In Pieces, page 29
“It’s going to be okay, Bea,” David promises, and I nod. I know it is. I don’t know how, but I know it is.
Sammy is still coming this weekend, figuring it best to be out of the city when the story breaks, and even if I’m still annoyed with him about tonight, I’m glad. But I can’t help but think about my conversation with David before my family’s interruption this evening.
The truth is I want to see David put his money where his mouth is, and risk it, as he put it. But Sammy is coming in two days, and as David continues to stare at me from too far away, I wonder where we will be come Monday. And I dread it.
Chapter Twenty-six
David
I’m not bugging out. I’m not.
Cap will be here in less than an hour, and at some point this weekend I’m going to tell him about Beth and me. But I’m not bugging out about it. I can’t. I have to keep my shit together, or it will all come out wrong, and he won’t understand.
But this time—this time it’s too late. I can’t walk away from her. Not now that I’ve tasted her in every way imaginable—now that I’ve become addicted to her company, to her goddamned smile.
So this weekend there’s a good chance my longest friendship is going to end.
But seeing Beth stand up to her family—to her father—that way, witnessing her inner strength and her perseverance, especially after having just learned the truth of how much she’s actually survived…It made my excuses seem weak. Worse than weak—pitiful.
But it was hearing what she said about what makes a man—how she rejected basically everything my father ever told me about success—that reinforces my resolve. It’s the way she met my eyes without even realizing it when she talked about sticking around…
Somewhere inside my chest, that new, full, floaty sensation surges hard, before calming with a strange, mellow kind of high. Beth makes me feel such weird fucking shit.
Still, I may never be rich or powerful, but if there’s one thing I know I can do for Bea, it’s that. I can stick the fuck around. Always.
And the more I’ve thought about it these past couple days, the more I realize she’s right. That is what fucking matters.
It’s more than her father did, and it’s more than fucking Falco did. But I can do that. For her, I can do better than that.
For her…I can be honest.
I swallow anxiously as I decide, finally, after all this time, to tell her the truth about my role in her breakup with Falco, and I silently admit to myself that it may not just be Cap I lose tonight.
I could lose fucking everything.
I blow out a long exhale. This is going to be a serious fucking night. Cap is heading straight to the BEG house for the party. Beth is going with Toni—and Rectum, whether she realizes that or not—and I’ll meet them there. Reeve is out with Lani, believe it or fucking not, but Bogart promised to keep an eye on Beth until either Cap or I get there.
Because I have a late meeting with the head of the theater department to discuss my play. The one that has now become a finalist for the production grant. My head shakes automatically in denial like it has every time I’ve thought about it—like it can’t process the reality. But at the same time, I have to admit, nothing would stick it to my father like proving to him that writing can have value. Not just academic value, like the scholarship I earned to come here, which he easily dismissed. But a production is a business, and a grant is real, green money.
Still, it isn’t my father I want to win this grant for. It isn’t him I want to impress. There’s only one person I give a fuck about impressing—the girl it will earn me a real, genuine smile from, the kind that shows in her eyes and in her cheeks.
I can’t stop thinking about Delia, and all that time I lost—some due to my own stubbornness, but much of it because of my father, and his stupid fucking quid pro quo about the PSATs, and all his crap about how meeting my birth mom would be a distraction, when really he just wanted to hold it over my head to ensure I studied the way he wanted me to. I knew Delia for barely a few months. But the reality is I would have had double that amount of time if I hadn’t let someone who didn’t give a fuck about what I wanted stand in my way. And I’ve been doing the same damned thing with Cap—letting him call the shots, and steal time from me I’ll never get back. But when you never really know how much time you’re going to get, any time at all is too much to ask.
If Beth can stand up to her parents, then I can stand up to my own fucking friend. I can stand up to myself—to every notion about my worth as a man my father worked so hard to beat into my brain to try and deter me from choosing the future I knew I wanted. It backfired on him, big-time, because instead of backing off, I embraced the picture he painted, accepting my role as the perpetual disappointment—a failure—even as I earned success after success in essay contests and scholarships and even fucking test scores. But I couldn’t even see my own achievements, not with my father’s disdain casting such a wide shadow over all of them.
And I know exactly what has opened my eyes, and it isn’t my play being chosen as a finalist for the production grant. There’s only one thing in my life that shines bright enough to vanquish that shadow.
Like she can read my thoughts, a text comes in from Beth at that very moment:
At BEG safe and sound. Phone is going to die. Looking for a charger. Just want to tell you that I don’t have to have read your play to know it’s brilliant. Because you are. Brilliant. And you’re going to nail the shit out of your meeting.
I grin. Damn right I am. And then I’m going to man the fuck up, go to that party, and take what’s mine.
Okay, I’m bugging out.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Beth
The BEG party is loud, and everyone is drunk. Even I’m kind of tipsy. I’ve never been nervous to see my own brother before, but with everything going on—with our family, with David—I don’t even know how to behave in front of him right now.
An incoming text from Lani shows a picture of Reeve’s denim-clad ass, something she’s a particular fan of, as he walks away to use the restroom on their “non-date.” She complains about his attitude as much as she gushes over him, and God knows I can’t read Reeve for my life, but I’m starting to suspect his interest in her is more than casual, considering she’s just about the only girl I’ve ever even seen his attention on, let alone seen him talk to for more than five seconds.
Sammy texts me that his train was delayed, and he should be here soon, but my phone is dying, so I decide to go ask one of the pledges for a charger.
But first, I shoot off a quick text to David, wishing him luck at his meeting tonight. He didn’t let me read his play, but I have no doubt it’s brilliant, and I tell him so, sending the message a split second before my screen goes dark.
Shit.
I turn to see if I can find Dicknose or Rectum, and a tall, blond head stops me in my tracks.
What the hell is Brian doing here?
David made it pretty clear he wasn’t welcome at his frat house. But he sees me, and he fixes his accusatory gaze on me as he approaches.
“Where’s your boyfriend?” he asks coldly.
Huh? “What?”
“You and March. Don’t lie to me.”
“What are you talking about, Brian?”
“Well, I guess his plan finally worked out after all these years,” he says cryptically.
I blink at him.
“Oh, didn’t he tell you?” Brian says snidely. “He was the one who convinced me to break up with you before graduation.” He throws it out there like it’s the most nonchalant thing in the world.
“Who is?” I ask, because he’s still not making sense.
“March. He kept going on and on about all the fun and girls I’d miss out on if I stayed with my little high school girlfriend, and he got in my head. And it looks like it all worked out for him, huh? I fucked up, and he’s got you wrapped around his dick.”
I slap him. Fast and hard, my own palm stinging with the contact that surprises me as much as him.
Brian’s hand comes up to his reddened cheek, and we both stare in shock at what I just did.
At what he just confessed.
My eyes prick with moisture, but I refuse to let Brian-fucking-Falco see even one more of my tears.
Instead, I decide to reveal a truth of my own, grateful that no one else is in earshot. “You don’t get to say anything about anything I do or don’t do, or who I do it with, Brian.”
He opens his mouth, but I cut him off.
“No. Enough. You are the guy who fucked me, and abandoned me.”
“I loved you—”
“You abandoned me!”
Brian blinks at me.
“You left me alone, to deal with everything by myself.”
“You think our breakup wasn’t hard on me, too?”
I want to laugh, but I hold it in. “Not as hard as wondering what I did wrong—thinking there must be something wrong with me. Some reason why sex with me was the thing that sent you running.”
Brian shuts up.
“Not as hard as finding out I was pregnant a month later.”
His eyes go wide.
“As hard as calling and texting nonstop, terrified, not knowing what to do, only to be treated like I didn’t even exist. Or as hard as picking up the phone to schedule a fucking abortion at fifteen years old, only to miscarry the day before the procedure, and blaming myself even for that. And definitely not as fucking hard as deciding to swallow a bottle of pills just to make it all go away. To make myself go away.”
Brian stares, silent, not managing a single word.
What a fucking pussy. Why did I ever think this boy was worth my time?
I shake my head. “That is who you are, Brian. Not just my ex, not my first love, but that. A fucking coward—and that’s being kind. There’s no friendship for you and me. There’s nothing.” I say meaningfully, never blinking, making sure he hears me. “So just leave me the fuck alone.”
I turn away from him, needing some distance, some privacy. I make my way down a hall and through the first door I can find, pleased to find it leads to the basement steps.
I rush through the basement gym and into Reeve’s bedroom. I’ve only been here once before, but it seems the most remote place in this house to hide. At least until I can get my head together.
Fuck Brian. Even if what he said about David is true—and the merciless voice inside me makes sure I know it is—Brian didn’t tell me about it now because he wanted to do the good, honest thing, not anymore than that’s why I told him about the pregnancy, or about the choice that, in the end, I made for nothing. No, I told him those truths to hurt him, just as he did me.
Because if Brian was good and honest, he would have told me about David’s role in our breakup three years ago. But Brian wanted to have his cake and eat it, too. Actually, no—Brian wanted to fuck his cake, store it in the freezer a few years, and then take it out and fuck it again when he was done fucking all the cupcakes and pies and goddamned soufflés he ditched the cake for in the first place.
Well, Brian can go fuck himself.
A door slams overhead, and anger colors my cheeks at the thought that he fucking followed me. But Steven staggers drunkenly down the steps instead, unknowingly making his way toward me.
“Well, hello there,” he slurs as he lights up what is definitely not a cigarette.
“Hi, Steven.”
“You don’t smoke,” he mumbles, and I laugh, confirming that, no, I don’t smoke. I know Reeve is one of the only guys in the house that doesn’t care if people smoke in his room, and I guess David isn’t the only one who takes advantage of that.
“You’re really pretty, do you know that?” Steven says out of nowhere, his words slow and exaggerated. “You know about the Hope Diamond?’
I laugh at his randomness—at his drunkenness. “Like the jewel?” I ask, but vaguely I think I’ve heard him mention it before, though I can’t place the memory.
Steven grins, big and goofy. “Yeah. The diamond.”
“Yeah, well, I got that from the name,” I point out, and Steven’s brows pinch together in confusion. “Hope Diamond,” I nearly have to spell it out for him.
He snorts with recognition—finally—practically guffawing like an ape, and I laugh again at his reaction. He is a ridiculous drunk. Steven takes a pull on his joint, moving closer and gesturing to offer me a hit, and I back farther into the room. “No thanks,” I murmur. I recognized the smell from the rare times it wafted from the distance at a party, or the even rarer times it clung to my brother’s or David’s clothes, but no one has ever smoked pot so brazenly in my presence—and I have certainly never tried it myself. And it’s not even that I wouldn’t necessarily, but I sure as hell wouldn’t do it here, now, for the first time with Steven-freaking-Bogart.
Steven sucks down another huge hit just before he stumbles over his own feet, causing him to exhale hard, blowing that entire monstrous cloud of pot smoke smack into my face. I cough and cough, choking violently, my lungs rejecting their first taste of smoke, my hands coming up to wave it away from my face as fast as possible.
“Sorry, shit.” Steven flaps his hands in front of me as I lean back against the windowsill to try and get my bearings.
I’m still coughing and Steven is still apologizing when I reopen my eyes.
Fuck. Smoking hurts. Why do people do this?
“Sorry. Shit, man,” Steven slurs again, and I’m not sure I can stand another round of his apologies when I wave my hands again, only the smoke is gone, and now it’s Steven I wish I could wave away.
I just wanted to find some place to get away for a few minutes, and to charge my damned phone. Was that really so much to ask?
“March wants to keep you all to himself, you know,” Steven says, yet again, out of nowhere.
Wait, what?
“But I don’t think that’s fair.”
“What?” I gasp out, my voice box hoarse from the smoke-assault.
He looks me up and down. “The Hope Diamond.”
Huh? We’re back on this now?
He takes a step toward me, and I want to take an answering one back, but there’s nowhere to go. “Remember when you danced with me at Hot Box?”
I swallow audibly. I can still taste the smoke in my throat. I know Steven isn’t a bad guy. That he’s David’s friend—his frat brother—and there’s no logical reason to be afraid. But then, me and logic and a little alcohol—we don’t mix well, and I can’t tell my gut feelings from my anxious ones, or read whether Steven is just being a drunk douche bag, or something worse.
I skirt my way along the wall, but Steven follows me, like it’s a game or something. But I’m not particularly comfortable around drunk men—especially one I’ve just remembered I don’t actually know all that well—and my body language couldn’t be more clear. Steven doesn’t heed it, though, which gets my hackles up even more, and I cling desperately to one last hope that this is all a misunderstanding.
I hold up my hands and make my voice work. “No, thank you,” I say pathetically. I don’t even know what I’m refusing exactly, since he didn’t actually offer me anything. Other than the weed, that is, and he managed to get that into my body anyway.
Steven’s grin is still sloppy, but it is also decidedly menacing, and a shudder runs down my spine as he drops the joint on the floor and backs me into the corner. I push at his chest, but he doesn’t budge.
“Stop it,” I tell him, clear and firm.
“Come on, sexy. March doesn’t have to know…” And then his lips attack.
I try to turn away—to pull back—but Steven’s mouth chases my every move, his hips pinning mine to the wall to prevent my escape. His hands take liberties that make my blood freeze in my veins, touching parts of me that know they belong only to David—that only want David.
No, leave me alone!
“Stop!” I demand, but Steven swallows down my protests, grabbing me around my wrists when I go from shoving to hitting. “Please!”
His touch burns my skin in an entirely different way than David’s does, every one of Steven’s forceful kisses tasting like rancid pot and beer. I want to throw a real, closed-fist punch like Sammy taught me years ago, but I can’t free my hands enough to even do that.
I am truly fucking helpless, and that’s what stings most of all.
He’s just too big, and it isn’t until he stumbles again that I manage to push him away just enough to slip out from under his body. I move as fast as I can. Just as I’m at Reeve’s bedroom door, the door overhead opens again, and heavy footsteps stamp downstairs, freezing at the bottom as I make eye contact with none other than fucking Brody.
My heart flies off at warp speed, and I look between him and Steven in panic as tears fill my eyes and cascade down my cheeks.
I don’t know what to do!
I’m alone in an abandoned basement with a handsy asshole and an accused rapist, and they’re both staring at me like I owe them something.
Suddenly, all the strength I’ve built over the years seems utterly useless. What good is it when my physical strength is nothing compared to these big men who don’t seem to care what I want one way or another?
Violent terror stops my heart cold. What good will it do when there are two of them?
Brody slowly approaches, taking us in, eyes inscrutable as ever, giving nothing away. “Am I interrupting?” He seems no more or less irritable and agitated than usual. Is this his version of casual? My heart sinks into my stomach, as it rolls with terror.
Steven turns to Brody, smirking with sinister intent, mimicking Brody’s threatening steps toward me as I try to inch myself away. “No, homie,” Steven replies, “you’re right on time.”
