Varsity Heartbreaker, page 20
“How was the interview?” Even my whisper sounds hoarse. Lucas’s body shakes under me. He’s fallen to his back, but keeps me cradled to him.
“There are more pressing things,” he murmurs, finally moving his hand from my arm and up to my hair, combing his fingers through the long, tangled strands as he brushes them from my face.
“Not really,” I sigh out. “I mean, if all this happened and you didn’t get in, that would suck.” I shift to look him in the eyes. He raises his chin to see me better. I do my best to wink out of my black eye but it’s fairly swollen; maybe it looks like a tic. Lucas gives out a soft, sympathetic laugh anyhow.
He runs his thumb along my deep purple skin and I can barely feel his touch. His eyes land on mine after tracing the line he draws around my bruising.
“I’m in,” he says, mouth closed tightly with an uncertain smile pushing up the sides.
I lift myself and push down on his chest, knocking the wind from him a little. He holds my wrists as I do.
“Shut up!” My shouted whisper breaks the silence and Lucas quickly cups my mouth and holds in his laughter.
“Shhh, I can’t go to MIT if your mom shoots me first,” he jokes.
I laugh with him then roll to his side, resting my palms on his beautiful strong cheeks.
“Lucas, I am so proud of you,” I say, blinking wildly. There’s a strong hesitation poorly hidden behind his eyes, the weight of this finally being real.
“He’ll come around,” I say, predicting that it’s his dad he’s worried about.
He shakes his head and looks down to where our legs are tangled, mine bare and his covered in his joggers.
“I don’t even care. I’m going, and my mom said with the scholarship money I’ll get, they can pay the rest.”
I’m glad he’s not looking me in the eyes right now, because his victory stings a little, and I’m not proud of feeling jealous. Not that I want to go to MIT, but I would love to go to one of the state schools. My grades are good enough to qualify for a few different tuition grants, but there are still so many expenses left to cover. Unless colleges let people camp in tents and eat from their garbage.
“My mom knows you helped,” he says, his long lashes blinking up and uncovering his blue eyes as he peers up at me. For a short breath, I’m distracted from all of the sucky things in my life and just stare in wonder at them and the fact I can kiss them closed right now if I want.
“And she’ll still let you go?” I joke. My laugh is short-lived, though. The way his mom glared at me flashes in my head.
“My mom doesn’t hate you, June. She’s just—”
“Hurt,” I finish for him.
I get it. It’s the same reason I haven’t been to visit my father once since he left and moved in with Jamie—Jamie, who is only ten years older than me. Of course, he’s only invited me to his condo once, so I guess I haven’t had to reject him much.
“Yeah, she’s hurt,” Lucas says, breaking up my thoughts. “When she found out about the affair, she went through a pretty dark time.”
“You haven’t told her about the new one, have you? The new affair?” I can’t believe this is the discussion we have to have. Statistically, this many adults having affairs or getting divorced is actually not an anomaly. I know, because I checked on Reddit. Still, it seems impossible that this is where our adults all ended up. Weren’t they all just drinking together in the Fuller back yard while we swam and lit sparklers on the Fourth of July?
“I haven’t told her,” Lucas says, moving close enough to touch his nose to mine. His eyes close, heavy with exhaustion. It’s been a long stretch of days for both of us.
“Have you told Tory yet?” I ask.
He shakes his head, rubbing his nose softly against mine.
“I’m sorry about . . . the word. On the garage,” he says. I let my eyes fall shut to lock out the pain of it.
“You told Ava about my mom and your dad,” I whisper. I figure that’s how she knew.
He doesn’t affirm my question so much as he huffs out a breath and apologizes again. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know why I did, but it slipped out once.”
“Shhh,” I hum. I can’t hear about her now. I don’t care about their intimate secrets. And while I won’t let him call her a mistake, I will let him feel as if he made a few. Trusting her was definitely one of them.
“I’m sorry, June. I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . .” His words fade.
I close the distance between us and press my lips to his. It’s not a sensual moment, but rather a sweet one. His lips part slightly, as do mine, and we hold a chaste kiss between us for as long as it takes him to fall into slumber. My window is still open, and the air outside is cold. Our feet are covered by my turned-down blanket, so I gingerly reach to drag it up our bodies. As bad as I want to keep my eyes open, to stay present for this moment, I just can’t. It’s more than being tired. In the midst of all this awful, I think I’m also a little bit happy.
Chapter Twenty-One
I’m not sure when Lucas woke up and snuck out my window, but by the time my eyes open this morning, he’s gone. He left behind a little reminder, though, one he had to go back to his truck to get. I spent the first ten minutes of my morning just staring at it hanging from the back of my desk chair.
The sleeves of his letterman jacket make the same stupid crinkling sound they do when he wears it. My smile turns into a laugh as I sink my left arm in, then my right. The lining is cool, but I’ll be dying of heat by lunch time, if I even wear this thing all day. Who am I kidding? I’m wearing this jacket for always. I’m probably never giving it back.
In a way, it makes me feel a little stronger for the day that lies ahead. I can’t live like this, with secrets between me and my mom. And I won’t let someone like Ava Pryor make me feel small. I mean, I am a senior now. I’ve grown up. I’ve grown . . . period. This jacket, it makes me feel a little badass—a little bit like Abby.
Embraced in the woodsy scent of the boy I think might really, truly be my boyfriend, I unlock my bedroom door and take in a deep breath. Today, I’m walking down those stairs. Honestly, I may never scale my roof again.
My mom is humming to herself in the kitchen, and I pause halfway down the steps to listen. I don’t think she’s happy, but maybe she slept a little. Or maybe she found her own symbolic jacket, something to make her feel a little bit badass, too.
“Good morning.” I announce myself as I round the corner into the kitchen, and she turns, surprised to hear my voice. Her face is covered with dots of paint, as is her T-shirt. It’s one of my dad’s old ones she kept for things like gardening. She said it felt nice to ruin them. Well, this one . . . it’s toast.
My mom puckers her lips as she leans over the counter and balances herself on her forearms, palms flat, her coffee mug between them.
“Are we talking now?” she asks me, her eyes surveying the jacket I wear.
I suck in my top lip and breathe in through my nose as I slowly nod.
“We’re starting to talk again,” I say. I can’t unpack all of the garbage in my head during a short ride to school, but I can open the gates again. For a while after the divorce, my mom had this buzz word she used, something she got from the counselling sessions she tried. I throw it out there now, not to mock her, but to make her laugh.
“We’ll . . . dialogue,” I say. She breaks into an instant smile and eventually winks at me, turning around to top off her cup before grabbing her keys and purse to drive me to school.
I open the side door first, slinging my bag over my shoulder and glancing up in time to catch Mrs. Fuller’s full view as she backs out from her driveway. Her tires screech to a quick stop, the jolt enough to fling her hair forward and force her sunglasses from her face. Rather than run, I maintain my pace and walk right to the passenger door of our van. I refuse to let my relationship with Lucas be shrapnel to our parents’ failed relationships. I keep the jacket on even as I get into the seat and strap myself in. The jacket is really smothering and the fit is oversized, but I’m going to make sure I maximize the sightings of me in this garment. One hurdle is down already as Mrs. Fuller finally finishes backing out and pulls away. My next mission is the spray paint artist, Ava Pryor.
My eyes leave the rearview mirror and finally focus on my marred garage door. The pink and red stains of WHORE are gone, which explains the paint dots all over my mother’s body. What I don’t quite understand, though, is the enormous middle finger she painted in its place. My mouth is still hanging open when she gets in the van.
“You like it?” she asks. I blink once and turn my gaze to hers. There’s a proud smile on her mouth, and I know it’s partly there because mothers are alphas too. In many ways, they are the alpha-ist of them all. Instead of hiding and taking the abuse, my mom decided to let the world know the Mabee girls don’t take shit from anyone.
“I do,” I say, returning my focus to our freshly painted garage door. My smile pushes into my eyes, and that nervous thunder that’s been abusing my chest for the last few weeks is a calm purr. “I like it a lot.”
My cockiness sticks with me as my mom drops me off at the front of the school. Despite the itching desire to hunt down Ava and take a victory lap around her, I don’t. I don’t run to Lucas, either. Instead, I drag my feet on my way in, smearing a few chalk lines drawn on the front sidewalk to celebrate spirit week. I stop at my best friend’s car and lean back, stretching out my arm so she can feel the thick leather of this very hot fucking jacket.
“Boom! Look who’s running this shit now,” Abby says, tugging on the sleeve then holding a fist out for me. I pound it and call her “bruh” just to mock the guys who usually walk around in these. That includes Lucas, and Tory, but over the last few weeks they’ve grown accustomed to me taking them down a peg.
“You sure I can’t retaliate against her for that shiner?” Abby asks. She pops a piece of gum in her mouth and snaps it aggressively.
I told her the real story last night before Lucas came. She also knows about the garage. She hasn’t seen my mom’s artwork, though.
“It’s fine. I don’t even care about Ava Pryor anymore.” My eye stings a little when I say it.
“Liar,” she says.
“You’re right,” I admit with a laugh. “But I don’t care quite as much.”
The bell rings and I push off of the front of my friend’s car, walking with a little swagger.
“My mom has to drive me home today, but you should come by and see what she’s done with the garage.”
She squints at me suspiciously.
“It’s a worthy surprise,” I add.
“Well, all right then.” My friend reaches to the side and grabs my hand for a squeeze, and we part at the office doors.
I stretch to shove them open and suddenly a palm reaches over me and pushes the door open wide. I recognize his arm, the freckles that form the little dipper just above his wrist. I smell the coconut from his shampoo. To be sure, I pause my steps so his large body crashes into me from behind, and when his arms wrap around my midsection and he walks me forward, away from my independent study room, I give in with a teasing guess.
“Earl? Is that you?”
He spins me fast and catches my jaw in his palm, stepping in close as he towers over me with a kiss. It feels as though the whole world is watching, and it makes me smile.
“This public enough for you?” He runs the pad of his thumb over my lip and my body chills.
“It’s getting there,” I say. He holds on to my hand, but walks backward toward his class—the class I could still be in with him, but damn me and my pride. Maybe this is better, heart growing fonder and all. As he moves away, our fingers slip apart.
“This jacket is really fucking hot,” I joke.
“You love it,” he teases.
“I love you,” I say.
Shit.
He stops moving. Maybe he also stopped breathing. His eyes are huge, mouth open, but maybe that’s a smile on his lips? Maybe not. It’s definitely an amused expression. I wonder if the whole world just heard that.
My eyes are definitely wide, I can tell by the air stinging them. My mouth waters a little bit too. It does that when I eat olives, because I threw up once on olives. I think maybe I throw up on I love you’s.
Shit.
I drop a prayer, and it’s quickly answered by the ringing bell and rush of students filing through the office doors behind me. My class is ten paces back, his is about a hundred forward. Why isn’t he moving?
My black eye is threatening to leak so I blink moisture back into the surface and wave my hand as if it’s a powerful eraser that can take back slips of the tongue.
“I’m really tired. I meant the jacket. I love your jacket. Oh, God, umm.” I smile exaggeratingly huge, showing my teeth like a first grader waiting for the tooth fairy, and squeeze my eyes shut tight as I shout “Good-bye,” then turn and actually run to my independent study room.
That’s not how that was supposed to happen. Things like that, though, they seem to keep happening with Lucas.
Drowning in sweat from my embarrassment, I pull off Lucas’s jacket as soon as I make it to my seat. I leave it on my lap because I like the security it offers me. I actually do love this stupid jacket.
I also love the boy.
I manage to make it through the entire day without seeing Lucas. I was prepared at lunch to explain away my blurted-out confession. I don’t want to scare him. Even though I’ve known him for years, maybe it seems psycho to come right out with I love you’s this fast. Or maybe not. Abby is no help because boys tell her they love her on a monthly basis. She’s never said it once herself, though. Not once. Except to me and her mom. Lucas never showed up at lunch, though, so I was off the hook. He sent me a text when Abby and I were throwing away our trash and said he got called into the principal’s office. My guess is it was something to formalize his scholarship offer.
My mom texted before school was over and warned me she would be twenty minutes late. I, of course, offered to go home with Abby instead, but her response was a cackling emoji face.
The traffic should be cleared out by the time she arrives, so I’ve been spared from standing near the bus line where chaos breeds more chaos every afternoon at 2:20. And since I don’t have to wait in the normal pickup spot, I venture around the back side of the gym to the slope that leads down to the football practice field. The guys aren’t doing much yet, just some stretching. Lucas is easy to spot; he’s on his back at the sidelines with his right leg in the air. The trainer—the same one who assessed my lovely shiner—is leaning into his leg and holding it straight as he pushes it toward Lucas’s body. It’s amazing how inflexible these athletes are.
“That’s a nice jacket you have there.”
I swallow hard. It’s been a while since I’ve heard Mr. Fuller’s voice. He’s always had this dominant edge. I used to be afraid of it; when we were kids, he was always the parent I didn’t want catching us doing anything wrong. Now, though, I recognize those tones and inflections for what they are—crutches to make a small man feel bigger than he is.
“Thanks. I think I’ll keep it,” I say, twisting to the side and offering him a closed, smug smile.
He chuckles and pauses his steps, sinking his hands into the pockets of his blazer and glancing down to where his boots meet the dry grass of the hillside.
“You know, people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.” He smirks, proud of his plagiarized idiom. I let him think he’s won for a few seconds, just long enough for his ego to inflate a little bit more.
“That’s a very good point, Mr. Fuller. No, they sure shouldn’t.” As the satisfaction of saying the perfect thing at the perfect moment seeps into my veins, I breathe in deep as this big, scary man shrinks a little before my eyes.
His scowl breaks through the façade he works so hard to maintain, and his mouth chews on his words. He wants to break me, but what he doesn’t know is I’ve already been broken and rebuilt.
“Say hi to Mrs. D’Angelo for me,” I say before turning and heading up the hill with the heat of his eyes scalding the back of my head.
I pushed down the first domino, and I know how these things work. The tumbling has begun, and there really isn’t a clean way to stop it. The only thing left is to sit back and watch it burn.
I walk through the lot as it clears, and as I get closer to the entrance, I pull my phone out to check my mom’s location on our app. She’s a block away, so I go ahead and call her.
“I’m almost there,” she answers immediately.
“I know, I saw. I’m walking to meet you, so turn in at that parking lot right at the corner. I think I want some ice cream. My treat.” I can’t see her, but I can imagine the face she’s making by the tiny breath she exhales into the phone. It’s a grateful laugh, a short one that touches her eyes and makes her shoulders drop with relief.
“That sounds . . . really nice.” She’s right. It does.
We end up timing things just right, and I step up to my mom’s van just as she pulls in. I hold up my palm for her not to lock the door and open the passenger side to peel off my jacket. I’ll like this jacket more when it’s winter and I’m standing in the bleachers watching one of Lucas’s playoff games. It’s strange because I don’t only hope I’ll be there doing that. I know I will. I have this strange, quiet confidence in us.
“So, when do I get to ask about the jacket?” She lifts a brow as I scrunch mine a bit.
“Maybe when I feel less embarrassed about my knee-jerk confession when I stormed past you at six in the morning?” I smile through gritted teeth, suddenly feeling the heat of telling my mother I had sex.
“Right, well . . .” She pulls the keys from the ignition and we meet at the front of the van.
“I won’t dwell. I’m not my mother, but because I’m not, I need to be direct about a few things. You’re being safe?” she asks.
