Authors: Katie McGarry
Chapter 36
Rachel
IT’S A PAINFUL PULSE BENEATH
my skull and above my brain. It radiates down from my forehead to wrap around my temples, my cheeks and my nose. Light makes the pain worse. Sound nearly kills me. This is the aftermath of my panic attack.
All off at some important meeting or game or social life event, my family is missing from the house. My lights are on, and my iPod plays softly next to the closed door of my room on the off chance someone does return home before their curfew of eleven—the boys, as sexist as it is, get an hour later than me.
The goal is to appear normal so I can cover up the migraine. That leaves me lying in bed with a pillow over my head and praying for the pain to cease.
After vomiting in my father’s bathroom at work, I cleaned myself up and returned to the conference room. Eleven pairs of eyes watched as I stood at the front, beside my mother, and announced how honored I was to speak on Colleen’s behalf.
My phone rings and the sound echoes violently in my head, yet at the same time a rush of adrenaline hits me. Isaiah is the only person who would call. I adjust the pillow so I can check the caller ID. My lips lift at the sight of his name. “Hello?”
“Rachel?” There is major question in his voice.
“It’s me.” Just me, my painful migraine and my sensitivity to light and sound.
“You sound off.”
I clear my throat. “I was resting.”
“I can let you go.”
Anxiety shoots through my bloodstream at the thought. “No. I’m glad you called.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I wanted to hear your voice.”
I wake up when I notice the strained tone in his voice. Suddenly my head doesn’t hurt so bad, and I edge the pillow onto the bed and off my face. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” A car honks. “Tell me how the thing with your mom went.”
“Good,” I say, and place the pillow back over my head. Every part of me flounders. I don’t want to lie to him, too. But if I tell him about my attacks then he’ll view me as weak, and that’ll mess up what’s between us. Maybe I don’t have to lie. I can leave some things out—just like Ethan does to me when he uses twin amnesty. “Actually, horrible.”
I hear a car door close. “What happened?”
“Maybe we can meet someplace and talk?”
“Yeah. Tell me where.”
I swing my legs off the bed to stand, but the headache hammers my head hard and fast. A sound of pain escapes my lips, and I wince because Isaiah had to hear it.
“What’s going on, Rachel?” Isaiah became very serious, very fast.
“Just a headache, I swear. So I was thinking we could meet at this coffee shop—”
He cuts me off. “You’re not driving if you’re hurting.”
I lie back down as my eyesight doubles. With a touch to my iPod, music stops playing from the speakers. I strain to listen for any sound, and all that comes back is glorious silence.
What I’m about to do is wrong. So wrong. The exact opposite of everything my parents expect from me, and for that reason alone it feels right. “Would you like to come over?”
Chapter 37
Isaiah
THE GUARD LEANS OUT OF
his little boxed-in brick house at the entrance to Rachel’s neighborhood and assesses me like I’m a serial killer broken out of death row. “Who did you say you want to see?”
“Rachel Young.”
His hand falls to his hip as if he’s packing, but both the rent-a-cop and I know that the only thing he’s carrying is thirty additional pounds of beer and nachos in his stomach. “I think you have the wrong neighborhood, son.”
Not in the mood for his games, I push redial on my cell and Rachel immediately answers, “Are you here?”
“At the gate. Do you mind informing your militia that I’m not here to rape and pillage?”
She sighs. “Put Rick on.”
With his mouth set into a pissed-off line he takes my cell and turns his back to me. His whispered words have an edge to them and after a few seconds he hands me the phone back. The gate lifts in front of me, but my car remains idling next to him.
I glance at him from the corner of my eye. “Don’t tell her parents.”
“Or what?” he asks.
“Or what is right.” I place my foot on the clutch and shift into gear. It’s not a threat I’ll carry out, but it’s an empty one worth issuing to keep Rachel safe and happy.
Following the directions she texted, I wind my way past mansions the size of miniature castles with far more land between them than needed for a single family.
At the end of its very own road, Rachel’s house sits entirely illuminated against the night sky. It has white columns and white marble steps and what the fuck is she doing with me?
I drive around the front loop and kill the engine. Therapists, social workers, teachers...they’ve spent years looking down their noses at me, but they were hard-pressed to make me feel smaller than shit. Being here in front of Rachel’s, that’s accomplished what very few have been able to do.
I force myself out of the car, up the steps, and before I can ring the bell, the door swings open and Rachel greets me with a smile. “Hi.”
She’s in sweatpants, a T-shirt, and her hair’s pulled up on top of her head with loose pieces falling around her face. Not an ounce of makeup covers her face and she’s barefoot. Each toe painted a mild form of red. Except for the dark circles under her eyes, I’ve never seen something so gorgeous in my life. “Hey.”
Rachel sweeps her hand for me to enter, and I shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans when I step in. People have a fancy-ass name for this type of area of the house and because I’m not fancy-ass, I don’t know it. It’s a hallway that’s a room but is bigger than some of the foster homes I’ve lived in.
“I don’t think anyone will be home before eleven, but if you don’t mind, I think I’d like you to only stay an hour just in case.”
“Going gangster with boundaries. I like it.” The tease is there in my voice, but I can’t stop the sweep of the place. Huge-ass winding stairs. A skylight above me. Several double-doored rooms off to the sides and probably a whole other wing down that hallway straight in front of us.
Rachel tries to smooth out her hair, but the pieces only fall back to her shoulders. “Sorry about this. I know I should have tried to change, but...”
That’s when I notice how pale she is, how sick she looks, and a warning sensation crawls along my spine. Something’s wrong. “You’re beautiful.”
Rachel lowers her head, but I can tell she liked the compliment. “We can watch a movie or listen to music or—” She closes her eyes and goes from pale to drained of blood. Her forehead scrunches like she’s in pain, and I reach out to snatch her as she leans to the left.
“That’s no fucking headache,” I growl.
She sucks in air through her nose. “Migraine. I get them occasionally, but I’ll be okay.”
Fuck this. I bend my knees and have Rachel up in my arms before she can protest. “Where’s your bedroom?”
Her mouth falls completely open.
“You need sleep. I can come with you or I can put you down and I’ll leave. Your choice.”
“Isaiah,” she protests.
“Rachel.” I use the same tone back.
“Fine. Upstairs on the left.” Giving in, she weaves her arms around my neck and rests her head on my shoulder. I can’t help but note that she fits perfectly.
Taking two steps at a time, I climb the stairs, cut to the left and pause when I come to two open doors. One room is painted pink. The other purple. Both look very girly and very perfect. The pink room looks younger, but neither fit my image of Rachel. “Which one?”
She points to the purple room. “That’s mine.”
I do a double take at the pink room before entering Rachel’s and gently place her on the mattress of the four-poster bed. The sheets and blanket are twisted in ways that suggest a restless sleep. Five pillows lie on the floor and three remain on the bed. Rachel eases over and pats the empty space beside her. “Do you mind?”
The question is, does she mind? I look over my shoulder, half expecting her father or the cops to show and when I spot nothing, I sit on the bed beside her, leaving my booted feet hanging off. If I keep my shoes on, I’ll remember not to go too far with a girl I’ve only kissed twice and who’s in pain with a migraine.
Rachel messes with her fingernail and steals glances at me every few seconds. Girls are normally forward with me. The type that mess with me know what they want, what I’ll give, and they’re prepared to act so they can get it. This change of pace makes me almost as nervous as her.
I stretch my arm so that it goes around her back, but leave my hand extended so that she knows if she wants me to hold her, she’s going to have to move in my direction. Rachel immediately slides over, places her head on my chest and wraps herself around me. I tuck her closer and nuzzle the top of her head.
Everything inside of me relaxes, and I didn’t even know I was tense. Remembering she has a headache, my hand drifts up and I begin to rub her temple. I don’t like the idea of her being in pain.
“I didn’t know you had a younger sister,” I say softly.
“I don’t. That’s Colleen’s room. She died before I was born.”
My fingers freeze. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I know it’s going to sound like an awful thing, but it doesn’t bother me. I mean, it does, because my parents and my oldest brothers are seriously torn up about it, but I didn’t know her. Mom wants me to miss her, but I can’t. Especially not when Mom’s shoving her in my face every five minutes.”
There’s an edge in Rachel’s tone I’ve never heard before. “What happened with your mom today?”
Rachel picks lint off my T-shirt and the small pinches of her nails nip my stomach. I close my eyes and slightly shift to keep from thinking about the fact that she’s touching my stomach, even though it’s through a thin piece of material.
After she’s found every fuzz ball of avoidance, Rachel finally answers, “My sister died of cancer so my mom raises money for the Leukemia Foundation.”
“Admirable.” Though I feel an impending derailment to the good deed. I’ve seen that shit plenty of times with rich people. They sweep in, do their one good deed for the year to cleanse their soul of all the fucked-up things they do the other three hundred and sixty-four days. And most of the time, they jack up that one day, as well. “But you still haven’t told me what happened with your mom today.”
Rachel releases a strangled “Humph.”
I begin to massage her head again, except this time I give in to temptation and run my hand through her hair between rubs. Rachel’s shoulders relax and she melts further against me. The sweet scent of jasmine reaches my nose, and I only want to lie like this forever.
“Waiting, Rachel.”
“My mom has me make speeches on Colleen’s behalf.”
Rachel gets uncomfortable if I stare at her longer than ten seconds. I can’t imagine her in front of a crowd. “Do you want to?”
Her head rocks a no against my chest.
“They why do you?”
“Because I want to make her happy.”
Not having had a mom to want to make happy since I was six, I’m at a loss over what to say so instead I run my hand up and down her spine. I may not understand, but I care.
“Can I tell you a secret?” she whispers.
“Yeah.”
A weighted silence builds between us, and I begin to count the unspoken beats. One. Two. Three. Four.
“Sometimes I hate Colleen,” she whispers like she’s in a confessional. “Does that make me an awful person?”
I think of seeing my mom today and of the anger still festering deep inside. If someone had told me she died four years ago when she was in prison, would I have honestly missed her? If someone told me the dad I never knew croaked, I could guarantee there wouldn’t be any tears. If Rachel’s an awful person then I must be related to Satan. “No, it doesn’t.”
Rachel pulls her head off my chest, and her violet eyes have a glaze that shows the extent of her headache. “Are you just saying that?”
I brush my fingers under the dark circles of her eyes, wishing my touch could make her better. “I saw my mom today.”
She blinks and an ache fills my chest. When I opened my mouth, that wasn’t what I thought I would say.
“Do you see her often?”
“It’s the first time I’ve seen her since I was six.”
“Oh, Isaiah.” Rachel grips the fingers of my right hand and rests our joined hands on my stomach. “Are you okay?”
I start to say yes, but then think about Rachel telling me about her mom and Colleen. “No.”
She squeezes my hand and I squeeze back, grateful that she doesn’t say a thing. There are no words for what happened today. For neither me nor Rachel. Being born into the world is the greatest crapshoot there is. Some are born lucky, others aren’t. For the first time, I see that this rule transcends money.
“I wish I could make you feel better.” Rachel places her chin back on my chest and flutters her eyelids like it’s a struggle to keep them open. She’s in pain, and she wants to take on mine.
Not sure how to handle her statement, I rub her temple again while gently guiding her head so that she rests her cheek against me once more. “This makes me better.”
Rachel shifts her mouth to the side, clearly not buying it.
“How are you?” I ask to deflect.
“Tired,” she mumbles.
So am I, but when I’m with her, the weight of my problems doesn’t feel as draining. “Go to sleep. I promise I’ll be gone before anyone knows I was here. Remember, be at the garage tomorrow after school.”
“After school,” she repeats.
Rachel snuggles close, and I tighten my hold. I have a feeling tonight I’ll roll over in bed searching for Rachel, because this moment right here is the closest I’ve come to having peace in a long time.
Chapter 38
Rachel
THE ENGINE SWITCHES FROM A
growl to a purr as I shift down and ease into the bay of Isaiah’s garage. My heart does that nauseating skip, squeeze, beat once combination the moment I spot Isaiah. His eyes go right to mine, and the slight slant of his mouth gives me flutters.
Unable to hold his gaze, I stare at the console as I place her in Park. Oh, God, he
is
happy to see me. At least I think he is. My insides explode at the sight of him striding over. Last night, I fell asleep in his arms and woke up this morning to find my cell on the pillow beside me with the message
Tomorrow
typed into an open window.
I thought school was never going to end.
Isaiah opens my car door and his warm silver eyes smile at me. “Hey.”
I sweep my bangs from my eyes. “Hi.”
He offers his hand and I accept. His fingers wrap around mine and heat surges up my arm, flushes my neck and settles into a blush on my face. He tugs gently and I slip out. I’m not sure if my body vibrates from the rumbling of the garage door closing or from the blood pounding in my veins.
Our fingers lace together, and his other hand smoothly cups my hip. I suck in a breath, surprised that someone touches me so easily and with such care.
“You look nice,” he says.
“I’m in my school uniform.” White button-down blouse, maroon-and-black plaid skirt, and a pair of white Keds. Nothing spectacular.
“I know.” The seductive slide in his voice causes the back of my neck to tickle.
“Hi!”
We snap our heads to the right, and if it weren’t for Isaiah’s hold, I would have stumbled back. Practically on top of us is a girl with long brown hair, a black hoodie and the tightest jeans I have ever seen. I automatically hate her because those jeans make her look good.
Isaiah sighs loudly. “Rachel, this is my
friend,
Abby. Abby this is my
girlfriend,
Rachel.”
I have to restrain from dancing. He called me his girlfriend. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“What’s your favorite color?” asks Abby.
“Green?” That is a beyond odd question—I mean it’s normal, yet not.
“Tacos or spaghetti?”
“Tacos.”
“Disney World or Disneyland?”
“Neither.”
“Rolling Stones or Beatles?”
“Beatles.”
She squishes her lips to the left. “Oh, so close, but I can let the last one go.” Abby regards Isaiah with the same familiarity I have with my brothers. “We should keep her, but we may have to set up a visitation schedule. You know, control issues and all.”
My eyebrows rise. “Keep me?” Abby’s words crash in my mind. “Control issues?”
She pokes a finger at her chest. “My issues. Not his. You and I are going to be friends, and I don’t do friendships. Well, I obviously do,” she adds as her finger lazily points to Isaiah. “But he doesn’t count. See, we met inside of a Dumpster when we were ten.”
My eyes widen to the point I start to wonder if I’ll ever blink again.
“Abby,” says Isaiah, interrupting her before she can continue. “Shut the fuck up.”
“Okay.” The Rolling Stones’ “Miss You” plays from her phone. “Shit,” she says. “Hold on a sec.” She answers and heads outside.
“Wow.” It’s the only response I can think of.
“That’s one way to describe her. Look, if you don’t want to deal with her...”
“No,” I interrupt. “She’s your friend...”
And he interrupts me. “But if she makes you uncomfortable...”
My turn. “I like her.” From the moment she said that we’d be friends, I liked her.
I walk away from Isaiah and stand near the open hood of his car. Holy hell, he’s been busy. “You installed a cold air intake.” That will help increase the horsepower in his car.
Isaiah runs a hand over his freshly buzzed dark brown hair. He kept the shadowed stubble on his jaw. If it’s possible, the combination makes him so much sexier and more dangerous.
“I’m serious about Abby. She’s different. I put up with her because I’ve known her longer than anyone else. That type of stuff is important to me, but if Abby bothers you, then I’ll make sure she keeps her distance.”
I touch the curved piece he added to the engine. “Did you really meet her inside a Dumpster?”
When he doesn’t answer immediately, I sneak a peek out of the corner of my eye. His hands are on his hips as he stares at the floor. “Yeah. We were both looking for food.”
I close my eyes as my heart aches. I can’t imagine what his life has been like.
“I don’t want your pity,” he says with a mix of hurt and pride.
“I’m not offering you pity.” Understanding hopefully, not pity. It’s not much, and it’s not nearly on the same level, but it still causes me enough pain that I can’t face him. “I don’t have friends. I have my brothers, and there are some girls at school that I can sit with at lunch if I want to, but they don’t get bent out of shape if I don’t show. I’m...I’m weird.”
His boots tap against the floor as he moves in my direction. “No, you’re not.”
I stiffen, irritated and tired of everyone telling me what I am. “How many girls do you know who work on cars, like speed and can happily tell you what a cold air intake looks like?”
Isaiah places his fingers underneath my chin and tilts my head in his direction. “Only one, and she’s my type of girl.”
A flurry of rose petals swirls in my chest. I swallow and remind myself to breathe. He lowers his head as I lick my lips. His warm breath mingles with mine and right as our lips come close to connecting, the garage door squeaks open.
I flinch as if jolted with electricity and immediately slide a foot away from Isaiah. He softly chuckles. An audience obviously wouldn’t bother him. I toss him a dirty look that only makes him chuckle more.
“You’ve got company,” says Abby. Right behind her is the guy that showed with that girl Beth. My hand goes to my stomach as it cramps. Isaiah and the guy share a short shake. “Logan, remember Rachel?”
He nods at me. “What’s up?”
“Nothing.” My eyes flicker from him to the door as I keep waiting for
her
to show. A strange uneasiness curls between my skin and bones. Beautiful, confident, mysterious Beth: the antithesis of me and everything a guy like Isaiah should want.
This week, Isaiah explained how Logan will race his car while Isaiah drives my car at the dragway. The better parts will go into my car since it’s in better condition.
Isaiah never mentioned anything about Beth helping, and I never asked. After Isaiah announced that she wasn’t his girlfriend, I thought I could let her go, but the uncertainty of what his relationship was with her before I crashed into his life gnaws at my soul.
Isaiah claps his hands then rubs them together. “We’ve got a turbocharger, a cold air intake, an exhaust cutout to install and a girl with a curfew. Let’s move.”
* * *
With anxiety coiled and poised
to spring on a moment’s notice, I digress to a bad habit: nibbling on my nails. I used to bite, but then my mother would have an aneurysm when she’d see what I’d done to my manicure.
I should be right beside Isaiah and Logan as they work on my car, but I can’t. Being in the same room is bad enough. How can anyone watch surgery being performed on a loved one, much less hold the scalpel? Isaiah pushes a button and the lift’s ear-crushing whine accompanies the sight of my car floating into the air. The turbocharger is in. Now he’s installing the cutout to the muffler. Once this is done, my baby will never sound the same again.
“So,” says Abby. “What do best friends do?”
Kind of like a cartoon character, I whip my head back and forth from Abby to the lift. She’s been next to me during the whole ordeal, sharing strange broken conversations about nothing. “What do you mean?”
By best friends?
“I’ve never been to the mall.”
And she gained my full attention. “Never?”
Abby twirls the string attached to her hoodie. “Well, yeah, I’ve gone for work, but never to hang. Are you one of those girls? The ones that go to the mall? I think I could do it. Wander the mall for no reason.”
“Why haven’t you?” I don’t feel like answering that I don’t hang at malls. Most of the girls I know think my hatred of all things retail is weird.
She wraps the string tightly around her finger three times. “Malls are expensive, and as I said before, I don’t do friendships.”
“Besides Isaiah,” I say.
“Besides him,” she agrees. “And you.”
“Why me?” It’s a bold question to ask, but everything about this girl is bold.
“Because,” she answers. When neither one of us say anything for a while she finally continues, “Because you like Isaiah. If you like him, then maybe you can like me. Besides, I like bunnies.”
I try not to smile. A strange answer, yet normal for her. We watch as the two guys tinker with the underside of my car. Actually, Abby observes, I avoid looking. “Where do you work?”
Abby pulls hard on her string, causing it to become uneven. “What?”
“At the mall,” I prompt.
She scratches her mouth as if attempting to hide the uneven smirk. “I don’t work at the mall.”
I mull over what she said earlier. No, she said...
“I make deliveries to people at the mall.”
“Oh.” She must sell cosmetics or something like that. “So you have a home business?”
“Who’s the guy with Isaiah? Is he a friend of yours? He’s hot.”
“No. He’s Beth’s friend.” A twinge of jealousy rattles my bones. Abby’s sneakers squeak when she kicks at a nonexistent spot on the floor. While I’ve never asked Isaiah about Beth, Isaiah’s also never offered information. Maybe Abby can fill me in on Beth since Isaiah is closemouthed. “Do you know Beth?”
“Yes,” she says.
Not helpful. “Were you friends with her?”
“Hell no. She twisted Isaiah so damn tight even I couldn’t breathe.”
The overhead heater clicks three times as we all groan. Isaiah turned it off earlier, but we all began to freeze. Cold fingers aren’t good for my baby so he powered it back on. Isaiah swears as he yanks off his T-shirt.
My heart trips. Last night, I dreamed of touching his body. “He has a lot of tattoos,” I say, hoping Abby doesn’t notice how I stare at Isaiah.
“Yeah,” she replies. “He got his first one, the tiger, when we were fourteen.”
Huh. “Does it mean something?”
“Don’t know. Isaiah won’t discuss his tattoos. He gets them and moves on.” “Paint It Black” plays from her cell. Abby presses a hand to her forehead. “I’ve gotta split.” And she disappears, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
She had Isaiah twisted so damn tight even I couldn’t breathe.
Abby’s words circle in my mind. What was an attempt to make me feel better has progressed to nausea tearing at my throat.
A whistle draws my attention. Isaiah flashes the craziest smile I’ve ever seen. “Almost done, angel. You’re going to love how she’ll sing for you.”
This time when I smile, I have to force the muscles to comply. How can I compete with Beth—the girl who kept, possibly still keeps, him twisted?