Smoke, page 4
Alarms sound in my head. I don’t like this conversational detour. “Dad, I—”
“Listen, Honor, what I did, maybe it was selfish. Wanting for you to choose a life way up here over the life you had in Detroit. I don’t know. Maybe you’d be better off with your mom and your old friends—Shannon and Hux, was it?”
“Shayla and Hux,” I correct, listlessly watching the crabgrass I’ve plucked rain green over my shoes.
The texts and calls with my friends started off strong following my move to the great north—five, almost six hours away. But month by month, time began to stretch like the distance. Until having any communication felt more awkward and strained than having none at all. Because apparently we’d lost the one thing that united us.
Geography.
But I belong here, in Ravenswood. As sure as the apple blossoms that’ll give way to fruit on the trees. I’ve known it ever since I was old enough to hold a memory. From the moment I stepped foot in the greenhouse I knew—I was home.
Which is why before my grandparents died, Aunt Maeve promised them she’d care for the greenhouse. Keep the business afloat, until one day, I was ready to run it myself.
So bottom line: There is no going back. Because I’m already home.
“Thing is,” Dad continues, after another long pause and twist of his handkerchief, “you haven’t really made much in the way of friends here.”
“But I have Zareen! And…and my grades and progress reports are off the charts. Really, Dad. Talk to any of my teachers.”
His brown eyes soften. “Grades have never been an issue, honey. For Knox, sure, but not you. You’ve always been ten steps ahead. The kid who messes up the curve.”
Sickness looms in my belly. “Then I don’t understand what this is about.”
Dad picks up Geronimo’s gooey ball and throws it, sending the dog off on another joyous chase. “There’s more to life than working hard and doing good in school. You should be going out with friends. Having fun. Raising a modest amount of hell, and—”
“I don’t believe this.” I shake my head, but the nagging sense of betrayal doesn’t cast off so easily. “You’ve been talking to Knox, haven’t you? About me.”
He frowns. “No. Honor, your brother has nothing to do with this.”
“So then, you’re punishing me for not being more of a…delinquent? What kind of a parent are you?” The question comes out sharper than I intend. But Dad’s the one in crisis here! Would he rather I get knocked up? Binge-drink till my liver turns the size of a watermelon? Shoot heroine into my eyeballs? Maybe then my father would get off my back and place his worry where it’s needed—on himself.
“I am the kind of parent”—he stops to take my hand, sticky with newly sprung sweat and grass—“who wants what’s best for his child. And so far, I’m not convinced that’s here.”
I swallow hard, choking back the queasiness. Think of something. Anything that will put his mind at ease. Anything that will demonstrate I’m just an average teenager who—
“But I have plans tonight!” I blurt.
Dad’s eyes widen in shock.
“Yeah.” I nod to myself, the momentum of my idea building. “I’m meeting up with some kids from school. Knox will be there, too. Should be a good time. Fun. The modest hell-raising kind.” Before he has any room for doubt I add, “And I’m also going to the next lacrosse home game. With Zee.” This will be news to her, but hey, I’ll lacrosse that bridge when I have to.
“Well, that’s…huh.” The lines on his face lose some of the hardness, dissolving years from his features. “That’s great, Honor. I’m glad. Real glad.” He gives my hand a squeeze before letting go. “Guess your old man’s not as in touch with your social life as he thought, eh?”
“Wouldn’t be the first parent.”
Dad processes the news of his daughter’s budding social life he didn’t know existed. That makes two of us. The corners of his mouth slowly ascend in a grin. “Okay. So you’re happy, then?”
“I’m happy, Dad.” And the bigness of my smile consumes my whole face, threatening to split it in two. “So, uh, I should probably get cleaned up.”
“Wait. Before you go,” Dad says, leaning to the side and digging in the pocket of his jeans, “I forgot to give you this. Found it up in Laramey at a work site. Thought you might like it for that jar of yours.”
The stone he places in my palm isn’t much larger than a quarter. It’s the color of firehouse brick, with bands of white and onyx girdling the middle. The colors are dull now, unremarkable. It makes me wonder how many eyes dismissed this ordinary stone, not knowing its potential to be extraordinary.
“Thanks. It’s beautiful, even prettier once it’s polished up. Looks like quartz, maybe?”
But this isn’t a rock for my jar. My father doesn’t understand those are special because they are my memories. Every stone in my mason jar tells a story. Some happy, some sad, but each one has made me the person I am. So, I figure, they’re worth remembering.
I lean in to hug him. Not part of the act or because he sees beauty in the unremarkable, but because I need one. I need reassurance he won’t send me away. And I need him to know that I belong here the way I do.
He recoils a little. “Ah, might not want to do that with me wearing the stink of the day, daughter.”
“Sir, yes, sir.” Then I wrap my arms around him anyway and squeeze. Hard. Infusing all that goes unspoken into the embrace.
4
With the sun snuffed out on the horizon hours ago, I continue at a brisk pace. My cell pings with a text from Zee, who’s bitter about being on parental lockdown tonight. As if the Kapoors would ever get behind an unsupervised, middle-of-the-woods party. Meanwhile Dad practically threw a damn parade (complete with pantomimed confetti tossing) as I stepped out the door. So, really, I have no choice but to soldier on.
My mini flashlight pans over the tall grasses, illuminating the matted trail leading up to the woods that surround the Hole. Not much farther.
My breath erupts in puffs of white. I tug the zipper of my fleece hoodie until I feel the cold metal rest at my chin. The damp grass squeaks under the soles of my duck boots. And I’m close enough now to smell the smoke of their fire. Feel the vibrating thump thump thump of their music. Hear the sounds of their shouts and laughter.
All reminders of my kingdom lost.
My boots suddenly feel immersed in quicksand, because every step requires quadruple the effort than the one before. Knox just has to see me. Bear witness I came. This buoys me as I make my way through the woods, dodging low-hanging branches and taking care not to stumble on the tree roots that run like veins along the forest floor.
The orangey glow of the fire highlights the opening at the tree line, although my inner compass could probably find it in the dark. Emerging from the woods, I sidestep some crushed beer cans at its edge.
“Waste of time,” I mutter to the trees I’d rather be hiding in.
As I click off the mini flashlight, my eyes follow the gentle slope of land to the water that marks its end. The bonfire’s reflection transforms the pond into a mesmerizing pool of burning ink.
Knox is the first person I see, standing tall and kingly on a stump near the reedy shoreline. He raises a can high in the air, addressing his rowdy subjects.
“And here’s to all my BFFs!” he shouts over the music. “Beer friends forever!” They laugh. “May your lives be full but your cans never empty. Ravenswood senior class, I salute you!”
Everyone whistles and cheers. God, he makes it look so easy. Being adored. With everyone hanging on his every—
“Hey.” A male voice drifts from the shadows.
I yelp and spin around. As my eyes adjust, I spot one of the last people I’d voluntarily choose to share atomic space with—Cole Buchannon. He’s slouched against a tree about ten feet away, a half-empty bottle of liquor in his hand. Most surprising of all, he’s alone.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
My hand falls away from my chest, but my heart continues its erratic rhythm. I pull the strings of my hoodie tighter, seeking refuge in the fleece, wishing it could swallow me completely. “This is my family’s property. Technically I have more right to be here than anyone.” And really, I could throw his question back at him. Why is Cole hanging here, on the fringe of the party, when he’s normally at the center of it?
“I didn’t mean”—he hiccups—“you aren’t welcome or whatever. I’ve just never seen you at one of these parties before. Didn’t think it was your thing.”
“It isn’t.” The implication hangs uncomfortably, like the damp chill in the air. My hands burrow into the depths of my pockets, ferreting out the warmth. I take a step away from Cole and toward the party, which suddenly holds a lot more appeal than it did five minutes ago.
“So yesterday at”—he hiccups again and I stop—“school. You seemed pretty upset in class.”
I blink several times before whirling around to face him. “Are you for real?”
“Well, I might be a little drunk.” Cole rubs his forehead, causing the knit beanie to slide farther back on his head. “But, yeah, as far as I know I’m real.” He pinches himself and winces. “Ouch.”
Anger breaches the dam of words I hold back. “You think this is funny, Cole? Like I’m supposed to laugh off what happened? How can you be so cruel? It was bad enough when Xander said it, but then you had to join in? When I heard you call me—”
I bite my lip, halting the flood. The wound in my voice is too pronounced. And I’d sooner tear open my skin with my teeth than let him see the wreckage underneath.
“Whoa, whoa!” He makes a crooked T with his hands as he holds the bottle. “Time-out. Honor, what are you talking about? Xander was just telling me about how he got caught pulling some dumbass stunt and might be grounded. All I said was ‘bummer,’ and next thing I know you jumped up and—” Cole stops like my breath. He rubs his head again, piecing together the puzzle I’ve already solved. “You thought I called you…”
I turn away, unable to look at him. Wishing more than anything yesterday’s incident would decompose like the rotting leaves under my feet. So I created a scene for nothing. Played right into Xander’s manipulative little mind game. And now Cole has a premium seat at my parade of humiliation. For the second day in a row.
At least he spares giving voice to the nickname. I’m not sure it matters, since we both think it.
There’s a clumsy thump and rustle as he stuffs the bottle in his back pocket and climbs to his feet. “Honor.”
God, why does he have to say my name with the same kind of gentleness Aunt Maeve used handling those pansies?
“Hey. Would you look at me?” he pleads.
Hugging myself tighter, I watch the distant flames lash furiously at the night. “Just”—I shake my head—“leave me alone, Cole.”
“Not until we get something straight.” He zigzags over, bringing with him the scent of campfire and pine, spiked with alcohol. He jams his hands in the pockets of his down jacket. “I would never call you that, Honor. I swear,” Cole says with alarming sincerity.
Okay, fine. Maybe not in this instance, but what about before? When the rumors were blazing fierce as the bonfire. I lick my lips; the chilly air feeds off the moisture. “Why should I believe you?” I brave a look up at him.
He sniffs, the tip of his nose pink with cold like his cheeks. “Because it’s the truth. But if you really think I’d talk shit about you, disrespect you that way, then…” He pauses, his Adam’s apple rises and falls. “I guess I finally get why you hate me. Why you refused to talk to me all these months. Hell, I wouldn’t have talked to me, either, if I thought that.”
“I don’t hate you.” What I feel for Cole is infinitely more complicated. I kick loose a pine cone wedged in the ground. “And I want to believe you. It’s just, how can you be friends with someone like Xander?”
“We have history, Xander and me.”
I want to tell him if history’s all they have, he’s better off without him. The pine cone under my boot makes a satisfying crunch. “Xander’s an ass barnacle.”
In addition to also being a sorry, soulless excuse for a human being. And while I lack the courage to say this to Xander’s face, telling his closest confidant feels like a decent consolation prize.
“Ass barnacle?” he repeats with an amused snort. “Look, I get it. He can be a real dick sometimes. But if you knew what he—”
The icy laugh tumbles from my mouth, surprising us both.
“What?” he asks.
My eyes slide to his. His baffled expression emboldens me. “Come on, you can’t possibly think his dickishness is a rarity.”
Not when Xander enlisted a small army of girls to speak in hushed whispers and spread lies. Got them to write awful things about me on the bathroom walls for everyone to see.
“No,” Cole replies slowly. “I think it’s more of a symptom. Ever met his dad?” His question is punctuated with a humorless laugh. “Vic Salzburg makes my dad seem like Father of the Year, and that’s saying something.”
My toes curl, forming tiny fists in my boots. No. Xander doesn’t get my sympathy, not with yesterday still feeling tender as a bruise. But the revelation does make me consider something.
What if Cole—blinded by compassion for his friend—doesn’t see the ugly side of Xander? Doesn’t know the depth of it? Is it possible all this time he never knew his best friend lit the fuse that would detonate my reputation?
Maybe. Which would mean Cole was never complicit in the way I thought him to be. I watch my breath spiral up to the stars, longing for the same weightlessness.
Cole makes a noise of disgust, pulling me away from the sky. “This night keeps getting better and better.” Removing the bottle from the back pocket of his jeans, he plops down onto a fallen tree trunk.
I follow his gaze to a couple below. The girl has long blond hair, curled and perfectly tousled. The sort of girl who probably smells like vanilla, wears lip gloss with sparkles, and sings off-key in a way that makes her endearing.
She giggles as she topples back onto the guy’s lap. He pulls aside her hair, breathing in her skin before kissing her neck. She smiles, turning so her lips find his.
Something isn’t right. The girl seems familiar, except it’s hard to see clearly with the distance. And then it clicks. I frown. “Wait. Is that—”
“My girlfriend, Chelsea?” He unscrews the cap and takes a generous gulp. “Yup.”
“Cole, I…” My mouth hangs open. If it were blackfly season I’d be catching them. I don’t know what to say, but I know he doesn’t deserve that. Sympathy pushes me to close the space between us. Finding a spot on the log where the fungus hasn’t taken over, I sit down and lower my hood.
“The irony is I wasn’t even gonna come tonight. But then she asked me, like, three times if I was going, and I got suspicious. Looks like I had reason to be, huh? God, if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s liars. Especially the cheating ones.” He holds out the bottle to me. “Drink?” The clear liquid glimmers with the light of the fire and full moon.
But I remember too well what happened the last time I drank with Cole. “No thanks.”
Retracting his arm, he goes back to watching the scene. “Shouldn’t be surprised, I guess. Neither of us has been happy for a while. Just didn’t know we were officially over.” He gestures with the bottle as his now-ex mauls another guy. “Till now.”
It doesn’t get more official than that. Or more heartless. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.” His gaze cuts to mine and moves quickly away. “I mean, it was never gonna work. Didn’t need a whole six months to figure that out.”
“Then why did you stay together?” I cringe at the way the question torpedoes from my mouth. This is why Mom has always called me the black coffee to Knox’s cream and sugar. “I…Forget I asked. It’s not my business.”
“No, it isn’t.” Cole hunches forward, leaving me to percolate in my bitter grounds. But then to my surprise, he continues, “It’s not like I didn’t see her flaws from the start. But Chelsea could also be sweet and fun, thoughtful even. You know she never missed a single lacrosse game? Not one. So I focused on that stuff—the good. Until the good got too hard to see.”
I’m beginning to see a pattern here. First Xander, now Chelsea…
“Maybe you give people more credit than they deserve,” I say softly.
A few heartbeats pass. “And maybe you don’t give people enough.”
I frown. How can he even say that with his ex making a gross, face-sucking spectacle below? It defies logic.
“Anyway,” Cole says, flapping a dismissive hand at them, “she kinda did us both a favor pulling the plug. Least now I don’t have to get a tux for prom.”
But I recognize false bravado when I hear it—the way the syllables insist and try too hard.
Now I understand why Cole’s sequestered himself in the lonely, shadowed spot on the hill. He was confirming what he already knew. And pretending to be okay with it. Which is a lot easier to do without an audience.
I search for the right words to say and come up short. So I do the one thing that doesn’t require me to say anything…
I hold out my hand.
Cole rocks away. “Wait, is this a pity drink? Because really, I’m fine. You don’t have to—”
“Just give me the damn bottle, Buchannon.” One drink won’t kill me.
The glass feels cold in my hand and glacial on my lips. Then the vodka fills my mouth. Gulping it down feels like swallowing a colony of pissed-off bees. I immediately cough as the liquid sears my esophagus, not stopping until the inferno erupts in a full-belly blaze.
He laughs, gently slapping my back. “Yeah. Not exactly quality vodka on the bottom shelf, but it’s all my cousin had.”
