The Love Story (The Things We Can't Change Book 4) (6 page)

I’d always figured my dad would kick me out eventually, that it was just a matter of time until it actually happened. But with my eighteenth birthday only five months away, I’d figured I would be able to escape that particular fate. How wrong I was.

It doesn’t matter now. What’s done is done. I know of only one place I can go and not feel like I’m intruding, even if it is a bit of a hike. I’d feel bad imposing on Koby or Dominic for an extended period of time, even if I know Koby’s mom wouldn’t mind.

Spacious house though she has, it feels wrong to dump all my problems on Evie’s doorstep too. Besides, living at your girlfriend’s house smacks of
Teen Mom.
And we don’t need to add yet more fuel to the fire going on at school.

Evie.

My heart gives a pang and in that moment I want nothing more than to talk to her. To tell her what happened. I push away the urge, telling myself to wait. To wait until I’ve had a chance to draw, to calm down. And am safely at another house so she doesn’t tell me to come to hers.

My fists clench as I push away the urge. I’m not even sure why I’m denying it. Evie will understand. She always does. But for some reason, I’m holding back on calling her right away.

A small thought, the barest whisper of an idea comes to mind but I ignore it. Instead, barely even thinking about what I’m doing, I detour into a gas station as I pass it and buy myself a pack of cigarettes.

Just one
, I promise myself.
Just one to relax, for old times sake. And then I’ll throw the pack out.

I end up smoking two and would have done a third if I hadn’t arrived at the apartment complex, faster than anticipated from my quick, anger-fueled walk. I also don’t throw the pack away. I slide it into my back pocket as I go up to the door of apartment 3B and knock.

It takes a minute for him to answer. I hear voices and movement within and finally Uncle Alex is opening the door. He stares at me for a long minute, taking in the duffle bag and the hard set of my jaw.

He sighs. “You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“Sorry, but no. He kind of kicked me out.” I crank my neck, wondering who he has over. I catch sight of a very beautiful, very leggy blonde woman on his couch wearing a skimpy black dress. “Ah. Oops. Do you want me to come back in an hour or two?”

Alex scowls. “Hell, no. It’s almost one A.M. Get your ass inside.” He steps aside to let me in. “Go to the spare bedroom. I’ll deal with you in a few minutes, as soon as I get her out of here.”

“Yes, sir,” I say smartly. I watch for a moment, mesmerized, as the blonde stretches, cat-like, on the couch.
Damn.

A cuff on the shoulder gets me going, along with a glare from Uncle Alex. I cough to disguise a laugh, knowing the woman is aware that both of us are watching her. I give her a finger wave as I pass and she winks at me. Then I’m disappearing down the small hallway, bypassing Alex’s closed bedroom door and the guest bathroom. His apartment is quite big, the kitchen and dining areas actually separated by a half-wall and not connected to his spacious living room. You don’t work at a country club since you’re sixteen and not manage to scrape up some good money twenty years later.

I push open the door to the spare bedroom and take a moment to gather myself together at the sight of the two beds. This room is as familiar to me as my own; Cindy and I stayed here often when we were little. But always together. Now that I think about it, this is the first time I’ll spend the night here without her. When we were really small, we’d make a tent between the two beds and Alex would pretend not to notice the flashlights that we never remembered to put back in the kitchen pantry.

As we got older, the tents and sleepovers happened less and less, but we were always welcome with Alex. Hard ass that he was at work, he was always there with a silent hand on the shoulder for me and a hug for Cindy. We’d stayed here a lot right after my mom had left, giving my dad space that Alex said he needed and spending time with Alex simply because he was a more comforting presence than my dad in those days.

I shake off the memories and toss my duffle bag in the closet, along with my backpack once I’ve retrieved the sketching supplies from it. There’s one rule to follow at Alex’s, and that’s simply Don’t Make a Mess. Keep your shit where it belongs or out of sight and you can stay as long as you want.

I take out my charcoal pencil and stow the rest of my art supplies in the drawer of the nightstand where they’re easily accessible and then I begin to draw. I pour all of my anger and frustration and disappointment into the sketchpad, drawing aimlessly. Rough sketches of Evie’s face this evening, the shadows of two kids behind a blanket-tent in a bedroom, a beautiful woman boldly showing off her sex appeal.

I begin to feel better.

I listen with half an ear to the two muffled voices out in the living room, one low and rough, the other high and feminine but with an edge of a whine to it. I’m surprised when after about half an hour, the front door opens and closes and then Alex appears in the doorway of my room.

I raise my eyebrows at him. “You didn’t have to toss Lola out. I didn’t mean to interrupt whatever you had going on.”

“Lola?” Alex snorts and rolls his eyes as he leans against the doorjamb. “Where did that come from?”

I shrug. “She looked like a Lola to me. Borderline hooker and all that. That’s what I’m titling this, at least.” I wave the sketchbook in the air, showing him the sketch of the woman. “Mr. Bryant has been asking me to get in touch with my sensual side. I think he’ll be pleased with this.”

“Her name is Ashley and you didn’t interrupt anything. It was actually perfect timing. I was trying to think how to get rid of her when you showed up. She sort of just appeared tonight. She works at the country club in Upper Arlington and we met at a managers’ training seminar and I can’t get rid of her.”

“I don’t know why you would want to get rid of her,” I say incredulously. “I mean, look at her.” I brandish the sketch pad again.

“She’s got a reputation,” Alex says gruffly and I roll my eyes.

Alex hasn’t had many steady relationships and I’ve never been sure of the reason. I do know that he always attracts women that look like Lola/Ashley. Every woman I’ve ever seen him with was a knock-out. I think it’s because he’s so solid and steady, knows without a doubt who he is and he’s comfortable in his own skin. I’m still working on that.

“Whatever,” I say, and return to my drawing. I can’t remember exactly what her eyes looked like (hello, was a little distracted by all the rest of her) and I’m stuck improvising. After I draw a few lines, I realize I’ve given her Evie’s eyes and scowl down at the paper.

“It’s good to see you doing that again.”

I look up and see that Alex is still standing in the doorway watching me. I shrug, not wanting to have a heart-to-heart about how I’m no longer wasting my talent or being self-centered.

“It feels good to do it again,” I admit, and then shut my mouth before I can say more.

Alex still lingers and finally I look up at him.

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” I tell him. “I got home late, we rehashed an old argument, I said I was leaving and he flipped it to me being kicked out. End of story.”

It’s Alex’s turn to shake his head in exasperation. “Nathaniel Quain, what are you doing?” he mutters.

“Amen,” I reply without looking up.

“I’ll try and talk to him later. Until then, you can crash here. I can drive you to school in the mornings but you’re on your own for a way home. Don’t make a mess,” he commands and finally leaves me alone.

I keep drawing until my emotions are once again under control and then change for bed, making sure I retrieve my cell phone from my pocket. Even though it’s late, I finally feel collected enough to talk to Evie, even though I still feel a little odd sharing my problems with someone else. I’ll have to text her to see if she’s still awake before I try calling. It isn’t until I’m carefully folding my jeans to hang in the closet (per Alex’s code of acceptable neatness) and the piece of paper falls out that I even remember the envelope with my name on it.

I hang the jeans in the closet and then study the envelope for a minute. It’s plain white, my name typed up on a computer label and then stuck onto it. I frown, wondering who would go through that trouble instead of writing it, and why they would stick it in my door instead of just giving it to me, mailing it, or sticking it in the mailbox.

With a shrug, I rip it open and pull out the folded piece of paper inside. As soon as I read it, my stomach seems to drop right down to the floor.

HAVE YOU TOLD EVIE WHAT REALLY HAPPENED THE NIGHT DR. PARKER DIED?

It’s typed up in big block letters, all caps, stark black and white. Guilt slams into me as the events of that night flash before my eyes. Waiting at Caribou, pushing out the door past a redhead and a blond guy and into the cold rain. Walking down the street in Dublin, Cameron, the gun, hearing Dr. Parker’s voice.

As I remember it all, it occurs to me that the only people who know what really happened that night are Cameron, Kendal, and Tyler. And me. Although to be honest, I
don’t
know what really happened. I don’t have any valuable information about Dr. Parker’s death. I didn’t see anything. The last I saw of Cameron and his friends was them running down the street opposite me. And Cameron had said he didn’t shoot Dr. Parker.

But Cameron is in jail,
a voice whispers in my head.
So who left the note? And why?

I can’t imagine why Kendal or Tyler would. I barely know them and I’m pretty sure they don’t know Evie. They didn’t even go to our high school. And why would they care? If it’s some kind of joke, it’s a pretty sick one. I don’t get it.

Unless their only mission is to make me feel guilty and squirmy as I realize I’ve never told Evie about that night. I’ve never told her that I was one of the last people to see her father alive. For some reason, that seems like the kind of thing you should tell your girlfriend. But I can’t do it
now
. She’d hate me. I don’t want to lose her. But how can I go on with her, carrying this secret?

I lie down in bed after I rip up the note, unable to look at it any longer. I don’t want to face the indecision, not knowing what I should do. Break it off with Evie now by telling her the truth, or let it draw out a little longer only to have her inevitably find out and break up with me then?

I don’t call Evie. The anger at my dad returns, creeping over my lowered walls, along with the guilt weighing heavy in my stomach. I lay there in bed, feeling as though my skin is slowly expanding, being pushed to its limits by holding all this stupid, unnecessary emotion inside. Emotions that I don’t want to feel anymore.

Slowly, the whisper I’d had and shoved away during the walk over here grows louder and louder, until it becomes a shout that I can no longer ignore. I’m face to face with the truth of life, the way things will always go for me, the inescapable belief that
everything good eventually gets taken away.

Evangeline

89

Something is wrong with Zeke on Monday.

I expect to hear from him over the weekend, a casual text at the very least, but my phone stays silent. It’s all right though. I merely lie around and re-live our kiss over and over again, endless times in my head. I can’t imagine anything more perfect. I give cursory attention to my homework and count down the minutes.

When Monday comes I am out of the bed like a rocket, up a little early so I can spend extra time on my hair to make sure it looks good for Zeke. I pick out another girly outfit like the one I wore on our date—a swirly, knee-length royal purple skirt paired with a lavender V-neck and matching long-sleeved cardigan to hide my scars.

I try not to look at the outfit on myself in the mirror as I do my hair. It feels so… blah. I think about the other clothes in my closet, the ones I’d gotten after throwing out all the outfits that held a bad memory for me. They are bright, vibrant colors compared to the dull pastels and whites I’d always worn before. Sometimes I felt as though I’d been some kind of perpetual debutante of old, not able to wear bright colors until after I’d married.

But that’s not true. I can wear whatever I want, whenever I want. I can wear those clothes right now, hip, fashionable, loud, if I really want to. But it’s such a sudden switch from what I normally wear that I hesitate. I don’t want to draw further attention to myself and the bullying is already bad. Besides, I think Zeke will prefer this. The last time I wore those clothes, he made a comment about me looking ‘foxy,’ and not really in a way that sounded complimentary.

You know he didn’t mean that,
an inner tells me scornfully.
If anything, he was jealous because he liked the way you looked.

Jealousy. I consider the idea of changing and someone looking at me the wrong way at school and Zeke getting even more jealous this time. The idea makes me shudder and I tell myself firmly that I don’t even have enough time to change at this point anyway, not if I want to curl my hair the way Zeke likes. That inner voice is telling me I’m a coward, that Zeke could never be so irrational, but I ignore it and finish getting ready.