Chapter Twenty-One
I’m not sure when Lucas woke up and snuck out my window, but by the time my eyes open this morning, he’s gone. He left behind a little reminder, though, one he had to go back to his truck to get. I spent the first ten minutes of my morning just staring at it hanging from the back of my desk chair.
The sleeves of his letterman jacket make the same stupid crinkling sound they do when he wears it. My smile turns into a laugh as I sink my left arm in, then my right. The lining is cool, but I’ll be dying of heat by lunch time, if I even wear this thing all day. Who am I kidding? I’m wearing this jacket for always. I’m probably never giving it back.
In a way, it makes me feel a little stronger for the day that lies ahead. I can’t live like this, with secrets between me and my mom. And I won’t let someone like Ava Pryor make me feel small. I mean, I am a senior now. I’ve grown up. I’ve grown . . . period. This jacket, it makes me feel a little badass—a little bit like Abby.
Embraced in the woodsy scent of the boy I think might really, truly be my boyfriend, I unlock my bedroom door and take in a deep breath. Today, I’m walking down those stairs. Honestly, I may never scale my roof again.
My mom is humming to herself in the kitchen, and I pause halfway down the steps to listen. I don’t think she’s happy, but maybe she slept a little. Or maybe she found her own symbolic jacket, something to make her feel a little bit badass, too.
“Good morning.” I announce myself as I round the corner into the kitchen, and she turns, surprised to hear my voice. Her face is covered with dots of paint, as is her T-shirt. It’s one of my dad’s old ones she kept for things like gardening. She said it felt nice to ruin them. Well, this one . . . it’s toast.
My mom puckers her lips as she leans over the counter and balances herself on her forearms, palms flat, her coffee mug between them.
“Are we talking now?” she asks me, her eyes surveying the jacket I wear.
I suck in my top lip and breathe in through my nose as I slowly nod.
“We’re starting to talk again,” I say. I can’t unpack all of the garbage in my head during a short ride to school, but I can open the gates again. For a while after the divorce, my mom had this buzz word she used, something she got from the counselling sessions she tried. I throw it out there now, not to mock her, but to make her laugh.
“We’ll . . . dialogue,” I say. She breaks into an instant smile and eventually winks at me, turning around to top off her cup before grabbing her keys and purse to drive me to school.
I open the side door first, slinging my bag over my shoulder and glancing up in time to catch Mrs. Fuller’s full view as she backs out from her driveway. Her tires screech to a quick stop, the jolt enough to fling her hair forward and force her sunglasses from her face. Rather than run, I maintain my pace and walk right to the passenger door of our van. I refuse to let my relationship with Lucas be shrapnel to our parents’ failed relationships. I keep the jacket on even as I get into the seat and strap myself in. The jacket is really smothering and the fit is oversized, but I’m going to make sure I maximize the sightings of me in this garment. One hurdle is down already as Mrs. Fuller finally finishes backing out and pulls away. My next mission is the spray paint artist, Ava Pryor.
My eyes leave the rearview mirror and finally focus on my marred garage door. The pink and red stains of WHORE are gone, which explains the paint dots all over my mother’s body. What I don’t quite understand, though, is the enormous middle finger she painted in its place. My mouth is still hanging open when she gets in the van.
“You like it?” she asks. I blink once and turn my gaze to hers. There’s a proud smile on her mouth, and I know it’s partly there because mothers are alphas too. In many ways, they are the alpha-ist of them all. Instead of hiding and taking the abuse, my mom decided to let the world know the Mabee girls don’t take shit from anyone.
“I do,” I say, returning my focus to our freshly painted garage door. My smile pushes into my eyes, and that nervous thunder that’s been abusing my chest for the last few weeks is a calm purr. “I like it a lot.”
My cockiness sticks with me as my mom drops me off at the front of the school. Despite the itching desire to hunt down Ava and take a victory lap around her, I don’t. I don’t run to Lucas, either. Instead, I drag my feet on my way in, smearing a few chalk lines drawn on the front sidewalk to celebrate spirit week. I stop at my best friend’s car and lean back, stretching out my arm so she can feel the thick leather of this very hot fucking jacket.
“Boom! Look who’s running this shit now,” Abby says, tugging on the sleeve then holding a fist out for me. I pound it and call her “bruh” just to mock the guys who usually walk around in these. That includes Lucas, and Tory, but over the last few weeks they’ve grown accustomed to me taking them down a peg.
“You sure I can’t retaliate against her for that shiner?” Abby asks. She pops a piece of gum in her mouth and snaps it aggressively.
I told her the real story last night before Lucas came. She also knows about the garage. She hasn’t seen my mom’s artwork, though.
“It’s fine. I don’t even care about Ava Pryor anymore.” My eye stings a little when I say it.
“Liar,” she says.
“You’re right,” I admit with a laugh. “But I don’t care quite as much.”
The bell rings and I push off of the front of my friend’s car, walking with a little swagger.
“My mom has to drive me home today, but you should come by and see what she’s done with the garage.”
She squints at me suspiciously.
“It’s a worthy surprise,” I add.
“Well, all right then.” My friend reaches to the side and grabs my hand for a squeeze, and we part at the office doors.
I stretch to shove them open and suddenly a palm reaches over me and pushes the door open wide. I recognize his arm, the freckles that form the little dipper just above his wrist. I smell the coconut from his shampoo. To be sure, I pause my steps so his large body crashes into me from behind, and when his arms wrap around my midsection and he walks me forward, away from my independent study room, I give in with a teasing guess.
“Earl? Is that you?”
He spins me fast and catches my jaw in his palm, stepping in close as he towers over me with a kiss. It feels as though the whole world is watching, and it makes me smile.
“This public enough for you?” He runs the pad of his thumb over my lip and my body chills.
“It’s getting there,” I say. He holds on to my hand, but walks backward toward his class—the class I could still be in with him, but damn me and my pride. Maybe this is better, heart growing fonder and all. As he moves away, our fingers slip apart.
“This jacket is really fucking hot,” I joke.
“You love it,” he teases.
“I love you,” I say.
Shit.
He stops moving. Maybe he also stopped breathing. His eyes are huge, mouth open, but maybe that’s a smile on his lips? Maybe not. It’s definitely an amused expression. I wonder if the whole world just heard that.
My eyes are definitely wide, I can tell by the air stinging them. My mouth waters a little bit too. It does that when I eat olives, because I threw up once on olives. I think maybe I throw up on I love you’s.