Author: Estelle Maskame
Category: Romance
Go to read content：https://readnovelfree.com/p/10329_6
I tune back out and tilt my head down, my eyes on the ground as we navigate the school hallways. It’s loud. People are yelling, people are laughing, people are nudging me, pressing against that deepening bruise on the back of my shoulder.
Jake doesn’t know pain. Jake doesn’t know how hard it is not to physically flinch whenever someone touches you. Jake doesn’t know what real agony feels like. I am jealous of him and Dean, of every other person laughing around me, who get to go home at night and not feel as though their heart is going to beat straight out of their chest whenever their dad comes anywhere near them.
“Aren’t you at science?” Dean asks, and I glance up from the ground to realize that we are passing my class. I can’t remember the past five minutes. That seems to happen a lot.
“Crap. Yeah.” I grind to a halt and turn for the door of my class, that bruise on my shoulder still throbbing. “Catch you guys at lunch.”
* * *
Whispers: Interactive Stories Make your own choices and decide what happens next!
Science is okay. It’s the easiest class to fade into the background in, mostly because every twenty seconds someone has their hand in the air, asking Miss Fitzgerald for further explanation on points she’s already covered at least five times already. So I sit at my seat by the window with my elbow propped up on the table and my chin resting on my palm, my stare boring through the dusty glass and over to the sports field. It’s empty, but the sun is shining on the patchy grass and after a while, I stop looking. My eyes are open but I’m not really there, not really seeing. I zone out entirely as Miss Fitzgerald’s voice drifts off into silence until silence is the only thing that surrounds me, but I like it this way. I like the quiet and the still, because it makes me feel alone. It makes me feel safe.
I think about Dean’s dad, Hugh, again. He’ll be waiting for us outside school in his truck a few hours from now. A smile on his face and his hand up in the air, waving just in case we haven’t spotted him as he gets out of the truck to greet us. Dean doesn’t like it when he does that. He thinks it’s embarrassing, but I love seeing Hugh waiting for us. He always pats me on the back the same way he does to Dean, and as crazy as it makes me feel, I like to pretend, even just for a second, that Dean and I are brothers and Hugh is my dad. That would be pretty sweet. Hugh wouldn’t get angry if I messed up my homework, I’m sure of it. He wouldn’t raise his voice, nor his fists. I would know that he loved me.
I love Dad, but not always. I hate him a lot of the time, actually. Maybe I could run away. I could sneak out of school right now, grab a bus to Union Station, hop on a train to wherever the hell I could get to for five bucks. Which is absolutely nowhere.
“Tyler,” Miss Fitzgerald’s voices echoes from my right, and I snap out of my daze, pulling my attention back to her. She is towering over my desk, hand on hip, her face set in a disapproving frown. “Would you like to share with the rest of the class what exactly it is that you find so interesting outside?”
“Uhh.” Everyone’s eyes are on me and they are all collectively smirking with glee at my misfortune of getting caught out. I rack my brain for an answer, but what can I tell her? I glance around the expectant gazes of my classmates, and I know what they’re waiting for. They’re waiting for me to break under the pressure, but I refuse to. I never do. Not here, not at school. I refuse to be weak here.
Slumping further down into my chair, I shrug and lazily glance back up at Miss Fitzgerald. “I can’t help it that the grass is more exciting than your class,” I finally tell her, my voice flat. I don’t care, I think, and the hushed wave of laughter that makes its way around the room fills me with satisfaction. Distract them so that they can’t figure out what you’re really thinking.
Miss Fitzgerald purses her lips. I can see it in her eyes, that flicker of disappointment that I am all too familiar with. Most of my teachers have given me that exact same look recently. A year ago, I was quiet. Kept my head down. Scribbled down notes as fast as I could. Tried my best. But lately? I don’t see the point. Dad is never happy, no matter how hard I work. It’s just so much easier not to care.
“Then perhaps you’ll enjoy waiting outside,” Miss Fitzgerald says. Her lips twitch now, and she gives a pointed nod toward the door, folding her arms across her chest.
On the outside, I roll my eyes and smirk, but inside I feel guilty. I like Miss Fitzgerald, so I can’t look at her as I get up out of my seat and weave my way around the desks. The faces surrounding me are lit with amusement, and to keep everyone even more entertained than they already are, I even close the door a little too harshly on my way out.
The hallway is silent, and it reeks too. There’s only fifteen minutes to go until class wraps up, so I pace back and forth for five of them, praying that Dad won’t find out that I’ve just been kicked out of class. A couple months ago, Mr. Tiller sent me out of his math class for back-talking him too. At the time, I thought I was funny. I thought I was cool. But what I didn’t know was that later that afternoon, Mr. Tiller called Dad. He was waiting for me when I got home, his anger brimming.
It was a bad night.
I have a scale now, one that I’ve invented.
There’s the awesome nights, the way every night should be, the ones where Dad grins at me across the living room and slips me extra cans of soda when Mom isn’t looking. The nights that I actually laugh with him. It’s the kind of night that’s rare, the kind that makes me wonder if maybe things are changing for the better.
But then there’s the good nights, where nothing really happens at all. A good night is when Dad keeps to himself, usually huddled over paperwork at the kitchen table, a pen between his teeth and his foot tapping a relentless beat.
There’s the bad nights, too. They’re the nights that happen too often. A bad night begins the moment I mess up, the exact second I do anything that isn’t good enough for Dad. I can handle a bad night now. I am numb to them. Usually, I close my eyes so that I don’t have to look at him. I stare into the darkness instead, wondering if Mom is okay working late by herself down at her office; wondering if Jamie has beat the next level on his game yet; wondering if Chase is laughing at his cartoons. Before, I would wonder when Dad was going to stop. Now I just don’t bother.
And then there’s the highest point of my scale: the really, really bad nights. The kind of night where I don’t even recognize Dad. He doesn’t usually scare me, but on the really, really bad nights, the crazed, wild look in his green eyes is always enough to send a stab of fear straight through me. There’s no stopping him on those nights. The last time one of those nights went down is still fresh in my mind. It was only a month ago. It was the night Dad broke my wrist for the second time. I can’t even remember why he was so furious at me, because I blacked out for most of it. Mom thinks I fell down the stairs. If only. It would break her heart if she knew the truth.
I glance down at my hands. Lift my left one, roll my wrist a couple times. It still hurts sometimes, but it’s improving. I sigh and lean back against the wall, sliding down to the ground, closing my eyes. I’m so tired. Tired of overthinking. Tired of inventing distraction techniques. I draw my knees up to my chest and force all of my thoughts out of my head, focusing instead on the sound of footsteps in the distance. They grow closer, louder, nearing me. Until they stop.
“You got kicked out of class?” a voice asks.
I open my eyes and look up. Rachael Lawson is staring down at me with curiosity from behind her big round glasses, her blond hair wrapped up in a high ponytail, loose strands framing her face. We share some classes. We hang out sometimes. We’re friends, I guess.
“Yep,” I say. Back to being Tyler the cool kid. Not Tyler the overthinker, not Tyler the kid who gets thrown around. That guy is lame. I don’t like being him. “I talked back to Miss Fitzgerald. She isn’t impressed.”
“You’re crazy.” Rachael shakes her head at me, then laughs as she walks away.
“You bet I am!” I call after her. Yeah, right. Crazy for acting like someone I’m not, more like. I can’t remember when I first started doi
ng it, but it’s starting to feel comfortable. I’m starting to like this Tyler better, but yet, as soon as Rachael is out of sight, I am back to being myself.
Sat on the floor, my back against the wall, the bruise on my shoulder aching, my mind in overdrive.
8
PRESENT DAY
As I make my way back down the stairs and as the music becomes louder and louder, I find myself off balance. My legs aren’t working the way I want them to, so I take each step one at a time, grabbing pathetically at the wall to stabilize myself. I know I look high, but I’m not yet. I just can’t see in the dark, so it takes me two minutes of drunken navigation and staring intensely at the floor before I finally get back to the living room.
The house appears more full now, though maybe I’m imagining it. The vodka I’ve consumed too fast is taking control of me. I feel lighter in a way, more at ease, but I know that I need to avoid Naomi and I know that I need to find Kaleb. If I find Declan, then that’s even better.
Glancing up, I make a beeline through the crowd straight to the kitchen, but I immediately bump into someone before I get very far. I stand on their feet, only to be tutted at and shoved back again. I hold my hands up in surrender, trying to seem apologetic even though I don’t care, and then I focus my gaze to realize that actually, it’s Rachael.
“God, Tyler,” she mutters, glowering at me in disdain and tucking a strand of her curled blond hair behind her ear. “Wasted before midnight. No surprise there.”
“Nice to see you too,” I fire back, my voice flat. I’m supposed to like Rachael. She’s supposed to like me. We call ourselves friends, but we’re not, really. I’ve known her since middle school, but she’s hated me ever since freshman year. Apparently she doesn’t want to put up with my bullshit like everyone else does. Her words, not mine. I’m cool with her disdain, though.
Rachael takes a sip of her drink via a straw so as not to smudge her red lipstick. She continues to glare at me through her heavily lined eyes. “So,” she says, leaning in closer to me, “what was up with you earlier?”
I raise an eyebrow and step back from her again. I don’t know what the hell she’s taking about. She wasn’t even at Tiffani’s place earlier. “Huh?”
“At the barbecue,” Rachael clarifies, cocking her head to one side. The music is so loud, I can hardly even hear her. Most of the time I don’t want to anyway. “When you stormed in like that?”
Huh. So that’s what she’s talking about. The barbecue. I’m surprised that she even went. It’s not exactly her scene. “You were there?”
“Yeah. Your mom invited me over to meet Eden.”
I squint at her. There’s that name again, that girl. I try to picture her again in my head, but right now, I can’t quite remember what she looks like all that well. I do, however, remember those lips and that voice. There’s no chance in hell I’m forgetting that. I wish I could form a clearer picture, but my thoughts are blurring. “Eden?”
“Your stepsister?” Rachael says, rolling her eyes at me. Almost in pity, she purses her lips and looks me up and down. Then shakes her head, like she feels sorry for me. I hate when people do that. “She thinks you’re a jackass, by the way, so she has pretty good judgment. But whatever, enjoy your night, Tyler. Looks like you’re already enjoying it a little too much.” She seems so far away from me, disconnected, but I know it’s just the alcohol that’s putting her out of focus.
“Rachael.” I reach for her arm as she turns to walk away. “Is Tiffani here?”
“Kitchen,” Rachael says, then shrugs my hand off her before she disappears.
I stand in the middle of the living room for a few more seconds. Or maybe a minute. I can’t concentrate on anything but Tiffani. I need to find her, and I need to resolve the argument we had earlier. We never fight for long. Neither of us have the confidence for that. We’re not cut out for being on our own. She needs me by her side almost as much as I need her by mine, and we usually get back to putting on a show less than twenty-four hours after whatever fight we’ve had. At least that’s usually how it goes.
I rub at my temple, take a deep breath. I’m good at this. I’m good at acting. Now I gotta be sweet and charming, apologetic and convincing, even when I’m not.
I weave my way across the living room, through the distant faces of everyone around me, and then I hover by the edge of the kitchen, searching for her blue eyes. They meet mine from across the room and she comes into focus, her mouth a dazzling smile as she laughs at whatever joke Dean has just made. Her gaze sharpens and she presses her lips together, glancing away from me again. She is pouring herself a glass from the bottle of wine she’s brought over, slowly and with a certain degree of deliberation to her movements, her chin held high.
I start toward her, nudging Meghan gently to one side as I squeeze past her, and as I approach, Tiffani raises the glass of wine to her lips and takes a sip, watching me closely over the rim, trying not to screw up her face as she forces it down. She hates wine. “Tiff . . .” I say, reaching for her free wrist.
“Tyler!” she exclaims. Immediately, she plasters a wide grin across her face. It’s so forced and so fake that it’s enough to make me feel sick. Does anyone else see it? Does anyone else see that this is all just bullshit? All just a fucking act? She throws her arm around the back of my neck and pulls me toward her, pressing her lips to mine.
Her mouth tastes like mint and the cheap wine she’s drinking. She intertwines her fingers through my hair at the nape of my neck, pulling too hard, and she bites my lower lip in an effort to convey her anger at me. I kiss her back, though, because we have an audience. Even grasp her waist, like I know she wants me to.
Finally, she tears away first and fixes me with a forced smile, but I can still see the aggravation in her eyes. My hands still on her waist, I bury my face into the crook of her neck and against her warm skin, I mumble, “We need to talk.”
Her blue eyes meet mine again and she gives me a tiny fraction of a nod, then slips her hand into mine. Around us, I can see Kaleb watching me intensely with an impressed, teasing smirk, and it’s clear that even Dean is fighting the urge to roll his eyes as Tiffani flicks her hair over her shoulder and begins to pull me toward the door. I follow in silence, my hand still in hers, mostly because I’m just glad to have some support to keep me balanced. My head feels too heavy.
“We’ll be back in a minute,” Tiffani says over her shoulder, as though every single person in this damn kitchen actually gives a shit about what we’re up to, and then she pulls open the door, allowing the fresh air to hit me smack in the face.
Shit, I think. I really am drunk. I grab Tiffani’s shoulder with one hand and press the other to my forehead, wondering if I’ve felt this dizzy the entire night. I really can’t tell, but what I do know is that the backyard is spinning around me, and Tiffani has pushed my hand off her body. I grab fistfuls of the air instead until I finally settle against the wall of the house, breathing deeply while I try to meet Tiffani’s gaze again.
Now that we are no longer putting on a show, her smile is gone. Her arms are folded across her chest, her eyes are narrowing. I shouldn’t be surprised that she’s still pissed at me from earlier, but I’m thinking that maybe now isn’t the right time to attempt to fix this. Not when I’m like this, but what choice do I have? I’m still mad at her for bringing up my dad earlier, but she’s like a crutch to me. She’s a part of the picture-perfect life I’m trying to pull off, and I don’t want to lose that. Besides, the sex is on tap, and it’s worth apologizing for that alone.
“I’m sorry for storming out earlier,” I start. I’m not sorry at all, really, but I know that it’s what she wants to hear. She wants me to beg for her forgiveness. That’ll satisfy her ego. So, although I am wasted and she is blurry, I fake the apologetic frown on my face and the guilt in my eyes.
“And for smashing your beer all over my wall,” Tiffani remarks. She exhales and looks away, staring across the backyard through the darkness. She
is tensed up, her patience thin, so I fight harder.
“Yeah, that too.” I step forward, unstable, and gently reach for her wrist. I try to force her gaze back to mine, but she is refusing to give in. “Babe, I’m sorry. You know what I’m like. I overreact. You were right to call me out.” I want to tell her not to ever mention my dad again, but I know that will only start another fight, and honestly, I don’t even want to think about it. Tiffani can be cruel that way. She already knows that she’s not allowed to talk about him, but at the same time, she knows it’s my weakness.
Her eyes finally flicker back to meet mine, and they immediately soften as she sighs. “You know, Tyler, you may be an idiot, but I do actually like you. At least enough to feel as though I would have to let someone know if you got involved with drugs more than you already are,” she says with an air of innocence, and it’s a subtle reminder that she’ll ruin my life if she has to. As long as she’s in control of my every move, ensuring that everything I say and do coordinates with exactly what she wants, then there’s no problems between us. She glances down at my hand on her wrist and then pulls away from me, shaking her head in disapproval. “Because what good are you going to be to me if you end up in jail or dead? I mean, look at yourself. You’re wasted. Are you high too?”
“No,” I say bluntly. For once, I’m not lying. I try once more to reach for Tiffani’s wrist, and this time, she doesn’t pull away. I step closer to her and move my free hand to her chin, tilting her head up to look at me. She likes it when I do that. “I just drank too much again.”
She’s quiet for a minute as she studies my eyes, most likely measuring the size of my pupils, and then she frowns again. “You aren’t seriously considering helping Declan Portwood out, are you?”
Here we go again. Questions that I don’t want to answer. I step back from her and shove my hands into the front pockets of my jeans, shrugging. My head is hung low. “I don’t know.”