Facade (3 page)

I’m on the couch and have a girl on my arm. I don’t know how she got there, but I don’t care either. Her hand’s creeping toward my crotch and I’m begging for her to hurry up and make her destination.

Colt and Cheyenne didn’t show up. I was pissed earlier, but the longer I’m here, the more none of it matters. Sometimes I think I want it to matter. I mean, it should. It’s life and as much as mine’s been filled with darkness, I’ve seen the beauty. When Angel looked at Ash or when Ash looked at me like he thought I was the king of the fucking world or something. I was amazing to him. Like a superhero who he trusted from his teeny toes to the tips of his curly black hair.

That was fucking beautiful, until it shattered.

Damn, why did that creep in tonight?

I look at the redhead who’s now kissing my neck. She smells like beer, all tangy, mixed with some kind of perfume. “What’s your name, baby?” I ask her. When a girl has her hand slipping down your pants, you should at least know her name. I guess if she doesn’t care, I shouldn’t. I’m not even sure if I really do.

“Ashley, but my friends call me Ash,” she says against my skin, her breath freezing me. It’s like it starts in that one spot and then slowly spreads over my body, cracking my skin and my chest and my heart as it goes. My past is infecting me again. The disease sucking the breath from my lungs. I can’t fuck a girl with the same nickname as Ash. The little boy who thought I held the world in my hands.

“I can’t do this,” I tell her. She looks at me, confused, the corners of her eyes squinting, but I can’t stay or say anything else. Pushing to my feet, I maneuver my way through the maze of people in my house. I want them all to get the fuck out, but I won’t make them. The silence is so much louder than the pulse of music and people beating through me right now.

The door to Colt’s old room is open. There’s a couple on the old futon I shoved in there when he left. I ignore them and go straight to my room and lock the door behind me. I fall onto my bed, thinking that maybe it would be easier if I was like Colt used to be. If I could just ball my fist and beat the hell out of something, even if it was a wall, until I felt better, until the physical pain eclipsed the emotional.

I see Ash’s big brown eyes. Hear Angel’s cries. Smell the fucking beer on the bastard who hit him as I shoved my fist into his face over and over before they arrested me at the same time as him. He ran over and killed someone I loved, yet they treated me just as they did him.

Which, yeah, means I heard Angel’s cries after. I wasn’t even there when she got home that day. She came back to find me and Ash gone. I had to tell her later that I let him get killed. She told me, fucking
told me
that day not to let him play out front, but I didn’t listen and now he’s gone.

I pick up
The Count
, wishing I could focus on the words. Wishing I were Edmond or anyone but me. I reach for my weed but then shove it back into the drawer. Why can’t I lose myself in my own head like I used to? Get lost in my own world to block out the shit at home instead of sucking that crap into my lungs like I do now?

I wonder who that guy was with Angel at the cemetery. If he’s good to her because I’m not there to protect her the same way I didn’t protect Ash. The way Angel always protected me.

Suddenly the music is too loud. People stumbling into my door feels like they’re doing it on my head instead. If I don’t get out of this house right now, I’m going to lose it.

I shove the window open and grab my keys. It’s freezing balls outside, but I don’t care. It’s good to feel something besides the memories. It only takes me a few seconds to walk around the side of my house and get to my car. No one will miss me here. They’ll party till they pass out and tomorrow I’ll talk shit about how fun it was. Right now, I need to be free.

I drive around for hours until the car’s going on fumes and I know I’ll run out of gas at any second. I’ve circled Brenton about ten times and for the millionth wonder why I still live in this state. Maybe it would be easier if I left. Instead I drive by the college that Cheyenne goes to and wonder what it would have been like to go there. College was something I always wanted, planned for, but after Ash, I figured if he didn’t get to have what he wanted, I shouldn’t either. I remember how Angel used to tell me how lucky I was because I was so fucking smart. It pissed her off when I left high school, but we needed money. It wasn’t that long since she’d taken me from Dad and let me live with her. Plus, Ash was coming soon and I needed to help her prepare.

By this point, it’s gotta be almost 3:00 a.m. My eyes are burning as much as my insides. When I see a little all-night diner, I pull in. Shove my copy of
The Count
and my little spiral notebook in my hoodie pockets before going inside.

I sit in the ugly, aqua-green booth and wonder who in the hell would pick something like this.

Pulling the book out, I toss it onto the table. Grab my notebook and the pen I keep in my pocket, but I’m not sure I can make myself do anything right now. Can’t write. Can’t read. I need some fucking coffee and a time machine, so I put my elbows on the table and bury my head in my hands.

I try to focus on the big, brown eyes in my mind and the huge smile that was definitely a Westfall trait.

“Can I help you?” someone says from beside the table.

I wish like hell I didn’t have to pry my head out of my hands, but I do. I look over and see the same brown hair and beautiful gray eyes from earlier.

Just my luck that I have to run into the flirty guy from this afternoon. He is
super
sexy with his dark hair and intense eyes, though. He has brown stubble on his face, but I can’t help but look at his eyes again. They look dimmer than they did earlier. No laughing in them. I almost feel like they could transfer me away. Like you can drift forever in those midnight pools because there’s so much space between what he wants to show and what’s really buried deep inside.

I wonder what my eyes look like to him.

I have no excuse to wonder that. I didn’t come all the way to Brenton to hook up with some random guy.

I can practically see the façade slip into place as he gives me a half-smile.

“If it isn’t the box girl. Your boyfriend’s not going to show up again, is he?”

I shake my head. Almost don’t tell him the truth, but I do. “He’s not my boyfriend. He’s my brother.”

The smile grows slightly. “Why didn’t you say that earlier?”

“Because I didn’t feel like being hit on.” I try not to bite my lip. It feels good to have a guy try and pick me up. Any girl who doesn’t admit that is lying. Whether you want him or not, it’s a boost to the ego. I didn’t date much when I was younger. I was focused on school and was just
young
. Too busy riding my bike and trying to follow my big brother around. Then Dad got locked up and Mom lost it and boys never had a chance to be important.

“All girls like being hit on,” he says.

“Are you going to order anything or not?”

“In a rush to get back to all those other customers?” He smiles.

Yeah, I didn’t really think about that. I look around and remember there’s only one other person in the place. My eyes wander over the table and I notice the book sitting there.
The Count of Monte Cristo
. I don’t know why, but it surprises me. He doesn’t look like the read-for-fun type. “Your book?” I ask, even though I know it’s his.

It’s almost like he forgot it was there. He puts a hand on it and slides it closer to him, as though he’s trying to protect it. “I’ll take a coffee.” There’s a slight edge to his voice that wasn’t there before. I’m not sure if its anger, annoyance, or if the tiredness in his features is now spreading to his vocal cords.

“Anything to eat?” Then I realize I have the menu in my hand and haven’t given it to him. I never claimed to be the best waitress. I’m lucky I got the job so quickly when I told Maddox I was going to Brenton whether he came or not. I didn’t know what else to do.

“Mind if I look at that?” He nods his head toward the menu and I give it to him.

“I’ll be right back with your coffee.” Without a word, I turn and walk away. I fill a coffee cup for him, a little annoyed at myself that I’m all fluttery over this guy I don’t know. I came here to make things right. Not to fall for someone who has
player
written all over him.

I set the coffee cup down in front of Mystery Guy. He looks at my chest and I’m about to cover it and tell him to look away before I blind him, but when he says, “Thanks, Delaney,” I realize he was looking at my nametag and not my breasts.

“You’re welcome.”

“Can I get some pancakes?”

“Um… sure. I’ll put the order in.” I’m about to walk to the kitchen when he speaks again. “Don’t you want to know my name?”

“No.” I came here looking for one guy and one guy only. I wasn’t here to flirt.

“I’ll tell you anyway. I’m Adrian. Adrian Westfall.”

My knees go weak and I have to fight not to fall. Blurry dots swim behind my eyes.
Focus, focus, focus
. When I open my mouth, I’m not sure what’s going to come out. “Nice to meet you,” is what I land on.

My legs shake as I walk away, but it has nothing on the tremble in my chest. I’m scared he’s going to see through me. Take one look and know who I am. Know that I’m the daughter of the guy who killed his nephew. And that I came here for him. Hoping that with his forgiveness, my family can find some peace. I’m not ready for him to know that yet. I’ve never been the best liar. What made me think I could do this?

I risk a glance at Adrian as he sits at the table. He doesn’t look at me and he’s immediately lost in thought. It’s so strange seeing the difference in him. Like the second I walked away, he transformed from the guy who was talking to me to the guy he really is. He’s not smiling. His shoulders are slumped. I think about his eyes when I first saw them. How they looked like endless space. Smoke and mirrors.

And I can’t help but wonder if that look is there because of what my father did to his family.

I don’t know a lot of details but I know his sister was at work. Know the toddler was in the yard and he was with him. I know my father hit the little boy with his car. And Adrian spent a little time in jail for an assault on my dad. I was only fourteen and it wasn’t like Mom gave me a lot of details.

“Delaney? You going to put that order in or what?” the cook, Donna, says through the order window.

“Yeah. Sorry. He wants pancakes.” My voice suddenly sounds like a high tenor, only not as beautiful. Or as steady.

I grab a washcloth and pretend to actually care if the countertop is clean as I try to watch him and pry my eyes away at the same time. He’s holding his book, his long fingers flipping through the pages. I wonder about him and that book. The cover was worn like only a loved book can get, so either he’s read it over and over, or it isn’t his. A library copy. Maybe he’s in school and he has to read it.

A little pang hits my chest. I always figured I would go to college. It was the route I was supposed to take, only things got rough and I haven’t made it there yet.

The bell dings and my heart jumps. “Order up,” Donna says.

In. Out. In. Out
. I take a couple deep breaths as my shaky hand grabs the plate.
I can do this. I have to do this.

Taking slow steps, I make it to Adrian’s table. “Here—” I have to clear my throat for my voice to work. “Here’s your food. Do you need anything else?” I set the plate in front of him.

Adrian closes his book and raises his eyebrows. “Are you offering?”

I want to say something to him, to tell him that’s disgusting, but when your dad kills a member of someone else’s family, it’s a little hard to be mean to them.

“Water?” I ask.

“Space,” he replies, and I wonder if that might be the most honest thing he’s said to me. There’s no malice in his voice. No flirtation either, only truth.

“Sure… anything. Just get my attention if you need me.” It’s not the best thing to say. I know I should be going to his table to make sure everything is okay, but I won’t. Not unless he calls me over. It’s the least I can do, really.

For the next two hours I go about my business. Pretend it matters that I’m sweeping the floor, filling the sugar containers. Adrian eats, pushes his plate away, and then alternates between
The Count
and scribbling in his notebook. I wonder what he’s writing but know I don’t have a right.

I came here for him, but I don’t have a plan. For some reason, I don’t think it would work to sit down and tell him I’m sorry. That I hate what my father did and I hate what Adrian’s family lost and that I would do anything,
anything
to make it go away.

I did it before with his sister, but that was different. One look at me and she’d known. She’d known who I was and we sat down and cried as I told her I was sorry.

She said she didn’t hate me, that it wasn’t my fault. I told her she lost more than I ever did, so she asked what I lost too. We talked about my mom and the gambling debts, which led to depression and suicide attempts.

And that’s when she told me about her brother. That she hadn’t just lost Ashton, this beautiful little boy, but two members of her family. Adrian too. He’d never been able to handle things well, and he’d disappeared right after Ashton died.

The private investigator found him only a couple hours away in Brenton, she’d said offhandedly. The pain in her eyes when she told me she couldn’t go to him ripped me apart. But she knew him and said you couldn’t push Adrian; otherwise he’d run again. At least this way she knew he was safe.

And here I am, trying to push him. Trying to dig up his past just so I can try and give myself a better future. I’ve never felt so selfish in my life. I want to vomit. Tears sting my eyes and I remember how Mom used to tell me a good cry could be cathartic. Now she just takes pills or puts a razor to her wrists.

Suddenly, I don’t know if I can do this. Don’t know if I can do any of it. What was I thinking, coming here? Trying to dredge up his past the way I want to. It’s not okay. Not fair. Maddox was right.