and approaching me. “What the fuck do we have here?”
He’s flanked by a couple of his friends, and I steel my spine, keeping my expression hard as I stare at him.
“You want trouble?” he says. “We can give you trouble.”
I feel my bandmates inch in closer, and Trey’s eyes flash to them as if finally realizing I’m not alone.
“Not in my parents’ house, though,” he clarifies, suddenly nervous.
Enough. “Where’s Ryen?” I demand.
He laughs. “Have you checked in one of the rooms upstairs? Little cock tease had some liquor tonight, so she might finally be giving up that pussy. I can’t wait for my turn.”
I lunge out and grab him by the collar of his T-shirt, both of our crews moving in.
But I catch sight of something to my left, and I look down, seeing a cuff wrapped around Trey’s wrist.
And on the cuff, secured by two straps, is an antique Jaeger-LeCoultre timepiece.
My heart pounds in my ears. “Where the hell did you get that watch?”
His eyebrows dig in, and I shake him, feeling a thick swell of bile rise in my throat. He didn’t get it from her. She wouldn’t have given it to him.
No.
“Misha!” someone calls. But I ignore them.
All I see is Trey.
“Misha?” someone murmurs. “Who’s Misha?”
The music is still going, but I stare at him, feeling more people start to crowd around us.
I push him away, releasing him as I tighten my fists. She gave it to him?
“Leave,” Ryen orders, appearing at my side.
I jerk my eyes to her and stare down, hovering. “Don’t talk and don’t move,” I bite out, taking in her tits, plain as day in her bikini top and off-the-shoulder shirt that hangs on her like a shredded piece of fucking Kleenex. “You’re all over Facebook, shaking your ass and doing body shots. I’m not happy.”
Her eyes go wide, shock and anger flaring. “Excuse me?” she yells as a couple of girls giggle.
But I turn back around, advancing on Trey. “Where the fuck did you get that watch?”
“What’s your problem?” he snarls. “Go fuck yourself!”
I rear back and punch him across the face, knocking him to the ground.
The whole place erupts as his friends and my friends go for each other and partygoers scream and jump out of the way. I dive down and dig my keys out of my pocket, unsheathing the knife on my key chain and leaning over Trey. Everyone above me goes crazy, and I grab Trey’s wrist as he winces from the pain in his face.
“Get off me!” He tries to yank his arm away from me.
But I slide the dull knife between the watch strap and his wrist and pull hard, slicing it off his arm.
“Misha!” I hear Ryen call, and I stand up as everyone stumbles around me.
“Everyone stop now!” a deep male voice bellows from behind. “Turn off the music!”
I look behind me, seeing two cops in black uniforms enter the house, one of them holding his hands around his mouth and shouting.
Shit. I guess someone did report the noise. The whole crowd scurries, running out the sliding glass doors or into the kitchen, where there’s probably a back door.
I shove the watch and key chain at Dane. “Take my truck. Get the guys and go!”
He grabs the stuff from me and alerts Lotus and Malcolm as the two cops busy themselves, trying to stop kids from leaving. My friends dive out the back and disappear, while I stand still, looking over and seeing Ryen, surprised she’s still here.
Her cheeks are flushed, but her eyes are steady on me. She doesn’t look drunk.
Why did I let Trey bait me like that? Ryen wouldn’t do something as reckless as get wasted and follow someone upstairs. I was just looking for a reason to hit him.
And then I look at the guy standing behind her and notice that it’s Ten.
It takes a moment, but I finally make the connection. Blond hair, blue shirt… He’s the guy from the video.
Dammit. So I charged over here to beat up a guy who’s probably more attracted to me than Ryen. Great.
“Hey!” Trey shouts, standing up. “He stole my watch!”
I stay rooted in place, but I take out my phone and shoot a text to Dane that I’ll probably be arrested. He’ll know what to do.
The music cuts off, and a cop comes around, standing between Trey and me.
“What are you doing here, son?” he asks me.
“Just partying.”
“He has my watch,” Trey grits out.
But I just shrug. “Search me. I don’t have anything.”
Trey comes in close, invading my space and glaring at me, but the cop pushes him back. “You’re in enough trouble,” he tells him. “Stand back.”
But Trey is a wall. He doesn’t come closer, but he stays rooted.
“He wasn’t invited, he started a fight, and he stole my watch,” he says again.
My lips lift in a small smile.
The cop looks to me. “What’s your name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where do you live?”
“I forget,” I answer, still staring at Trey.
I hear the cop breathing hard, turning angry. I don’t want to be difficult, but Dickwad can’t know who I am. I don’t want Misha Lare on the radar in this town. Not yet.
“Put your hands behind your back,” he orders.
I do as I’m told, and he moves around to put handcuffs on me.
“Wait, no!” Ryen argues.
But I look at her, softening my expression. “It’s fine. Don’t say anything.”
Don’t tell them who I am.
“Alright, I’m taking this one in,” the officer tells the other cop who’s busy on his walkie talkie. “Clear this out, and call Mr. and Mrs. Burrowes.”
The other officer nods and gets back on his radio.
The cop leads me out of the house, and I look at Ryen. There’s a million things I want to say.
I’m done here. I’m going home.
I’ll be anything you want, even gone if that’s what you need.
I love you.
But I just shoot my eyes up to Ten and tell him, “Make sure she gets home safe.”
An hour later I’m sitting in the police station, no longer handcuffed. I lean back in one of the chairs against the wall, my legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, and my arms folded over my chest. A female cop is talking on the phone behind the counter, and I tap my finger under my arm, playing the tune we were working on at Sticks tonight in my head.
At least I got the watch back. I got both of what I came here for, so I should be happy.
Unfortunately, though, those things that seemed so important three weeks ago seem kind of trivial now.
“Why did he have your watch?” I hear someone ask.
I jerk, startled, and look up. Ryen leans on the corner next to my chair, probably having just come down the hallway from the entrance.
“That was the watch you were looking for, right?” she presses.
“How did you get here?” I sit up. “You didn’t drive, did you?”
“I’m sober,” she answers. “Now answer the question. What are you doing? What’s going on?”
I face forward again, leaning back in my chair.
I know I need to stop dodging, and I have no reason not to tell her, but where do I start? I want her to understand, but I also want to know if we can make it back to where we were in our letters and to where we were when I was Masen. I want to get there without her pity.
“You want me to trust you,” she points out, “but you’re still keeping things from me.”
I turn to her, opening my mouth to speak, but just then, three guys come down the hallway and enter the station, stopping when they see me.
I move to stand up, but my cousin pushes me back down.
“I’m sorry, man,” I rush out, hating that he had to come all the way down here.
But Will just smiles at me. “Getting arrested is a Thunder Bay boy’s rite of passage,” he jokes, beaming with pride.
I roll my eyes. Will’s two friends, Michael Crist and Kai Mori, stand behind him, looking amused.
I guess they would know. A few years ago, they reigned over my hometown when they were high school basketball heroes, and they haven’t left the limelight since. Simply exchanging notoriety for infamy.
Will crosses his arms over his chest, giving me a condescending look.
“You should’ve been able to get out of this yourself, you know?” he chastises. “Watch and learn.”
He turns around, all three of them heading to the counter, no doubt with their best smiles on their faces.
Ryen shifts to my left, but we both remain quiet.
“Hi, I’m William Grayson, III,” Will says to the female cop. “Officer Webber, is it?” She darts her eyes between him and the other two, looking on guard.
“My grandfather is Senator Grayson,” he tells her, “and I really hope he’s your favorite person on the planet. He’s always supported police officers.”
I laugh to myself at his smooth voice, which is probably working on her. Kai leans on the counter, quiet but with a small smile on his face, while Michael, the lead point guard for the Meridian City Storm basketball team, stands tall and intimidating.
He reaches out a hand. “And I’m Michael Crist.”
“Oh, yes.” She smiles wide. “My husband is a huge fan.”
“Just your husband?” he teases.
A blush crosses her cheeks, and I want to puke.
She then shakes Will’s and Kai’s hands, exhaling a long breath, her demeanor suddenly happy and relaxed. “Well, what can I do for you gentlemen?”
Will leans on the counter, getting intimate. “Misha Lare Grayson is also the grandson of Senator Grayson, and our grandfather would consider it a
personal favor to him if you would allow the family to deal with Misha.”
I can feel Ryen tense next to me, and I wince. Shit. Yeah, I forgot about not having told her that particular detail, too.
Will goes on, turning his head toward me, and the cop follows his gaze.
“He’s kind of the black sheep—I’m sure you can tell,” he explains to her, as her eyes skim down my tattooed arms. “We’ll take him back to Thunder Bay, and he will not return to Falcon’s Well. You have our word. We’ll escort the little shit home right now.”
I grind my teeth together. Will’s eyes twinkle with laughter.
The cop regards me. “Well, the other young man is claiming he stole a watch,” she explains, “however, he doesn’t have it on him, and we have no witnesses. We were going to let him go anyway, but he won’t tell us where he lives or his parents’ names.”
Will nods, straightening back up. “Trust us. We’ll take him home.”
She looks around at the three of them, seeing their perfect black suits, clean fingers, and not a tattoo in sight, so of course they’re upstanding gentlemen. “Alright,” she finally concedes. “Take him home, and keep him out of trouble.”
They shake her hand and walk away from the counter, looking smug as they head over to me.
I shoot out of the chair and stand in front of Will, staring him eye to eye and trying to keep my voice low. “I’m the black sheep?” I challenge. “I’m the black sheep? Did I just spend two and a half years in prison? How could she not know who you were? Why don’t you roll up your sleeves and show her your tattoos?”
Will adjusts his collar and cuffs, primping himself. “I told you, never let anyone see all your cards. Didn’t I say that? I’m a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
They have no idea what I’m capable of until it’s too late.”
His friend, Kai, quietly laughs at his side.
“I told you not to get a tattoo on your neck,” Will scolds. “Didn’t I say that? Did you see how we worked her? You should’ve been able to get yourself out of that if you had any sense.”
“It’s not on my neck,” I argue back. “It’s just like,” I gesture to my neck, “up a little and…”
“Hi.” I hear a calm, deep voice and look over to see Kai staring at Ryen.
Michael follows suit and moves close to her. “So this is the one who was at a party, without you, doing body shots, huh?”
She scowls, and I retort, “Dane needs to shut his mouth.”
But Michael just smirks down at Ryen. “If that was my girl, her ass would be red for a week.”
“Yeah, I don’t physically threaten my girl, okay?”
“And look where she was.”
Will pushes Michael back. “Don’t listen to him,” he soothes Ryen. “He doesn’t lay a hand on his girl. She has swords.”
Kai laughs quietly off to the side, but Ryen’s face is twisted in disgust.
She looks to me. “Who are these pigs?”
I walk for the front door, knowing everyone will follow. “Will’s my cousin. These are his friends. I called him so I wouldn’t have to call my dad.”
“And how’s my baby?” Will calls from behind, referring to his truck.
He lent it to me when he got arrested a few years ago. I had it the whole time he was on the inside, but since he’s been out, he hasn’t come looking for it, so I hoped he forgot about it.
“I hope you don’t want it back,” I tell him. “I have some good memories in that truck.”
I shoot a look over to Ryen, seeing a blush cross her cheeks.
“Yeah, me, too,” Will answers. “I guess I can let you hang onto it for a little while longer.”
Ryen stares ahead, her jaw flexing. “I’m out of here.”
She pushes through the doors, but I call after her. “No. I need to talk to you!”
But she powers toward her Jeep, which is parked on the side of a building at the left of the parking lot. I run after her, forgetting Will and his friends.
“Stop!” I take her arms and pull her to a halt next to the passenger side of her car. “What do you want me to say, huh? That I fucked up? I know I did. I’m sorry.”
I’m sick of her defiance and how she won’t give me an inch. Just say you miss me.
I take her face in my hands. “Look at me.”
But she pushes my hands down. “I hate you. Let me go.”
“Why?” I lash out. “So you can go back to that party? Back to your prom date? You gonna fuck him, too?”
“Maybe!” she yells. “Maybe I’ll sink as low as you, and we’ll have something more in common. Maybe I won’t hate you so much.”
I bare my teeth, staring at her. “You don’t hate me. You love me, and I love you.”
She slaps me so hard my head whips to the side and the burn spreads across my skin. “Don’t say that,” she growls low. “I want Masen. He doesn’t love me. He’s just good to me.” Her tone taunts, turning breathy and sultry. “Really good.”
I don’t miss her meaning. I was a fuck and nothing more. She liked me when I was just that. When I wasn’t Misha.
“Yeah?” I turn my eyes back on her, playing along. “Is that what you want?” I come in, grabbing the backs of her thighs and lifting her up. “Your dirty little secret who will fuck you in the back of a truck, hiding you so your stuck-up, shallow friends don’t know how good I give it to you?”
Her breathing hitches, and she only hesitates a moment before her hands come up and grip my shoulders. I dive down, kissing her neck and reveling when she bends it back, opening for me.
But then I see something out of the corner of my eye and look up, realizing the guys are still here.
Michael and Kai are in the front seat of an SUV, Michael leaning far forward from the driver’s side to watch out of Kai’s window, while Will is paused at his open back door, looking amused.
“Seriously?” I snap.
Michael and Kai quickly turn away, and Will clears his throat.
“Alright, we’re out.” He climbs into the car. “Stay out of trouble, and wrap it up. Hell hath no fury like Grandpa Grayson dealing with a teen pregnancy.”
Ryen’s nails dig into my skin, and I close my eyes, coming up and slamming my mouth down on hers as I hear the SUV speed away.
I kiss her lips, inhaling her and getting so fucking lost in my need for her. Her tongue brushes mine, and her teeth bite and nibble me, driving me so insane I can’t think.
“Ryen,” I gasp, pressing my cock into her as I squeeze her ass too hard.
I need to be closer.
“We shouldn’t do this,” she pants as I pull down her shirt and touch her everywhere not covered by her bikini top.
“Don’t act like you’re going to tell me no.” I pull open the passenger side door. “I know you like this side of me.”
She looks around, probably nervous we’ll be seen, but the parking lot is dead. I pull my shirt over my head, dropping it on the ground next to hers and start unbuttoning her shorts, going in for another kiss to quiet any protest she might dream up.
Her shorts fall to the ground, and she whimpers in my mouth.
“Get on my lap,” I tell her, taking the seat and pulling her in.
She climbs on, and I shut the door, leaving our clothes outside. She reaches behind her and pulls the strings of her bikini, the whole top falling away, and I grab it and toss it before doing the same to her bottoms, pulling the strings that secure it at the sides.
“Oh, Jesus,” I groan, kissing her again as I take her ass in one hand and dive between her legs with the other. She’s so smooth and wet.
She reaches between us and unfastens my belt, and I do the best I can, getting my jeans down and my cock free while trying not to break the kiss.
“Give it to me,” she moans. “I want it.”
“I know.”
Pulling out a condom from my jeans, I rip it open and roll it on, holding my cock steady as I pull her up. I slip it down her length and position myself under her. She groans, already rolling her hips in sexy little movements.
Finding her hot entrance, I thrust my hips up and put the tip in, and she does the rest. Lowering herself, she spreads her legs as far as the seat will allow, and I pull her into me, burying myself deep.
“Hell yes,” I breathe out.
Her hips roll shallow and fast, in little figure-eight movements, and she stays close, her tits rubbing against my chest. I can taste her mouth, even though our lips aren’t touching.
“Say my name,” I whisper. “Who’s fucking you right now?”
She keeps stride, her beautiful ass swaying in and out and the car filling with wet heat. “I’m fucking you,” she corrects. “And I really don’t care whose dick it is.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“It could be anyone in this Jeep,” she says, biting my bottom lip.
“Maybe someone from that party even. If you hadn’t shown up, I would’ve still been riding someone’s cock tonight.”
I dig my fingers into her ass. “Were you going to be bad?”
She mewls, nodding.
“Show me how bad, baby.” I bring one hand up, palming her breast.
“How were you going to screw some stranger later?”
She picks up the pace, leaning back, so I can get a good view of her gorgeous body working me. Her tits sway with the motion, and I close my eyes, letting my head fall back as I rub her clit with my thumb.
“You would’ve made him come good,” I tease. “Sweet little pussy like this.”
Her moans get higher and faster, and I open my eyes, seeing her watching me. But then she suddenly comes in close again, wrapping her arms around my neck, and covering my mouth with hers, kissing me deep and hard as she rides us both home.
I come, wrapped in her arms, legs, and mouth, and feeling her sweaty and smooth skin stuck to mine. She cries out, her pussy tightening hard around me as she comes and thrusts her hips, taking me in again and again until she’s spent.
I hold her as we both come down, the heat nearly unbearable. I have no idea how long before she’ll let me touch her again, so I’m going to enjoy this.
She can be a nightmare, but this still feels better than any dream.
Her breathing calms, but she stays buried in my neck, sounding as if she’s asleep.
“I wish we would’ve met in grade school,” I say quietly, smiling to myself. “We would’ve played well together. On the playground, I mean.”
She pulls her head up, and there’s pain in her eyes.
I cup her face in my hands. “I know you,” I tell her. “I know you now.
You wouldn’t have wanted this from anyone else. Because before me, you had sex once. Two years ago.”
Her eyebrows pinch together, and I can see tears glistening. Yeah, I remember the letter, babe. You were a mess, feeling ashamed and hurt, and I wanted to kill the guy.
“Everyone told you to do it, and you did,” I whisper. “He never spoke to you again, and that’s why you waited for me.”
“I wasn’t waiting for you.”
“You waited for it to feel right,” I bite back, not taking any more of her shit. “I was jealous when you confided in me about your first time. That was when I realized I was possessive of you.” I stare straight into her eyes, never sure about anything this much. “I want everything about you, Ryen, and I know you want me.”
Her body shakes a little, and I lean in, kissing her on the cheek. “But I love the way you lie.”
The next day, he’s not in our first class.
I know where he lives, and it brings me back to when I first noticed he’d stopped writing all those months ago. I can check on him if I’m really worried. He knows where to find me if he wants to see me.
But wait… I’m the one who doesn’t want to see him. I told him to go, so what if he did?
I know he never intended for things to get so out of hand, and I believe he’s sorry, but I can’t wrap my head around it. Pretending you’re someone else is bad enough. Lurking right under my nose with me none the wiser is awful.
But sleeping with me? How could he do it? Was he Masen or Misha in that truck at the drive-in? Was he really ever planning on telling me?
I shouldn’t have relented last night. The emotions were high, I missed him, and when he took me in his arms, I just wanted to stop fighting for five minutes. I wanted to feel good with him again and forget.
But now, the light of day is so bright I want to crawl back under the covers. Everyone heard him scold me at the party last night. Acting like I’m his property.
They may not know what’s happened between us, but they know something happened to make him that angry with me. And they know I’ve been lying about it.
I force down the lump in my throat and walk up to my cubby in the locker room, next to Lyla and Katelyn as they dress for P.E.
“Hey,” I say, trying to force a chipper tone.
But Lyla doesn’t respond. Instead she lifts her nose, sniffing the air and complaining to Katelyn next to her. “God, did the janitors clean last night? I smell skank everywhere.”
Katelyn laughs, and I tense.
“Can you believe that bitch didn’t even bother to show up to practice again this morning?” Katelyn tells her, loud enough for me to hear.
“Doesn’t matter, I guess. Her fat ass was getting too heavy to catch.”
Liquid heat races through my veins, and I hear my pulse in my ears. I turn to them as they get dressed. “You wanna say something, say it to my face.”
But they both ignore me as if I haven’t said anything.
“So did J.D. book a limo?” Katelyn asks Lyla.
“Oh, yeah. One big enough for all of us,” she replies, and they both slam their locker doors, walking past me and down the aisle. “This night is going to be epic. Especially without Ryen there to stink up the car.”
Their delighted laughter grates on my ears and tears spring to my eyes, but I slam my locker closed, refusing to give in.
All through P.E. I stay away from them, slowly feeling their bubble getting bigger and pressing me further away. They’re them, and I’m me.
Over here, separated, alone, and excluded. I’m outside the bubble.
Again.
How did I get here? What do I do?
After class, I shower and dress quickly, heading to my locker before lunch when I really just want to leave.
It’s easier, isn’t it? Rather than facing people I don’t like and being where I no longer feel I belong?
I’ve been here before. The uncertainty, the self-hate, the powerlessness…it’s all so familiar. But the last time, I took those feelings and turned them outward, making others feel what I felt. What I didn’t see is that those feelings came from people doing the same thing to me. I feel and fear exactly what they want me to feel and fear.
I won’t respond the same this time. I’m better than this.
I’m going to be better.
Moving down the lunch line, I take an orange juice out of the cooler and walk for the cashier, but arms suddenly lock me in on both sides, keeping me from moving. My heart jumps, thinking it’s Misha, but then I turn around, seeing Trey behind me.
“You know, if you wanted dirty, I could’ve done dirty,” he taunts, staring down at me. “Maybe it was good Laurent broke you in, though.
Doesn’t take long for you little bitches to turn slut once you get a taste for it.”
I breathe hard. What the hell did he just say?
He laughs. “You should’ve seen the train we pulled on this girl last week. She had guys lined up. It was so fucking good.”
I push through his arm and pay for my juice, carrying my drink and books to an empty table as far away from his as I can find. I feel eyes on me
everywhere, like people are laughing. I haven’t sat at a table alone in a long time.
Opening my juice carton and notebook, I dive into the Math homework due tomorrow, using it as a shield to not look so pathetic.
“No one wants you in here,” a female voice says, and I look up to see Lyla. “I can’t even eat, looking at you.”
And she picks up my carton of juice and pours it into my lap. I gasp, the ice cold drink making me shoot out of my chair as it cascades down my bare legs. I glare at her and dart out with both hands, shoving her away.
She stumbles back, dropping the carton but comes back in, pushing me back.
“Oh!” someone shouts. “Fight!”
The cafeteria erupts in noise, chairs scraping against the linoleum and people shifting around for a better view.
Lyla reaches for my hair, but I rear back and slap her arms away. My shirt and shorts stick to my skin, and anger rages in every muscle. She comes back for me, and I get ready to lunge, to push her back again, but then, all of a sudden, there’s a wall standing in front of me.
A wall in a white T-shirt with tattoos.
Misha.
Trey comes around Lyla and inches into my and Misha’s space, a challenge in his eyes. “Move out of the way,” he demands.
“Make me.”
Trey scoffs, knowing Misha’s not kidding but clearly not ready to take him on here in front of everyone. Especially when he got his ass kicked last time.
“If you want her, you’re going to have to go through me,” Misha states, and I step around to his side, refusing to hide.
The O.J. sticks to my legs and seeps into my shoes, and I struggle to ignore the murmurs around me. Misha’s standing up for me in front of everyone, and against my will, my heart warms.
“After school,” Trey says. “The drive-in.”
“Nah, I’ll be busy tonight,” Misha replies.
Trey laughs, looking round to his friends, all of them probably assuming Misha’s too scared to show up.
“So how about we just do it now?” Misha tosses out calmly and then throws a punch across Trey’s face, surprising us all.
Exclamations sound off around the crowd, and Trey stumbles back, cursing. “Fuck!”
Misha dives in, but then J.D. grabs him from behind, holding him back as Principal Burrowes steps between the boys.
“Stop it!” she shouts to both of them. “Stop it right now!”
Misha fights against J.D.’s restraint, J.D. turning red just from the struggle to keep him back. “Okay, calm down, man. Calm down.”
“Get this asshole away from me!” Trey gestures to Misha, screaming around his stepmom.
“You fuck with her again,” Misha growls, “and I’ll make what just happened seem like a dream.” He pauses and then speaks to Lyla. “And you. Don’t talk to her again. You just want her to feel as ugly as you are.”
She arches an eyebrow, folding her arms over her chest. She knows it’s true just like it was true for me, but she won’t credit it with a response.
“I won’t fuck with her,” Trey taunts. “Looks like you already been there and done that.”
A few giggles go off around me, and Misha breaks away from J.D., glaring at Trey and looking like he’s dying to make sure he never talks shit
again. But instead, he twists around and takes my hand, leading us out of the cafeteria.
“Mr. Laurent!” the principal calls.
But Misha ignores her and pulls me into the men’s bathroom, wetting some paper towels and ringing them out.
He pushes me back against the sink and kneels down, lifting my foot and setting it on his thigh, slowly wiping the drying orange juice off my leg.
Pain springs to the back of my eyes, and I watch him, carefully and quietly taking care of me.
Wetting more paper towels, he moves to the other leg and then starts untying my socked shoes.
“Are we still friends?” I ask, my voice cracking. “Because I need Misha, not Masen.”
I was wrong last night. Everything is Misha. They’re not separate.
And I need my friend.
Holding my soiled Chucks, he stands up and takes my hand, still silent as he leads me out of the bathroom.
“Where are we going?”
“Away from here.”
We don’t bother to look back, and I’ll probably be in trouble tomorrow, but no one and nothing could drag me away from him right now. I tighten my hold on his hand, ready to follow him anywhere. At least for today.
We drive for a long time, and we don’t speak. The music plays, the afternoon is overcast, and my eyelids are heavy, probably because Thursday night was the last time I slept well.
I don’t know if I’m ready to forgive him, but I want him. The smell of him, the sight of him, the feel of him… He doesn’t even have to touch me.
Just being near him is soothing at the moment. Maybe I’m just vulnerable, but right now I don’t want to be anywhere else.
A sprinkle of rain starts as we pull into a driveway leading up to a house that’s shielded behind a wall of trees.
A flutter courses through my belly. “Your house?”
We’re in Thunder Bay? I didn’t think I was dazed out that long.
He pulls into the garage and turns off the engine. “Have you ever been here?”
I nod. “A couple weeks ago. You hadn’t written in so long, I needed make sure you were okay—”
“You don’t have to explain,” he cuts me off. “I should’ve written. You had every right to be worried.”
“Why did you stop?”
He smiles gently, opening his door and taking my shoes. “A story for a different day. But it didn’t have anything to do with you,” he assures.
“Your dad said you were fine.” I climb out of the truck and walk around, following him into the house.
“My dad doesn’t air dirty laundry. Did you tell him who you were?”
“Would he know me?”
“Of course,” he replies, entering what looks like a laundry room and tossing my shoes into the washer. “He’s seen your letters coming in for years.”
Yes, of course. If I’d told him, maybe I would’ve been invited into the house and seen a picture of Misha. And then I would’ve found out even sooner who he really was.
Misha comes over to me and pulls up the hem of my shirt, but I lock my arms down, looking at him.
“No one’s home,” he reassures me. “Let’s get your clothes in the wash.
You can take a shower, and I’ll find you something to wear.”
It only takes me a moment to consider. I don’t feel like I need to leave anytime soon, and the stickiness is still all over me, despite Misha’s efforts to clean me up.
I nod and pull off clothes, handing him everything, one by one. He puts my shorts, shirt, and underthings in the washer, adding soap and starting it, and then hands me a T-shirt from the dryer.
Pulling it on, I let him take my hand and lead me into the rest of the house.
We walk through a large living room, and I look around, gaping. “Oh, geez,” I mumble.
“What?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
It’s hilarious, really. He hangs out with the worst of the worst at school, looks like a delinquent, and everyone—including Lyla, Trey, and even me once—assumed he was a poor foster kid or nothing but a thug.
If Lyla discovers he lives in a house bigger than hers and mine put together and has a Gauguin hanging on the wall, she’ll be the first one kissing his ass.
The house is dark, but even still I can tell it’s stunning. There’s wood shining everywhere, fancy art and knickknacks decorating the place, and I smell the rich scent of polish. What did Misha say his dad did in his letters?
He’s an antiques dealer?
And if he’s the child of a senator, then he has to be well-set.
“Do you like peanut butter and jelly?” he asks, taking me up the stairs.
“It’s the only thing I make that I don’t burn.”
“It’s fine.”
He leads me into a spacious bathroom, very dark and very male, and opens the glass door, turning on the shower for me.
“Take your time.” He plants a kiss on my forehead and takes a towel off the shelf, setting it on the counter for me. “I’ll go make us some sandwiches.”
I stare at him as he leaves, and despite the height and muscle of a man, I’m finally seeing him as the kid I envisioned so many years ago who I became so attached to and loved. The one I pictured as kind and gentle and caring.
After my shower, I dry off and pull the T-shirt back on, finding a brush on the counter and tugging it through my ratty hair. Thankfully, Lyla’s assault missed my head, so I didn’t have to wash my hair.
Walking into the hallway, I hear the soft hum of music coming from down the hall, and I step quietly, following it—but carefully, in case it’s his dad.
I find Misha in his room. He’s walking around, picking up a few clothes, and on the bed sits plates with PB&J sandwiches and sprigs of grapes, with juice boxes sitting next to them.
I hold in my laugh. I don’t think I’ve had that lunch since fifth grade.
P!nk plays at low volume, and I feel my chest warm at the gesture. He knows I like her, too.
But then I gaze around his room and see four office boxes, complete with lids, stacked on top of each other up against the wall.
I walk over. “What’s this?” I ask, lifting the lid.
“Oh, uh…”
But I widened my eyes, taken aback, and drop the lid on the floor.
The box is filled with black envelopes. With silver writing.
“Oh, my God.” I reach in and fan the envelopes, seeing my writing on every single one.
He kept them.
He kept them?
I don’t know why, but I guess I never thought he actually saved them.
Why would he? Thinking back, I can’t even remember what they said.
Couldn’t have been too interesting if I can’t recall.
The other three boxes are probably filled with letters, too.
“I can’t believe I wrote you this much,” I say, a little horrified. “You must’ve been so bored with me.”
“I adored you.”
I look up, seeing him stare at the floor. An ache weaves its way through my chest.
“I adore you,” he corrects himself. “I’ve read them all at least twice. My favorites, a lot more than that.”
His favorites. And then I recall. The letters I’d found at the Cove. When he stayed there—away from home—he took those with him. The rest stayed here.
I feel guilty now. “They’re in my desk,” I confess. “I lied. I didn’t burn them.”
He gives me a little nod. “Yeah, I hoped so. I have mine, too, that you threw all over the place at the Cove. In case you want them back.”
I give him a small smile, grateful. Yes, I do want them back.
I replace the lid, kind of curious to open a few letters and relive all the embarrassing things I shared with him over the years. Kissing with tongue the first time, the music I suggested that I thought was so epic but realize now it was kind of lame, and all the arguments we got into.
Remembering back, I was pretty hard on him. I mean, using an Android phone doesn’t make him an introverted burner who probably won’t ever have a job or a valid driver’s license at the same time. I didn’t mean that.
And I’m sure he didn’t mean what he said when he called me a Steve Jobs cultist who worships inferior technology because I’m too much of a bubblehead high on apps to know the difference.
On second thought, no. I like the truce we have going on today. The letters can wait.
I walk over and sit down on his bed, bringing up my legs to sit cross-legged. He kicks off his shoes and lies down sideways on the bed, supporting his head on his hand.
I take the sandwich and peel off the top crust while he pops a grape in his mouth.
I stare down at the food. I’m hungry, but I’m also tired and suddenly feel like I don’t give a shit. One of us has to start talking.
He wants something true? Something he doesn’t know?
“I didn’t have many friends in grade school,” I tell him, still keeping my eyes down. “I had one. Delilah.”
He’s quiet, and I know he’s staring at me.
“She had this shaggy blonde hair that kind of looked like a mullet, and she wore these frumpy corduroy skirts,” I went on. “They looked thirty years old. She wasn’t cool and she didn’t dress right. She was alone a lot like me, so we played together at recess, but…”
I narrow my eyes, trying to harden them as the image of her comes to the forefront in my mind.
“But I got tired of not hanging out with the popular kids,” I admit. “I’d see them hanging on each other, laughing and surrounded by everyone, and I felt…envious. Left out of something better. I felt like I was being laughed
at.” I lick my dry lips, still avoiding his eyes. “Like I could feel their eyes crawling over my skin. Were they disgusted by me? Why didn’t they like me? I shouldn’t have cared. I shouldn’t have thought that kids who shunned me would be worth it, but I did.”
I finally raise my eyes and find his green ones watching me, unblinking.
“And in my head,” I continue, “Delilah was holding me back. I needed better friends. So one day I ran off. When recess time came, I hid around a corner so she wouldn’t find me, and I watched her. Waiting for her to go off and play with someone else so I could do the same and she wouldn’t look for me.
I swallow, my throat stretching painfully.
“But she didn’t,” I whisper, tears welling in my eyes. “She just stood against a wall, alone and looking awkward and uncomfortable. Waiting for me.” My body shakes, and I start to cry. “That was the day I became this.
When I started to believe that a hundred people’s fickle adoration was worth more than one person’s love. And for a while it felt kind of good.”
Tears stream down my face. “I was lost in the novelty of it. Being mean, slipping in a quick insult, making a joke of others and of my teachers…I felt respected. Adored. My new skin suited me.”
And then more images creep in, still so vivid after all this time.
“But months later, when I’d see Delilah playing alone, being laughed at, not having anywhere to belong…I started to hate that skin I was so comfortable in. The skin of a fake and shallow coward.”
I wipe the tears, trying to take in a deep breath. He’s looking at me, but the heat of shame covers my face, and I’m worried. What does he think of me?
“And when I started writing you a year later,” I go on, “I needed you so much by that point. I needed someone I could be the person I wanted to be
with. I could go back. I could be the girl who was Delilah’s friend again.
The girl who stood up to the mean kids and didn’t need a spirit animal, because she was her own.”
I close my eyes, just wanting to hide. I feel the bed shift under me and then his hands cupping my face.
I shake my head, inching away. “Don’t. I’m awful.”
“You were in fourth grade,” he says, trying to soothe me. “Kids are mean, and at that age, everyone wants to belong. You think you’re the only one who feels like shit? Who’s made mistakes?” He nudges my face, making me open my eyes and look into his. “We’re all ugly, Ryen. The only difference is, some hide it and some wear it.”
I slide the food out of the way and crawl into his lap, wrapping my arms around him and burying my face in his neck, hugging him close. He gently falls back onto the bed, lying down and taking me with him.
Why didn’t we do this ages ago? Why was I so scared to meet him and change things? We’ve been there for each other during his grandmother’s funeral, lengthy summer camps with hardly any communication to each other, and even a couple of girlfriends of his who I never told him I was really jealous of.
Why did I think that all the words and letters and the friendship would fade so easily?
His arms hold me tight as I lay my head on his chest, hearing his heartbeat and the light tapping of rain against the window. This is new for me. I’ve been comfortable in places, but I think this is the first time I’ve been anywhere I never want to leave. My eyelids fall closed, sleep pulling at me.
“I have a question,” he speaks up, causing me to stir.
“Hmm?”
“When you write on the walls at school, you sign the messages as Punk.
Why?”
I keep my eyes closed, but I breathe out a weak, little laugh. “Do you remember the letter you wrote about your first tattoo and your dad saying you looked like a punk?”
“Yeah?”
“So it was a tribute to you,” I tell him. “A shout out to the ruffians and rule breakers.”
“But why not use your own name?”
I pinch my eyebrows together. “Because I don’t want to get caught.”
Duh.
“Okay…” he says. “So what you do is hide in the dark to share words anonymously, because you want to be heard but not mocked. Is that it?”
I open my eyes, thinking. Is that what I do?
“You want to be loved without risking consequence, so you reach out to get the attention you need while enjoying the luxury of taking no responsibility for those words.”
I start to shrink into myself. I don’t like what he’s saying or the fact that he’s saying it, but I can’t deny that he’s right.
I don’t want to hear feedback, because if they knew it was me, their reactions would be different. But it’s not exactly fair to throw things in their faces and hide under their noses, either.
“Alone, Empty, Fraud, Shame, Fear,” he murmurs, holding me tighter.
“Don’t you get it yet? You don’t have to be afraid or embarrassed. No one does you better than you. You can’t be replaced. Not everyone will see that, but only you need to.”
He kisses my hair, and I wrap my arm around his torso. No one does me better than me.
I close my eyes again, hearing what he’s saying. I changed, because I didn’t think what I brought to the table was worthy enough. I let them make me believe that, but who made them authorities? I may no longer be adored, but I might not be so miserable, either.
And I may eat alone, but that’s not such terrible company, is it?
I feel him move under me, and then a blanket covers my legs and body, locking our warmth in under the covers. I slowly drift off to sleep to the sounds of the rain and his heartbeat.
A velvety tickle glides across my skin, and I strain to lift my lids. The room is darker, the sun having set, but the soft glow of the lamp on the bedside table illuminates the bed, and I glance over at the window, seeing that it’s now dark outside. The rain pounds hard, echoing through the roof, and thunder rolls outside.
Misha is bare-chested and propped up on his side next to me, his head down by my ass.
Which is bare, because he’s pulled up my shirt.
“What are you doing?”
“Shh, don’t move,” he orders, moving a pen over my skin. “You’re the closest thing I have to write on.”
I snicker, closing my eyes again. He’d better not be using a Sharpie.
That’ll take days to get off.
The peaceful noise of the rain outside lulls me back into relaxation, and I fold my arms under my head, feeling the felt tip move quickly over my skin, stopping every so often to dot an “I” or poke a period.
“I wish we could stay here forever,” I muse.
“Oh, you’re not moving anytime soon. Your ass is too nice to look at.”
I cross my legs at the ankles, teasing, “Is that all a Thunder Bay boy can do with a girl’s ass?”
A light slap hits my right cheek, and I laugh.
But then, after a pause, he stops writing. “Have you ever…” he asks, drifting off.
It takes me a moment to connect the dots, but then I realize what he’s asking.
“Anal?” I clarify. “Well, considering I’ve only had sex once before you, I’m sure you know the answer to that.”
I certainly wouldn’t have done that the first time, no matter how naïve I was. And since Misha and I haven’t done that, then of course, the answer is no.
“So we’re virgins then,” he says, his tone making it sound like he’s kind of enjoying that idea.
“Yeah, virgins,” I grumble. “And I plan on dying one, because there’s no way you’re sticking that in there.”
He snorts, breaking into a laugh.
Capping the pen, he moves up and over me, lifting my shirt over my head. I arch my neck back, meeting his mouth and kissing him. His teeth nibbling my skin sends an electric shock down my belly and straight between my thighs.
I guess the nap helped. He slides his hand under my chest, cupping my breast and I’m already turned on.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
I stare at his lips, dipping in for more. Hell, yes.
I groan, my eyes damn near rolling into the back of my head as his mouth trails down my neck, devouring me in hot, demanding kisses. He grinds his hips into me, and I feel the hardening bulge between his legs.
“Talk to me,” he whispers. “I need your words.”
Talk? Now?
His hand glides down my bare back, brushing my hair and making it tickle my skin. He takes my ass, kneads it, and without thinking, I bend my knee to the side, opening myself for him.
“Before I met you,” I say against his lips. “I fantasized about you.”
“But you didn’t know what I looked like.”
“I knew you were Misha,” I reply. “That was enough.”
He groans, nibbling my ear and dipping his hand between my legs, his fingers sliding inside of me.
I close my eyes, the pleasure of him filling me making me wetter.
“One night it was storming, like tonight,” I tell him, “the lights went out, and for the whole evening, it was dark and quiet.”
His fingers come out, swirling around my clit, and I shudder. My breath is shallow, and I’m unable to stop my hips from trying to rub into the bed and his fingers.
“I reread all of your letters that night,” I pant. “I love the ones about when you got your first car and how you and your friends got arrested for the kegger out on some farm. You sounded so bad, so much fun.” I lean back, longing for his mouth again. “But the letter I love more than all the rest is when you told me about your ex-girlfriend after you’d broken up. I was so mad at first. You had a girlfriend, and you hadn’t told me, but…I think that’s when I first realized…”
“What?” he breathes out.
“That I wanted you. You were mine.”
“I was,” he assures. “It didn’t take me long to realize that I couldn’t talk to anyone like I talk to you.”
And I feel the same way. I always did. I couldn’t go out with anyone without comparing them to Misha. He had every right to date, and I’m sure whoever she was—or they were, because there were probably more—they weren’t bad people, but I still felt territorial. I knew him first. No one was going to know him better than me. I know I had no right to feel those things, which is why I never told him. Until now.
“I started fantasizing about you that rainy night. It was the first time I ever daydreamed about you.”
“What did you do?” He pushed his two fingers in deep, rubbing my spot and grinding himself on me. “Did you want to be her?”
I shook my head. “I wanted you to see me. I wanted you to see me and want me so much. Not just my letters, but my body, too.”
“What’d you do?” he whispers in my ear.
I moan, feeling a wave of pleasure fill my thighs and pussy, and I back up into him, wanting to be filled. “I laid in bed,” I say, “and I couldn’t stop thinking about you. It was so dark, and the AC wasn’t running. The more I thought about it, the hotter I got…until...”
“Until what?” He pumps my pussy faster, grinding his dick harder.
“What’d you do?”
“I pulled up my shirt…”
“Yeah?”
“And imagined you were standing in the corner of my room, hidden in the shadows, watching me finger myself.”
“Don’t stop.”
“My skin was damp with sweat, because it was so hot,” I whimper, reaching over my head and holding the back of his neck, “and I slid my hand down my panties…”
“Did I like what I was seeing?”
“Yeah. We were always just friends. So calm, relaxed, and cute, but I wanted you to want me. I wanted you to see me and need to be inside me.”
“Did you come?” he growls low in my ear as I rock into him. “Did you come, thinking about me watching you?”
I nod, completely lost in the vision and his fingers. “I knew I’d do anything you asked me to. I’d let you have anything you wanted.”
“Is that true?”
“Anything.”
He removes his fingers from inside me, and I hear him unzip his pants.
“And what do you want?” he asks, his fingers gliding up my ass again.
I know what he wants. My heart is pumping wildly, and I’m shaking with need.
I lean my head back again, gasping over his mouth. “I want you everywhere.”
I feel his smile curl over my lips right before he kisses me. He moves his fingers between my thighs again, rubbing and getting me wetter with need.
“Everywhere?” he whispers.
I nod. I’m his. All of me.
I want him all over me.
His breath shakes over my lips. “Don’t do this because you think I want it,” he pleads. “I only want what you want to give me. I need to know you trust me again.”
His dark hair sits over his forehead, and his beautiful eyes tell me everything I need to hear without saying anything.
He hurt me, and I hurt him, but shit happens and love doesn’t change.
He makes me happier, he makes me stronger, and he knows everything and still wants me. If he can say the same, then this is it. The real thing.
My mom told me once “Life is fifty wrong turns down a bumpy road.
All you can hope is that you end up somewhere nice.”
“I trust you,” I say, sinking into his mouth. “I want you.”
He swirls the wetness between my legs farther up, and I slide my hand between me and the bed, rubbing my clit as he positions himself. I’m throbbing everywhere, and my heart pounds in my chest as he pushes the tip in and stops. I gasp, feeling a tiny burn.
I contract around him, breathing hard and rubbing myself faster.
“Ryen,” he breathes out. “Do you want me to stop?”
I shake my head, feeling so filled and good. I didn’t expect that. “No. I want more.”
“Oh, God.”
He slides in slowly, all the way, and I arch my ass up, giving him a better position.
“Holy shit,” he growls low. “You feel so good. I need to…”
I close my eyes, every nerve alive and pulsing with need. He comes down on my back, kissing me as he thrusts out and back in deeper.
“Ah,” I moan into his mouth.
“Are you okay?”
“No,” I whimper. “Go faster.”
He smiles, holding himself up with one hand and holding my thigh where my leg and hip meet. “Are you sure?”
I nod, intense pleasure washing over me and making me grip the pillows as I arch my neck back to meet his lips.
“I trust you,” I tell him.
And he bites my neck and starts fucking me harder, not holding back and neither of us being quiet.
My entire body feels like I was caught in a tornado. My arm muscles are sore, my neck hurts, I have bruises on my hips, and my ass…
It was fun while it was going on last night, but after waking up this morning in pain everywhere, I told him we can’t do that again.
He just retorted that my body wasn’t used to it, and we should do it more.
Man, our fifth-grade teachers would be proud.
I pull into a parking space at school and groan as I gingerly climb out of the Jeep. We were up half the night, and while I’m not at all tired, I’m kind of regretting not staying home and soaking in a bath today. I’m supposed to teach swim tonight, and I forgot the Advil at home.
I reach into the back of the car and pull out my duffel with my swimsuit and change of clothes. After we woke up early this morning, Misha drove me back to school to collect my Jeep, and then he went to the Cove to pack up his stuff while I went home to shower and clean up.
I’m not sure if he’s going to be in school today, but then I feel hands come around my waist and I break out in a shiver as a whisper hits my ear from behind.
“Are you sore?” he teases.
I arch an eyebrow and turn around, seeing him smirk down at me. “Are you kidding?”
“It was fun, though.”
I can’t hold back the smile as my cheeks warm. Yeah, it was.
We walk into the school and head for my locker, and I notice he’s sticking by my side.
“I’m fine, you know,” I tell him. Yesterday—Trey, Lyla, and the lunchroom—feels like ages ago. I’m not scared.
“I know.”
“Masen,” someone calls.
I turn around to see Ms. Till, the Art teacher, carrying a pink slip. She hands it to him, speaking sweetly. “The principal would like to see you in the office. She wanted me to give you this in first period, but I just spotted you. You may as well go now.”
He takes the slip, and she pats him on the arm, walking away. Misha doesn’t read it, merely crumbles it in his fist and tosses it to the ground.
“What are you doing?” I ask. “If she can’t get a hold of your parents about the fights, she could bring in the police. Do you want to be found out?”
“I think we know how well I stay arrested,” he retorts, a cocky look on his face.
I roll my eyes. Yeah, okay, Rich Boy.
Pulling out my sketch book, I spot the cashmere scarf still hanging in the locker, and something hits me. He gave me a new scarf that first week.
“Whose scarf did you try to give me that first week?”
His eyes drop, looking somber. “Annie’s.”
Annie’s? His sister?
And then my eyes go wide, and I turn to him, remembering what I’d said. “Oh, my God,” I burst out. “Annie. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean what I said.”
I cringe at myself. I called her a skank, thinking she was some random girl who’d left her clothes behind in his truck. Shit.
“It’s okay.” He gives a half-smile. “I know you didn’t know.”
Ugh. I feel sick. I’m the worst.
“Well, you couldn’t give it to me anyway,” I scold. “She’d want it back.”
He grows quiet, avoiding my eyes.
I’d totally forgot his sister in all the drama. She’s a junior. Where was she last night? His dad must’ve come home during my nap, because Misha had to lock the door later on so he wouldn’t walk in on us, but Annie was never mentioned.
“Mr. Laurent.”
I turn my head to see Principal Burrowes coming down the hallway.
Students move around her, everyone heading to their first class.
“In my office,” she orders. “Now.”
He turns away from her. “No, thanks.”
I stand frozen, watching. Just go, Misha. She’s not going to let him off the hook, and it’s only going to escalate.
“Now.”
“I’d rather not leave my friend alone when that piece of shit son of yours is roaming the halls,” he snarls. “Aren’t there laws about sexual
predators not allowed to be within a certain number of feet from a school?”
Anger mars her face. “If I have to ask again, I’m calling the police.”
“Mi—Masen,” I corrected myself. “Just go.”
Burrowes puts her hand on his back and gestures for him to move.
But he whips away from her touch, scowling. “Fuck you.” He glares at her and then turns to me. “I’m leaving. I’m done here. I’ll be at the Cove after school.”
“What?” I exclaim.
He kisses me on the forehead and shoots Burrowes one last look before walking down the hall and back out the front door. I look around and see that other students are watching the exchange.
Burrowes meets my eyes briefly, but she doesn’t go after him. Turning around, she walks back down the hallway and disappears into the throng of bodies rushing to class.
Misha’s gone, and I’m a little pissed he’d rather leave school and me than deal with her. If he moves back to Thunder Bay, I’ll barely see him. At least until summer break.
What the hell’s going on with him?
And now that I finally slow down enough to think about it, he still hasn’t answered all of my questions.
Why is here? Why did Trey have his watch? And why is he staying at the Cove?
Everyone heads to their next class or into lunch, and I stand next to the water fountain, filling up my water bottle. I don’t feel like braving the cafeteria today, even though I’m a little hungry.
I know I should go in. I should sit at a table without the armor of my phone, homework, or a book, and just be there. If I hear whispers, then so be it. Let them talk.
But I don’t have it in me today for some reason. Maybe I just don’t want to see them. Maybe I don’t feel like getting covered in juice when I have to be here half the evening.
Maybe I’m allowing myself to just wimp out today.
The hallway slowly empties, shoes squeak across the floor, and lockers slam shut. The clatter of trays and the chatter of conversations filter out into the hall, and I hear a door open to my left. Looking up, I see Trey coming out of the bathroom. He holds a black cord with a pennant attached to it, and he walks over to the garbage can, pulling it apart and breaking it, and then dumping it in the can.
That’s Manny’s, I think. It’s one of the gothy necklaces he wears with some band’s name on it or something.
Trey raises his eyes and sees me, and I twist the cap back on my water bottle and walk his way, staying far to the right to go upstairs to the library.
But he rushes over and stops me, caging me in against the wall.
I exhale a hard sigh, turning angry.
“Where’s your bodyguard?” he asks, leaning his hands on the wall at my sides and blocking my escape. “Oh, that’s right. I heard he bailed school. Is he coming back?”
I push at his arm, trying to slip away, but he pushes me back, and I drop my bottle.
“Get the hell away from me,” I growl.
“It’s your own fault,” he replies. “You shouldn’t be caught alone with me. You’ve been asking for this.”
I dart my eyes to the sides, looking for an adult. But the hallway is nearly empty.
“You know what I think I’ll do?” He gives me a sick smile. “One of these nights, I’ll get you in the parking lot after you teach swim lessons, and I’ll spread those pretty legs and fuck you right there on the ground. Would you like that, baby?”
“I’m not scared of you.”
“But can you outrun me?” An amused look crosses his eyes. “Your boyfriend’s gone now. Every corner you turn, every night when you go to sleep, I’ll be there, and I’m going to find out exactly what I’ve been missing.”
He pushes off the wall, and I fist my fingers, realizing they’re chilled to the bone.
“You’re just like every other bitch in this school. They all wanted it.”
I take in deep breaths as I watch him walk down the hall to the lunchroom, trying to slow down my pulse.
I don’t care what he thinks he can get away with. I’ll talk to my mom tonight and take this to the principal. If she doesn’t handle him, then we’ll go over her head. He’s not threatening me again.
I move to make my way up the steps, but I see the men’s room door Trey came out of and remember the black necklace.
He must’ve taken it from Manny. If Manny’s in there, why hasn’t he come out yet?
I look around, not seeing anyone in the hall, and hurry to the bathroom door, slowly pushing it open.
“Manny?” I call out.
Why the hell am I doing this? He won’t want to see me. I’m sure he’s fine.
I don’t hear anything, and for a moment I think the bathroom is empty, but then I hear a shuffle and step inside.
Inching past the empty stalls, I walk along the sinks to the hidden space where the hand dryers sit.
Manny is standing with his back to me, his backpack dangling from his right hand, and his head bowed.
He’s shaking.
“Manny?”
He raises his head but doesn’t turn around. “Get out,” he demands. “Get the fuck away from me.”
“Manny, what happened?”
I step to the side, trying to see his face, but then I see something, and I stop. Blood trails off his ear and down his neck.
The hole on his lobe where a black gauge used to fit is now empty, and he’s bleeding, although it looks like it’s stopped.
Trey. Oh, my God, did he rip it out?
I take a step toward Manny, but he flinches, moving away.
Of course. Why would she help? He sees me just as dangerous as he sees Trey.
He thinks I’ll victimize him. And why not? I’ve done it in the past.
Grief fills my heart. How many times have I made him feel alone?
I stay rooted, not wanting to make him scared, but I want to help. “It won’t always be like this.”
“It’s always been like this,” he retorts.
I stand there, thinking back to grade school. Manny and I got along okay until fourth grade when I…changed. But even before that he was on the periphery of whatever was happening. He was small and lanky, never
picked for sports and often got in trouble for not turning in assignments. I knew then that he had it a little stressful at home, but other kids don’t understand things like that. They just judge.
“When I was little,” he goes on. “I used to be able to go home and get away from it. But now we’re older. We have Facebook, and everything they say about me during the day, I get to see online every night.”
I can hear the tears in his voice, and I want to get him some napkins to clean up the blood, but I don’t want him to stop talking, either.
“One of you assholes pushes my tray into my clothes and dumps food all over me, and the first thing everyone does is take out their phones. And then I have to relive it through pictures on my newsfeed every hour—even days and weeks later. Over and over again. I can’t get away from it anymore. Not even when I leave school.”
I never thought about it like that. When we were younger, the dynamics of friendships and fitting in were only difficult at school. When we went home, we were free, and most of us, hopefully, felt safe there. Now, the only thing we leave at school is school. The pressure, the gossiping, the bad feelings, it follows us home online. There’s no break from it.
“It’s constant. The humiliation…”
“It won’t always be like this,” I say again, moving closer.
“My family sees it, my sisters and their friends. I embarrass them.” He shakes, sobbing again. “That’s why I get high.”
He pulls a rag and spray can out of his backpack, and I move forward, a lump stretching my throat.
“As high as I can get as often as I can get,” he says, “so I can bear the fucking pain of breathing and eating and looking at people like you.”
“Manny...”
“When everything is painful…” He drops the backpack and sprays the inhalant on the rag. “You start to ask yourself ‘what’s the point?’ No one cares, and you start to care even less. You just want the pain to stop.”
He brings it to his nose, and I lunge out, knocking the cloth out of his hand and grabbing the can.
I wrap my arm around him and pull him into me, both of us starting to cry. “It’s okay. It’s okay,” I whisper.
I drop the stuff on the floor and hold his frail, shaking body as tears stream down my face. What the fuck? How did we get here? He wasn’t like this as a kid. Neither of us were like this.
He breathes hard, and I think about all the times I didn’t think of him and all the things I wasn’t seeing. All the times I ignored what was happening because of the fear of being alone, empty, and ashamed of who I was.
We were kids once, and we liked ourselves. We were happy. How did that change?
I pull away and toss the stuff into the garbage, wetting some paper towels for him to clean off his neck.
Handing them to him, I lean down on the counter and try to calm the sobs in my chest.
This is crazy. How can he hurt himself like that? He has to know it gets better. The world will open up, and we won’t feel so trapped. You just need to hang on.
But I look over at him, seeing tears coat his face, bags under his eyes, and him staring off. He absently wipes the blood off his neck, looking completely fucking empty and like he’s done hanging on.
I wipe my tears away and try to steel my tone. “It won’t always be like this.” I want him to know that.
But he just looks over at me, looking like he’s hanging on by a thread.
“When does it get better?”
My heart aches. Yeah, when? How long does he have to wait?
There should always be hope—we change, our environment changes, and our communities change. It will get better.
But that doesn’t mean we’re powerless in the meantime, either. I can’t change his life, but I can do this.
I pick up his backpack and stand up, handing it to him. Taking his hand, I lead him out into the hallway, seeing him toss his wet cloth in the trash on the way out.
We walk across the hall to the lunchroom, and I relax my grip on his hand just in case he wants to let go of me.
But he doesn’t. We walk hand in hand to the lunch line, already hearing the deafening noise fade a little and murmurs drift around the room.
I give him a tray and take one myself.
“Why are you doing this?” he asks in a low voice. “You don’t like me.”
“I’ve always liked you.” I turn my eyes on him. “And I need a friend.”
My being an asshole was personal to him, but it wasn’t personal to me. I never stopped liking Manny.
We move down the line, and my back is hot. Hopefully it’s my paranoia, feeling all those stares. If not, I guess I’ve laid down the gauntlet.
And without Misha here this time to protect me. Here we go.
“I always eat in the library.” He looks around nervously.
I take a Jell-O cup. “The lunchroom is where we eat.”
“Everyone’s looking at us.”
“It’s because you have a better ass than me, that’s why.”
A laugh escapes him, but he quickly diffuses it, probably because he’s not sure if he can trust me. I don’t blame him.
We load up our trays with chips, mac and cheese, and brownies. I also get a soda, because fuck it, I’m hungry, and I want to drink some calories today.
After we pay, I walk over to a round table and glance back, making sure he’s following me.
His eyes dart left and right, carrying his tray and backpack, and he’s probably nervous as hell. After all, I can’t remember the last time I spotted him in here, and everyone is looking at us.
I keep my eyes forward and set my tray down, having a seat. He quickly slides into a chair on the other side of the table, and even though the hairs on my skin are standing on end and I’m aware of every damn person in here, I inhale a deep breath and give him a reassuring smile.
“See?” I brag, opening my Coke. “It’s getting better already.”
But then something smashes down in front of me, my food splatters, and I gasp, instantly stilling as mac and cheese hits my arm and hair.
What the…?
“Whoa!” Howls sound off across the room, followed by laughter, and I know it’s coming from my old table. People around us take notice and start laughing, a few taking out their phones to take a pic.
I sit there, frozen.
I look up, seeing a fat, cheesy noodle dangling from my hair over my forehead, and I lock eyes with Manny as he reaches over and picks up the red apple that had come crashing into my tray. He stares at me, looking surprised, but then his eyes shoot up to the noodle, and he snorts.
“Hey,” I snap. This isn’t funny!
But he’s smiling anyway, shaking with laughter.
I roll my eyes, feeling my stomach tighten into a knot, but I set my drink down and pluck the noodle out of my hair. Grabbing a napkin, I start
to clean off my arm where thick cheese is sticking to my skin.
“Hey,” a male voice says.
I look up, seeing J.D. pull out a seat. He grabs the apple away from Manny and flings it across the cafeteria, back to where it came from. I don’t look, but I hear a crash and squeals.
“What are you doing?” I ask, watching him lean back in the seat, relaxing.
He shrugs, taking my Coke and unscrewing the cap. “Well, when your girl screws your best friend, it’s time for a new girl and a new best friend, I guess.”
“We like you more, anyway,” someone else says.
I turn my head to see Ten taking a seat next to Manny. He looks over at the kid. “Hi.”
Manny sits slumped, suddenly appearing frightened to even look at anyone. “Hi,” he mumbles.
J.D. takes a sip of my soda.
“When did you know?” I ask him. I’m sure Misha wouldn’t have told him.
“Slightly before I wrote the message on the lawn, outing her.”
I shoot my eyebrows up, and Ten stares at him, shocked. “That was you?” I shoot out.
Holy shit. If he knew then, how did he just stand by and play dumb around them this whole time?
“I guess I was afraid to stand on my own,” he explains. “Until I saw you doing it five seconds ago.”
“You’re not Punk,” Ten gauges as more of a question than a statement.
J.D. just shakes his head. “Uh, no. It was just that one time.”
I momentarily wonder if I should tell them who Punk is, but no. Wrong time, wrong place, and I’m not sure Punk is done yet. I don’t want to come out of the closet until I’m ready.
I finish cleaning off and open my bag of chips, grateful that everyone in the room has seemed to resume their conversations. Thanks, no doubt, to J.D. and Ten’s arrival.
I guess what I always thought is actually true. There is safety in numbers.
“So I got a limo for prom,” J.D. tells me, looking around at everyone.
“Group date?”
Ten nods, but Manny and I are silent. I trust Ten, but I’m not entirely sure about J.D. yet. Everything I’ve noticed from him the past couple of weeks tells me he’s on the up and up, but now I’m paranoid. I don’t want to get suckered into going to prom and whoops…now I’m soaked in animal blood like in Carrie.
“This isn’t a joke, is it?” I ask him. “You’re cool?”
He looks at me thoughtfully. “If Masen’s not there, they’ll have to go through me to get to you.” And then he glances at Manny. “You, too. And believe me. No one likes to go through me.”
I can’t help but smile. He’s a hundred-eighty pounds of future USC
football player, and while he’s always been pretty harmless, people know they shouldn’t mess with him.
“Sounds good then. I’d love to.” I turn to Manny. “You?”
“You got a dress?” Ten pipes up, asking him.
Manny frowns, shooting him a dirty look. “Do you?”
Ten smiles, and Manny seems to relax a little.
He doesn’t answer, but I’ll call him later. He doesn’t trust us, and I don’t want to push him right now.
Everyone gets busy eating. J.D. steals food off everyone’s trays, and I take out my phone and go to text Misha. I hope he doesn’t mind getting asked to prom.
But then I think better of it and go to Google to find his Facebook. I’ve read so much about his life, and now I’d like to see it, I think. I’m guessing the last thing he wants to talk about is prom, but I’d like to put it out there sooner rather than later for him to think about at least.
But as I type in Misha Lare Grayson into the search engine and scroll to find what I need, I’m suddenly lost in more information than I can handle.
My stomach sinks, and my heart races.
Oh, my God.
The Cove looms ahead, massive and imposing under the gray clouds. I park next to Misha’s truck and climb out of my Jeep, making my way to the entrance.
Now I know why he stopped writing three months ago.
I should never have let it go as long as I did. It was completely selfish to sit there and wait for him to come around and write me back—assuming his issue was small and insignificant—and that protecting the status quo of our relationship was more important.
Of course he wouldn’t have stopped writing for anything trivial. He’d been committed to me for seven years. Why did I think he’d be so cavalier about dropping me all of a sudden?
And now I know why he’s been hiding out here, away from his dad, too.
It all makes sense.
Almost.
Walking into the park, I feel the cool breeze from the downpour yesterday brush my arms. The air is thick and weighted, and the clouds
overhead threaten more of the same. I hug myself against the slight chill.
Looking around, I walk past the rides and old gaming booths, spotting the field house ahead. I enter and make my way down the dark stairwell, instantly seeing a light down the corridor.
This place freaks me out. I’d heard some people from Thunder Bay were buying the property and had plans to tear down the old theme park and turn it into a hotel with a golf course and a marina and all that, but it might’ve been just a rumor.
I’d be sad to see the place go, but yeah… I turn corners half-expecting to see death clowns cackling among the decay.
Too many horror movies, I guess.
Misha’s room is lit up, and I see the lamp on the bedside table turned on as well as some candles on another table across the room. He’s lying back on the bed, his feet on the floor and his ears covered with headphones as he taps his thigh with a pencil.
There are a few boxes that look filled with his belongings sitting next to the door, but other than the bed, table, and lamp, everything else is packed away.
I smile softly, unable to tear my eyes away from him. The way his foot is tapping to the beat that I hear playing out of his headphones, the way the ring in his lip makes his mouth look like something to eat, and his dark brown hair—damn near black—wispy like he was just outside in the wind.
My heart aches, my stomach somersaults, and my lungs fill with air that sends a shiver down my spine.
I love him.
Stepping over, I climb on top of him, straddling his waist and planting my hands on either side of his head. He jerks and opens his eyes, his gaze turning gentle and happy when he sees me.
He pulls off his headphones. “Are you okay?”
I know he was probably concerned about leaving me at school around Trey and Lyla without him. I nod.
I’m tempted to tell him about my day. Trey’s threats, Manny in the bathroom, J.D. and Ten at lunch. But no more distractions.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Annie?” I ask him.
His expression turns somber, and he slowly sits up. I move off him, sliding onto the bed and sitting at his side.
“I would’ve,” he says, avoiding my eyes as he turns off his iPod. “I was just waiting for us to calm down.”
I can understand that, but I’m not talking about when he came here as Masen. I’m talking about in his letters.
“I heard about it and saw the name online,” I tell him, “but…why did you tell me your last name was Lare?”
When I heard about the seventeen-year-old girl who died on Old Pointe Road from a heart attack, I’d read her name was Anastasia Grayson.
Annie, I gather, is short for Anastasia, but Misha never told me his real last name?
“Lare is my middle name,” he replies. “A family name. Everyone in Thunder Bay knows the Graysons, and my grandfather is important. There’s always been pressure to be and act a certain way. It was so aggravating as a kid, and when I started writing you, I saw it as an opportunity to kind of be free. Not really thinking that a kid our age probably wouldn’t know who Senator Grayson was anyway.” He gives a weak laugh. “I legally changed it to Lare when I turned eighteen, though. It suits me a lot better.”
So I guess I wasn’t the only one pretending to be someone else.
“She was an honor student,” he explains, “an athlete, and she was always picture perfect. I wondered how she did it—how she found the time
and energy to be everything she was—but it wasn’t until too late that I realized what she was doing to her body. There were signals and we missed it. Taking money out of my wallet, the hours she kept, the decreased appetite…”
I’d read the details when the police finally released her name all those months ago. She was jogging, it was late, and she was alone. Her car was dead, so they guessed she was trying to run to a gas station or something.
She’d collapsed with her phone in her hand, and by the time help got to her, she was gone. It was later determined she’d been abusing drugs for quite some time.
I didn’t follow the story and wasn’t very invested at the time. She was just a girl I didn’t know. But I’d heard enough to know the details, and I want to cringe, thinking back to the times I thought about it, not realizing who she was.
Misha’s sister.
“It was the night we met at the scavenger hunt,” I say, remembering the date in the news article.
He nods absently, still staring off. “You and I were inside talking, and she was…”
Dying. I look away.
“I couldn’t stomach anything after that,” he explains. “I stopped writing, because I couldn’t talk about it, but I couldn’t talk about anything else, either. I couldn’t carry on like before, and I couldn’t face the reality of her being gone. I felt sick.” He finally looks over at me. “I needed you, but I just didn’t know how to talk to you anymore. Or anyone. I’d changed.”
“You can talk now.”
He smiles, easing me back to his lap. “Yeah. I’m not sure I could ever give you up again.”
I touch my forehead to his, not knowing what I would do without him. I hate that he stopped writing. I hate that he pretended to be Masen. But I’m so glad we’re here.
I just really hate that it was his sister’s death that brought him here.
“I understand why you stopped writing and why you came here to get away, but…” I look him in the eyes. “Why did you enroll at school? If it wasn’t for me, what was it for?”
He shakes his head, letting out a breath. “Nothing.”
“Misha.”
“Really, it was nothing,” he tells me, cutting me off. “I thought I had another reason to be here, someone who I used to know, but no. It was dumb, and I feel stupid. I shouldn’t have come.” And then he smiles, wrapping his arms around me. “But I’m not sorry I did.”
I cock my head, aggravated. He’s being cagey again.
“I love you,” he says. “That’s all that matters.”
And he looks so calm and happy, I don’t want to ruin it. I take in a deep breath and relax into him. “Can I have the scarf back?”
“Yeah.”
“I love you,” I say, my fingers tingling as my heartbeat picks up.
His fingers grip my waist. “It about fucking time.”
I breathe out a laugh, kissing him. He’s always gotta bust my chops.
“And I think it’s about time I met your mom,” he states.
“Ugh, do we have to?” I trail kisses over his cheek and down his neck, more interested in something else right now.
“You think she won’t like me?”
I sigh, looking back up at him. My mom is lovely, but she’s strict.
Seeing me in love and giddy and everything, her first concern will be making sure I don’t blow off college to get married.
“Well, you are the grandson of a senator, I guess,” I tell him. “Can we lead with that?”
He snorts, shaking his head at me. I guess that’s a no.
“Okay, fine,” I snip. “But afterwards, I have a favor to ask.”
“Ask me now.”
“Eh,” I cage. “I’ll tell you in the truck. It’s kind of illegal.”
I pick up the small duffel and hear the clank of a few cans inside. Well, I guess it’s better than it was. I don’t want to alert my family when I take it downstairs, so I’ve wrapped the cans in some clothes, hoping to drown out the sound.
Tonight is my final little foray, and Misha is helping. Only this time, I have no guilt about it. We’re rebels with a reason.
Okay, a little reason, at least.
Checking myself in the mirror one last time, I grab the bag and hear the doorbell ring, smiling. He’s here.
Leaving my room, I lift the hem of my dress as I step down the stairs.
My mom and sister are camped out in the living room, huddled around a bowl of popcorn and scary movies tonight, but really, they’re just waiting to see Misha again.
When I brought him home last week, my mom immediately liked him.
A lot. Especially with our history. She knows how much Misha means to me, and to finally meet him was incredible.
My sister, I think, was just aggravated. Oh, look. He didn’t ditch me. He likes me. He loves me. And he’s hot.
But she’s been on my case less the last week, and I’ve tried to make an effort with her. After all, my relationship with my sister is as much my fault as it is hers. She may have been a brat as a kid, hating that she always had to hold my hand, so I wasn’t alone, but as we grew up, I was the one who pulled away. I’m trying to watch my mouth now and not build a wall every time she enters my space. It’ll take some time, but I think we’ll get there.
She even did my hair for me tonight.
I reach the bottom of the stairs, seeing my mom already heading through the foyer. I set the bag down and stand back up just as she opens the door.
Misha stands there, tall and dressed in a black suit, white shirt, with a black tie. Everything fits him perfectly, and he even has his tie tightened.
His hair is styled, and the only thing that looks the same is the silver lip ring. His collar even covers the bit of ink that trails up his neck.
I love how he normally looks and dresses, but there’s something about him in a suit. He looks so grown up. And really hot.
And I appreciate the effort he puts forth to impress my mom. When I brought him home the first time, he grabbed a hoodie out of the truck and put it on before we entered the house, pulling down the sleeves to cover up his ink. He was worried my mom would judge him before she knew him.
But that changed when she showed him the little Kanji tattoo she had on her shoulder from college. Back when Kanji was the rage. He relaxed a little.
His eyes lock with mine and then fall down my dress, a sleeveless, red, floor-length gown with a high neck and jeweled and pearled spaghetti straps across my bare back. My sister did my make-up, too, and my mom played
music and made chocolate-covered strawberries while we all had fun getting me ready. Originally the plan was to go with Lyla and the girls to the salon, but today was perfect. I’m glad I spent it with my family.
I hold up my hands, posing and teasing, “So do I look cute?”
He steps in and walks up to me, leaning in to kiss my cheek. “That’s not the word I would use,” he whispers.
“You both look great,” my mom chimes in.
“You don’t match,” my sister retorts, and I look up to see her entering the foyer.
She’s dressed in her skimpy sleep shorts, probably for Misha’s benefit, and I fantasize about putting vinegar in her mouthwash.
Match? Like his tie and my dress?
But Misha looks at her and places his hand on his heart, feigning sincerity. “We match in here.”
I snort, breaking into quiet laughter.
My sister rolls her eyes, and my mom shakes her head, smiling.
“Alright, let’s go,” I say.
I lean down to take the bag, which my mom thinks contains a change of clothes for the parties we’re not going to later.
But she shouts, “Pictures!” And I stop.
Letting out a small sigh, I step down the last stair, and he turns me around, putting my back to his chest.
“Traditional cheesy prom pose,” he explains.
“Oh, well, then. If we must.”
My sister folds her arms over her chest, looking discontented as she watches my mom snap shots of us. Of course, I want pictures. I’m not a party pooper. But I have that first picture of us at the scavenger hunt, and I
feel like Misha’s just doing me a favor, coming along with the boys and me.
I don’t want to put him on the spot.
But surprisingly, he seems to enjoy this. Turning me around, he wraps his arms around me and looks into my eyes, my mom taking a couple of quick pics.
My heart is already thumping hard, and I stare at his mouth, feeling my body warm up. I’d really just rather be alone with him tonight.
“Ugh, get a room,” Carson whines and turns around, heading back into the living room.
I continue to stare at Misha.
“Ryen, be home by two,” Mom says.
“It’s prom,” I point out. “It’s kind of an all-night thing.”
“Two,” she repeats, looking between us, her warning clear.
But I argue anyway. “Seven.”
“Three.”
“Three, and Misha can come back for breakfast in the morning,” I press.
She nods easily. “Fine. But beignets. Not jalapeno bagels.”
“I know.”
I take the bag gingerly, careful not to make the cans bang into each other, and whisper to Misha as I head past him, “Hopefully you’ll be here extra early, because I’m not going to let you leave.”
He laughs quietly and opens the door, leading me out. He probably doesn’t want to risk getting on my mother’s bad side now that they’ve met, but he knows he won’t be able to say no to me.
We walk down the steps, and he takes the bag from me as I spot the limo sitting at the curb. Walking over, I stop and let him open the door.
“Hey!” voices drift out.
I see J.D., Ten, and Manny all sitting inside, snacking and drinking sodas, but if I know Ten, there’s alcohol going on somewhere in here.
“Hey, why didn’t you guys come in?” I ask as I climb inside.
“A prom picture with four guys?” J.D. teases. “Think of what Lyla would Facebook about that.”
Yeah, right.
But then the car door closes, and I dart my eyes over to see Misha leaning down and peeking in the open window.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I’ll see you at prom.”
What?
He starts to walk away, and I stick my head out of the window.
“Misha!”
He turns around, walking backward, and I notice his truck behind him.
He must’ve driven here and the guys pulled up after. “Don’t worry,” he calls, “and have fun. I’ll be there.”
I stare after him, completely confused. He’s taking the bag with him, too. He’s not going to do anything without me, is he?
Dammit.
I sit back in my seat, frowning. Now I don’t get to walk into prom with four men.
I feel the limo start moving, and I notice the inside is also silent.
Looking up, I see Manny, Ten, and J.D. all staring at me.
And then J.D. speaks up. “Who’s Misha?”
The Baxter Hotel is decked out when we arrive. White lights glow in the trees and beautiful, turn-of-the-century lanterns flicker with small flames,
leading us into the ballroom. The fast music vibrates out into the lobby, and I can already smell the food.
We sent the limo back, hoping Misha will have his transportation when he gets here, but as we enter the prom, I still don’t see him.
The room is exquisitely decorated in black and green—our school colors—with balloons, candles, and white linen table cloths. I look up to the stage, where the band is playing a cover.
“Do you see him?” I yell into Ten’s ear.
He winces, turning away from his conversation with Manny to answer me. “I haven’t looked for him.”
Okay. Relax. We just got here.
But things have finally calmed down between Misha and me, and we’re having fun. I just don’t want something dumb to screw it up.
I came clean to the guys in the car, figuring there was no harm anymore in telling them Masen’s real name. Misha said he wasn’t coming back to school, and I have real friends again. I feel awkward about lying.
“Do you want something to drink?” Ten asks, indicating his breast pocket.
I wave him off.
“Wanna dance?” J.D. asks at my other side.
I gaze around again, looking for Misha.
“Yeah,” I finally answer. Why not? He told me to have fun.
J.D. leads me out onto the dance floor while Ten and Manny sit down at a table. I glance back at them, seeing Manny look around nervously like the other shoe is about to drop. But then…Ten reaches over and grabs him by the tie, pulling him in closer, so he can straighten it.
I almost laugh. Manny looks taken aback, but a look passes between them, and I’m kind of curious.
Nah. Ten would never date a goth.
J.D. and I join everyone else on the dance floor, moving to the music as others laugh and talk. The energy and atmosphere is incredible. It’s dark and crowded, and it feels like what Misha talked about in one of his letters.
About realizing you’re one of many and not feeling so alone.
I almost feel unseen—not on display—and I kind of like it. The song ends, and I fall into J.D., breathing hard and laughing. The fog machine and heat of so many crowded around is weighing on me, and I reach into my wrist purse and pull out my inhaler. I look around, hesitant. I usually go in the bathroom.
Screw it. Taking a puff, I see J.D. do a double take, but he only looks surprised as I take another one and try to inhale.
“You okay?”
I nod, giving him a thumbs up. “I’m fine.”
I slip the inhaler back into my purse and let him come in close. He places his hands on my waist as we slow dance.
“I can’t believe what I’m seeing,” someone says.
I turn around and lock eyes with Lyla and Katelyn, who are glaring as everyone dances around us.
Lyla’s arms are folded over her hot pink dress. “It’s almost too precious for words,” she muses.
Katelyn smirks behind her, and I drop my head forward, faking a snore.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I pop my head up, looking at J.D. “I fell asleep. What happened?”
He chuckles.
In all honesty, though, I deserve Lyla’s animosity. I wasn’t a good friend. But with her, I’m not sure anyone can be.
I notice Trey lumbering toward her from behind and watch as he falls on her, draping his arms over her. His eyes are hooded, and he can barely stand.
“Hey, how goes it?” he slurs, gesturing between J.D. and me. “You, too, huh? You skip around pretty fast, girl. I like it.”
Oh, please. I turn away from him but not before I see Lyla trying to shrug him off.
“Come on,” he calls behind me, “friends share, J.D. You take mine for a spin, and I’ll take yours.”
Trey grabs my arm, but J.D. knocks him off. “Stay away from her.”
Trey comes in again, but I steel every muscle inside me. “Enough!”
But just then, a voice rings out, and I stop.
“Thanks for letting us intrude, everyone,” Misha says, and I blink, realizing the music has stopped.
Tearing my eyes away from Trey, I look up on stage and see Misha standing at the microphone. He’s still wearing his suit, but he has a guitar draped in front of him, and we meet each other’s eyes as a small smile dances in his.
I take a step, drawn in.
“We’re Cipher Core, and this is dedicated to the cheerleader,” he says.
My heart leaps into my throat, and I notice his band mates on stage, the same guys with him in the YouTube video I saw.
“Hey, it’s Masen,” J.D. says, mumbling. “I mean, Misha.”
The drums count off, the beat starts, and the guitars lead in, creating a fast and hard but soulful tune. Misha’s voice drifts in slow and haunting but quickly picks up pace.
Anything goes when everyone knows
Where do you hide when their highs are your lows?
So much, so hard, so long, so tired,
Let them eat until you’re ground into nothing.
Don’t you worry your glossy little lips.
What they savor ‘ventually loses it’s flavor.
I wanna lick, while you still taste like you.
Bookmark it, says the cheerleader
I promise we’ll come back to this spot.
I have shit to do first. You won’t wait a lot.
I can’t make her stay,
and I can’t watch her go.
I’ll keep her hellfire heart,
And bookmark it ‘fore it goes cold.
Fifty-seven times I didn’t call
Fifty-seven letters I didn’t send,
Fifty-seven stitches to breathe again, and then I fucking pretend.
Fifty-seven days to not need you
Fifty-seven times to give up on you
Fifty-seven steps away from you,
Fifty-seven nights of nothing but you.
His eyes are closed, and his face is so beautiful. Everything inside me is crumbling, because it’s the most perfect song I’ve ever heard, and I want
When did he write that? When we were fighting? Before we met?
A chaperone walks on stage after the song ends and cocks her head disapprovingly at the band. They smile and take off their instruments, quickly getting out of there, because while they may have had permission to perform a song, they probably didn’t have permission to say a few of the words that were in those lyrics.
I laugh as Dane takes a dramatic bow and the crowd cheers. I don’t even know what just happened. Were people dancing? Where’s Trey and Lyla? I don’t know, and I don’t care.
Misha hands off his guitar to one of the guys, and I inch forward through the crowd, waiting for him to come to me. He hops down off the stage as the other band takes over again and starts playing.
He comes up and wraps his arms around me under my ass and lifts me up. I laugh even though tears wet my face.
I touch his cheek, looking down at him. “I didn’t want to cry.”
“A lot of your words are in those lyrics,” he tells me. “We do more than a few things really well together, you know?”
“Good and bad.”
He stretches his neck up, brushing my lips. “And I want it all.”
I kiss him, everyone else forgotten. So that was 57. He’d sent me pieces of the song in the past year, but I’d never heard the whole thing.
“I love you,” he whispers. “And I’m ready to leave as soon as you are, so keep me posted.”
“I’m ready.”
He smiles and sets me down. “Let’s go have some fun.”
He takes my hand, and we walk through the crowd of dancers, running into J.D. as we pass the food tables.
“Where are you guys going?” he asks.
I glance at Misha, and he shrugs.
There’s a girl whose name I don’t know at J.D.’s side. I don’t want to take him away from her or the after parties, but…
“Can you disappear with us for an hour?”
He thinks about it and sets his plate down. “I’m in.”
“Remember you said that,” I warn.
He whispers something to the girl and jogs after us while Misha knocks on Ten and Manny’s table. “Let’s go.”
We all pile into Misha’s truck, and I see my duffel sitting on the passenger side floor as I climb in.
“So where are we going?” Ten asks as Misha starts the engine and pulls out of the parking lot.
“To the school.”
I pull on my seat belt and put the bag in my lap, unzipping it.
“Why?”
I shoot a look to Misha, everything in his expression telling me to go ahead.
I pull out a can of the washable spray paint. “Because…it’s nearly the end of the year, and I have a few more things to say.”
I hold up the can and look behind me, seeing Ten’s eyes damn-near bug out of his head.
“What?” he bursts out.
“You?” J.D. looks at me, shocked.
I meet Manny’s eyes, and I can see the wheels in his head turning.
Maybe he realizes it was me who wrote the message on his locker that first time:
You’re not alone. It gets better.
You are important, and you can’t be replaced.
Hang on.
I fill them in on everything. How it started and how I justified it, but I also tell them what I still need to do tonight. One last time to make it count.
And since they all will have something to say about the subject, I thought they might want a hand in it. Especially since Ten already indicated he’d like a piece of the action, and J.D. has already participated once.
“So are you in?” I ask them.
“Hell, yeah,” J.D. replies.
I look at Manny, who remains silent. “You don’t have to.”
I’m not asking any of them to get in trouble. They can wait in the truck, or we can take them back to prom right now.
But he nods, indicating the can in my hand. “I want black.”
Alright. I dig in the bag, doling out cans and reminding them to stick to surfaces that can be easily cleaned. Stay away from screens, posters, artwork, and uniforms or clothes in the locker rooms.
We reach the school and park on the south side, slipping through the gate and running through the lot, up to the pool room.
I hand Misha my can and pluck my key out of my handbag.
“You have a key?” J.D. asks, surprised. “I can’t believe they never thought of questioning you before.”
Yes, I have a key. Often I’m the last one out of the pool, and this is my job. I’m entrusted to lock up this door.
“I’m Ryen Trevarrow,” I joke. “I’m a bubblehead with barely enough brain cells to breathe.”
Quiet chuckles go off around the group, and I unlock the door, hurrying everyone inside.
“How do you know no one will see it tomorrow and get rid of the paint before Monday?” Misha asks.
It’s Saturday night, so it’s possible.
But…
“Roofers will be here tomorrow to fix the leaks,” I explain. “Teachers are being asked to stay out of the building for safety.” I look around at all of them. “You know what to do?”
“Yep.”
“Absolutely.”
“Ready.”
Okay, then. “Let’s go.”
Monday morning, Misha and I walk into school, staring ahead as the storm whirls around us.
A big part of me knows we shouldn’t have done it. There are all kinds of ways to handle our problems, after all. Better ways to deal with the issues.
But what Misha said was true. Everyone is ugly, aren’t we? Some wear it and some hide it.
I guess I just got tired of Trey hiding it.
And of everyone allowing him to keep it hidden.
I did a bad, bad thing.
“Oh, my God,” a guy mumbles off to my side, and I look over to see him reading something I’d written Saturday night.
“Hey, did you see this?” a girl gasps, asking her friend as they gape at the opposite wall.
I look down the corridor, seeing several messages written here and there and people fluttering about, taking it all in.
You shouldn’t be caught alone with me. You’ve been asking for this.
-Trey Burrowes
Can you even find your dick anymore, faggot?
-Trey Burrowes
I’m going to fuck her and then fuck her mom. Watch me.
Every corner you turn, every night when you go to sleep, I’ll be there, and I’m going to find out exactly what I’ve been missing.
Doesn’t take long for you little bitches to turn slut once you get a taste for it.
You should’ve seen the train we pulled on this girl last week. She had guys lined up. It was so fucking good.
Head down, ass up, that’s the way we like to fuck.
Trey, Trey, and more Trey.
We keep walking, passing the quotes all four of us wrote on the walls, lockers, and floors Saturday night, turning down another hall and seeing even more.
Not all of them are about Trey, though. Some of them are attributed to Lyla, Katelyn, a couple of Trey’s friends, and even me.
Because of course, saying you’re sorry is easy. Facing the shame is where atonement begins.
One of these nights, I’ll get you in the parking lot, and I’ll spread those pretty legs and fuck you right there on the ground. Would you like that, baby?
-Trey Burrowes
“That’s disgusting,” a junior girl says, wincing.
Another girl takes out a pencil and writes underneath the They all want it message.
No, we don’t, she writes.
The hallways are a flurry of activity, and we tried to keep our posts to the two main corridors, mostly because everyone passes through these hallways when they come into school.
People are captivated, though. Some girls look angry and disgusted.
Some guys are surprised.
“All students please report to the auditorium,” the vice principal’s voice carries over the loudspeaker. “All students please report to the auditorium.”
Ten stops us in the hallway, looking nervous but amused. “Looks like we broke the bank on this one.”
“Yeah.” I offer him a tight smile and watch more students writing under the messages on the wall. “Look at them, though.”
Speak your mind, and you give others permission to do the same.
I turn to Misha, sighing. “You should leave. You don’t need to be here, and she’s going to pull you in if she finds you.”
Since he walked out on Burrowes over a week ago, he hasn’t been back to school, but I think he was worried about how all this would go down today and wanted to be here.
He shakes his head. “I don’t care.”
“Well, the police just got here,” Ten informs us.
“The police?” I whisper. “I didn’t think what we did was that bad.”
“No, it’s not for the vandalism. It’s for Trey. A bunch of kids—several girls—are in the office, ratting him out. I guess the posts got to them.”
“You should really go, then,” I tell Misha.
But just then Principal Burrowes approaches us and my heart skips a beat.
“Mr. Laurent? Come with me now.”
He stares at her for a moment.
But I jump in. “Why?”
“I think he knows why.”
He hesitates for a moment, and I think he’s going to fight like last time, but he doesn’t. He takes a step.
“No, no, no…” I burst out. “He didn’t do anything.”
“It’s okay,” he assures under his breath.
But Burrowes interjects, looking at me. “I show you on the log as the last person, other than the janitor, to sign out and leave the school Friday evening,” she tells me. “Now that’s not unusual, since you stay late to teach swim lessons, but then it occurred to me that you have a key. And then I remembered the company you’ve been suddenly keeping.” She glances at Misha. “Did you take her key?”
“No!” I answer for him.
Oh, Jesus.
“It’s okay,” he says again. “I’ll be fine.”
She leads him away, and I throw up my hands, feeling helpless. Why didn’t he just walk out like last time?
He doesn’t have to protect me, and he knows I won’t let him take the fall.
What is he doing?
“Sit down.”
I prefer to stand, but I’m guessing I may as well settle in. I take the seat in front of her desk.
“After the fights and your behavior the past few weeks, I’ve been calling the phone numbers on file,” she tells me, closing her office door.
“None of them work or they’re wrong numbers. You want to tell me what’s going on?”
I stare at her as she takes her seat behind her tidy, little desk.
Unbuttoning her suit jacket, she scoots in and opens a file, undoubtedly mine. It’s nearly empty.
But I keep quiet.
“If you had a concern about Trey, you should’ve come to me,” she demands. “Not break into the school and write horrible accusations on the wall.”
Accusations? Were the pictures she found in her bedroom not clear enough?
“Where is he?” I ask.
She straightens. “I’ve sent my stepson home for the day, while we sort through this mess.”
I feel like smiling, but I don’t. I simply stare at her. With the amount of upset students outside her door right now, I’m guessing the mess will take quite a while to sort through.
“Where are your parents?” she asks.
“My father lives in Thunder Bay.”
“And your mother?”
“Gone.”
She exhales a sigh and folds her hands on her desk. She knows she’s not going to get anywhere like this.
Reaching over, she picks up the phone receiver and holds it to her ear.
“Give me your father’s phone number.”
My fingers curl, but I don’t give myself away. This is it.
“742-555-3644.”
“What’s his name?” She punches in the number. “His real name.”
I hear the line start ringing, and my heart pounds painfully, but I remain stoic.
“Matthew,” I answer flatly. “Matthew Lare Grayson.”
She suddenly goes still and darts her eyes up to me. Her breathing speeds up, and she looks like she’s seen a ghost.
Well, she remembers his name. That’s something, at least.
My father’s voice comes across on the other line. “Hello?”
And she looks back down, and I see her swallow the lump in her throat, blinking nervously. “Matthew?”
“Gillian?”
She hangs up the phone like it’s burning hot and covers her mouth with her hand. I almost want to smile. Just to add to the taunt.
She raises her eyes, locking on mine and looking like she’s scared of me. “Misha?”
Yep.
And awesome. She remembers my name. Two points for Mom.
Now she knows. Me choosing to come to this school and sit in this office had nothing to do with Trey. It was about her.
“What do you want?” she asks, and it sounds like an accusation.
I laugh to myself. “What do I want?” And then I drop my eyes, whispering to myself, “What do I want?”
I raise my chin and cock my head, sitting across from her and holding her fucking accountable. “I guess I wanted a mom. I wanted a family, and I wanted you to see me play the guitar,” I tell her. “I wanted to see you Christmas morning and to smile at me and miss me and hold my sister when she was sad or lonely or scared.” I watch as she just sits there silently, her eyes glistening. “I wanted you to like us. I wanted you to tell my father that he was a good guy who deserved better than you and that he should stop waiting for you. I wanted you to tell us to stop waiting.”
I flex my jaw, getting stronger by the moment. This isn’t about me. I’m done being hurt and asking myself questions when I know the answers won’t be good enough.
“I wanted to see you,” I go on. “I wanted to figure you out. I wanted to understand why my sister died of a heart attack at seventeen years old, because she was taking drugs to keep her awake to study and be the perfect daughter, athlete, and student, so you would come back and be proud of her and want her!”
I study her face, seeing Annie’s brown eyes staring back, pained and turning red. “I wanted to understand why you didn’t come to your own child’s funeral,” I charge. “Your baby who was lying on a dark, wet, cold
road for hours alone while your new kids,”—I shove at a picture frame on her desk, making it tumble forward—“in your new house,”—another picture frame—“with your new husband,”—the last picture frame—“were all tucked safe and warm in their beds, but not Annie. She was dying alone, having never felt her mother’s arms around her.”
She hunches forward, breaking down and covering her mouth with her hands again. This can’t be a surprise. She had to know this was going to happen someday.
I mean, I know she hasn’t seen me since I was two, but I thought for sure she would know me. That first day, seeing her in the lunchroom, I felt like she was going to turn around. Like she’d be able to sense me or some shit.
But she didn’t. Not then, not when she pulled me into her office for a
“Hey, how are you?”… and not any time after that.
She deserted us and moved away when Annie was just a baby. After a time, I heard she went to college and started teaching, but honestly, it barely hurt.
I could understand being young—twenty-two with two kids—and not to mention the cut-throat family she married into. But I thought she’d eventually find her way back to us.
And later, when Annie and I found out she was only one town away, married to a man who already had a son, and she’d started a family with him and still hadn’t made the slightest effort to seek Annie and me out, I got angry.
Annie did everything in the hope our mother would hear about her or see her team in the paper and come for her.
“Now…” I say, my tone calm and even, “I don’t want any of those things. I just want my sister back.” I lean forward, placing my elbows on
the tops of my knees. “And I want you to tell me something before I leave.
Something I need to hear. I want you to tell me that you were never going to look for us.”
Her teary eyes shoot up to me.
Yeah, I might’ve convinced myself that I came here to collect the photo album of my sister’s school pictures and newspaper clippings Annie said she mailed her here that I found in her file cabinet and my grandfather’s watch, but really, part of me had a shred of hope. Part of me thought she might still be a good person and have an explanation. A way to tell me why
—even in death—Annie’s mom still didn’t come for her.
“I want you to tell me you don’t regret leaving and you haven’t thought about us a single day since you left,” I demand. “You were happier without us, and you don’t want us.”
“Misha—”
“Say it,” I growl. “Let me leave here free of you. Give me that.”
Maybe she missed us and didn’t want to disrupt our lives. Maybe she missed us and didn’t want to disrupt her life. Or maybe that part of her life is broken and over, and she doesn’t want to go back. Maybe she doesn’t care.
But I do know that I can’t care about this anymore. I stare at her and wait for her to say what I need to hear.
“I wasn’t going to look for either of you,” she whispers, staring at her desk with tears streaming down her face. “I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t be your mother.”
I slam my hand down on her desk, and she jumps. “I don’t give a shit about your excuses. I won’t feel sorry for you. Now say it. Say you were happier without us, and you didn’t want us.”
She starts crying again, but I wait.
“I’m happier since I left,” she sobs. “I never think about you and Annie, and I’m happier without you.” She breaks down as if the words are painful to say.
The sadness creeps up my throat, and I feel tears threatening. But I stand up, straighten my spine, and look down at her.
“Thank you,” I reply.
Turning, I walk for the door but stop, speaking to her with my back turned. “When your other daughter, Emma, turns eighteen, I will be introducing myself to her,” I state. “Do yourself a favor and don’t be an asshole. Prepare her before that time comes.”
And I open the door, leaving the office.
I step into the empty hallway and make my way for the entrance, the distance between my mother and me growing. With every step, I feel stronger.
I won’t regret leaving, I say to myself. I won’t think about you a single day from now on. I’m happier without you, and I don’t need you.
I’ll never look for you again.
“Did you ask her why she left?”
“No.” I sit against the wall in Annie’s room with Ryen resting against me between my legs.
“You’re not curious about her reasoning?” she presses. “How she would justify it?”
“I used to wonder. But now I… I don’t know.” It’s not that that I don’t care, but…“If someone doesn’t want us, we need to stop wanting them. I used to tell myself that, and now I believe it,” I tell her. “It’s not so hard, facing her and walking away. If she wanted to explain, she would’ve. If she
could’ve, she would’ve. She didn’t chase after me. She knows how to find me if she wants to.”
Ryen smoothes her hands down Annie’s blue scarf. “So that’s why you were in Falcon’s Well.”
“Yeah. She had the watch. An heirloom gifted by my father’s father for her and my dad at their wedding,” I say, burying my nose in her hair.
“Family tradition dictates it goes to the first-born son. She took it when she left—maybe to spite my dad or pawn it for money if she needed—but somehow she ended up giving it to Trey.”
“You must’ve hated her for that.”
“I already hated her,” I shoot back. “That hurt, though. She’d already abandoned us. How could she steal one more thing—especially something that rightfully belonged to me?”
She was selfish and spiteful, and maybe she isn’t the same person now that she was then, but I’m not waiting for her like Annie did. I hug Ryen close. This, right here, is everything. I can’t wait to live all the days I’m going to live with her. We’re going to have a hell of a lot of fun.
Especially since I no longer have to worry about that cocksucker at school with her for the rest of the year. She got a text from Ten earlier, saying he heard that the superintendent stepped in and forbade Trey from stepping foot on school grounds until everything clears up. And since a few students are pressing charges, for the photos and various assaults, it looks like the next several months of Trey’s life will be spent in court.
Ryen stands and pulls me up, both of us trailing out of the room. I’d come in here to put Annie’s locket and photo album back. There had also been letters with the album in the envelope I’d taken from our mother’s office, too. Annie didn’t tell me she’d written her, just that she’d sent her a
photo album of her pics and stuff. She made sure to leave photos of me out of it, though. She knew I wouldn’t have liked that.
Maybe I shouldn’t have taken the album and letters. After our mother never showed up to the funeral, though, I just didn’t want her to have anything of Annie’s.
But Annie gave them to her, I guess. It was her wish our mother have those things.
If she wants the envelope back, she can have it. But she has to come and ask.
I close the door quietly behind me and walk into my room, seeing Ryen sitting on the bed, reading a piece of paper.
“What’s this?” she asks.
I look down at the white paper. “It’s a letter.”
She folds it up and sets it down. “Well, I didn’t read it or anything, but it could be an offer to talk about a recording contract.” She smirks. “And there’s several more there.” She points to the bedside table. “I didn’t read those, either, but I was wondering if maybe they could be letters of interest, too. I’ll bet some well-connected dudes have seen Cipher Core’s YouTube videos and want to talk.”
They don’t want Cipher Core. They want me, and I don’t want to leave my band.
I plop down on the bed and pull her back, tickling her. “The only things I want to do are things that won’t take me away from you. Understand?”
She laughs, squirming and trying to stop me.
“Well, college isn’t far off!” she giggles, slapping my hands away. “I’ll be leaving. And I looked at your band’s Facebook page. They have tour dates up for this summer.”
“It’s just bullshit dives and fairs and festivals.” I climb on top of her, straddling her and pulling her arms up over her head.
“But that sounds amazing.”
I stick my tongue out and lean down, trying to touch her nose.
“Are you five?” she squeals, flopping her body and attempting to buck me off.
I dart in, licking the tip of her nose. She winces and shakes her head rapidly so I won’t get a second shot in.
I chuckle, releasing her hands. “Honestly, I don’t know why Dane still has that shit up. I told him I wasn’t going.”
“Yes, you are.”
I climb off her. “Ryen, I—”
“Stop,” she says. “It’s not forever. You have to go. Just follow this and see where it leads.”
Right now, I couldn’t want anything less. The idea of leaving her makes me really fucking unhappy.
“You and I have had a long distance relationship for seven years,” she goes on. “I think we’ve withstood the test of time and distance. No one has ever come close to meaning to me in person what you mean to me in your letters. And now that we’ve met, and I love you,” she says, climbing into my lap and wrapping her legs around me. “I don’t doubt this. You need to go.”
“I just got you.”
“And I don’t want you holding back because of me.”
I slide my hands up the back of her shirt, savoring her warm, smooth skin.
“We’re going to have everything we want,” she tells me, laying down the law. “That’s the only way I want this with you. If you go, and you don’t
like it, come home. If you do like it, I’ll be waiting when you’re done.”
I can feel my nerves firing, and I don’t know how to deal with this. I’d rather not think about it today at all.
Would I like to drive around in an old rented bus and play some music this summer? Maybe. That was the plan up until February.
But now I have Ryen, and I can’t imagine not seeing her every day. I don’t see the goddamn point of wasting a minute without her in it. I won’t be happier just because I have the music.
But she’s right. She’s going off to college, and although I can, too, it won’t be the same school. I could go with her, but…I can’t follow her. We both need our own work someday, a way to be fulfilled.
“If you don’t try,” she says, “you’ll wonder later if you should’ve. Don’t put that guilt on me.”
I give a weak laugh. Geez, punch me in the nuts, why don’t you?
“If I do this, I have a condition of my own,” I tell her, looking up into her eyes. “I want you to write a letter.”
She breaks out in a gigantic smile. “A letter? I’ll write you more than one while you’re gone.”
“Not to me.” I shake my head. “Delilah.”
Her face instantly falls. I can tell the prospect of facing that demon unnerves her.
“She left Falcon’s Well in sixth grade. I wouldn’t even know where she is now.”
“I’m sure she’s just a Google search away.” Which she knows. She’s just looking for an excuse to not face it.
She turns her head away, biding time, but I nudge her chin back to me again.
“What if she doesn’t even remember me?” she asks. “What if it was no big deal to her, and she thinks I’m an idiot for still dwelling on it?”
I hood my eyes. “Any more excuses or are you done?”
“Okay,” she bursts out like a child. “I’ll do it. You’re right.”
“Good.” And I flip her over onto her back and pin her down again.
“Now get undressed. I need to make up for lost time while I’m away.”
“What?” she argues as I pull her shirt over her head. “You make up for lost time when you get back!”
“Yeah. We can do that, too.”
Five Years Later…
“Ryen!” I hear my name being called. “Ryen, come on!”
I shake my head, amused as I step up onto the curb in front my apartment building. Delcour’s doorman is already poised with the door open for me to make my escape.
“No, Bill,” I say to the reporter from the Times as he and a few photographers rush up to me, cutting into my space.
I try to veer around them, but they’re everywhere. I push through them.
“An Oscar nomination for Best Original Song?” Bill Winthrop holds up a recorder in front of me. “You have to be pleased. He has to have something to say! Come on.”
“He’s in the writing cave,” I say, making my way to the door. “I told you that before.”
I turn around, giving him and the other guys who’ve been camped out here forever a bored look. “Really, you’ve been out here for months. Take
the night off. Go get a date.”
Some of the reporters and photographers laugh, and shots from their cameras go off around me.
“Yes, it’s been months since anyone’s seen him,” Bill chides. “How do we know he’s still alive?”
I cock my head and put my hands on my hips, making my now-visible pregnant belly more apparent. Obviously, Misha is well enough to do this, right?
I hear laughter break out again.
“You know Misha likes his privacy,” I point out.
“Will he be at the awards?”
“Not if he can help it.” And I turn, heading into the building.
“You’re impossible!” I hear Bill’s frustrated shout and don’t even bother to hide my smile.
“I love you, too!” I call over my shoulder.
Really, that has to be the most tedious job. Waiting around to see if Misha leaves to go get coffee or pick out a new pair of shoes. It won’t last forever, but my husband would rather avoid attention at all costs. I guess that just makes him more alluring and mysterious, though. I think they even created an app, Spot Misha Lare, like it’s frickin’ Pokemon Go or something.
I can understand the desire for him, though. He ended up joining me at Cornell for college after his summer tour, saying that his opportunities could wait. We had one life, and he refused to do anything more without me at his side. He’d wait.
I’d been worried he’d miss out on some big chance, but Misha knows who he is and what he wants.
And he was right. It wasn’t long after college before he reformed Cipher Core, all the original members back, and they began racking up the awards and tour dates.
It’s been a hell of a ride, and it’s just starting.
I walk through the lobby, spotting Rika passing by the front desk.
“Hey, how are you?” she asks, carrying a duffel bag.
I take in her leggings, knee-high black boots, and oversized sweater, and here I am, feeling like a planet. When is she going to get pregnant anyway?
Michael Crist’s wife—who’s from Thunder Bay, as well—and I have become very close, and since her mom and Misha’s dad are suddenly very close, we’ll all probably be family eventually.
I can’t complain. Their whole crew of friends is interesting, to say the least, but they’re loyal.
I look at her apologetically, gesturing to the reporters behind me. “I’m sorry about all this.”
But she just waves me off. “It’s happened with Michael when he makes the play-offs, just not quite like that.” She laughs. “I think he’s jealous, actually. But, hey, a basketball player is a basketball player. A rock star is a rock star.”
“Don’t remind me.”
She adjusts the bag on her shoulder and keeps walking. “Well, I’m off to the dojo and then Thunder Bay for the weekend. See you Monday, and tell my future step-brother I said hi,” she jokes.
“Will do.” And I head for the elevators.
I ride up to the twenty-first floor where there are two penthouses, and there’s only one floor above us, and that’s the Crists’. I love the view, and I’m glad Misha likes to be in the city. We frequently spend time with his
father in Thunder Bay, but the nightlife, shows, and concerts are too alluring to stay away from. We like the noise here.
Once inside, I smell steaks cooking, and my stomach instantly growls.
We have a gym in the building, but I like the classes at Rika’s dojo, so I braved the reporters for that today, but now I’m starving. And I need a bath.
Arms come around me from behind, holding my belly, and I lean back, feeling instantly relaxed. His intoxicating scent surrounds me, and I need contact.
“Help me get out of these clothes,” I beg.
He pulls my shirt over my head and helps me out of my sports bra. I’m only six months along—our son is due in March—but I’m playing up the helpless act. The more he touches me, the happier I am. And Misha doesn’t like to see me mad.
After stripping out of my shoes, socks, and workout pants, I turn around, pulling my hair out of its ponytail.
He looks incredible. I like this house arrest he’s been keeping himself on. All he does is walk around the apartment all day, half-naked in only lounge pants, listening to music and leaving lyrics in random places.
They’re written all over the refrigerator, on napkins, on Post-its stuck to the walls—which he started doing when I freaked out about Sharpie on the fresh paint in the bedroom.
It’s all a part of his creative process, he says.
Whatever. It works, I guess.
“Come on.” He pulls me along. “I started you a bath.”
I follow him to the bathroom, watching him strip down and get in, and then he holds out a hand, inviting me in.
I climb in and sit at the other end of the large tub, smiling gratefully when he starts massaging my leg.
“The reporters are insane,” I tell him. “Everybody wants a piece of you.”
“Well, this piece wants you.” And he takes my foot, nudging between his legs with it.
I slowly crawl up on top of him, straddling him but not able to get chest to chest with my belly.
He takes the small silver pitcher I have next to the tub and begins pouring water over my hair. I arch my neck back, the blanket of warmth coating my scalp and back and making me moan.
He kisses my neck. “Can I tell you something?” he asks gently.
I look up, meeting his eyes and nodding.
He smoothes my hair back, looking at me lovingly. “I love you very much, and when we got married it was my hope that we’d be together forever,” he states, “but that mirror thing,”—he points behind me to the wall design I just installed—“is pissing me off. I lose my equilibrium whenever I walk in here.”
I turn around and break into a smile, looking at the array of mirrors installed on the walls, which reflect the mirrors on the opposite wall.
Turning back to him, I lift my chin, nodding. “You’ll get used to it.”
“You say that all the time,” he whines. “I put up with the gothic fireplace in our converted barn home in Thunder Bay, the sewing machine end tables, the fact that I have to walk through a wardrobe to get into the master bathroom, but this mirror thing…”
He trails off, and I kiss his cheek. “It’s a conversational piece.”
He levels me with an unamused look.
I shake with laughter. “If you divorce me, we won’t still have sex.”
He twists up his lips. “Yeah, I figured.”
What a baby. He knew when he married me that I liked being creative.
Even if I wasn’t any good at it.
I reach over and flip the knob, turning on the shower over us. It falls behind me, but it creates a pleasant buzz.
“You need to put in an appearance,” I say.
I hate pushing him, and I normally don’t, but sometimes I worry he doesn’t live it up enough.
“Will’s been calling like crazy,” I point out, “and he even bugged me at work today. He says you need to ‘ride the ride while you can.’”
“I am,” he maintains and then he tightens his arms around me. “I just want to make music with you, and I want people to hear it and love it, but I don’t need to be bigger than this. I don’t need the hype. I’m happy.”
I caress his face. “Most people don’t get a chance to be a god,” I say.
“Are you sure you’re not missing out? You won’t live forever, after all.”
“No, but my music can.”
He always has the perfect answer for everything. He’s right. He’s not missing anything. Would we be happier, sacrificing the time we have together to give it to others? No.
“And you and me in the lyrics,” he finishes. “That’s all that’s important, and I won’t tolerate any distractions. I’ve only got one shot to do this right, and that’s what I’m doing.”
I bring him in, kissing him. I love him so much.
But his words remind me of our favorite rapper, and I pull back, unable to resist teasing him. “Hey, ‘only one shot’ just like in Eminem’s ‘ Lose Yourself.’”
And I start singing the song, belting out the lyrics at the top of my lungs.
He pushes my head back, dousing me under the shower as I squeal in laughter.
Hey, what did I say?