Vertical Lines (The Vert Series Book 1) (25 page)

My mother’s hand connects with my face, the force behind it enough to leave a sting. She presses the same hand to her mouth, shocked, and then the tears fall. She’s in my arms before the first one slides all the way down her cheek, excuses and apologies tumbling out of her mouth one after the other.

“I’m sorry—I just don’t know what to do. Nothing seems to make her better. When you said that—you make me feel like it’s my fault.”

Join the club.

“I’m not blaming you, I’m asking you. Will you please call her? She won’t listen to me, won’t respond to me. She’s cut me out because she knows I’m going to try and get her back into treatment. Maybe if you try, she’ll listen. At least go to the doctor for a check-up to make sure it’s not pneumonia.”

She nods. When her phone beeps, she steps back and takes it out. “I have to go, Chaz is waiting. Oh, my face.” Her hands fumble with the small clasp of her bag. Pulling out a compact, she opens it and groans when she sees her face. “I can’t let him see me like this.”

“Like what? Sad, real?”

“Don’t start, Brooklyn.”

I stop, only because if she’s mad at me, she might not do as I asked. “Call Ashton, Mom. Please.”

“I said I would.” Her words snap out. “Now go, I have to fix my face, and Chaz is already irritated with me for being late.”

“God fucking forbid he be irritated with you.” I turn, and then I stop. I want to rage at her, but I know that won’t do any good. When Cheri feels cornered, her best defense is a good offense. Still, I have to speak. “Maybe you could try, just this once, to think of her first. Not of yourself, not of your husband, but of Ashton and what she needs.”

And then I walk out, not even turning around when a vase shatters inches from where I’m walking through the door.

Chapter 39

Jordan

“It’s repurposed.”

I stare at the shirt Nala is holding out, my eyes traveling from the faded satin material to her and back.

“You know that’s a fancy word for
used
.”

She tilts her head to the side, her eyes narrowing on me. “Also known as vintage.”

“That really only refers to previously-labeled clothing, like,
vintage Chanel earrings
, or
vintage Louis Vuitton
.” I flick the tag. “I don’t think a pre-worn shirt from Macy’s in 2012 counts.”

“You’re a snob, Jordana Richards.”

“Guilty.”

She rolls her eyes and whips the shirt back to the rack, but I see her smile. “I thought you wanted to be done with all of that.”

I shrug, not bothering to even pretend I’m flipping through the racks. Regardless of whether SJP did it, I’m not wearing clothing someone else used before me. Snotty or not, I’m hygienically opposed to it. “There’s a line. Do I want to remain sheltered never to know anyone outside of my supposed social class? No. And I don’t want to always depend on my parents, though you don’t see me running to give them back my car.”

“It was a gift.”

I nod. “One might say a new Civic is a gift—a Mercedes, a class statement.”

“What do you say?”

She has paused, a shirt over her arm, one hand on the metal rack while she looks at me. “I say, I like my Mercedes—just like I enjoy shopping at Nordstrom.”

“Good for you.” She turns back to the rack, flipping through clothes.

“Really? I figured you would think I’m spoiled.”

“You are spoiled.” Nala smirks when I wince. “Doesn’t mean you’re an entitled asshole.”

“Thanks. I think.”

“Oh, it was a compliment. Your brother and his cronies—
they
are entitled assholes.”

I don’t disagree, but a little pang hits me under the heart when I think about Mason. Yes, he’s always had expectations of respect that directly correlate with how much money he comes from, but he wasn’t always a bad person. There is a part of him even now that’s not bad—just blind.

“Do you know how Ashton is?” I ask.

Nala shakes her head. “Does Brooks?”

I shake my own head. “His mom called a few days ago to tell him she spoke with Ashton. All she said was that it wasn’t pneumonia and Ashton was being careful until the cold went away.”

“Classic Cheri,” Nala says. We walk into the makeshift dressing room and she pulls the stingy curtain closed. “Only does as much as necessary to make it look like she’s parenting. Brooks raised Ashton,” she says. “I think Cheri and Ashton both resent that he’s so strong, so independent. He makes an easy target, because no matter what either of them do, Brooks always cleans them up. Saving us is what he does.”

The curtain swings open and I stare at Nala in the flowing navy blue Maxi dress. It’s nothing special—cotton material with cotton roped straps. On her, it’s a prom dress made for a Titian princess.

“You’re beautiful,” I say. “Repurposed or not, you should buy that.”

“For twelve dollars, you think?”

I can’t help my smile. “I think. Hey,” I say, touching her shoulder before she can close the curtain behind her. “Brooks didn’t save you—he loves you. He hasn’t ever said anything, but you’re his sister, too, Nala, the one he can depend on. Even without the words, I know he feels that way.”

She smiles, but her eyes remain a little haunted. “You’re good for all of us, Jordan. Regardless of what brought you, we’re glad you’re here.”

“Me too.” And I mean it.

+      +      +

I drive to Brooklyn’s for dinner with Nala’s words running through my head.

In the sixty-plus days since I left L.A. and traveled to San Diego, a destination I resented on principal, I have learned one of the most important lessons of my almost-nineteen years: it’s not the destination; it’s the perspective. I’m different than I was even six weeks ago. I’m freer, more honest, more open. And I’m happy.

Before, I was a different kind of happy. I had a goal, a dream, and the privilege that came with my family’s socioeconomic status. I may have been annoyed with my parents and their social consciousness at times, but I was never hurt, never neglected, never starved for anything. Except affection.

I didn’t know that until San Diego. Until Nala and Hunter and Mal.

Not until Brooks.

Parking on the curb outside his house, I grab my oversized Louis that holds a change of clothes and a toothbrush, just in case, and I walk up the drive. The door opens before I make it all the way, and a small thrill runs through me. He was watching for me.

He stands in the doorway, casual as ever in bare feet, worn jeans, and a gray T-shirt with a figure in black on it. Since there are no paint or charcoal stains, I assume it’s relatively new.

“Hi. New shirt?”

He nods, reaching for my hand and drawing me inside. “Something Mal and I are working on.”

“Like a brand? That’s amazing—who’s your target? What—”

His lips are on mine before I can ask a question about their business and marketing plan. My voice alludes me when he pulls back enough to look into my eyes, combing his fingers through my hair.

We stare, me trembling, him looking for things I am never certain he will find. “Midterms done?” he finally asks.

I nod. When he steps back a fraction and takes my bag, I breathe deeply enough I find my voice. “Yes. Despite his intense disdain for me, and what I believe to be misplaced assumptions that I’m here to get an MRS and not an actual degree, I think my one-twenty-four teacher may have actually given me an
A
on my project.”

Brooks gives me an amused smile. “We should celebrate then.”

Though his eyes tell me he’s ready to skip dinner and head straight to dessert, Brooklyn leads me into the kitchen where plates are already set on the table, with a bottle of wine and glasses. Surprised, I sit and watch him take heated takeout cartons from the oven and dish up food on both plates. As always, he gives me too much. Only, I don’t complain, because now I know he will finish it for me.

For an hour, we do nothing but eat and talk. We keep conversation light—my recent tests, his current jobs with Hunter, his conversation with his manager about an upcoming show in the spring or fall. I listen to him relay the back and forth, and I sense the affection he has for the man who pushes him to give the world his pictures.

“Speaking of your art… I have something for you.” I slide down from my stool and hand him his wineglass. “Do you trust me to use your computer?”

He nods, following me out. Pulling up his stool, I click until his screen comes to life. A few keystrokes later, I hold my breath and turn to him, studying his face while he squints at the screen.

“You’re too good to be so unknown,” I tell him when recognition dawns in his eyes. “An hour of research on Google put me on art blogs where your name comes up all of the time. Most of them begin by writing poetic prose about your art, but they end in horror for the lack of accessibility to you.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be accessible.”

I nod, turning back to the screen. “Then you don’t have to hit publish. This is just a draft—even if you want it, you can change anything you don’t like. I can show you how, or you can tell me and I can change it. The code is simple.”

“For you,” he murmurs, but he’s looking at the screen. I used black and white and gray—the art itself is the color. Everything else is background. The layout of the website is simple, with only three tabs. Again, it’s about the man and the work, not the site.

“The font is one you’ve used in a lot of your stencil work—a kind of ode to the grungy nineties. The picture is one I took of you with Mal and Hunter and Nala. I just filtered it out so it’s more in tune with your own work. You can change it,” I say, unnerved by his silence. “Or you can reject it. I just thought… it fit, because you use them in so many of your pieces. I don’t even think they realize how many.”

He stares a little longer, and then he turns and pierces me with those eyes. “How did you get the pictures of my work?”

My face heats, and I have to break eye contact a second. “I took pictures of your portfolio. I know it’s an invasion of privacy,” I rush on. “Some I found on the internet, but most weren’t, so I took pictures of the ones I liked best. You can change that too, obviously.”

“Sneaky.”

I wince. “I know—and I’m sorry. I just wanted to surprise you.”

“That you did.” When I go to click out of the site, he places his hand over mine. “Did you do this from scratch?”

I nod, staring at the simple, almost minimalist page. “Yes. Templates are good, but you aren’t a template person. You’re unique, so your website should be too.”

“Thank you, Jordan.” He turns me by the shoulders, swiveling the stool around so I am facing him. Resting his hands on the worktable behind me, Brooks boxes me in. “Thank you for this. It’s beautiful.”
      “You’re welcome, Brooklyn.” I reach up and cup his face in my hands like he so often does to me. “You’re always taking care of others—I wanted to do something that was just for you… to show you how I feel.”

The air is heavy, like the silence. I can see emotions flickering through his eyes—though they’re not easily read. I want to say more—to tell him he has saved me since that first night, when I was ready to call and apologize, already regretting my childish rebellion. One look from Brooklyn, and I stayed my course. He’s been like that for me—the reminder of what I can be, what I can have, if I’m strong enough to be myself.

“Who are you, Red? Because I haven’t done anything to deserve you.”

Brooklyn’s mouth skims mine, stealing the words from me for the second time tonight. He’s gentle—like always, but tonight there is another layer, as if he’s set out to cherish me, worship me, show me with his hands and lips what he feels.

I surrender to him completely, giving him my body and my heart. He drives me over the edge three times before he ever steps out of his clothes. When he finally rolls on a condom, my body vibrates with the knowledge that when he touches me, I respond. To him. Always to him.

“You touch me, Jordana. More than I deserve.” He rocks into me, inch by inch, his eyes on mine, our fingers twined together on the pillow. “I need you. Jesus, I need you.” The last words are ripped from him, right before he buries his face in my throat and follows me over the cliff.

Chapter 40

Brooks

The call comes in the middle of the night.

Jordan is next to me. We’re both naked, wrapped in each other, our legs and arms intertwined, our heads on the same pillow. Ultimately, it’s she who shakes me awake enough to realize it’s my phone buzzing at me.

“Brooks. Your phone. It’s been ringing nonstop.”

I reach over and grab it, my eyes blinded when I try to look at the bright screen.

“‘Lo?”

And then I hear it—the panicked voice telling me my sister is in the hospital.

“Where?” I ask. My body is rolling, one hand on the phone, the other pushing the covers aside so I can stand.

“Sharp Memorial. Emergency.” There is a sob on the other end of the line, something akin to a sound coming from a dying animal. “They took her—I brought her in and they just fucking took her. They won’t tell me anything, because I’m not her family.”

“Don’t move.”

I click
OFF
, grabbing my jeans and shirt from the floor. I hear Jordan slip out of bed, but I don’t turn to look at her. It was Mason on the phone—I am almost positive. If she knows that, she’ll feel guilty and she’ll try and help. I don’t want her help—and I don’t want her to be there when I get my hands on her brother.

“What’s going on?”

I sit on the edge of the bed to tie my boots. “Ashton’s in the hospital.”

“I’ll drive you,” she says, already half-dressed when I stand and turn.

“No.” The word bites out of me. Jordan winces, and then tries to cover it with a nod. I want to reach out and touch her, cradle her against me for a minute and show her I’m sorry. Instead, I start toward the door and grab my keys from the bowl on the table. “I need to go. You can stay and sleep… I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

She nods again, reaching out so her hand brushes mine. “I’ll keep my phone on, in case you need me.”

My words from last night race through my head, but they don’t feel the same now. Panic and fear is pushing everything else to the side. Without saying goodbye, I turn and head toward my truck.