I stand in the lobby of the church where the team dinner’s held, debating what I should do next, when I hear the door behind me quietly click shut. I turn to find Ash standing there, all by himself, a smug look on his handsome face.
“You need to leave me alone,” I whisper hiss at him.
The innocent look on his face is pure bullshit. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re following me.”
He rests a hand on his chest. “I would never follow you.”
“Liar.” I spin on my heel and march right for the double doors, pushing my way outside. Ash is right behind me, so I keep talking to him. “I’m sick of you harassing me, Ash.”
“I’m sick of you pretending you’re hot for your boyfriend when we both know who you’re really hot for,” he retorts, his eyes flaring.
I gape at him, my surprise rendering me silent. “Why do you always have to make everything sound so dirty?”
“It’s a particular skill I have.” A strong breeze comes up, making all the leaves in the trees surrounding us rattle, and I wrap my arms around myself. The wind isn’t that cold, but I’m chilled just the same.
By the look in Ash’s eyes.
By the harsh tone of his voice.
“Isn’t it exhausting, pretending all the time?” he asks when I still haven’t said anything. “Pretending that you’re someone you’re not?”
I lift my chin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You act like you’re better than me. You act like you and Ben are the perfect couple, when we know it’s bullshit. And when I say we, I mean you and me.” His lips thin as he contemplates me. “I could go back inside right now and tell everyone what we did. That would totally ruin the illusion you’ve so carefully built.”
Panic rises in my throat, nearly choking me. “You wouldn’t.”
“I’m tempted.”
“You can’t.” I take a step toward him. Then another. Glancing around, I make sure nobody is around before I whisper, “My father is in there.”
“Yeah, and he’ll probably shit his pants when I tell him his little princess isn’t quite as perfect as he thinks.”
Tears sting the corner of my eyes and I shake my head, fighting them off. Willing them to stop. I refuse to cry in front of this asshole. “Why are you like this?”
“Like what?”
“You act like you’re obsessed with me and then you turn around and insult me.” It’s so true. He’s mean. He’s nice. He’s mean.
I hate it.
“I don’t know why,” he says, looking down at the ground and kicking at a rock. He sends it skittering across the sidewalk just as the leaves start rattling again from the wind. “You make me crazy.”
“You make me crazy too.” And not in a good way. “You need to leave me alone.”
“We can’t be friends?” He sounds genuinely sad, and I know that has to be complete bullshit.
“There is no way we can be friends,” I tell him, my voice firm. “This would never work. Right?”
He’s quiet, shoving his hands in his front pockets, watching me like he does. A minute ticks by, or maybe it’s only thirty seconds, I don’t know. When he finally nods, I exhale shakily. I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath.
“I’ll leave you alone if you leave me alone,” he says.
Relief floods me. “Deal.”
“Shake on it?” Ash extends his hand toward me.
I take it, trying my best to ignore the currents of electricity that travel through my veins when our palms make contact.
Fourteen
Ash
I open the door of our apartment and walk inside, holding my breath when the smell hits me. Stale air, tinged with a hint of cigarette smoke and rotting food.
Guess someone forgot to take out the trash.
The only light in the tiny living room comes from the TV on the wall, flickering and blue. It may be a flat screen, but it’s old. And I’m pretty sure Don stole it from someone.
Don. My mom’s boyfriend. The asshole who tries to tell me what to do, like he’s my dad or something. I hate that guy.
I miss my dad.
“You bring me anything to eat?” Mom’s scratchy voice startles me, and my backpack slips from my fingers, falling with a loud thud onto the floor. “Shh, you’ll wake him up!” she whisper-screeches at me. I can only assume she’s talking about Don.
“I didn’t bring you anything,” I tell her as I grab my backpack and sling it over my shoulder. “It was team dinner night.”
Sometimes if I’m feeling generous or guilty, I’ll bring Mom home half my Subway sandwich or nuggets from McDonald’s. I can’t remember the last time she cooked a meal. She doesn’t take care of herself. She doesn’t take care of me either. There’s never any food in the kitchen, and Mom doesn’t have a consistent job, so there’s never any money either. I used to work odd jobs here and there, helping people in the neighborhood, mowing lawns or cleaning out garages, but the money wasn’t good enough.
Now, at least a couple of times a month, I sell Mom’s prescription pills to my friends at school. I make good money doing it, even though it’s a risk. If I get caught, they’ll kick me out. My life will be fucked.
It’s fucked already, so most of the time it’s worth the risk. Besides, Mom doesn’t even miss them. She has so many painkiller prescriptions, I don’t think she notices when I swipe a few pills here and there.
“You don’t care about me.” Her words are slurred, and I wonder how much she’s had to drink tonight. How many pills did she pop? “None of you care about me.”
I stare at her, squinting into the darkness. She’s lying on the couch, an old, threadbare blanket covering her thin body, her dark hair piled on top of her head in a sloppy bun. When I was younger, I remember thinking she was beautiful. Don’t all boys believe their mama is the most beautiful woman in the world? I loved her, even when she pushed me away, griping that I wrinkled her clothes or messed up her makeup when I gave her a kiss on the cheek. All I wanted was her approval. Her love. I had Dad’s love, but hers was always just out of my grasp.
She pushed me away so many times over the years, both literally and figuratively, that I eventually stopped trying.
Stopped caring.
I love her, but it’s not the same. It’s a guilty love. An obligation. She’s my mother.
But she’s not a good one. I realized that a long time ago.
“You didn’t even bring me a sandwich?” she whines.
Without a word I exit the living room and head for my bedroom. She’s complaining, her voice rising, following me down the hall, and I want to remind her that she doesn’t want to wake Don up, but I keep my mouth shut. Just as carefully as I open my bedroom door, I close it, then grab the chair that sits at my old desk and slip it beneath the doorknob.
I don’t want Don busting in here, or Mom. It’s the only way I feel safe.
Setting my backpack on the desk, I unzip it and pull out the binder that holds all my classwork. It’s big and already a mess, though we’ve been in school not even two months. I have homework I need to finish, and a test to study for. I may be a fuck-up who sells prescription pills on the side and sometimes drinks too much, who messes around with too many girls and acts like an asshole, but I care about my grades.