Breaking the Rules

  “Hi, Isaiah! Hey, Beth.”

  Beth lies on the bed next to Isaiah in the opposite direction. In her tank top and with her black hair falling over one shoulder, Beth is sprawled on her stomach with her feet bent in the air and her chin resting on her folded hands. She’s completely absorbed in the game. When Beth says nothing in return, Echo tries again. “Who’s winning?”

  “I don’t have a fucking clue nor do I fucking care.”

  Echo’s head ticks back.

  “Back off, Beth.” I cross the room, drop a kiss on the curve of Echo’s neck and whisper in her ear, “She’d rip me to pieces, too, right now. She’s a bitch when the Yankees play.”

  Her eyebrows rise. “Is she a Red Sox fan?”

  Isaiah chuckles and we both throw him a glare, but he doesn’t notice as he’s absorbed in a car manual.

  “Beth hates baseball.”

  Echo’s eyes dart from Beth to the television to me then she waves her hand in the air for an explanation.

  “She watches,” I explain. “Yankees only. It’s what she does and there are some things we don’t question about each other.”

  “Just the Yankees?” Echo whispers.

  “Just the Yankees,” I repeat.

  “And she hates baseball?”

  “With a passion.”

  “That’s...” Echo says in a hushed tone. “That’s messed up.”

  “We’re all fucked up in this room, princess,” says Beth. “Get used to it.”

  “Did you fall into some paint, Echo?” Isaiah asks, changing the subject.

  Echo’s shoulder slumps as she pivots toward the mirror. She groans as she touches her cheek and forehead that are more red and pink than skin. “Dang it. Why am I such a mess?”

  “I think it’s sexy as hell,” I say.

  “I think I’m going to barf,” Beth mocks my tone.

  Death radiates from the look I send her way. Enough that it should melt her. “Ever sleep in a tent, Beth?”

  Beth focuses on the screen while raising her middle finger in my direction.

  “Screw it.” Echo turns away from the mirror. “I need a shower.”

  I smile, Echo blushes, then I laugh. Damn me for inviting Isaiah and Beth to share our room.

  “Anyhow.” An excited glint strikes Echo’s eyes. “Are you ready? I hope you like it. It’s sort of...for you. But it’s not done, okay? I mean, something like this would actually take a while to perfect, so I guess I’m saying—”

  “Echo.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s all good.”

  “Okay.” Her fingers drum nervously over the top of the canvas before she repeats, “Okay.”

  “I’m assuming that’s not the constellation Aires?”

  “No. I’ll have to start on that tomorrow.” With a deep inhale, Echo pulls out a chair from the table and rests the painting on the arms and leans it against the back so it will stay upright.

  Air rushes out of my body, and I sink onto our bed. It’s the same damned shock as when she drew my parents this past spring. There’s awe and joy and this ache that hits deep in my gut. I bend forward and rest my joint hands on my knees and stare at the sight in front of me.

  Fuck me, my eyes burn. I shut them, attempting to get my shit together. It’s a painting. Only a painting. I reopen them, and it’s the same disorientation as a right hook to the head. It’s more than a painting, and that’s the reason my throat swells.

  Last night meant as much to me as it did to her and she painted it, capturing it in a way unique to Echo. She’s right, it’s not done. It’s a skeleton compared to her other work, but I see enough to know what she desires, what she plans to design. Up close all those colors would look like chaos, but when viewed as a whole it creates this beautiful picture. In the end, that’s the best way to describe me and Echo, our relationship. Our love.

  The bed dips as Echo eases onto it, settles behind me and props her chin on my shoulder. Her signature scent that reminds me of walking into a bakery becomes an invisible blanket surrounding me. “What do you think?”

  “It’s us,” I whisper, and knots form in my stomach. Echo always finds a way to blow my mind. She tenses behind me and I continue, “It’s where we spent last night.”

  “It is.” Echo relaxes, and her fingers curl around my biceps. “Do you like it?”

  Struggling for composure, I place my hand over hers and pause. “It’s...”

  I’m not Echo. I don’t have words for what happens inside me. If I did, I’d fail at describing this. I shift to rest my forehead against hers. “I don’t deserve you.”

  “That’s my statement,” she says so only I can hear. “I wish we were alone again.”

  I press my lips to hers, slide my hand through her hair and watch as the curls bounce back into place. “Me, too.”

  If we were alone, I’d take it slow, worshipping every inch of her body. I’d work like hell for it to be her night—the night she enjoys the actual act of making love. And if it didn’t happen tonight, then I’d dedicate every night to that single pursuit.

  Echo edges closer, and our lips move slowly as we both try to fight the build. There’s other people in the room. Other people.

  Isaiah clears his throat. “Let’s take a walk, Beth.”

  “Walks are overrated.” Odds are the Yankees are winning, and Beth’s oblivious to the world, meaning she’s in the dark about the heat radiating from Echo and me.

  Echo’s hand drifts from my arm, applies pressure to my chest and places a few inches between us. She lets out a long gush of air. I understand her frustration. My body is wound tight.

  “I’m going to take a shower.” Echo slips off the bed. After she’s done, I’ll probably take a long, cold one.

  Echo gathers her actual pj’s, not her tank and underwear, and I glance at the clock. It’s late, and if Echo painted that much she didn’t eat lunch or dinner. I may not be able to spend the rest of the night bringing to life my fantasies, but I can do the small things that cause her to smile.

  I grab her keys off the dresser. “Chicken sandwich or Chinese?”

  “I’ll make a ham sandwich.”

  “Nonnegotiable. You choose or I will.”

  Echo kisses my cheek, and the caress burns past my skin and into my blood. “Chinese.”

  She disappears behind the bathroom door, and my eyes catch Echo’s laptop. There’s a reason why I dragged Echo to Vail and it’s time I man up and face my mother’s past.

  Echo

  There’s something intimate about emerging from the bathroom fresh from a shower and in the clothes I intend to sleep in for the night so I can crawl into bed with someone. With Noah, I’ve actually reveled in that moment of entering the room. Especially when I’ve worn way less than this. His already deep brown eyes will darken, and a shadow of lust will cross his face.

  After my scars, I thought no one would want or love me again. Noah’s proved me wrong.

  With that being said, I brushed my hair five times in my attempt to build the courage to walk out the bathroom door. With Beth and Isaiah waiting on the other side, I find myself as nervous as the first night Noah and I spent alone.

  Taking a deep breath, I leave, and the cooler air of the bedroom rushes my skin. Goose bumps form, and I rub my arms. Isaiah and Beth sit on the bed and munch on a shared container of pepper steak.

  “Stop bogarting the rice.” Isaiah moves some of the pile from Beth’s side of the container, and she darts her fork as if to stab him, but he quickly snatches his hand back.

  “You got the egg roll,” exclaims Beth. “I get the rice. That’s how stuff works between us, so stop messing with the system.”

  “You ate half the egg roll, so I get half the rice.”

  I roll
my eyes and ignore them. The scent of sweet-and-sour chicken drifts in the air and the Styrofoam container sits on the table with a plastic fork and bottled water, but Noah is missing.

  “He dropped off the food then left with your laptop,” says Isaiah, reading my mind. Which means Noah’s in the business center.

  “Thanks.” I glance down at my outfit: a T-shirt that slightly shows my midriff and gray drawstring pants. It’s not glamorous, but it’ll do for the hotel hallways. I grab my dinner and set out to find Noah.

  Noah

  With Echo’s food left for her in the hotel room, I drop into the chair in the business center and watch as her laptop springs to life. Anxiety snakes within me, and I think of Echo and her tapping foot. At least she has a way to release the pressure.

  Echo’s Skype account appears with that annoying whooping sound, and as I minimize that window her email pops up. I notice a few unread messages: one from her dad, one from Lila, another from Mrs. Collins. I log Echo out and sign myself in, holding my breath as the account I hardly use loads.

  I click on the lone new email from Keesha, and I briefly cover my eyes at the first sentence

  Noah,

  Yes, your mother’s family has contacted me, and they would like to meet with you, but...

  There’s always a but. I skim through the rest of the email, most of it legal shit that’ll protect her ass if I sue or they sue, but at the end of the message is a Vail address.

  Even though she closes with if you ever need anything, please feel free to contact me bullshit, there’s an unsaid “you’re on your own.” A slow pulse throbs in my brain, and I massage my temples to ward off a headache. This situation is no good.

  I’m a few miles from my only living blood relatives, and a part of me feels compelled to meet them. Another part of me feels the compulsion to leave a hundred miles between us. Then yet another jacked-up part wants to charge their door and ask them what the fuck they did to my mother that she would bolt from them and never mention a word to me of their existence.

  Echo’s computer beeps, and a direct message conversation box through Skype appears in the right-hand corner.

  L. Collins: I’ll make an assumption that yesterday was a computer glitch. I’m up if you’d like to chat.

  She thinks Echo’s on. I kick my legs out and lean back in my seat. The lady is a damn nutcase, but my mind ticks back to the hundreds of times she cornered me. In the end, she helped shed light on things that I didn’t know how to tackle.

  Another beep.

  L. Collins: Echo?

  I switch windows and push the button that says call. A computerized melody plays for two seconds, and I cross my arms over my chest as she accepts. With her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail and a Grateful Dead T-shirt, Mrs. Collins finishes hole-punching a stack of papers. “I was surprised to see you on so late. I would have thought you and Noah would be out.”

  “I hear you’ve been fucking with my girl.”

  My lips twitch with how fast Mrs. Collins’s eyes snap up to see me coming through her screen. Without missing a beat, she masks her shock. “Language, Noah.”

  “I graduated.”

  “From high school, yes, but those rules that are put in place in school are meant to help you learn how to function out of it. So...” She rests her chin on her linked fingers. “This is a nice surprise. How has your summer gone?”

  “I asked about Echo.”

  “You did, but if you remember correctly, I won’t discuss Echo with you, but you’re more than welcome to tell me how things are going with her.” She practically bounces in her chair. “In fact, I’d love it. Dish all the details.”

  I snort. “I don’t dish.”

  “Neither of you ever do. So what’s up?”

  Less than a minute and she’s already digging. Six months ago, I would have stormed out of her office and slammed her door, but it’s the familiar that puts me at ease. “Not much.”

  “In all seriousness, is Echo okay?” she asks.

  I answer because Mrs. Collins cares more for Echo than her own parents do. “She’s good.”

  Mrs. Collins kneads her red eyes. It’s ten here so it’s one there.

  “Up a little late, aren’t you?” I ask.

  “I keep strange hours.” She flashes a weak smile. “What’s going on with you?”

  “I’m eighteen now.”

  “Happy belated birthday, but that doesn’t answer my question.”

  “The state dropped me from your program the day I walked across the stage. Can’t afford your overpriced fees.”

  “Consider this a conversation between two people who know each other.”

  I toe the legs of the table. I contacted her. I’m the one that’s forcing open this door. “My mom’s family is looking for me.”

  Not an ounce of surprise, and I swear under my breath. “You already know.”

  She frowns as a yes.

  “How?”

  Her head moves to the side, and I answer for her. “Jacob.”

  Mrs. Collins still works with my younger brother on his night terrors. He harbors guilt because he’s the one that lit the candle that started the fire that killed our parents. Because of this, she’d be privy to anything regarding him, including if my mother’s parents requested to meet him.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Mrs. Collins blows out a long stream of air then bends out of view. A zipper rasps, then paper crackles and she reappears on the screen. She holds a dollar in her hand. “You see this?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You gave it to me.”

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “You left it on my desk on the last day, remember?”

  Barely. “That’s because you bought me a Coke.”

  “No, the Coke was a gift, but you did give me this dollar because...”

  She drifts off, and her eyes are begging me for something. I’ve got no clue as to what that something is so I repeat her last statement to see where that gets me. “I gave you the dollar.”

  Mrs. Collins nods like I gave her the correct answer for final Jeopardy. “Yes! You gave me a dollar because you knew that you would possibly be asking for...”

  She circles her hand for me to finish. Aw, fuck me. I suck at charades. “Your help?”

  “Yes! Exactly! So that means that you’re asking me to be your therapist again?”

  Got it. “I left payment for you so you can be my therapist again. So, yeah, I’m asking.”

  “I accept! Yes, Noah, your mother’s family is trying to find you.”

  “And you couldn’t tell me because you’re Jacob’s therapist, not mine.”

  “But I’m yours now, so we can talk.”

  “I’m in Vail, and I have their address.”

  Mrs. Collins slumps back in her chair like I announced I detonated a nuclear bomb in a day care. “Who told you about your mom’s parents?”

  “Carrie.” I pause. “I got the address from Keesha.”

  “Have you visited them?”

  “Not yet.”

  She picks up a pen and taps it against the table. “How does the idea of meeting your mother’s family make you feel?”

  “How much do you know about them?”

  “Enough.”

  “More than me?”

  “Probably.”

  Conversations with her have always been like playing an intense poker match, but usually she’s on the fact-finding mission, not me. “Are you going to download what you know, or am I going to continue to waste my time?”

  She halfheartedly grins. “If that’s all you wanted to know, you could have asked Carrie or Joe or Keesha. All three of them know more than me. In fact, you have your mother’s family’s address in
your hands. Who better to ask than the source?”

  I readjust, and the chair squeaks beneath me.

  “But you didn’t do that. You called me. What’s going on, Noah?”

  There’s a shifting inside me. Years of self-preservation fighting against the new trust formed with the head shrink. I scrub my face with my hands, hoping it will help win the war, but it’s still hard as hell to open my mouth.

  “My mom ran away from them. At least that’s what Carrie and Joe said. And she never brought them up to me. In fact, she said they were dead, and she was an only child.”

  “So your mother lied to you.”

  “She didn’t,” I snap.

  “She didn’t?”

  She did, and I feel fucking betrayed. A strangled sound leaves my throat, and I lean forward. I feel betrayed and angry and pissed. “My mother never lied to me.”

  Never lied and never downplayed. Not when one of our dogs died. Not when Grandma was diagnosed with stage-four cancer and then when Papa died of a broken heart six months after she passed. Never did my mother try to make a situation less than what it was.

  * * *

  Hurt is a part of life, Noah, she said to me when she held my hand at the hospital the last time I saw my grandmother. I’m not doing you any favors by shielding you from it. Besides, it’s always better to be honest.

  “Tell me about your mom,” Mrs. Collins says when the silence must irritate her.

  “She talked to me in Spanish.” Even when it pissed me off. She was a Spanish professor, and she was determined that I’d be as fluent as she was. “And she laughed a lot.”

  My throat swells, and grief pulls at me. “She’d poke her head into my bedroom at night and tell me she loved me.” When I was younger, I used to say it back. Then somewhere along the way, I stopped.

  I could throttle the guy I was then. My mother was there, in my room, night after night, and I never said the words back. Fuck me.

  What’s worse, Mom told me she loved me before I left that night and told me to wake her when I got in. The opportunity was there. I could have opened my damned mouth and told her what I can’t tell her now. But I didn’t. Instead, I failed her. I failed her in the worst way possible.