Authors: Katie Klein
"So why didn't you?" I ask, stealing a glance at her.
"Because I wanted to hear it from
you
. Where are you from?"
Shit
.
I swallow hard, flipping through mental notes, remembering the story crafted for me—the details recorded should a conversation like this ever arise.
Tell her the truth. No one has to know.
But the rational, more level-headed side of me prevails. One wrong answer—one misstep, and it's over. My job is on the line. I'd like to know where this "level-headed" side was an hour ago, when I planned this whole thing.
"Michigan."
"Why are you here?"
"Does anyone really know why they're here?" I ask.
"Parker," she warns.
Of course she wants a real answer. "It's, um.... It's kind of a long story."
"I have time."
Sure she does. "Okay. Well. I'm, um, here because my parents got divorced. I lived with my mom for a while. But a few years ago she started dating this guy...total asshole. There were some problems...and they sent me to live with my dad, who I hadn't seen in years, and who didn't want to deal with me."
Memorized.
Exactly
how it appears on my notes at home, at the station. It's probably written in my student file just like this. Verbatim.
Jaden frowns. "Were you kicked out of school?"
"Yes."
No. I was only suspended for a few days.
"Why?"
"I was caught with some guys, and there was marijuana in the car."
True.
"So those rumors are true? About the drugs?"
Yes.
"Which rumor?" I ask, playing idiot.
"You had a drug problem."
"I did drugs occasionally. I didn't see it as a problem, really."
True. Just one too many parties.
"I mean, I wasn't an addict," I clarify. I hesitate before continuing. "I was lucky that day. Because the guys I was with? We were dealing. And none of them ratted me out."
True. No one ratted me out, but we were still caught. I spent half the night in jail with my best friend and my girlfriend.
"Why were you selling them?"
"The thrill. The rush. Because I was tired of being broke. Because I couldn't afford a car and I needed something to drive. Why does anyone do anything?"
"Do you sell them now?"
"No."
True.
"Do you do them now?"
"No."
Not unless I have to. Unfortunately, it comes with the job description.
"Are you lying?"
"I don't lie," I lie.
She leans back in her chair, frowning. "That's stupid. Everyone lies."
And I wonder, what could Jaden McEntyre possibly have to lie about? But she's right. It is stupid. She shouldn't trust me. She shouldn't believe a fucking word I say. "Yeah, well, it's a waste of time. The more lies you tell the more stories you have to remember. Believe me. It's easier to just be honest."
It's not enough, knowing this, so she goes on, asking about my dad, my plans after graduation. There are so many lies spewing from my mouth I can barely keep track of them. She's asking questions I'm not even prepared to answer. I'm freaking lying on the fly now, and I hate to think I'm good at this—I hate to see her hanging onto every word like what I say matters. It doesn't matter. It's not real. This—whatever's going on in this car—it isn't
real.
"You don't happen to volunteer as some sort of life coach on the side, do you?" I ask when she brings up college for the millionth time.
Her eyes roll. "Like I have time for that. And don't try to change the subject. I'm
serious
, Parker. You're smart. You owe it to yourself to go to college and make a better life for yourself."
A better life for myself? I've already made a better life for myself, and I didn't have to go to college to do it. This is as good as it gets for me—and I'm lucky as hell to be where I am. "Easy for you to say. Your parents can afford to send you to an Ivy League school," I remind her.
"I applied for scholarships to help out. And the only reason my parents can pay for Harvard is because I have two older brothers who bailed on higher education."
She stops, lost in thought. And again I wonder what she's thinking.
College? Her brothers? Daniel? The mistakes he made? She knows—she
has
to know. You can't overlook drug possession charges. If Daniel has a record, he has to explain the arrest on every application he files—for jobs, school, to freaking vote.
You don't walk away from an arraignment like that.
Not unless you're me.
But now I know: that's why Harvard is so important. Her brothers never made it. They left everything up to her.
"You know," she finally says. "The grass isn't always greener...."
She wants to talk about grass being greener? She doesn't know me. She has no idea what it's like to live a lie. How I was two fucking seconds away from
being
Daniel McEntyre. "You don't know
anything
about my life. Maybe sometimes the grass
is
greener."
She's on fire now. Angry. "So you're just gonna run away? You'll have to get a job. You'll have to find a place to live."
Oh my God. Now she's going to tell me how to live my life? I have a fucking 401k! I set aside money every month for retirement. I check bank statements to make sure the trash service payment was drafted on time. She's acting like I can't make my own decisions—like I can't take care of myself, like I haven't been drafting trash service payments since I was eighteen years old! "And you think I haven't figured all of that out? I might not be a control freak, but I do have a
plan
."
She flinches at the words, an unexpected sock to the gut.
Shit.
She doesn't know.
"That's a low blow," she whispers.
She doesn't know about the apartment and the bills. The job. The fiancée. I'm Parker Whalen—I hate my dad and barely see my mom. I have a problem with authority. I'm going nowhere fast.
Tell her the truth.
I turn to stare out the window, at the empty parking lot. A heavy silence descends.
What is happening here? What is this girl doing to me? Why am I always two seconds from throwing my whole life away when I'm near her?
I glance back at her, and her eyes settle on mine. And even in the darkness they shine, full of life and passion. Excited and angry and concerned and confused all at once. They're annihilating. And for a moment I think I could argue with those eyes forever. That I would
never
grow tired of looking at them. And the thought—I can't help but smile.
She looks away, awkward and unsure.
"Hey." I sweep the strands of hair covering her face away, tucking them behind her ear. The backs of my fingers brush her cheek. I guide her chin toward me. She sucks in a breath and a blaze ignites, searing my skin. "I
love
that you're concerned about me, Jade, but I am
not
a project."
As I say the words, I hope that, somehow, she'll hear the meaning—the truth—behind them. That she'll
know
. She doesn't have to worry about me. I'm the last person she'll
ever
have to worry about.
"I didn't say you were."
I release her, but my fingers still tingle, still reel from touching her skin. "Really? Because it's starting to look like it. And I wasn't calling you a control freak. I just think you have enough to worry about without adding me to the list."
"I don't make lists," she says, frowning.
"You know, that actually surprises me."
She turns the heat back up and checks her phone.
"When's curfew?" I ask.
"Fifteen minutes." She glances out the window, gazes at the sky. "Did you see the moon?"
"I did."
"Do you think we'll actually see the sun tomorrow?"
"Don't know."
"I hope so."
Jaden and her endless winter. "I know you do." I reach for the door handle. "Thanks for letting me borrow your heater."
She returns my smile. "Thanks for stalking me."
I climb out of her car, lean against the roof, bending low. "Maybe I can stalk you again sometime."
"Absolutely."
"I was thinking of stalking you Monday afternoon around three. I figured we should divvy up assignments for our project."
"Okay."
In the final moments before we go our separate ways, I try to memorize those eyes. Those cheekbones. Those lips. But when has a moment with this girl ever been enough?
I shut the door between us, circle her car, head back to my motorcycle. The air bites at my face, my hands—every inch of me longing to be back in that Civic—back with her. I slip my helmet on, slide the straps of my bag over my shoulder, shove fingers into my gloves.
One final glance. That's it.
She waves. I nod. Then I linger, watching her back out of the space, cross the lot, and pull into the street.
Already my bike feels lighter—emptier—without her.
I take a right, moving in the opposite direction, eyeing her taillights in my side mirror. And when I reach the stop sign at the end of the block, I wait. My foot finds pavement and I wait, turning in the seat as she disappears.
Just one more glance.
There's something in my apartment.
My first thought the next morning.
There's something in my apartment. It's buzzing and it won't stop.
I roll off the couch, wipe the sleep from my eyes, check the time on the microwave. It's nearing ten. I never sleep this late.
I meander to the bathroom. The mirror confirms: I look like shit. I
feel
like shit, actually.
And it finally dawns on me—the buzzing.
My phone.
Callie.
I rush to the living room, search the coffee table, the pockets of my jacket, my jeans—it's in the back pocket of my jeans.
The buzzing stops, but the display announces exactly what I feared: