Crash Into You (29 page)

Chapter 66
Rachel

ISAIAH PARKS MY CAR A
block from the security gate of my neighborhood. Headlights flash behind us as Abby follows his lead. Her lights turn off, indicating that she’s granting us time.

We’ve been silent—Isaiah and I. Not that silence is unusual between us, but it’s never been so heavy. We’re both angry, hurt. I’ll admit to being scared. “We’re not going to make the money, are we?”

“Eric will be paid off this weekend,” he says. “What happened tonight, the panic attack, that’s been going on for a while, hasn’t it?”

The unspoken accusation that I’ve lied to him slices like a knife. I rest my head on the back of the seat. “How are we coming up with the money?”

“You vomited blood,” he says, ignoring me. “I’m not talking about anything until we discuss this.”

“Isaiah—”

“You vomited blood,” he repeats.

“I know.”

“Rachel...you need help.”

I laugh and it’s the same bitter laugh I remember him giving when we met so many weeks ago. “So do you.”

“I love you.” Isaiah says it so simply that my heart soars and sinks at the same time.

“I love you,” I whisper. “Did you ever think that loving someone could hurt so bad?”

Isaiah shakes his head and stares out the window.

“What’s going to happen to us?” I ask. Because I don’t know how the two of us can continue forward. Isaiah refuses to let me in. It’s sort of cruel. He’s brought me close with his stories of his childhood and with his words of love, but he can’t relinquish control. I refuse to be with someone who won’t treat me as an equal.

Isaiah clears his throat. “I failed the ASE.”

Dread washes over me. “You said you passed....”

“They accused me of cheating so they failed me. Once Pro Performance finds out, I’ll lose the internship and the job. I have nothing left to offer you.”

I grow numb as my mind races to understand. “Why would they think you cheated? I mean, there’s no way you would, so why would anyone else think it?”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s over.”

“It’s not. You can retake it. Prove to them that you know everything about cars.”

His hands hover over the wheel as if he wants to hit it, but he doesn’t. Instead he slowly lowers his palms to the leather covering. “It’s over. The certification. The job. The hope we could pay Eric off by racing.”

“I’m going to race Zach.” It’s the only way. “And I don’t need your permission to do it.”

Isaiah slams his hand against the steering wheel and I flinch. “With what, Rachel? Our seven hundred? Let’s say you win, we’re still down over three thousand dollars. We tried and we failed. Playing by the rules is no longer an option.”

“Then we’ll take on more races. I’ll race Zach more than once. He said money wasn’t a problem—”

“Because he’s betting Eric’s money.”

My face whips as if I’ve been smacked. “What did you say?”

“Zach’s working for Eric.”

There’s a disorientation like I’m having an out-of-body experience. He’s known this and he hasn’t told me.

“I’m going to steal cars to make the money to pay Eric.” There’s no mistaking the determination in his voice or the set of his jaw. He’s made his decision, and
nothing
I can say will change his mind. I open the door to the car.

“Rachel,” Isaiah pleads.

I pause, long enough to give him the opportunity to apologize for keeping the secret. To tell me that I misheard about stealing the cars.

“Even if it wasn’t the case, we’d need to race Friday and Saturday night. Are you going to walk away from your mom’s charity event to race? Just give me time to fix this and then—”

“Then what?” I snap. When Isaiah says nothing, I point at his door. “Get out of my car.”

With a click of the handle he does, and he meets me in front of the hood. Without looking at him, I reach into my coat, extract his lighter and hold it out to him.

Isaiah’s forehead wrinkles as he looks away. “Don’t do this, Rachel.”

“I’m not the one doing this.” I hold my palm out, waiting for my keys. Isaiah’s hand covers mine. The keys feel frozen against my skin and the lighter is gone.

“I’m doing it to protect you,” he says.

“No, you’re not,” I whisper to the ground. “You’re doing it to protect yourself. You never really let me in, did you?”

His hand falls away and I slide behind the wheel. Isaiah stands off to the side and I drive home without looking back. Isaiah says he’s protecting me. My brothers and father say the same thing about my mom. For the first time in my life, I wonder if my mother wants to be protected.

* * *

It’s supposed to be used
as a windowless conference room, but Mom fashioned it into her command center. The ballroom across the hall is decorated with thousands of mini pink roses and shimmering crystals. Dressed in their best gowns and tuxes, hundreds of people nibble on hors d’oeuvres. There will be a salad, followed by a choice of fish or steak, and during the cheesecake dessert, I’ll stand and tell everyone how much I loved Colleen. Then there will be dancing.

I’ll excuse myself, with grace I hope, and spend the rest of the evening in the bathroom—dying.

Taped to the mirror my mother brought in so the two of us could fix our hair and makeup is a picture of Colleen. Mom’s right. Everyone’s right. I resemble her. Long blond hair. Dark blue eyes. Even the smile. Except everything about me looks better on her.

I hate Colleen. Hate her. I’ve never met her and I despise her.

How dare she be perfect and beautiful and everything everyone could have ever dreamed of in a sister and daughter. How dare she get sick and die and leave this entire family in shambles. How dare she haunt me from her grave, taunting me with how I will never be good enough.

I glance at my cell resting on the table. Like the first few days after I met Isaiah, I carry it around, hoping for a call or a text. I’ve received neither. Abby and I talk. She says he’s miserable, a bear to be around, and that he’s stealing the cars tonight.

The deadline to pay Eric is midnight.

I don’t want Isaiah to become a criminal. My heart thuds faster when I pick up the phone. The worst that will happen is that he doesn’t respond. I’ve already proved once that I can live through that. Me:
:(

The door opens, and the sound of laughter and conversation drifts in with my mother. She’s radiant in red, and she’s complete happiness and smiles. My mother lost Colleen, but she’s content living with the replacement who fakes every moment.

“The party is going beautifully. You should come out, Rachel. There are several nice-looking young men from school in attendance. Is Abby here yet?”

Abby. I forgot. She told Mom she’d come. “No.”

“Do you like your new phone?”

I stare at the device in my hands. After I tossed my old phone at the top of the hill and left it in the rain while Isaiah and I sought shelter in his car, it stopped working. I told my parents I dropped it in the toilet. Dad purchased me something ostentatious. Too many bells. Too many whistles. “It’s fine.”

My fingers brush over the screen, praying for his response. From out of the corner of my eye, I peer at my mother as she reapplies her lipstick. A sinking desperation claws at me. Isaiah’s off becoming a criminal to save me when he was right. Too terrified of losing my mother’s love and approval, I wouldn’t have walked away from this event to race.

Mom slides her finger along the bottom of her lip to wipe off the excess makeup. She’s perfection to a T, but she’s never seen me. What type of love is that? Better, is that a love worth having? “If I needed money, would you give it to me?”

The words fall out as if I’m on autopilot, and maybe I am.
I need five thousand dollars, Mom. I need to save the guy I love.
Beside me, Mom pushes her hair into place. “Of course. What do you need?”

As I open my mouth, preparing to ask, the door opens, and the country club’s manager steps in. “Mrs. Young, your presence is requested in the kitchen.”

Mom pats my shoulder. “We’ll talk after dinner.”

After my speech. After Isaiah becomes a criminal. Before I can ask her to stay, she leaves. My phone vibrates and my finger trembles as I awaken the screen.

Isaiah:
Don’t b. I love u.

Me:
Please don’t do it.

Isaiah:
I have no choice.

The clock ticks time away and each second that passes feels like a step toward death row. Outside of that door looms either West or Ethan. Neither of them will permit me to leave. I have two choices. Give the speech and have the attack or tell the truth and disappoint my family.

Isaiah said I need help. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I do.

Me: I’ll get help if you do. I’ll let my family in on my nightmare if you let me help you. You have to decide. Now.

I will my phone to ring; pray for it to vibrate. Too much time passes and there’s a knock on the door.

“Rachel,” Ethan says with sad eyes. “Mom said that it’s time for us to be seated for dinner.”

And after the dinner will be the speech. I rest the phone on the table and gather the skirt of my dress. Ethan places a hand on my back as I walk past him. “It’ll be okay, Rach. I swear. Just breathe through the speech, and West and I will get you out unnoticed. We’ll protect you.”

I say nothing. I’m tired of being protected.

Chapter 67
Isaiah

PEOPLE BELIEVE THAT CARS ARE
stolen in the dead of night, while the entire world sleeps. While that may be true, there are simpler ways. Later tonight, if it comes down to it, I’ll become the cliché. Otherwise, I’m opting for easy.

I stand in the shadows of the alley outside a liquor store waiting for the moron who hates cold weather yet yearns for a drink. Someone will abandon their car with it still running. Since it’s early in the evening, I have the time to wait.

Rachel’s text weighs on me.
I’ll get help if you do. I’ll let my family in on my nightmare if you let me help you. You have to decide. Now.

For four days, Rachel and I have ignored each other, and when she breaks the silence she offers an ultimatum that cracks open my heart. Help her or protect her. Rachel needs help or she’ll end up in the hospital. But I have to steal the cars to protect her. She doesn’t understand.

Rachel’s wrong on this. She said I never let her in. My head falls back against the cold brick of the building. I told her things I never told anyone. Yet her words have become a mantra in my mind...
you never let me in.

I inhale, trying to erase the thoughts. I’ve got a job to do and distractions can cause danger. A Saturn pulls into the lot right as a pizza delivery guy walks out of the store. The Saturn owner emerges from his car and my heart pumps strongly. The motor still runs as he closes the door to his empty car.

The delivery guy asks, “Do you know Elmont?”

My head jerks back—that’s my mom’s street.

“Yeah,” says the driver. “It’s the side street to the right.”

They say a few more things and the delivery guy takes off and the other man enters the store. My eyes trail after the delivery guy.

Protection—Mom used the same word with me.

“She’s my mom,” I told Rachel.

“You’ll see her when you’re ready.”

For some reason, I’m ready now.

* * *

If it is at all
possible, the house is smaller than Shirley and Dale’s. It’s a shotgun house, meaning it shoots straight back. The living room is first, the next room is typically the bedroom, followed by a makeshift bathroom and kitchen.

On an uneven sidewalk, I assess the house with my thumbs hitched in my pocket. Behind a bedraggled lace curtain, a dim light shines and the flashing of a blue screen indicates a television. The crumbling front stoop shelves an old mason jar full of cigarette butts and a small green ceramic frog. Mom liked frogs.

The metal screen door rattles as I knock. The floor creaks on the other side. There’s hesitation for what I assume is a glance through the peephole, and the door swings open.

Mom’s eyes are wide and color touches her cheeks. She’s dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. The same big hoop earrings move when she tucks her short dark hair behind her ears. “Isaiah. Come on in.”

Her living room consists of a couch, end tables, a recliner and a television. She’s been out for two years so she’s had time to collect. “Can you come out?”

“Sure.” She steps into the cool night with bare feet, leaving the wooden door open. From the living room, the final round of
Jeopardy
begins.

Mom retrieves the pack of Marlboro Lights and a lighter from behind the glass jar. “Do you mind?”

I shake my head, and Mom sits on the step of the stoop. She pulls out a cigarette and flicks the flint of the lighter three times, curses and jiggles the lighter before trying again. Growing impatient, I yank my lighter out of my pocket and light the cigarette for her.

“Thanks,” she mumbles. After a long draw and even longer exhale she says, “I don’t have money to give you. I live on a tight budget, but I’ll have something next week.”

Jesus Christ. The weight of what I’ve done forces me to sit next to her. “I’m not interested in your money.” Not anymore.

She taps the ashes to the ground. “I named you after a person in the Bible. Isaiah—a prophet of God. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“Your grandpa, my dad, was a reverend.” She inhales a long draw from the cigarette, leaving a path of red ashes. “He died three years ago.” Mom dangles the cigarette. “Lung cancer. My mom died a few months later. Probably from a broken heart.”

“Sorry,” I say. It feels weird to hear I had family. “They didn’t want me.”

“I told them not to take you.”

I raise an eyebrow. “They agreed.”

“Yeah,” she says. “They did, but it killed them. Me, Momma and Daddy were prideful to the point it hurt.” She sucks away the rest of the cigarette and smashes it against the concrete. “Why are you here?”

“You had something you needed to say, and I think I’m ready for you to say it.”

She slides the broken lighter in her hands. “Funny. I seemed hell-bent on saying it until now.” Mom has a soft Southern accent. Not normal for someone raised in Florida.

“Did you grow up in Florida?” I ask.

She tilts her head as she looks at me and almost smiles. “You remember?”

I shrug and lie. “I remember the beach.”

“I was raised a few counties south of here in a town with one stoplight. When I was sixteen Daddy took a new job in Florida and I ran away to be with the guy I loved.”

“My dad?” I ask before I can stop myself.

She stares at her painted toenails. “Sorry. No. Good thing, too. Turned out the bastard was married to a crack whore.”

Taking another cigarette out, she gestures for my lighter. I refuse to give it to her, but I do light the cigarette for her again.

“You’re real protective of that,” she says.

“I had a good home once.” I return the lighter to my pocket. “The guy gave it and a compass to me before he and his family moved to California.” The same guy who called me a dragon. The compass was for me to find my way. Both tattoos are for him.

She sighs. “For ten years, I thought about how I would explain this to you. I made up lie after lie, and when I got out, I couldn’t face you. So I spent two more years trying to think of something else to tell you, and now that you’re here I realize it’s still not good enough.”

“Try the truth.”

She laughs. “I’m not sure I know what it is anymore.” Ashes drift into the breeze. “I slept with a couple guys, Isaiah. Not knowing for sure who your dad was, I decided to raise you myself. Me and you did okay for a while. I had a job, but then I lost it.”

The smoke from her mouth billows into a ball. “I went home and asked for help. Daddy wanted me to repent in front of his congregation—to tell them how I was a sinner. I thought that made you look like a sin, so I refused. I ripped you out of that house so fast that I had burn marks on my hands. I said I was protecting you. Daddy said I was stubborn.

“We came back here. We needed food. Money. So...” She shrugs. “Do you remember?”

I do. “I liked the houses that had cable.” Mom broke into houses during the day with me by her side. Images of walking up long driveways and heading into backyards fills my mind. The sound of a window being slid open and the feel of the cool central air hitting my face as she pushed me in.

My heart would hammer as I walked through the silent house to open the back door for my mother. As she rummaged through the house, she’d let me watch TV and eat whatever cookies she found in the kitchen. I thought it was great...until she got caught.

Mom stares at the night sky, searching for something. “I often wondered what would have happened if I stayed and did as Daddy asked or if I had agreed to let them take you or if I let that one couple adopt you when you were ten.”

My head jerks to glare at her. “They wanted me?”

“Yeah.” She draws on the cigarette again. “They wanted you, but I didn’t know how to let you go. Plus, I was worried if I made the wrong choice, again, you’d end up in a bad home. I thought the state would protect you.” Mom rubs her eyes. “I thought I was protecting you.”

Faint memories emerge of my then social worker asking me if I’d like to stay with that family. At the time, I hadn’t known she meant for good. “I told the state I wanted to stay with them.”

“I know,” she says. “He told me. Maybe they could have taken you without my consent. I don’t know, but that guy wanted my blessing. How could I be sure you were making the right choice?”

“I knew what I wanted.” I wanted to be with that family. With the man who called me a dragon. A man who believed I was more life than destruction. My mother ruined my shot at happiness because she couldn’t let go. Because she had to control everything, even from prison.

Just like my need to control.

As if a lightning bolt ripped out of the sky and struck me, I jump off the stoop. Mom stands, anxious over my sudden movement. “Are you okay?”

I tear my cell phone out of my pocket and text Rachel:
don’t do the speech.

Seconds go by, maybe minutes. Nothing in return. “I’ve gotta go.”