“You don’t want to know.”
Jeff’s entire face turns into a thundercloud as he turns toward me. “You’re screwing Manson?” he hisses.
The deadly glint in his eyes sends a shiver up my spine. Meanwhile, Scar looks horrified, and everyone else is hanging on our every word in greedy interest.
My gaze meets Chase’s, briefly, and he gives an imperceptible shake of the head that only I see. I know what he’s telling me to do. And as much as I don’t want to, this Jeff bomb needs to be defused, ASAP.
“Of course not,” I say flatly. “Troy’s just talking out of his ass, as usual.”
Jeff relaxes. Barely.
Troy smirks at me. “Sorry, I forgot—you screw drug dealers, not killers.”
I frown, because what the heck is up with this drug dealer thing? Scar accused me of the same thing out in the hall. I don’t know any dealers, except for that kid Jay’s brother, whom I never even met.
But Troy’s remark takes the heat off Chase and causes Jeff to relax, so I force myself not to argue.
At the front of the room, Mrs. Russell taps her pen against the desk.
“Everyone take their seats.”
“Mrs. Russell, the class felon is in my space,” Troy calls out, suddenly brave again.
“I heard. Mr. Kendall, you can either respect your classmates or leave. Mr. Donnelly, sit down or you’ll get another mark in your record. Ms. Holmes, you can argue about desks with Ms. Levin after class. As for you, Ms. Jones, can you stop disrupting my classroom?”
We all take our seats. Jeff scowls. Scar stares at her desk. Chris spreads her things to every corner of the desktop, as if she’s staking the boundaries of her claim. Troy’s giggling behind me about some Manson shit again. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Chase shake his head in warning again. He’s probably upset I challenged Troy at all.
One small thing, I tell myself. Concentrate on one small, good thing.
I make a T with my fingers and after a moment, Chase gives me a brief nod. He’ll meet me tonight at the swing.
One small thing.
* * *
“Do you think Ms. Dvorák is the worst or Mrs. Russell? And don’t say that they’re not bad and that they’re just doing their jobs, because I’ll hit you.”
“I’m not a fan of Ms. Dvorák. Mostly because she doesn’t play enough pop music. I think her playlist is stuck in the sixties. Not that ‘Mashed Potato Time’ isn’t a fire song.”
The laughter flies out before I can stop it. I slap a hand over my mouth and we both send worried glances toward the house.
“Sorry,” I whisper to Chase.
He gives me one of his half smiles and leans back against the tree. We’re both clad in jeans and hoodies tonight, and I almost wish I’d worn a jacket, too. It’s October—the weather’s getting chillier. Soon it’ll be too cold to meet out here, so I’m already thinking up ways to sneak Chase into my bedroom. I’d go to his house if I could, but my parents get an alert every time a door or window is opened. Jerks.
“What are you going to do when you’re out of school?” I ask.
“Dunno. I haven’t given it much thought. I need to get my record expunged, but I can’t do that until my probation ends.”
“Which is when?”
“Next May.”
“Graduation will be a good time for you, then.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you thinking of college?”
“Community college, maybe.” He throws a pinecone toward his feet. There’s a pile of about six of them.
“Is the mayor refusing to help out?”
“I’m not taking money from him.”
This guy is way too proud for his own good. “What about your dad?”
Chase snorts softly. “What about him? I told you, we don’t speak.”
I rest my hand on his forearm and play with the frayed edge of his sleeve. “Have you thought about reaching out to him?”
“No way” is the immediate response.
I raise both eyebrows. “Aren’t you the one who’s always telling me to make peace with my parents?”
“Yes, because your parents are good people,” he says wryly. “My dad isn’t. He was verbally abusive to my mom. He bullied me into making basketball my entire life. And after I got arrested, he cut me out of his life. His own son. I don’t want someone like him in my life, Beth. And there’s no reason why he should be. Why? So he can pay for me to go to college? Even if he did, the money would come with strings. I’m not interested in his strings.”
I nod slowly. “I get it.”
“Anyway, I was thinking of learning a trade. I heard welding pays pretty good.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?” I conjure up images of torches and masks.
“I don’t think so.”
“Maybe you should look at schools near Ames. I bet there are good trade schools there.” I say it lightly, but my intentions are so obvious I should probably just make up a sign that says Go to College with Me.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says, tossing another pinecone.
I want to pick it up and throw it at his head. “Why not?”
“Because your parents might stop paying your tuition, and then how will you get a good job and support me?” He tugs playfully on my ponytail.
If people glowed, I would be as bright as the moon on a cloudless night right now.
“Okay, fine. But you’ll have to visit.”
“When I get a car.”
“Good point.”
Chase doesn’t have wheels, and even if he did, he isn’t allowed to drive one as part of his probation terms, which I think is completely unfair. How is he supposed to have a job without a car?
“The system isn’t set up to rehabilitate a chicken, let alone a person,” he told me once during our meetings by the tree. “And I have it easy compared to lots of other guys because they end up in juvie for fighting and when they get out, there’s no one there to help them. At least I had my mom and Brian.”
But because of that, Chase bikes here. It’s a five-mile trek that he makes at least three times a week.
“I better go,” he says ruefully.
We keep our time together short. Chase says it’s to make sure we can keep meeting. If my parents find out that my nightly treks to the swing are really to see him, I’ll be locked in my room. But I also think the longer he stays, the more tempted we are to stop communicating with words. I’d be okay with that, but he’s not. It’s comical that he’s saying no, but I want to respect him and his wishes, just as he would respect mine.
“I’ll see you at the shelter tomorrow.”
I want a kiss goodbye, but I settle for a hug. That’s progress. A week ago, I got a hand squeeze. Maybe by Christmas, he’ll kiss my cheek.
27
At the shelter on Saturday, Rocco the pit bull is resisting a bath. Laughing, I march over to Sandy and roll up my sleeves. “Want me to do that?” I offer.
She wipes a forearm across her face. “I would be so happy if you would. He’s being extra cantankerous today. In fact, since you’re going to get wet, can you do the rest of these critters? Ask Chase to help you.”
“Okay.” I’m happy to do anything that involves Chase. I think Sandy knows that and takes advantage of it, but I don’t care.
I find Chase outside, picking up poop. “Hey, glamour boy, come and perform in a wet T-shirt contest for me,” I call out.
“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t objectify me.” He spins the garbage bag’s neck tight and then swiftly ties a knot.
“Not only do I not remember us discussing that, but if we did, I never would’ve agreed to such nonsense.”
He tosses the poop bag into a trash receptacle and shakes his head sadly. “The trials I have to suffer here.”
r />
“Drag the pity party inside before Rocco convinces all the other dogs that baths are terrible.”
We’re too late. The dogs are feisty, having been told by Rocco that we’re there to torture them. The water is cold. The dogs are slippery. The soap gets everywhere. I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun.
“You’re really good with animals,” Chase tells me after we corral the last dog back into his kennel. “You’ll make a good vet.”
“Thanks. Like you said, they’re not judgmental.” I toss the hose in Chase’s direction and pick up the overturned washtub. Rocco kicked it as he was jumping out, splashing water all over our tennis shoes. Sandy came back while Boots was barking his head off and left almost immediately, not wanting to get drenched with dirty water and wet fur.
“Dunno about that. Rocco looks pissed off.”
“I think I might’ve got soap in his eyes.”
“Nah. He’s just mad because I was the one scrubbing him down instead of you.” He winks and reaches for the water shutoff. The motion causes his T-shirt to stretch across his abs—his very nice, very firm set of abs.
“Helloooo! Where you at, Beth? It’s me,” a cheery voice yells from the outer room.
It’s Scarlett.
Chase looks up in panic. He drops the hose before he can turn the shutoff valve, and it sprays me, twisting around like an angry snake. I yelp and try to jump out of the way, but I’m not fast enough.
“Shit. Sorry.” Chase manages to corral the hose and then thrusts it into my hands, turning his back just as the outer door swings open. He walks, almost runs down the hall.
“Hey... Oh my God, what happened to you?” Scarlett laughs when she spots me.
I look down at my drenched Darling High T-shirt. “I was washing the dogs.”
Behind her is Jeff. He gives me a brief examination before looking over my shoulder. Uneasy, I glance back in time to see Chase’s head disappear around a corner.
When Jeff takes a step forward, I “accidentally” lose the hose and spray him. Jeff curses loudly.
“Sorry.” I raise a soapy hand. “It’s slippery.”
His eyes narrow in suspicion. “Was that Manson?” he asks.
“Who?” I play dumb.
“He means Charlie Donnelly.” Scarlett rolls her eyes. She sounds as tired with the stupid nickname as I am.
I decide not to answer her. Instead, I spray a line of water close to their feet. “Careful. It’s dirty over here,” I warn.
Jeff meets my eyes. He knows it was Chase and that I’m protecting him. I lift my chin. Chase needs someone on his side. Jeff’s got the whole school. Hell, he has the whole town. Chase has no one.
“We should go,” Jeff announces. “I just remembered I needed to do something for my dad.”
“But we just got here,” Scar protests. “I wanted to hang with Beth and pet the doggies.”
“Walk home, then, if you’re going to be rude about it.” With that, he turns on his heel.
Scar looks over at me in a panic. “It’s fine,” I say with a shrug. “Go.”
That’s all she needs to scamper after him. “I’m sorry, Jeff. I was just excited about the dogs.”
“You always have a choice, Scar. If you don’t want to be with me, say the word.”
She falls silent. I’m torn between wanting to protect Chase and wanting to run after Scarlett and ask her what the hell she’s doing with Jeff. Every time I see them, he’s running her down for not doing exactly what he wants.
Was he like this with Rachel? Or did he develop this bad attitude in England? He better not have treated Rachel like this.
I rush over, turn off the water and then hurry to the window to watch them leave. When Jeff’s Audi pulls out of the parking lot, I call out to Chase. “It’s safe to come out.”
His shoes thump on the floor. He joins me at the window, bracing an arm next to my head.
“I’m worried about Scarlett,” I tell him.
Chase offers a knowing look. “Because Jeff demands more obedience from her than we do from Rocco?”
“Something like that.”
He leans closer, peering out the window. “He’s a bully. There’re plenty like him in juvie, only without the clothes and fancy cars, but underneath he’s the same as them. All he wants to do is control people. He gets off on the power trips.”
“Do you think he was like that with Rachel?” I gnaw on my lip.
“I don’t know. It’s been three years. People can change a lot in three years. Look at me.” I twist my head to see his a scant few inches from mine. He gives me a self-deprecating smile. “I was a self-absorbed, immature asshole know-it-all who thought that stealing his coach’s car was the height of coolness. I wouldn’t do that now if you paid me a million dollars.”
“Jeff went to England, not prison,” I remind him.
“I know, but it could’ve felt like a prison.”
I flush. That was the same sentiment I thoughtlessly flung at Chase before.
“Hey.” His finger tips my chin upward. “I didn’t mean it like that. You’re nothing like Jeff.”
“You’re saying there’s hope for me?” I rub my jaw against his finger. My house did feel like a prison when I met Chase, and my response was to try to lose control. Jeff’s response is apparently to exercise control over everyone around him.
“Yeah. There’s hope.” His voice is husky.
Thoughts of Jeff fly out of my head. It’s hard to focus on anything but the boy in front of me when he’s so close. My gaze falls to his shirt, which is still wet. There are fresh wrinkles in the center, as if he’s pulled it off, wrung it out and shoved it back on. Near his collar is a tiny dry patch.
“I missed a part here.” I run my finger over the cotton, feeling his collarbone underneath.
His breath catches in his throat. I stroke my way along the bone, dropping into the shallow dip at the base of his throat. I wait for him to stop me, as he always does. But he remains still. My finger continues its exploration, following a downward path. On the surface, Chase is hard—all muscles, tough sinew and bone. But underneath, he has a tender heart. It aches for us. What he wants and what I want are at odds with what we should be wanting.
“You shouldn’t do this.” The words are raspy, as if he has a hard time forcing them out.
“Yes, I should.”
28
I’m tired of being patient. I’m tired of doing things other people think I should be doing. There’s nothing wrong with the concept of us.
I won’t let us be wrong.
I rise on my tiptoes and press my lips against his. He freezes, but then his lips soften. His hand on my chin draws me closer. He makes a sound, one that curls my toes. One that I want to capture on my phone and play on repeat every night until I fall asleep.
I lean into him, drawing from that well of strength that he’s built up inside. His arms close around me, and the kiss goes on and on and—
Bark! Bark! Bark!
A wet nose shoves between us. I look down to see Rocco aggressively pushing Chase and me apart. His stubby tail wags furiously.
Chase releases a half groan, half laugh and then bends down and gives the dog a firm scrub behind his ears. “You want a little love, too, Rocco?”
I use the time to collect myself. We probably shouldn’t be making out at work. Sandy might frown on that, and I don’t want to jeopardize the time Chase and I have here together. These moments are part of the small things that keep me going through the day.
I take a few deep breaths and push myself away from the wall.
Chase actively avoids looking in my direction for the rest of the shift, but I can’t keep my eyes off him. And I can’t stop touching my lips.
He kissed me back. Christmas came early.
I grin and my smil
e doesn’t leave my face even when I arrive home to two glum-faced parents. I give them both a wave. Dad probably had a bad day at the hardware store and Mom’s always complaining about how the agents are terrible with their expense reports. I float up the stairs. I sway in the shower and hum as I change my clothes.
On my phone, I find the mushiest playlist about love on Spotify, lie on my bed and learn there are old bands with names like REO Speedwagon and The Bangles. Who knew?
After an hour of listening to music, I hear my mom yell up the stairs that dinner is ready.
“Any big Halloween plans?” she asks when we’re all seated at the table. The orange pumpkin season is upon us.
“Scar might be having a party.” Remembering Scarlett puts a small dent in my good mood. I rest my fork on the side of my plate.
Should I bring up Jeff? No, I decide. If Jeff had been a jerk three years ago, my parents wouldn’t still be so in love with him now. Dad, in particular, thinks Jeff’s the best guy ever. Plus, I don’t want to piss them off with the information that Jeff’s dating Scar. It’s better that they don’t know.
I pick up my fork and resume eating.
“That’s nice. I guess we’ll need to get you a costume.”
“If we give her permission to go,” Dad says tightly. He’s been wearing a dark expression since we sat down. He totally must’ve had a bad day at work.
Mom sighs. “Dave, we discussed this. Beth’s been on her best behavior since...” She trails off, but I can fill in the blanks.
Since she went to the police station in defense of our daughter’s killer. Since she went to his house after we ransacked her bedroom and did God knows what with that boy.
“Her best behavior,” Dad echoes, and I feel a chill, because it sounds more like a question than an agreement.
“And the shelter? How was that?” Mom casts a worried glance in Dad’s direction before turning back to me. “You showered when you got home. Did something happen at the shelter?”
“We washed the dogs and I stunk like wet pet hair.”
“We?” Dad echoes, narrowing his eyes at me.
The tiniest alarm pings in the back of my head. “The staff,” I say, lowering my gaze.