#Kissing (Rock and Romance #1) (10 page)

Chapter 26

I walk along the New York City avenues until the edges of the sky blur like chalk, in shades of royal blue and dusty violet. The broad steps of a pillared university building sit empty and austere, reminding me of JQ.

I spin in a circle, pause, and close my eyes, listening. The streets don't call my name. Niko doesn't rush up from the darkness to explain. I'm alone. And all is city-quiet.

I was supposed to go to college here in Manhattan. My mother attended community college and my father a state school. For me, there were aspirations and expectations. Lists and goals. All of that is gone, lost under my heels in this lonely departure. All I hear is the jingle of Niko's belt.

I continue down the street as service workers wake up to their toilsome lives as the party continues in a club not far from here. It's time to leave and not because Kat fooled around with my guy, but because he didn't stop it.

Sometimes you have to walk yourself home.

Or take a train.

I return to the hotel and gather my things. It's morning now, and he hasn't returned.

On the mirror in the bathroom, using my bloodiest shade of lipstick I write
Fuck you
. I leave a trail of tears as I slam the door behind me.

The image of Niko's face collapsed with pleasure and Kat rubbing against him, replays punishingly in my head for the four ride back to Rhode Island.

Exhausted and wounded, my surroundings blur as I bypass the empty driveway, the house I grew up in, and enter through the side gate.

I'm thankful my mother is at work. It's hard enough to deal with her sober, never mind hungover, lacking sleep, and with a fracture in the vicinity of my heart. Coming back here is giving up and giving in. She'll be all too happy to throw the disaster that I've become in my face.

#Fail

I cross the back yard, carpeted in a flame of orange and yellow leaves. I grip the strong branches and kick up, hoisting myself into the sugar maple. I lean against the rough bark, my head and heart aching. I'm dizzy and starved, and need to take my medicine, but it has to wait. I need to catch my breath, and I can't.

I blink my eyes open, fragments of light reaching through the remaining autumn leaves still on the branches. I admire how the tree lets the leaves fall, with no complaint that all that beauty drifts to the ground to brown and decay, to be trampled underfoot, or raked away and burned. Somehow, the tree knows the leaves will return, possibly stronger and more lovely than before.

I fall too, landing hard on the ground, and that is the last thing I remember.

Part Two

First Comes Love

Chapter 27

I wake to the smell of peppermint soap, warm breath on my cheek, and a prick of my skin. I convince my burdened eyes to open and peer into the blue ones belonging to Jesse Quaid, nicknamed JQ since we were little, who came to my aid. But before I can say something, such as
thank you
or a belated
I love  you too
, I roll away on a nebulous train of dreamy memories spliced with the mania of the last seventy-something hours.

I'm panting and sweating when I rocket to sitting. The room is dark except for a thin belt from the nightlight seeping under my bedroom door. I sag back onto the mattress. She must know that I'm here. I shouldn't care. I didn’t care what she thought when I left, but returning, a hot mess like this, proves her point. I'm reckless, impulsive, irresponsible, and ill-equipped to manage my life on my own.

I failed to take my medicine. I passed out. I should probably be in the hospital. A distressed feeling, as if I'm falling and reaching for those branches above, scratches through me. If JQ hadn't found me, it could have been so much worse. Likely, it is. However, I take a breath, and it goes a little deeper than it did yesterday.

I could have confronted Niko, right there at the club, stopped the whole thing, and made a scene. A throw down tantrum, embarrassing him in front of all his friends and fans. I could have waited in the hotel room, laid into him when he returned, blissfully unaware that I'd witnessed his transgression. A fearsome smile would turn into a well-deserved lashing with my merciless tongue. He would have apologized. I would have showed Kat she couldn't run me off that easily.

Instead, I left.

My ribs clutch the walls of my chest, my heart is sludgy, and my sweaty hands are what humiliation feels like. It's the same feeling I had before I left home. It told me I had to walk away, to go, and leave my old life behind. I intended not to come back, ever. I quietly exacted my revenge on my mother for the scripted life she planned and enforced by suddenly not giving a fuck. It translated into my parents and everyone who shaped my existence, standing slack jawed because they underestimated me. (Their estimations had to do with GPAs and pressure for success that I didn't want any part of.) My desire was singular: happiness, though I guess I'm still searching.

I come out from under the green and yellow quilt Bubbie made me and sneak to the hallway. My mother's door is closed. She's always been inaccessible and yet in control, helicoptering over everything. Her proximity, even separated by the solid wood door, is exhausting.

It's been about three years, yet everything in the house is impeccably curated and manicured, exactly as I remember it. The silk flowers—including the autumn sprigs with the little red blooms—sit in the vase on the long table by the bathroom. The cinnamon-vanilla soap is topped off next to the sink. The seasonal hand towels are on display.

Panels of moonlight illuminate the family photos on the wall leading down the stairs. There I am, a chubby, bald little baby. Then smiling with a gob full of chocolate cake on my first birthday—my parents argued about that ten years later. My mother against the cake, my father in favor. More frames contain professional portraits of me: Easter eggs and bunny ears, beach balls and a sandcastle backdrop, a pony—all shot in a studio or on site; the orchestration of the picture perfect life. Noticeably absent are the images of my mother, father, and me. Those came down with the divorce.

The fridge is nearly empty. The second shelf is a wholesale run of fat free yogurt. A carton of orange juice and a lonely pint of milk sit on the top shelf, leaving plenty of room on the door for a sparse assortment of condiments, including the homemade blueberry jam Mrs. Quaid gifts at the end of the summer. I crack the lid, take a spoon, and taste August of every year I've ever known except for the last few. I close my eyes and try for another deep breath.

I chug a glass of water and make a couple slices of toast, savoring the warmed jam.

My medicine sits on the counter. After another glass of water, I prick my finger to check my glucose levels and then slip the needle under my skin. No doubt, I'll soon hear a lecture.

I sigh. Beneath all the lectures—doing well in school, filling my calendar with various activities to round out my college resume, and the myriad other things she finds to drone on about—, my mother's really saying she doesn't trust me to take care of myself and live my life.

I fight against the proof, me standing, back here, in the spotlight of the kitchen, that she was right.

Sitting on the couch in the dark, I consider leaving again, right now, if only to avoid her doubts and control. I could be back on the bus with the Halos in less than six hours. My phone isn't in my pocket or my bag. She must have taken it. I will always be helpless and foolish in her eyes because that's what she fears the most. It's all so clear now. Either that or I hit my head when I fell from the tree, which I wouldn't doubt.

I get to my feet, my breath coming in spurts. I can't stay here. There's no way I can deal with her impossible expectations, her quest for perfectionism while routinely undermining me.

Across the yard, a lemon-y light blinks on in an upstairs room of the Quaid's otherwise dark house. I slump back onto the couch, collapsing my head between my legs with the sense that I'm tumbling out of the tree and out of my life—or back into my old life that doesn't fit anymore.

What have I done?

I pad upstairs and slip into my bed. The cold square of my phone pokes into my hip. Its battery is dead so I root through my bag to find the plug to charge it.

When I close my eyes, I see JQ's face on the train. He's there in so many of my dreams, both awake and asleep. Those blue eyes. There's also an image of him standing in the rain when the cab carried me away from this small suburb of Providence, Rhode Island and out of his life.

There's his crushed expression when I made out with Casper Babcock at the kind of party the two of us both intentionally avoided during high school.

He'd pleaded with me to hang in there, to plan a spring break adventure, anything to carry me through until graduation.

I move backwards through time, trying to return to when I was still ok. Those days, countless mornings, afternoons, and every second in between when our friendship anchored me to this life. The two of us spending holidays together, laughing at the adults and their stupid jokes, sneaking sips of wine, ending up talking for half of the night, under the quilt of stars up in our tree. Doing homework after school. Practicing soccer. Pretending his play structure was our pirate ship when we were little. I want to go back to all that, but I broke our friendship and the potential for more.

Chapter 28

When I wake again, it's to my mother clicking her tongue. Apparently, even the way I sleep isn't good enough.

Metal rings against the curtain rod foretell the sunlight she's so eager to shine into my life, only behind my lids it's muted. I hope for cloudy weather, just to spite her. I roll over.

"Josephine. Wake up. You do realize it's already noon."

I didn't.

"I came back during my lunch hour to check on you. You do realize this is unacceptable." Her tone is clipped.

I don't move.

"Young lady, you do realize I'm talking to you."

If a yappy dog could speak, that would be the sound of my mother's voice, pitchy, nasal, and grating.

Her heels click closer, and she nudges me with the tips of two fingers. "You do realize that you look terrible."

I make a slow and agonizing rotation onto my back. "Good morning to you too."

"That's the point. It isn't morning." Her lips are a thin line of disapproval. "Explain what happened. Why did Jesse Quaid ring the doorbell in the middle of the night? Why was he standin' there with you, passed out in his arms?" She crosses her arms in front of her chest.

Crap, she's leaving off her
G
s, meaning her southern accent is slipping through, which only happens when she's pissed.

"Why did you stink like the bottom of a gin mill? Why haven't you responded to my calls or called me yourself, Josephine—I've been paying for your mobile phone. Why?" Her fingers roll against her upper arm and the word
why
is like a sharp inhalation of anger rather than a question.

I exhale for her.

"Why would you let yourself be splashed all over the internet like that? Darcy Reynolds showed me. Why would you go with that boy and the band, the Halos? Nothin' angelic about that bunch, I can tell."

And here it comes.

"Why would you leave everything you worked so hard for? Why would you let scholarships and awards and the opportunity to give the speech at your graduation go? Why, Josephine? Why?"

I meet her eyes with a question of my own,
why can't she let me live my own life
, but instead of asking, I see a woman with deeper lines under her eyes than I remember. A few blond hairs are out of place and the lilac polish on her thumbnail is chipped. The button on her skirt doesn't align precisely with the buttons on her blouse. Her shoulders pitch forward slightly like she's supporting something heavy on her back, maybe the weight of all those
whys
.

A slightly different question rises to my lips. "What do you see when you look at me?" I swallow, regretting that I might actually hear an answer.

"Josephine, I don't have time for this. I have to get back to work. I just don't understand why you gave up so much. For what? I hope your playtime is over and you're ready to get back on track."

From somewhere in the house her cell phone chimes.

With her accent firmly put away, she clicks to the door. "Oh, and you have an appointment at Dr. Woodson's office at two-thirty. Don't be late."

I am not going to see her therapist.
A
therapist, fine, but not Dr. Woodson. When my parents divorced, one of my mother's friends recommended she visit Dr. Woodson; a lovely enough woman, don't get me wrong, when she came over for wine and book club. What concerns me is that she doesn't strictly abide by the confidentiality agreement pursuant between doctor and patient.

At one book club gathering, while I was refreshing the cheese and crackers platter, Dr. Woodson relayed a detailed account of their mutual friend, and her patient, Lilian—who'd had an affair with the pharmacist in town, along with the scandal of her pill popping.

I go to the bathroom. The violet rimming my mother's eyes has nothing on the disaster I am.

In my reflection, I glimpse Kat's hateful expression and Niko's rapturous one. I scrub and scour, using my mother's expensive potions, but none of it washes the sting of the cheap betrayal from my skin. The worst part of it is by leaving, I gave Kat exactly what she wanted, my power. Even though it wasn't a position I applied for, it was mine. Niko was mine. I had a life there on the road with the band, heading to South America next month, leaving this house and this life, far, far behind. Here I am, back where I started; in the exact place I tried so hard to run from.

I towel off, picking apart what it was I was trying to escape.

This town?
Check.

This house?
Check.

My mother's insistence on everything being her way?
Check
.

I wander through the house, recalling some of her edicts:

Don't throw tissues in the trash can in the bathroom; it's for show.

Coasters on the coffee table only; I don't want water rings.

No dishes in the sink.

Don't leave your keys on the counter.

Keep your bedroom door closed.

Does a human even live here? Is this a home or a showroom? Whom is she trying to impress? Does she expect someone to pop in wearing a pair of white gloves and test for dust? If they did, and she passed inspection, would an award be presented in the town square?

The scorecard for Coralee McCord, formerly Speedwell:

Gold stars all the way!

Lo! Her floors and counters, and even her drapes are clean, spotless!

She can scour, scrub, and polish the surface of her life to perfection.

She tried to shape me into a sparkling model of faultlessness, but the grit, the roughness bled through, and I'm not sorry. She may like that for her life, but it isn't for me.

I'm so over it. But the bread bag from late last night sits on the counter, the twisty tie nearby like a squiggly question mark. I'm surprised it isn't put away with a sticky-note reminder in its place. I make a pot of coffee, hoping to stave off a headache.

She's not here, but I shout, "I know you fart and poop too. You can't keep yourself from being human, Mother. Me either. I'm not a programmable robot. Try as you might to stop me, I'm going to fuck up, upset you, and do all kinds of crap you won't like." My laughter echoes through the empty house and the sound of it bouncing off the lonely walls strikes me as hilarious, ridiculous, and upsetting.

The cold ring of my voice makes me want something warm, comforting. Cookies. I dig through the pantry and locate containers of flour and sugar, but no chocolate chips. There's a box of brownie mix so I tear into it, and lacking eggs, I add oil and water, spooning bites into my mouth. The chocolate zips through me. The sugar and cocoa is creamy in my veins.

I pour a glass of water. It sloshes over the rim as I go to the living room, letting rings form on the coffee table as I kick my feet up and dig into the brownie batter.

The two-thirty appointment comes and goes as I marathon Gossip Girl until the bowl of batter is empty and my pancreas hates me. I hate it too. I hate pretty much everything my mother and father created.

I survey the messy camp I made over the last few hours: a discarded throw blanket, a rumpled pair of socks, the empty chocolate stained bowl, and a few magazines strewn about. I leave it all as evidence that this isn't a model home for potential buyers to pass through envisioning themselves occupying the space, but a scene out of real life. Or maybe it isn't that at all, perhaps my mother just wants people to admire how she does it all: raises a perfect child, keeps a perfectly clean house, and has a perfectly successful career.

I wander down the hall toward my mother's office and past the wall hosting the
magic mirror
, an antique gilded piece she bought in Vermont or some other idyll.

A smear of chocolate runs across my cheek. I leave it there just to be disagreeable. What does she see when she looks at me? Disappointment? Failure? My father?

What do I see? Exhaustion. Hurt. Capriciousness. Resentment. Unhappiness.

I pass the numerous awards, certificates, and various commendations for dedication to the real estate agency she manages covering the rest of the wall. I debate continuing to the front door or going back upstairs. She even framed the divorce certificate. She sent herself the most outrageous display of roses after they signed the papers. I'm sure they're black by now.

Before, during, and after the divorce, my parents were hostile and horrible to each other. Then in the same sentence, they'd tell me how much they loved me and that their breaking up had nothing to do with me, which was a cold burn of being torn down the middle. These two people, who so obviously despised one another, created me, so when they broke it off, did they want to send me back too? Cut me out of their lives?

My hand is on the doorknob. On the other side is freedom. I hesitate. Niko opted for Kat, for an instant of pleasure, instead of honoring what we had.

I opt for my bed.