Indisputable (3 page)

He might even have a girlfriend. 

Shit.  Shit!     

This is exactly why I don’t do this.  Dating is
too complicated. 

“Tatum?”

I’m still a million miles away in my head, so I fail
to notice we’re standing outside the passenger door to his car, but his voice
breaks my inner panic.  I was probably standing here, still as a statue,
staring off into nothing for who knows how long.  He probably thinks I’m a
head case.  Maybe he’ll drop me off at a mental ward.  Brilliant, I’m
turning into my mother. 

“I’m sorry.  Did you say something?”

Ryan takes a hesitant step towards me until we’re
standing toe to toe.  I have to tilt my head back in order to see his face
properly.  His eyes are shadowed from the streetlight behind him, but I
can feel the intensity in his gaze.  My eyes are drawn to his tongue
darting out from his mouth to run across his bottom lip.  My stomach
swoops.  I slowly rake my stare back to his in perfect timing for his next
question. 

“Can I kiss you?”

“Do you have a girlfriend?” I blurt.  I really
need to work on this brain-to-mouth filter thing. 

His face registers shock, before he grins and lets out
a small laugh. 

“You think I’d be asking to kiss you if I have a
girlfriend?”

I stare at a button on his black shirt.  Well, I
ruined that moment.  Now I’m too mortified to look him in the eye. 

Shrugging my shoulder, I respond, “I don’t know. 
Just wanted to make sure.”

Ryan laughs again, but I’m not finding this
funny. 

“Look at me.”  I don’t comply.  His index
finger caresses the smooth skin of my neck before he clasps my chin between his
forefinger and thumb.  He tilts my face until I meet his eyes. 
“Tatum,” he pauses.  I’m beginning to pant.  This is ridiculous, guys
don’t affect me like this.  “I’m going to kiss you.” 

He barely gets the words out, and I gasp as he crushes
his mouth to mine.  Ryan slides the hand holding my jaw to cup my neck
instead, his thumb brushing along the hard ridge of my cheek.  His other
arm wraps around my back; his strong fingers sliding to tangle in the hair at
the nape of my neck.

At first, I stand shock still, unable to process
what’s happening.  Screw the brain-to-mouth filter, my entire brain is
malfunctioning in general.  When Ryan slips his tongue against opening of
my lips, I’m sparked back to reality.  Throwing my arms around his neck, I
grasp his silky strands, anchoring his mouth to mine.

His tongue rolls against my own, twisting and swirling
in a slow, sensual kiss.  He takes tiny licks and flicks into my mouth,
drawing my breath into him.  It’s heated and intense, but in a controlled
way.  Unhurried.  I feel as though I’ve come alive for the first
time.  Ryan holds my body tight against his, and I moan at the feel of his
erection pressing against my stomach.  This is…this is…

Shit.  This is just too much. 

Oh no.  I’ve let myself be swept away by the
errant thought that someone might find me interesting.  I can’t allow
myself to entertain thoughts of a relationship beyond casual sex, and by the
way Ryan kisses me, the way I feel around him, I know this could never be just
casual.  He’s made me feel more in two hours than I’ve let myself feel in
two years.  He’s been a breath of fresh air, a cold drink of water, and
every other cliché out there for someone like me.  I need to get out of
here.  I can’t let this go any further. 

Ryan must sense my panic, because he ends the kiss,
pulling back to study my face.  His eyes move back and forth, trying to
read the words I’m not saying.  That I won’t say. 

“What is it?” he breathes out, sounding more affected
than I assumed he’d be. 

“I need to go.”  I speak the words, but my body
doesn’t budge, and Ryan holds tight to my biceps.  “Please let go, I need
to leave.”

“I don’t understand.”  His dark brown eyes are a
mixture of warmth and concern.  A concern I don’t deserve.  The look
in his eyes is enough to shove my body into motion.  He shouldn’t waste
his concern on someone like me.   

“There’s nothing to understand.  Now let me go!” I
twist my body, wrenching myself away from him.  He releases my arms, and I
storm across the parking lot.  I’m not far from home now, roughly a
mile.  I can walk.

I’m halfway across the blacktop slab when Ryan catches
up to me.  He grabs for my arm, but I yank it out of his grasp.  At
the last second, he snags my fingers and pulls me around to face him.  If
I thought he looked concerned before, it’s nothing to the emotion darkening his
face now. 

“Will you just talk to me?” he asks. 

I’m losing my control.  I need to get away from
him before I fling myself in his arms and cry like a fucking baby.

“There’s nothing to talk about.  Kissing you was
a mistake.  Let go!”  I pull from his grasp and start jogging across
the pavement.

“Tatum—“

Whirling around, I deliver what I hope is enough to
get him to back off.  “That’s not my name!” I snarl.  “I lied.” 
Without waiting to see his reaction or hear his response, I turn around and run
home. 

He doesn’t chase me or call my name again, and I don’t
stop running until I’m back inside my sanctuary.

Tatum

A week passed since the night with Ryan.  I
didn’t run into him again, which is both surprising and welcome.  In a
town this small, the chance of bumping into him at the gas station or grocery
store is pretty significant.  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried
about it.  He was so nice to me, sweet and concerned, and that kiss. 
My lips still tingle when I think about it.  But then I ran like he lit a
fire under my ass, and I’m positive he wouldn’t be so kind if I saw him
again.  Yet, I couldn’t shake the feeling of regret that followed me
around all week like my own personal raincloud.  He brought out feelings
within me I normally keep locked down tight.  And that scared me. 
Terrified me. 

I control how I feel.  I don’t let some guy turn
my insides to mush.  I refuse to be one of those giddy, bouncing, gushy
girls over some kiss.  With a stranger nonetheless.  So I spent the
week trying to forget. 

I picked up extra hours at work to help cover my car
repair, which ended up being a problem with fuel injectors or something like
that.  I don’t understand the first thing about cars so when Wyatt
explained it to me, it went right over my head.  My knowledge covers how
to check the oil and fill the gas tank.  Anything other than that, I call
Wyatt.  My car so much as sneezes, and I have Wyatt take a look.

When I wasn’t at work or at the mechanic’s shop
checking in with Wyatt, I was sleeping.  And if I wasn’t sleeping, I was
cleaning.  I sorted through my clothes and made a pile for the garbage and
a pile for Goodwill.  I scrubbed the kitchen, cleaned the bathroom, swept
and mopped the floors…twice.  My place is small, and I don’t make much of
a mess, so why I needed to do it twice, I don’t know.  The crazy in me
just keeps peeking out more and more lately. 

After I finished I went through my kindle, made a list
of all the books in my library I haven’t read yet, and got started on one of
those since I don’t have any money this week for the new release I’ve been
patiently waiting to go live for months. 

Now it’s Wednesday.  The first day of
school.  The first day of my senior year.  It’s not as exciting as I
imagined it would be.  I know when this semester is over, I’ll still be
stuck in this town, doing the same old thing until I can save enough money to
ditch this place.  And the crappy memories associated with it.  My
world isn’t bright and vibrant.  I live in a realm filled with shades of
gray.    

The only color left is the deep river of crimson
rolling across my skin.  Gliding over the edge of my forearm like a
waterfall.  Silently dripping to the cream tiles of my bathroom
floor.  Plop.  Plop.  Plop.

This isn’t about dying.  Or trying to die. 
The dull throb of the blade against my skin is the opposite. 

It’s about living. 

Feeling alive. 

In control.    

I’m the master of this sharp edge of metal, controlling
how deep it plunges into my fragile skin, how quick it slices, the damage it
creates.  My skin prickles with electrical currents as I skate the blade
across my arm again; a warm heat spreading from the fresh wound to the crown of
my head, sizzling down to my toes.  Anguish expelled in liquid form, more
potent than any pill.  My mind begins to quiet.

My body rests against the bathtub, the cool porcelain
causing goose bumps to ripple across my skin.  I shiver.  Not sure if
it’s the cold or the overwhelming relief coating my insides.  Whichever,
it feels good. 

My body finally relaxed, I lift myself to the basin
where a wet washcloth waits.  Draping it across my forearm, I apply
pressure to the fissures in my flesh.  My eyes lock on the two hollow
sockets reflected before me.  Hazel, soft, but empty.  Dead. 
Shuttered by the walls I’ve erected around myself.  My skin is porcelain
white.  Not quite ghostly and pale, but in that creamy flawless
color.  Long locks of chestnut brown hair drape down to my breasts in
curly sections.  Natural curls that give the girls in my school hair
envy.  It’s about the only thing about myself that makes me feel
beautiful.  The rest of me is a toss-up between ordinary and
distracting.  Concert tees and tight jeans.  Secondhand shop Converse
or black boots.  Stud through my nose and bands on my wrists.  Rebel
meets poverty.      

I toss the wet washcloth into the sink and slip on two
black sweat bands—one for each wrist.  The soft fabric feels like slipping
into my skin.  I’m naked without the twin bands.  I’m not hiding the
marks because I’m ashamed.  They give me strength.  It’s like a woman
slipping on her favorite pair of power heels before a company
presentation.  Or one who wears sexy lingerie underneath her plain clothes. 
It’s my secret weapon.  Wearing them makes me feel powerful. 

Em and I sit side by side on the floor in front of our
lockers, comparing schedules with our heads together like we have on every
first day of every new semester since seventh grade.  Emerson Fitzgerald
is the definition of beauty with no brains, with bright sapphire blue eyes and
blonde hair to boot.  But she’s feisty and loyal, and I couldn’t ask for a
better best friend. 

“Tell me again what class you have third period?”

“Ummm…” she slides her finger down the paper as she
scans it.

“Just give it to me,” I say, snatching the paper out
of Em’s hands impatiently.  She pouts the little pretty girl pout of hers
that has the entire football team eating out the palms of her tiny manicured
hands.  We tried to pick all the same classes for our senior year, but upon
my perusal of her schedule, I can see that didn’t work out in our favor.

“Damn.  You have choir third period.  Why
the hell are you taking choir?”

“Seriously?  I didn’t sign up for it!” She
exclaims, throwing her hands up in a dramatic fashion.  “I can’t even
sing.”

I snort, remembering more than one occasion of
listening to her belt out the lyrics along with the radio.  “I know. 
You’ll be kicked out by next week.”  She smacks me playfully on the
shoulder, tearing her schedule back out of my hands. 

“Did we end up with any classes together?” 

“Looks like we have first and second—nice that’s
French and study hall.” 

“Ugh, I thought we weren’t taking French again,” Em
whines. 

“I need it for my college applications,” I
reply.  “It’s only one more year.  I’ll help you study.”  I
glance down at the paper in my lap again.  “We have lunch together, too.”

“Thank God.  I don’t think I’d survive if we
didn’t have lunch together.  Who else would I sneak out with?”

I roll my eyes knowing she’s just being her normal
dramatic self.  “I’m sure you’d find somebody.  I’m not your only
friend out of this entire school.  Oh, I bet Grant would take you for
lunch.”  And the rest of the football team, I finish in my head. 

“I thought you have a thing for Grant.  Why would
you want him to take me out?” she asks, her perfect little nose crinkling
adorably.

“You can’t count the time I dated him for a month in
the ninth grade, Em.  I don’t have a thing for Grant.  He’s a nice
guy, you should give him a chance.”  Emerson is one of those girls who
lives and breathes by ‘girl-code’.  In her opinion, you never date a
friend’s ex, no matter how long it’s been since they were
together.      

“Would it bother you?  I mean, I don’t want to
like, take your ex or anything if you still have feelings for him.”

“Emerson Lynn, trust me.  I do not have feelings
for him.  Besides, you know how I am.  I don’t get tied down.” 
The grin splitting her face is absolutely telling of her feelings for
him.  If I hadn’t already known, that would have been a dead giveaway.

“Are you sure?  It seems so wrong to date my best
friend’s ex.”

“You like him, and he likes you.  He and I barely
dated.  I don’t even classify him as an ex, it was that meaningless. 
Yes I’m sure.  Go get ‘em, girl.”

“Okay,” she drags out the ‘ay’ sound as she flashes me
her pearly whites.  That was a lot easier than I thought it was going to
be.  She must really like him. 

We sit silently as we study the rest of our
classes.  These are the last classes I’ll take here for my senior
year.  At the end of the semester, I’ll be taking post-secondary classes
at the nearby community college.  My junior year I skipped the elective
classes, instead opting for the remainder of the required classes I’d need to
graduate.  Come December, I’ll have completed all the requirements for my
high school diploma.  The post-secondary allows me a head start in college
at no cost to me, because it’s paid for by the state.  I’ll use all the
financial help I can get if it gets me away from this place faster.  While
my peers are taking this year to prep themselves for the real world, I’m
already there.   

During my junior year, I filed and was granted
emancipation from my mother.  The judge allowed me to live on my own
instead of in a foster home after my mom was found passed out in the home we
shared, the needle still sticking out of her arm from the heroin, which
subsequently caused her overdose.  I don’t know how many times I have
thanked destiny, fate, or divine intervention that it was her scumbag boyfriend
who found her lying in the bathroom instead of me.  No matter how much I
despise that woman, it’s not an image I’d want to carry with me for the rest of
my life.  Fortunately, or unfortunate depending on who you ask, she
survived.  I don’t know what I would have done if I were placed in foster
care.  My mother’s addiction and unwillingness to find a stable job had
forced me to be self-sufficient from a very young age.  This life is
nothing I’m not already accustomed to.

“Who is Mr. Ryan?”  Em asks, her voice yanking me
out of my memories.  She’s been leaning over my arm, reading my schedule
for who knows how long, while I’ve been off in the Land of Horrific Memories
Past.

“Huh?”

“You have a Mr. Ryan for 6
^th
period. 
Calculus.  I’ve never heard of him before.”

I look down at the piece of paper in my hands. 
“No clue.  Must be a newbie.”  She makes a face at me, one of
disgust.

“Calculus?  Really, Tatum?  Why are you
being so hard on yourself this semester?  French, calculus…it’s our senior
year!  You should be taking it easy.”

I sigh and repeat my reasons again.  I feel like
I’ve told her this a hundred times.  “You know I need a good academic
record for college.  I don’t have any money put away for school.  The
only way I’ll make it is on scholarships.” 

“You’re smart.  I know you’ll find a way to
college.  If anyone deserves to go, it’s you,” she says seriously. 

I wish I believed that.  I really do.  But
people like me don’t go to college.  People, with parents like mine, who
act like I do just don’t make it that far.  They say the apple doesn’t
fall far from the tree.  More like the damn tree didn’t bother spreading
its branches out far enough for the apple to have much of a future besides
becoming rotted, mushy animal food.  If only she’d tried a little harder
to put me in a position to see the sun.  It’s a hard reality to swallow
sometimes, but after the shit went down with my mom, I’ve become accustomed to
the taste.  

The first day of the semester is boring, filled with
syllabuses and expectations and lectures.  I was expecting very much the
same when I walked into 6
^th
period calculus class.  It’s my
last class of the day, as I get scheduled for early release from school in
order to get to my job as a CNA by three o’clock.  Because my grades were
near perfect, it was a condition the judge granted so I could keep my job and
still be able to make a living. 

I saunter in, taking my preferred seat on the far left
column near the middle row. 

At five past the start of class, students are still
chatting amongst themselves relatively oblivious to our missing
professor.  My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I remove it to display a
text from Wyatt. 
Your place tonight?

I work ‘til 11.  Ill call when I’m
off. 

Late night rendezvous with Wyatt are well worth it,
and it makes my lonely nights a little less lonely.  I can’t say between
school and working full time I have a lot of spare time for socializing. 
I don’t date, but I use sex as a distraction.  Wyatt is one of the few
people who understands me.  That understanding makes our arrangement
mutually beneficial.   

At ten past with the teacher a no-show, I contemplate
ditching out early.  Mrs. Marsden has been going downhill lately, and I
wouldn’t mind spending a little extra time with her this evening.  I pack
my notebook and pencils back into my bag, having made up my mind, and go to
stand just as the assuming Mr. Ryan breezes into the room.  I slump back
into my chair dismayed. 

“Sorry, sorry I’m late,” he says as he rushes to his
desk.  Nice first impression.  When I glance up from resituating my
book bag, my breath catches.  Oh no. No, no, no.  Damnit!  What
deity did I manage to piss off to deserve this? 

Mr. Ryan is Ryan; Good Samaritan Ryan.  Do-gooder
Ryan.  Fucking amazing kisser—stop that right now!