Someone Else (20 page)

“My mother left when I was seven. One day I came home from school and she was gone. Vanished. I haven’t heard from her since.”

Now I was totally baffled. I’d been expecting a major revelation, but not this. My mind called up an image of his Betty Crocker mother, pulling oatmeal cookies out of the oven with cat-shaped oven mitts. “But, your mom…?”

“She’s not my mom. She’s my stepmom. My dad married her when I was ten.”

“Why do you let people think she’s your mom?”

He shrugged and looked away, toward the school. The bell rang for second period, but neither of us moved a muscle. “Easier than telling people that my real mother abandoned me and doesn’t give a shit about me.”

I didn’t know what to say. I tried to imagine one of my parents taking off for good with no forwarding address. As much as I may have wished for that at times, it must have been a mentally damaging experience to have it happen for real.

“My dad won’t talk about her,” Dylan went on. “He gave up trying to find her, and I’ve never felt the urge to pick up where he left off. There aren’t even any pictures of her around, but I still remember what she looked like, how she sounded.”

His expression when he talked about his mother was so wounded, so vulnerable, that I couldn’t stop myself from reaching up to stroke his face. He closed his eyes, leaning into my touch until his head rested on my shoulder. As I held him, running my fingers along the soft skin at the back of his neck, my heart filled with emotions that both scared and encouraged me.

“You won’t tell anyone, right?”

“Of course not,” I said, the words sticking in my throat.

His lifted his head to kiss me, an urgent kiss that went on for several minutes. “From now on, I’ll be better,” he said when we finally broke apart. “I’ll be a better boyfriend to you. I’ll even stop telling you I love you, if you want, even though I do. Madly.”

“Madly, huh?” I slid my frozen hands under his shirt, making him squirm. “Well, in that case, I guess you shouldn’t stop.”

But he did stop, or cut down at least, and for the next two weeks he was the ideal boyfriend. The kind girls fantasize about. His calls trickled to once or twice a day. He never grilled me about where I’d been or why I was late or who I was with. He didn’t turn cold when I said or did something he didn’t like. He didn’t insist on driving my car. He even stopped pressuring me for sex, which—ironically enough—resulted in us having sex for first time while we “studied” in my room one afternoon.

He was thoughtful and considerate and sweet, and after a few days of this new-and-improved Dylan, I quit asking myself why I was with him and started to relax and enjoy it. We had a secret now, one that bonded us, and I’d never felt closer to him.

But now, alone in my car after work, those four calls on my cell each took turns slapping me back down to reality.

****

My week kept going from bad to worse. As if Dylan’s return to his old ways wasn’t bothersome enough, my mother had to add one more brick to the load.

To be honest, it was
my
fault she’d been on the warpath lately. It began the day the school called our house to tell her I had a few unexcused absences. She forced me to admit that I’d skipped class, then threatened to take away my car. Luckily I needed it for work, or she would have followed through for sure. I got away with a promise to never skip again, she forgave me, and all was well until a week later when she found one of Dylan’s sweatshirts in my room and flipped out again.

The evidence in question was carefully draped over a kitchen chair when I came home from work one night, and as soon as I saw it I wanted to turn around and walk back outside to safety. But my mother lay in wait by the sink, itching to pounce.

“What the hell is this?” She pointed at the sweatshirt like it was a grape juice stain on a brand-new white sofa. She only said
hell
when she was super pissed.

“A hoodie,” I said, calmly extracting a carton of chocolate milk from the fridge.

“I know what it is. What was it doing in your room?”

“What were
you
doing in my room?”

“You left the laptop in there. And don’t change the subject.”

So much for my clever deflection tactics. “It’s Dylan’s,” I said, and guzzled half a glass of milk without pause. I was always so thirsty after work.

“Why was Dylan’s sweatshirt in your room?”

Because we sneak in here almost every afternoon to have sex on my bed and sometimes all his clothes don’t make it back onto his body and he leaves something behind.
That was what I felt like saying, but I settled on, “He gave it to me the other day when I was cold. I wore it home and forgot to give it back to him. That’s all. Jeez.”

My mother gave me her patented brain-probing look, and I knew she didn’t believe one word. “You’re bringing him here while I’m at work, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Don’t you dare lie to me, Taylor. This is why you’re usually gone when I get home from work, isn’t it? You’re driving him home after you…Oh my
God
, you are in so much trouble.”

“Calm down, Mom.” This was the exact wrong thing to say, but man, she was practically hyperventilating. “You’re freaking out over nothing.”

“Nothing! I can assure you, treating my house like it’s a sleazy motel is not
nothing
. Do you want to get pregnant? Is that what you want?”

I almost laughed. Getting pregnant had about as much appeal for me as getting my teeth scaled at the dentist. I’d do anything to avoid it, which was why I believed in doubling up on birth control. “Mom, I am not going to get pregnant.”

She pointed at me in the same way she’d pointed at the offending sweatshirt. “Damn right you’re not. Starting tomorrow, you’re grounded for two weeks. And you’re never to bring that boy here again while I’m not home. Is that understood?”

Two weeks? I’d been expecting more, like a trip to the maternity ward or something. Two weeks of lock-up I could do, especially since school and work kept me out of the house all week. Plus, this weekend I’d be at Dad and Lynn’s house, where punishments were generally overlooked.

“I get it,” I said.

“Good.” She yanked Dylan’s sweatshirt off the chair and tossed it to me. “Return it. I never want to see it again.”

Just because I was feeling plucky—and maybe a little delirious from lack of sleep—I pulled the hoodie over my head as I left the kitchen. My mother’s glare sliced into my back, but I ignored her and rolled up the sleeves.

In my bedroom, I flopped on the bed with my cell and opened the message inbox. Dylan had called five minutes ago, right about the time my mother was screaming at me, so naturally I hadn’t heard it ringing. I called him back, hating how my stomach clenched a little as I waited for him to answer.

“Hey,” I said when he picked up. “Guess what? My mom—.”

“There has to be some kind of alarm you can set on your phone to remind you to turn your damn ringer on after work. I swear, I talk to your voicemail more than I talk to you.”

“I did turn the ringer on.” I made my voice calm, unemotional, which I’d learned was the best way to handle him when he acted like this. “I was away from my phone.”

“Yeah, okay.” The bite in his voice weakened, but not by much. “Your mom what?”

I looked down at my sweatshirt-clad torso, taking in the familiar pattern of white on black. It was the same one he’d been wearing, I recalled, the day he told me about his mom. It smelled like him, like fabric softener and the musky scent of boy. I ran my fingers over the frayed hem, trying to invoke the memory of that day and the amazing two weeks that followed, wanting to hold onto that version of him so I could deal with this other version, the one that was starting to scare me.

“She busted me,” I said, and proceeded to fill him in on the details of my mom’s surprise attack in the kitchen. He listened quietly until I got to the part about the two-week grounding.

“What about Brent’s party?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be at my Dad’s that night. He’ll let me go.”

Brent’s parents were going away for the weekend and half the school would be at his house on Saturday night. No one would forgive me if I missed it, especially Dylan. Our friends expected us to be there. I knew this long before Saturday rolled around, so I suppose the drama that ensued when I deviated from the plan shouldn’t have come as a big shock to me.

Chapter 18

The night of the party, I got off work at seven and headed straight to Dad’s house to get ready. Before hitting the shower I checked my messages, expecting at least one from Dylan. Nothing from him, but another number had called five times in the last three hours. Robin’s cell.

What the hell? I frowned at the tiny screen. I’d spoken to Robin only sporadically over the past couple of months, the last time being a week and a half ago, when she called to brag about the new-to-her car Alan had given her. She’d never call that many times unless she had either really bad news or really good news. I called her back, praying for the latter.

“Taylor,” she said, and those two little syllables told me everything. Her tone, usually so perky, sounded scratchy and sad. “I’m so glad you called.”

“What’s up?”

“I really need to talk to someone. Can you meet me at Starbucks?”

Someone? I thought. I was just “someone” now?

“Well, I have this party tonight…” I said, and felt a stab of guilt. Even when she treated me like an afterthought, I still had this weird obligation to be there for her.

“Please, Taylor? You’re the only person I can really talk to about family stuff. You’re the only one who understands what it’s like for me. Please. I’m desperate.”

“Is everyone okay?”

“I can’t get into it right now. Meet me at Starbucks in an hour? Please?”

It was the third
please
that did me in. “Of course I will. See you in an hour.”

“Thanks, Tay. You’re the best.”

The best
friend
, maybe, I thought as I hung up and went to get my shower. But I was about to take home the Worst Girlfriend Ever award very soon.

Like the chicken I was, I waited until I was seated in my car and ready to roll before I called to update Dylan, who was already at Brent’s house. Actually, I didn’t call him, I texted him. Cluck cluck. My phone started ringing before I’d even left the driveway.

“You want to explain the text you just sent me?”

Crap. He was pissed. I stopped at the end of the driveway, put the car into park. “It’s pretty straightforward. I’m leaving now to meet Robin. When I’m done hanging out with her, I’ll head to Brent’s.”

“You’re supposed to meet me here at eight-thirty. Remember? Or was I talking to myself when we discussed it the other day?”

“So I’ll meet you at ten instead. Or whenever I get there. It’s no big deal.”

He was silent for a moment, as if stunned by my insolence. “No big deal? You’re blowing off a party to go hang out with your friend. Sure. No big deal at all.”

“I’m not blowing it off.” Deep breaths, in and out. Calm. Cool. Composed. The Three C’s of Dealing with Dylan. “Robin’s really upset about something. She
needs
me, Dylan. What was I supposed to do?”

“Say you have other plans, maybe? Keep your word to me?” His voice rose with each word, causing me to have to hold the phone away from my ear. “I can’t believe you’re being so selfish.”

A roaring sound filled my skull.
Selfish
. That did it. After everything I’d been through with him, after all the nasty comments I’d ignored, the dark moods I’d endured, the silent treatments I’d accepted, all the times I’d bit my tongue and walked on eggshells and made excuses, and he had the nerve to call me
selfish
?

It all became clear to me then, why I continued to stay with him. First, I had used him to get over Michael, and then, when that didn’t work, I’d stayed because he seemed to need me so much. I guess I needed him too, in a way. Maybe I
was
selfish. I couldn’t fix my own life but I could try fixing his. So I transformed myself into The Girl Who Made Dylan Happy. I had a purpose, a distraction. And when he told me about his mom, I stayed because I finally understood why he held on to me so tightly and I felt sorry for him, maybe even started blaming myself a little for the way he acted. If only I was a better girlfriend, if only I remembered to turn on my phone, if only I loved him like he loved me. If only I tried hard enough, I could recapture a little of what I’d once had with Michael. Only this time, I’d hold on to it.

“Dylan,” I said. The roaring dissipated and my head began to clear, leaving me feeling like I had just surfaced from a long swim underwater. “I’m not going to argue about it. I have to go. Robin’s waiting for me.”

“Oh, well, you better hurry then,” he said, his tone full of jagged edges. Then, just because he felt like being an even bigger asshole, he added, “I don’t know why you’d want to hang out with her, anyway. From what you told me, she sounds like a huge slut.”

“She’s my friend.” He’d never even met Robin, didn’t know her at all, yet he hated the idea of me spending any time with her. Her wild lifestyle and possible influence on me made him nervous, but I knew the main reason he discouraged our friendship was because she was a link to Michael. “I have to go,” I said. “I’ll be at Brent’s as soon as I can.”

“Don’t bother.”

And with that, he hung up in my ear.

****

Robin was sitting at a table with a drink in front of her when I finally showed up at Starbucks. I studied her as I zigzagged around people and chairs to get to where she sat. She looked gorgeous as usual, her reddish hair gleaming in the light of the fireplace, but her eyes gave away her distress.

“Hi,” I said, sitting down across from her. “Sorry I’m late.”

“It’s okay. Did you want to get a drink?”

I went to get a latte and bought a brownie too, to share. “What’s going on?” I asked, sitting back down and sliding the brownie toward her. She barely glanced at it.

“My mother is pregnant,” she said.

I took a gulp of latte and burned my tongue. “What?”