Love Storm (20 page)

I cleared my throat, trying to regulate my breathing, and called over the edge, "Sorry. I'll be right there."

I turned back to Winter to see that she was clutching the hand railing of the stairs tightly, and realized after a moment that I was doing the same. I felt like if I were to let go, I would surely fall and tumble the rest of the way down the stairs – I couldn't feel my knees at all. After fruitless attempts at trying to calm my racing heart, I ran a frustrated hand through my hair and muttered, "Look… I'm sorry." '
But I'm not really sorry at all
,' my mind whispered. I banished the thought at once.

"It – it's okay," Winter said. I could hear nothing in her voice, and somewhere deep in my chest if felt like something was ripping apart. "It's been an emotional day, I suppose," she said softly.

I opened my mouth to speak, but thought better of it and simply nodded. "C'mon," I mumbled instead. "Victoria's going to slaughter someone if we don't hurry downstairs."

We walked to the dining room in silence. As I handed Winter the spoons though, she whistled.

"Bringing out the nice stuff, huh?" she said.

I winced. "Yeah," I said shortly.

There was a pause, and she studied the spoons in her hands determinedly as I rummaged around in the cabinet for the matching forks, not quite meeting her eyes. "That wasn't a very tactful thing for me to say," she admitted after a silence. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," I sighed. "I hate how we're all on edge today. Too many blow ups and too many apologies."

She nodded in agreement. There was a moment of quiet again.

"You got out one too many spoons," Winter said, out of the blue.

"Really?" I said. I glanced over them. "No I didn't. One, two, three, four –"

"Five," she said, raising her eyebrows at me. "Victoria, you, your mother, your father –"

"– and you," I finished, surprised. Something occurred to me. "Aren't you staying, then?" I realized that when we had been on the steps, she had never said that she
wouldn't
leave.

Her sad smile was my answer. "Zack, I can't fix all your problems for you, you know? You'll have to confront them sometime. Better sooner than later, and I don't want to be there when it happens. It's not my battle to fight."

"So you're just going to leave me here, then," I said quietly. Anger flared up inside me. Somewhere in the back of my mind, the irrationality of what I was saying struck me, but the idea was too far back and too vague, and I guess at the moment I didn't really
want
to pay attention to it.

Something like fear flashed through her eyes, but it disappeared so quickly I wondered if I had simply been hallucinating. However, she said calmly, "I think I should leave now." She turned
and set the spoons down on the mahogany dining table, and was about to step away when I reached out and grabbed her shoulder roughly.

"You can't. Don't," I said, eyes flashing.

"I can, and I'm going to," Winter replied evenly.

I was too furious to argue, and anyway, my pride decided to butt in at this moment. "Leave already, then," I whispered fiercely. "Ditch me and leave me here to fend for myself. I'll be fine without you." With that, I released her none too gently, and turned around to continue my search for the damn silverware.

For the second time that day, there was an odd roaring in my ears. I sensed more than heard her leave.

I was livid. I thought she was going to stay for dinner at
least
. Fuming, I slammed the utensils down on the table one by one until Victoria came in to see what the whole fuss was about.

"What is going on in here?" she demanded. "
Why
are you treating your parent's best silverware so roughly, Zackary Crowne?"

That did it. "I don't
care
about my parent's best silverware, god damn it!" I blew up. "I don't care about their expensive Italian brand name clothes, I don't care that they're back, I don't
want
them to be back!" I was nearly beside myself. "This is crazy," I muttered. "I'm leaving."

"
You will do no such thing
," Victoria said quietly, dangerously. "Where is Winter?"

"She
left
," I spat. Just hearing her name increased my fury.

"Good," came the housekeeper's reply. "Smart girl. Calm down already and set the table –" she threw a glance at the haphazard way I had placed everything, " –
neatly
; when I come back here in five minutes I fully expect you to be ready for dinner. You will help me bring the dishes from the kitchen into here." She spun on her heel and stalked off, back into the kitchen.

I glared at her retreating back, and was sorely tempted to punch the wall, but decided against it after a moment's thought – I've heard that punching walls sometimes creates more trouble than it's worth. And besides, I'm not a violent person.

Somehow (someone up there must have been having kind thoughts about me, for once), I made it through dinner alive and escaped upstairs to my room as soon as was humanly possible. I couldn't stand it, the way my father made strained conversation. He actually asked me who Winter was. Just to spite him, I had said that she was my girlfriend and that we'd been seeing each other for a long time. His look of surprise and the way he became quiet afterwards made the lie worth it.

I spent the rest of the night barricaded in my room doing senseless homework, not allowing myself to think. For once I wished that I had more work to do. I usually didn't bother to turn half of my homework in (what was the use?), but still managed to bag passing grades, because tests were easy for me. All it took was one quick skim over a chapter and I could take a test. 100, every time, I never failed.

I stole out a little past midnight for a shower, after I was sure that everyone else in the house was asleep. I turned up the hot water and let it beat onto my back, forcing myself to relax. Only now did I permit my mind to turn over some of the events and feelings of the day. Staring into the small mirror posted on the wall of the shower stall, I saw someone I knew, but hadn't thought about for a long time – I saw a person, just a boy, really, with his mom's curly dark locks and golden eyes, his dad's low voice and calm disposition, and a personality and bitter past all his own. Sinking to my knees onto the slippery floor of the shower, I rested my forehead against the cool tile and cried.

Chapter 16: Hired

Tristan
Friday

Payne's was on 27th Avenue in Hampton. A tiny Greek eatery was on its left, and they were neighbored by a music store on the right. The moment I pulled into one of the parking spaces along the front, I knew I would like working there. There was a nice window display of some soccer cleats and basketball jerseys, and a jaunty little sign proclaimed that the store was "OPEN", while another shouted out that they were "Hiring Now!" I smirked to myself. 'Here's the man you're looking for,' I thought as I locked up my car. A little confidence never hurt anyway, right?

A silver bell jingled as I pushed open the door, and my eyes automatically gave the inside of the store a once-over – now, I recalled that I had come in here once to buy a pair of soccer cleats a little over three years ago. I didn't play soccer anymore, at least, not competitively (I dropped it junior year in favor of basketball), but I still had that pair of cleats, and wore them when I took Anthony out to play a little on the weekends.

The inside was bigger than I remembered – it was spacious and brightly lit, with a high ceiling. The back wall consisted mainly of shoes; men's on the left, women's on the right, and children's in the center. The left wing of the store was divided between basketball, soccer, and football; the right wing was mainly for tennis, badminton, baseball, and softball, while the front of the shop had other miscellaneous sport's equipment, like volleyball, track and field, golf, water polo, etc. And sitting in the middle of it all was the check out counter – it was a rather peculiar counter that seemed to be made more or less of wood; the thing was hexagonally shaped, and there were five registers plus one line for returns, exchanges, and inquiries.

As of now, there were two people lazing about behind the counter who didn't seem very busy. They did have a few customers though – two were examining some running shoes in the back, and another four or five were scattered about the rest of the store. I walked up to the counter, and my attention was drawn towards one of the cashiers whose back was turned. From the back, I could see he had light brown hair that was tousled and damp. He looked like he had just gotten out of the showers or something – now that I thought about it, that was a very
familiar
head of light brown, tousled, damp hair… The person he was talking to, another guy who looked to be about our age, caught my eye and said something to the brown-haired guy, who turned around.

"
Martin
?" I said incredulously.

"Westley!" he exclaimed, his grey eyes lighting up and turning around fully. "'Sup man?"

I slapped his proffered hand, still gazing at him, amazed. "What are you doing here?"

He looked at me strangely. "I…don't know. What
am
I doing here? What do you think, Scotty T?" he twisted around to ask the other cashier, who only gave him a grin and a shrug. "Perhaps I…work here?" There was a mischievous, teasing gleam in his eye despite his serious act.

"Alright, alright, stupid question," I conceded defeat with an easy grin, even though it really
wasn't
a stupid question. What was Martin doing working at a store like this? He probably didn't even need the extra cash – everyone knew his family could not be that bad off if he drove a Beemer to school. But, I chose to let it slide, realizing that probing into the matter further might make him uncomfortable. So, I said instead, "Jeez, you been talking to Winter lately or something?" I shook my head, smirking. His sarcasm had almost been a picture-perfect imitation of hers. He even had down the way her mouth would stay in a strict line that would make you think she was biting the inside of cheek to keep from laughing if you didn't know better. Luckily, I always knew better. It was hard not to, with all the time I spent with Winter anyway.

"Actually, no," Martin said, looking startled. "I haven't talked to her in like two weeks." He shrugged.

"She's been busy, I think," I said uncertainly, realizing that I, too, had not talked to Winter as much as I usually did in the past week.

"Anyway," Martin said, pushing aside the subject easily. "Haven't seen
you
in here before. What brings the high and mighty Tristan Westley to this part of town?" he grinned at me cheekily.

"Well, I need to ask you a question," I said.

"Can do, as long as it's not too complicated," Martin replied cheerfully. "So, what can I do for ya on this fine Friday afternoon?"

I peered over the counter and into the middle of the hexagon. There were chairs and a computer desk – probably for easy access to a list of inventory for customers. Martin was sitting in one of the chairs, and now rested his elbows on his knees, looking at me curiously.

"Actually," I said, copying his casual stance and resting my forearms on the smooth, polished wooden surface. "Sorry to disappoint, but I'm not buying anything today."

"Aww, get out, West," he groaned, and I laughed.

"I was thinking more about the 'Hiring Now' sign you guys have up on the window," I continued.

"Really?" Martin said, looking extremely surprised. His hand stopped its journey halfway through his mussed up hair. Then he narrowed his eyes. "You better not be pulling my leg here, Westley, or I'll set Thatcher on you," he warned.

I laughed again, imagining the biggest guy on our football team running me over. "Thatcher would have to summon up the energy to heave his sorry ass up first, and the nerve to run over a senior teammate. Don't worry, I'm not pulling your leg. So…are you guys still hiring?"

Martin looked at me, pretending to be highly affronted, but the other cashier chose this moment to intervene. He hopped off the computer desk he was sitting on and took a step closer. "Nah, don't listen to this joker," he grinned, pushing Martin's shoulder. "We'd be glad to have you on
board. Just fill out one of those thingers and you'll be good to go. I'm Scotty T, by the way," he said.

"Scotty T, huh?" I chuckled, taking in his appearance and accepting his hand and friendly smile. I never would have thought that someone like him could be found working in a sports' store – his electric blue spiked hair and multiple piercings (my gaze strayed to his brow bar and lip ring, they were really quite distracting when one thought about the unavoidable pain that must come with them – but as they say, pain is beauty, right?) would not have looked out of place at a rock concert. "Nice to meet you. I'm Tristan Westley. Err…You can call me Tristan if you like, Westley's just what Martin likes to call me."