Breathless (20 page)

I glanced at the program, and it said her mom was an anchor woman for the show
Good
Morning, Dallas
. I flicked my eyes back up to the stage, this time recognizing the lady from the crowd as the star of the number one morning show in Texas. Everyone watched the show, even me. As I sat there watching the family drama play out, the mother seemed to lose her cool a little bit, her claw-like hands grabbing Nora’s arm, forcing her backstage and away from the whispering crowd.

Yeah, I predicted a hefty school contribution on behalf of the Blakely family.

I glanced down at Sebastian. “I didn’t pay for this school so you could screw around with girls. You’re here to play football and get good grades so you can get into a decent university. Stay away from Buttercup,” I said, pointing my finger at him.

He chuckled. “
Buttercup?
Oh, man, do you have a hard-on for the smartest girl at BA?” He wiggled his eyebrows.

“No, asshole. I just meant she’s got all that blonde hair…” I drifted off, gesturing up toward the now empty stage, hoping I didn’t sound as stupid as I thought I did.

“You’re lame, dude. And too old for her,” he told me, shaking his head and wearing a grin.

“Shut it,
baby
brother.”

He just snickered quietly.

After the open house had resumed with several heartfelt apologies from the headmaster, I looked for her. I don’t know why. But she never came back to the folding chairs that had been set up in the gymnasium. We finished getting Sebastian registered for his honor classes and received a print out of his schedule. After talking to most of his new teachers, I met with the football coach, Mr. Hanford, who told an animated Sebastian he’d be starting the season as running back. I grinned at Sebastian, damn proud.

As we walked out of the gym, he turned to me and said, “Hey. I don’t know if I ever said thank you for moving us here, but I am.” He stared at the ground and shrugged. “You gave up a lot to be with me.”

“I didn’t give up shit,” I said but that wasn’t exactly true. I’d given up seven years of my life, and it hadn’t always been easy. Yeah, we’d had some rough patches after our parents had died, especially that lean year before the insurance money had kicked in.

“I wish mom and dad were here to see you,” I said, reaching out to scrub his hair. I often wondered how much he remembered about them. My fear was that he’d forget them, forget what a great family we’d been. He’d only been ten when they were murdered right outside our house.

“Hey, let’s order in a pizza tonight and maybe pull out some old family albums? We can make fun of dad and his Hawaiian shirts,” I said, chuckling.

He nodded and we made our way through the parking lot to my black Escalade, the first big-ticket item I’d purchased when I sold my second health club in California. As we reached it, I glanced over at the car parked next to my driver’s side. Inside a dark-blue Mercedes sat Buttercup in the backseat, her head leaning against the window. Her eyes were closed, and I found myself wondering what color they were.

As if she sensed me, her eyes opened, and when her green ones found mine, I swear, it felt like someone hit the pause button on the universe, and she was all I could see. Within that suspended piece of time, my gaze ate her up, trying to figure out who she was and why she fascinated me. Whatever it was, I felt the crazy urge to comfort her, to smooth her hair out of her face and tell her life would get better. I wanted to see her smile again.
What the hell
, I thought, shoving away unexpected feelings. Since when did I care about some random girl—who wasn’t even legal?

Thankfully, the universe resumed when Sebastian honked the horn at me to get in the car. I jerked out of my trance and turned away from her, feeling disoriented. “Yeah, yeah,” I muttered at him, opening the door and sliding in the driver’s seat. I sat there for a few seconds, not looking back at her. Because no matter the strange pull I felt for her, I was letting it go. That girl was a forbidden fruit I could never taste.

“What were you looking at?” Sebastian asked, his head nudging toward her car.

I shrugged, acting like it was nothing. “Nora Blakely.”

“Damn. I wanna see her,” he said in a rush, leaning over and straining to look out my window.

I pushed him off, maybe a bit harder than I needed to. “Dude, ease up. She’s probably been kicked out of school. Give her a break,” I said.

He shrugged and settled back in his seat, but not before giving me an odd look. “You stared at her for a long time, bro. Like, for a whole minute.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You did,” he said, arching his brow at me.

“Huh,” I said. It hadn’t seemed that long.

He grinned. “Usually you let the girls chase you, not the other way around.”

“I wasn’t hitting on her. I need a run, that’s all, so I can work off some of this pent-up energy.”

“Uh-oh, here comes Mrs. Blakely,” Sebastian said, his attention caught by the anchor woman who was marching across the parking lot, her arms swinging from side to side. Her face appeared annoyed, and her hands were clenched into fists.

“And she’s pissed,” I said, deciding to wait a minute to crank the car.

The lady scanned the parking lot, her eyes seeming to skim right over my tinted windshield. She strode over to Nora’s door, flung it open it and went ballistic, a flood of obscenities pouring out of her mouth as Nora slinked back further into the car. It was messed up, seeing this pretty lady that was on TV, waving her hands about like windmills as she let loose with words I’d never use on Sebastian.

The way she stood there cursing at Nora made my blood pressure shoot up. I put my hand on the door handle when Sebastian grabbed my arm. “I know you want to rescue her, but don’t do it, bro. Don’t make it worse for her when she gets home.”

“Fine,” I muttered, easing back from the door. But I wasn’t leaving until things calmed down.

Right about then, the mother shut up. She slammed Nora’s door and got into the front passenger side, her face now a polite mask, like she was getting ready for the cameras to start rolling. She opened up her purse and pulled out her phone, like nothing had ever happened. I kept waiting for her to turn around, maybe check on her daughter. She didn’t.

And I couldn’t resist glancing back at Nora, and I think . . . I think she’d
never
stopped looking at me.

Chills raced up my spine.

Sebastian said, “It’s over. Let’s go, dude.”

I nodded, but I didn’t move. It felt wrong to leave her here.

“Yeah,” I said, finally tearing myself away from Nora’s eyes and starting the car. Yet, before I pulled away, something completely insane possessed me, and I kissed my first two fingers and sent the kiss to the lonely girl in the back of a Mercedes.

Chapter 3

Nora

“My secret hobbies include people watching, composing lists, and knife throwing.” –
Nora Blakely

Aunt Portia’s head popped up from behind the pastry case she was cleaning up front. “Nora, sweetie, you want a strawberry cupcake? Or a cinnamon roll? I got plenty left over,” she sang out, trying to tempt me as I sat at a booth inside her bakery, Portia’s Pastries.

“You trying to fatten me up?” I smiled, eyeing the distance between us, not wanting her to see what I’d written in my journal. She would be angry with me if she read my list.

She laughed, brushing her wispy gray hair out of her face. “Just wanna make you happy, that’s all,” she said.

I blinked at her words.
Happiness.
I believed few people ever achieved it.

But my Aunt Portia has, and if you watch her, like I love to do, you would see it. Right there on her content face when she smiles or hums a song as she works. She even has this peppy little walk, like she’s doing her own version of the jitterbug as she crosses the floor.

I asked her once when I was around fourteen why she was always happy. I mean, she’d never married and, for as long as I’d known her, she’d just been my dad’s sister, the chubby lady who ran the pastry shop where I loved to visit. She replied that happiness is simply collecting and remembering all the good moments in your life, kinda like beads on a necklace.

The analogy struck me. That day, I worked on picturing my own moments, trying to imagine them as these pretty glass beads I’d string onto a gold chain. Yet, here’s the thing. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make those beads turn out right in my head. Because my beads were vile pieces of plastic shit that no one would want to wear around their neck.

Because I had no happy moments.

I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window and cringed at the young girl looking back at me, hating the deceit and secrets I saw on her face. Who was Nora Blakely?

Teachers and tests told me I was smart. My piano instructor said I had talent. Judges said I was pretty. I must be likeable since the students at BA had elected me their class president. And then there was the packaging, carefully designed by Mother so I’d fit in with all the other Parkie girls. She didn’t want people to know what a disappointment I was, so she controlled it by making all my decisions for me. She insisted on my hair being styled by Jerry Lamonte, owner of the top salon in Dallas; she demanded I wear two-hundred-dollar knit shirts from Neiman Marcus; she even chose my accessories and makeup. She dressed me up and paraded me around like a doll.

But no matter what she did, I was still ugly on the inside.

“Nora? Did you hear me?” Aunt Portia said, untying her flour-covered apron and tossing it on the counter. She turned down the soft rock radio station she’d been listening to. “I’ve been talking to you for five minutes, and you haven’t heard a word I said.”

“Sorry. What did you say?”

“That Mila called. She’ll be here in twenty minutes,” she said, laying her cleaning cloth next to the register and glancing around the empty shop.

Yes!
Mila was coming. I hadn’t seen my best friend since the night of the incident at BA.

“Okay. I’m going to the back to clean up the dishes,” Aunt Portia sighed.

“Already did them while you were out here,” I said, feeling pleased at her relieved face. I guess, at fifty-three, running her own business was tough, especially when you kept bakery hours, opening at 6:00 a.m. and closing at 6:00 p.m. “And I took the trash out to the dumpster and laid out the pans for tomorrow’s muffins. You’re good to go home if you want. I’ll lock up and come by later.”

She picked out a giant cinnamon roll and came over to my table. “Pretty soon I’ll have to start paying you for all the work you do around here,” she mused, sitting the warm bun down in front of me.

“Just pay me with cupcakes,” I said, closing my journal. “Besides you know this place is my escape.”

She gave me a sympathetic look. “Things any better at home?”

“As well as can be expected. At least my grounding is over,” I said, picking at my fingernails, pushing the cuticles back until it hurt, remembering how I’d been locked in my room for five days straight, without anyone to talk to. “Dad left for a visit to Houston so who knows when he’ll be back. Mother is staying at the station apartment this week and probably next week—and the next.” I glanced up at her. “Looks like I might be staying with you for a while. Mother said it was okay, and you know I hate being alone in that monster of a house.”

She kissed the top of my head. “You can move in with me right now if you want.”

I smirked at her because she and I both knew Mother wanted me living at our fancy Highland Park address. Even if she was never there, I had to be. “If I moved out, people would talk. And then Mother would be angry at me.”

She nodded. “Yeah, I know how she is, but let me know if things get to be too much. Okay?” she said, giving me one last glance as she walked back up front. After a few minutes, she went into the kitchen area, and I knew she’d be there a while, counting down the cash register.

I turned back to my journal and opened it, looking over the list I’d written. I wondered if these bad things would make me a happy person. The intelligent part of me knew they wouldn’t. Not really. I didn’t deserve happiness anyway. But after pretending for so long and holding it all inside, I simply sought
relief
, just like I’d gotten at the open house when I’d let those hateful words come out of my mouth. And if saying bad things to people made me feel better, then how much better would I feel if I took it a step further? What would it take to bring me back from the shadow I’d become?

Whatever it took to save me, I was willing to do it.

Taking my pen, I marked through some of the items, getting it just right.

Nora’s List of Bad Things

1. Change my image. Get a tattoo? Wear slutty clothes? Dye my hair?
   
2. Drink alcohol. Drugs optional. Drugs required. Proceed to rehab?
   
3. Have meaningless sex. Often. With different people.
   
4. Be the aforementioned bad girl whenever possible. In school. At home. Everywhere.
   
5. Do
   not
   under any circumstances be called
   perfect
   .
   

Mila knocked on the locked shop door, and I hurriedly tucked my journal inside my backpack before I got up to let her inside the closed shop. She came in and plopped down at the booth where we always sat, wearing a pink-and-cream Liz Claiborne-type ensemble with matching shoes and a purse. To complete the look, she’d pulled her straight midnight-colored hair back with a headband. Somewhere along the way, someone had forgotten to tell Mila she was still in high school, not a career woman. When it came time to elect class favorites this year, there was no doubt in my mind that she would take the title Most Likely to Be a CEO.

She smiled widely. “Finally, you’ve returned from the asylum! Gah, I’ve tried to call you like a hundred times.”

I sat down across from her. “I was grounded in my room with no phone. But hey, at least I got all my summer reading done, and I made Aunt Portia a new apron,” I said lightly, glossing over how much I’d hated being denied human interaction.

“Did they feed you bread and water?” she teased.