Vertical Lines (The Vert Series Book 1) (30 page)

And you ran because scarier than loving her was the idea of not being enough for her—of failing her like you failed the only other person who depended on you. Of doing wrong by her and watching her break in front of you, helpless to change it or save her.

“The painting is yours. No charge.”

He freezes, his shot halfway to his lips. “What? Why?”

I reach down and pick up one of the pictures—Jordana Richards, the girl who opened my heart to life. She stares back at me, her hands reaching out to cover the lens like she did that very first day at the skate park. Only this time she’s laughing, her hair blowing out in wet ropes behind her on the beach while she smiled at me, shadowed by the oversized floppy hat she always wore in the sun. Christ what I wouldn’t give to go back to this moment and see her like that one last time.

“Because Nala is yours—no matter what happens, she’s yours. She always has been.”

I look one more second, and then I set the paper face down. Mal might be right—leaving Jordan might do nothing but make me miss her more, but I have to go. That’s the only thing I know right now. “I called my manager—he’s going to take the picture of Ashton. It’s not for sale… but I can’t keep it. He said he had a place he could put it on display. Will you make sure that happens?” Hunter nods. “Those canvases there,” I point to the now partially-wrapped portraits. “They need to go to him, too. He’s going to set up a show if there are enough, or find a private buyer. Sell them one at a time if he has to. Update the website and such.”

Hunter stands and lifts one. He pushes back the ripped brown paper, revealing Jordan in my shirt on the bed, her hands over her head in submission, invitation… trust. Her face is full of fear and want, but her eyes were full of trust.
For me
.

It’s black and white, charcoal and powdered graphite with the only color in her face, and her eyes.

My belly tightens when Hunter leaves his hand on the canvas and turns to me. “You sure you’re ready to do that?”

No
. I’m not ready to say goodbye to my sister, to Jordan, to my friends. But reality doesn’t care whether or not I’m ready. Things move forward; life goes on, or it stops. Right now—my life—it has to be somewhere else. I don’t know anything except for that. I nod at Hunter.

“She’s ready for me to be gone.”

“You left her,” he says, and my belly clenches.

“Goddammit, you know I can’t stay. What if…”

I trail off and he watches me patiently. “This thing between us was never supposed to get this far. She was a muse, an inspiration. I was the guy who reminded her to let loose every now and then. End of story.”

“You’re an idiot.”

My eyes whip to Malcolm. “Of all people, I thought you would understand.”

He snorts and drinks from his beer. “Oh, I understand, which is why I know you’re an idiot. Don’t tell yourself you’re leaving for her—that’s mistake number one,” he says. “Leaving isn’t for her; it’s for you.”

“Says the guy who walks through a revolving door, taking nothing but memories and stolen pictures.”

Mal stands and so do I, but Hunter steps between us and slaps a hand on both our chests. “Knock it off. Jesus, you’re both idiots.” He shoves Malcolm, who glowers a second longer before falling back into his chair. Then Hunter turns to me.

“I know you need to go—we all do. But Mal’s right—trying to make yourself feel better by saying it’s for her is bullshit. You’re leaving, so it’s on you. No one’s forcing you, no one’s blaming you. Go,” he says, when I try to interject. “Go because you need to—but before you do at least be honest. She’s different. Jordan—she isn’t Ashton, and she isn’t your mother. She didn’t leave you, and she didn’t need you to save her. She was with you because she wanted to be, not because she needed to be.”

His words drown me, taking away all of my anger and leaving me hollow and aching.

I look down, opening my fists to stare at my hands, the knuckles of my right fist already starting to bruise and throb. “I can’t stay.”

“No one’s asking you to. But Nala was right—going doesn’t mean leaving. Whatever you’ve convinced yourself, you need to know that we’re here, no matter what. And we’re going to be here until you come home. I think Jordan would say the same thing if you gave her the chance.”

Chapter 47

Jordan

I’m sitting in the library of my parents’ home, staring at the fire the maid prepared not long ago. There’s a tray of tea in front of me, also dropped off by the maid, and I can hear the old grandfather clock above the mantel keeping the time.

Mason was taken away from me before we even got inside. My mother met us at the door. He was immediately swept upstairs and I was ushered in here. Like when the police keep accomplices in separate interrogation rooms.

It’s been fifty-six minutes since I was left alone. I texted Nala and let her know I was here. I wanted to ask how Brooks was, but even that seemed wrong.

His sister is dead and he asked me to leave him alone. It wasn’t a time to fight and prove him wrong—it was a time to let him have what he wanted. For once, I was going to show Brooklyn that he came first, even if it meant letting him break my heart in the process.

The door opens and I’m brought out of my thoughts. When both of my parents walk in, I stand, waiting while they settle on the high-back loveseat across from my wing chair.

My mother leans forward and pours us all tea; I sit and accept the cup and saucer she hands me, though I taste nothing when I sip from it.

“How is Mason?”

My father stares unblinking at his tea. My mother sips delicately before setting the China cup down in its saucer and holding each of them perfectly in one hand over her crossed legs. “Asleep. The doctor said he was run down, exhausted. His body needs good food and some rest.”

I wait for her to say more—because I know there has to be more. When she offers nothing, I set my cup down with a snap. “That’s it? Rest and good food? There’s nothing else he needs?”

Like therapy?

My father’s frown deepens—no doubt at my tone—but my mother barely bats an eyelash. “What else would he need? He’s been under too much stress with midterms. He made the mistake of dating
that girl
, but now that she’s gone, he can get some rest and go back to school refreshed.”

My mouth falls open—and for a moment, I am rendered speechless. “You can’t be serious.”

My father lifts his head, but my mother remains cool. “What are you asking, Jordana?”

“I’m asking if you’re seriously going to believe that Mason looks as strung out as he does because he’s
tired
. Are you really that blind, or are you just that motivated to make certain he never takes responsibility?”

“Watch your tone, young lady.” My father’s voice is low, but his eyes are bright and intense. Unlike my mother, his voice isn’t shrill and cold; it’s commanding. “We’re your parents, and you will speak to us as such or you will not speak at all.”

“Excuse me,” I say, as calmly as I can. “But
that girl
mattered to him.
That girl
is dead. And
that girl
was with him the night she went into cardiac arrest—the same night he left her in the ER because he was high and he was afraid they would ask him questions.”

“He left her there because her
thug
of a brother—the same one Mason tells us you have been dating—threatened Mason’s life.”

“Maybe someone should threaten Mason’s life. Someone who is actually going to keep him from killing himself.” My mother’s gasp is audible, but I don’t stop. “Mason has some bad habits, Mom, the least of which is skipping class and failing out of school. Drug test him if you don’t believe me.”

“How dare you.” My mother stands quickly, her teacup making a loud crack when she sets it on the coffee table. “That girl was trash, and so is her brother. You are not to see him again.”

“Or what, Mom? You’ll kick me out? Make me drop out and move home? Who will take care of Mason then?”

Her hand connects with my cheek before I’ve even finished the last word. My head snaps to the side, and my skin burns like a flame. Tears spring to my eyes in the same instant my father shoves up from where he’s been seated.

“Enough!”

I stand in silence, refusing to bring my hand to my throbbing cheek and try to ease the pain. “Excuse me,” I say. “I think I’m a little tired myself.”

Before I get a step away, my father speaks again. “Jordana Engle Richards, do not move. We are not done.”

“Listen to your father, young lady. Since it appears you won’t listen to anyone else.”

I turn, ready for my reprimand, but he is not looking at me, he’s looking at her. “She isn’t the only one who won’t listen.”

My mother starts, glancing at him. “Excuse me?”

“I told you this would happen, Regan. I told you that excusing his behavior in high school would lead to this. But you never listened. You always stepped in and kept those consequences at bay, and now look at him. Your precious boy, a strung-out twenty-one year-old with no conscience and no hope of passing his classes for the second time.”

I stare like my mother—eyes wide, mouth slightly ajar. My father never intervenes. I’ve always assumed my mother married him because he was easily manipulated, easily coerced. As much as he commands the courtroom, he has never commanded our home. Until now.

“He’s our son,” my mother cries, ever faithful to her firstborn. “What was I supposed to do, let him be embarrassed? Let him ruin his life?”

“You had no trouble ruining mine,” I say. My father’s eyes cut to me. I sink down in the loveseat. “Excuse me—that was childish.”

“It was, and it won’t happen again.” His body turns toward me while he addresses me fully. “If you want to be treated like an adult, stand up like an adult. Go after what you want and stop allowing yourself to be ignored. Being a child and pouting is not a solution; it’s an indulgence.”

I nod my head and sweep my eyes down, ashamed. However much control my mother had… I gave her. I had a full ride to multiple schools—I didn’t need my mother’s approval or permission for anything. Yet, I let her dictate my life.

I think back to what Brooks said in my dorm room—the day he told me I was allowed to want something and expect only to be supported, not manipulated.

“Now, when Mason is awake we will decide what is to be done. I can assure you, Regan, it won’t be as simple as going back to school. He needs treatment, and he needs to learn what it means to be a Richards. That means following rules and earning his place, not having it handed to him. It means remembering he works for the name, not the other way around.”

My mother stays silent—though she nods. I can see adjusting, and I can see the resentment. For whatever reason, the idea of Mason being imperfect isn’t something she can handle.

I stand. “May I please be excused?”

My father nods. “Return to school tomorrow, Jordana. Continue studying. If you choose to go somewhere else at semester, you will have our support so long as your grades stay up and you continue to work toward an acceptable future.”

They feel cold—the words he delivers. They’re supportive in the general sense—but I think to the days I have spent with Nala, Brooklyn, Hunter, and Mal—the days where emotions included hugs and touching, laughing and teasing. None of that exists here—it never has. I miss it. My father’s giving me his permission to go get my dream, but I can’t think of anything other than the family I left behind.

He is waiting for a response, so I nod in his direction, glancing at my mother before walking quickly from the room.

My father’s words swirl around in my head while I ready for bed. I think of Yale, of the applications I can reinstate—whether or not they would accept me twice after I rejected them. But it’s not the idea of rejection from Yale that has me curling into a ball under the white canopy. It’s the idea of leaving Brooklyn, even though he’s already gone.

Chapter 48

Brooks

Hunter and Mal stay with me most of the night, helping me clean up and repack. We never talk about Jordan again. But I think about her, and in the end, I grab the sketch of her laughing, the one I picked up from the floor, and I take the time to straighten it and mat it, turning the small frame over to write her a note.

I hope like hell she gets it.

The boys leave around four a.m., each pounding me on the back. I don’t tell them I’ll call because we all know I will. Eventually, I won’t need space, I’ll need my family. They get it.

I lock the doors to my bungalow shortly after five, heading up the hill instead of east on the freeway. When I pull onto the USD campus, I dial Nala’s phone. She lets it ring long enough I wonder if she’s going to ignore me.

“I know you’re sorry.”

Her voice isn’t sleepy. Instead, it sounds like she’s awake. And outside.

“Where are you?”

“The boardwalk. I needed the water,” she says. I’m already flipping a U-turn, heading my truck back the way it just came. Ten minutes and three extremely yellow lights later, I pull in next to her jeep and turn off the engine. I can make her form out barely, her arms wrapped around her legs, her surfboard next to her.

“I stayed at my mom’s,” she says when I plop down beside her. “In case you were thinking I’ve been out here all night.”

It’s a relief to hear, but I don’t say that. Honestly, after what I said, I feel like I have no right to say anything. “I’m sorry, Nala.” Reaching for her hand, I link my fingers with hers and squeeze, ignoring the building of pressure in my chest all over again.

“Yesterday… what I said. I was out of line—way out of line. And I was wrong.”

She nods, but she doesn’t say anything. Her hand stays wrapped in mine, and for a while, we sit and watch the tide come in. Surfers will show up soon, but for now, we watch the cycle that’s so familiar and wait for the sun to rise.

“I wish I could have saved her.” I look away from the water and see tears trekking down Nala’s cheeks. She swipes at them with the arm of her sweatshirt, but she can’t keep up. “I think back to all those times I bullied her into going out with me, all those times I forced her to go to a party, or a dance, or a football game. And then I think about what it must have been like for her when I graduated and left—when I went away to take care of me, and forgot about her.”