Breaking the Rules

  I clear my throat and tug at the collar of my shirt as too much heat has built up around me. Fuck this. Just fuck this. “Do you know if it’s true? Did Mom’s family misunderstand? Did they think that Carrie and Joe were adopting me, too?”

  Did they think I was being taken care of, or did they purposely leave me to rot in foster care? That coil forever ready to spring inside me twists one more time, and it’s like I’m racing toward an explosion.

  “Noah, why does it matter now?”

  “It does.”

  “Why?”

  I scoot to the edge of my chair and have to force myself not to fly out of it. “Because! What if they wanted me? What if someone fucking wanted me, and the system screwed it up?”

  The door to the business center clicks open, and Echo hesitates when she spots me, then Mrs. Collins, on the screen. Faster than a jackrabbit, Echo spins to leave, and I swivel the chair to catch her. “Don’t go.”

  The relief of seeing Echo makes me feel like a man teetering on the edge of hell only to be brought back to life. With the dinner I bought her in her hands, Echo’s eyes flicker between me and her computer screen. “I can come back.”

  “Echo,” Mrs. Collins says, and my girl’s shoulders roll forward like she got caught shoplifting.

  “Yes?”

  “We still have a Skype appointment next week, correct?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good. Do you mind giving me and Noah a few more minutes alone?”

  The urge is to tell Mrs. Collins to fuck off. Instead, I nod, and Echo caresses my biceps in support before she leaves. When the door is shut, I turn back to Mrs. Collins. “You know I’m done, right?”

  She points a finger at me. “Just a little more time.”

  “One minute.”

  “It’s okay to be mad at your mom.”

  She’s wrong. “I’m not mad at her.”

  I can’t be. That would be unforgiveable. Besides, if anyone had the right to be mad, it’d be Mom. She should be fucking pissed at me.

  “We’ll discuss this next time.”

  “There won’t be a next time.”

  “Yes, there will.” She waves away my statement. “You paid me in advance. My departing thoughts are a word of caution.”

  That gains my undivided attention.

  “I understand your need to connect with surviving blood relatives, but before you do, I think it would be wise for you to understand why you’re reaching out to people your mother never mentioned. Maybe consider the options as to why your mom didn’t tell you about her family. Maybe think of what your expectations are before you reach out to them.”

  “I don’t expect anything from them.”

  “I have a feeling you do, but don’t realize it.”

  “Is what Carrie and Joe said true? Are they awful human beings?”

  “I don’t know the answer to that. I only know what Carrie and Joe have told me.”

  Every single conversation and fight I’ve had with Echo about her mom crashes into my mind. The irony of the next question isn’t lost on me. “Is it possible they’ve changed?”

  “People do change, but you know I don’t have the ability to answer that question as it pertains to your mother’s family.”

  “If they had known that I was in the system, do you think they would have taken me?”

  A shadow spreads over her face—she knows more than she’s telling.

  “What?” I push.

  “Keesha swears to me that your mother’s family understood the situation. She admits that the state made a mistake when they initially didn’t search for surviving blood relatives—”

  I shake my head, cutting her off. “I told them everyone was dead. Why would they have looked? But when Carrie and Joe started filing for adoption two years ago, and they searched to confirm there weren’t blood relatives, did Mom’s family think I was also being adopted? Is it possible that the system screwed up?”

  “Mistakes can be made,” she admits. “But Keesha is good at her job. Even you know this. Noah...I’ve seen some of the paper trails between Carrie and Joe and your mother’s family. I don’t see how there could have been a mistake.”

  Talking to Mrs. Collins was supposed to help, not mess me up more. “Then why are they reaching out to me now? Why would they lie?”

  “I don’t know, and because of that, please be careful. Please keep me involved in this.”

  I somewhat tip my head. Not really an agreement. Not really a dismissal.

  “Answer me one more thing,” she presses. “If you do, I think it will help you understand what you’re looking for.”

  I toss my hands in the air in a why-the-hell-not.

  “Give me the first thing you’d want from your mother if she were here.”

  My eyes flash to Mrs. Collins, and my insides wither and die.

  “Tell me,” she coaxes.

  My stomach acids churn. “Redemption.”

  Mrs. Collins blinks. “Redemption?”

  “Redemption.” And this session is done. “I’ve gotta go.”

  “This conversation isn’t over.”

  Yeah, it is. I end the call and slouch back in the seat and run my hand over my hair. Echo asked me for simple and damn if my life doesn’t keep getting complicated.

  Closing the computer and swiping it up, I shove away from the desk and poke my head into the hallway. Looking sexy as hell with her damp hair and wearing a pair of drawstring pants plus a shirt that fits snugly across her breasts, Echo leans against the wall across from me.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  “Yeah. Are you?”

  “Yeah,” she parrots. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  No. “Do you want to tell me why Mrs. Collins is stalking you from yesterday?”

  “Not particularly.” Echo holds up the Styrofoam container. “Dinner?”

  “Let’s go.”

  Echo

  Because the streetlamps illuminate the hotel parking lot like noon at the equator, the stars aren’t visible, and I’m perfectly fine with avoiding the constellations tonight. Noah and I sit on the hood of my Honda Civic and share the sweet-and-sour chicken. Noah would have grabbed food at work, but I picked Chinese because that’s one of his favorites to eat...mine, too. It’s the simple things that we have in common that create warm fuzzies.

  The container rests on our joint knees, and I like the closeness of the meal. We’ve been quiet, but this type of familiar quiet is a gift. We’re synchronized, and I love it.

  Noah likes to combine the pineapple with his chicken so I push the last pineapple chunk in his direction. I pop another bite of chicken into my mouth then twist the fork to him.

  “You better watch it.” Noah hands me the rest of the egg roll while taking the fork. Like I predicted, he goes for his preferred combo. “You’ll get my cooties.”

  I choke on the egg roll, and Noah pats my back as I cough down my dinner. He cracks open the water and offers it to me. The cool liquid helps, and I hand it back to him when I can properly breathe. “Did you say cooties?”

  Noah chuckles. “Yeah.”

  “Cooties seems like too tame of a word for you.”

  He winks and scoops another forkful. “I like to keep you guessing.”

  “Well, it’s too late. I already have your cooties.”

  Noah finishes chewing and peers at me. “There’s a party tomorrow night. We should go.”

  I study the egg roll like it can read my fortune. Let’s see: drunk guys, me with scars on my arms and a high Beth. Sounds like a freaking fantastic time. Why didn’t I think of it earlier? “I don’t know. Where’s it going to be?”

  “Around. Someone from work is throwing it. We should go. It’s been a while sin
ce we’ve let loose.”

  “Let loose?” I repeat. “Did you block out how drunk you were the night of the beaver with headphones?”

  “I got drunk to block out the beaver with headphones. Not to have a good time.”

  Noah rarely asks for anything, and he’s probably itching to do something fun since Isaiah’s in town. “You, Beth and Isaiah should go. I’ll stay in.” I wiggle my bare toes and fake a smile. “My feet are in desperate need of a home pedi, and that’s sort of weird to do with a boyfriend around.”

  Noah scratches the spot above his eyebrow. “I want you to go.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’ll be fun, and I want you there.”

  I shrug, feeling a little peer-pressured and not appreciating it. “I’m not a big party fan.”

  “One of the first times we talked was at a party, and you were drunk.”

  I grin at the memory of me spilling my private thoughts to the great Noah Hutchins on the back patio of Michael Blair’s house. “That proves my point. Lila blackmailed me into that party, and I was drunk out of self-preservation with a little desperation thrown in for good measure. It was either the party or having dinner with my father and Ashley. I chose the party.”

  “You drank at the party at my foster parents’ house.”

  What is this, the Spanish Inquisition for underage drinking? Losing my appetite, I toss the rest of the egg roll into the container. “One beer and it took me three hours to finish it. I spent most of the time drawing, talking to Antonio, then making out with you in the basement. In case you noticed, I’m not stopping you from going. I’m encouraging you.”

  “That’s not the point.” Noah stabs his fork into the chicken, slides off the car then throws the container into a nearby garbage can. “I want to spend time with you at a party. Don’t you want to spend time with me?”

  “Sure. I love it when drunk guys make fun of my scars, and then you get pissed off and punch them in the jaw. Which will be great because Isaiah will be here, and if you hit someone and that someone hits you back, Isaiah’s going to kill them. Yeah, that sounds like a fabulous time. I don’t know why we don’t do it every single stinking night. Before we go, can you tell me how much bail is in Colorado, because otherwise I’ll have to call my father to wire the money to get the two of you out of prison.”

  Noah throws his arms out. “Is that how you see me, Echo? Most likely to spend time in prison?”

  “No! I don’t, but I do know that you lose your temper when someone hurts me, and what’s frustrating is that I don’t even know why we’re fighting, so do you mind telling me what your problem is?”

  Noah places his hands on his hips and lowers his head. “Nothing. Just forget it.”

  Yeah, because I can force amnesia. “If it means that much to you, I’ll go.”

  He glances up at me from behind the hair covering his eyes. “You’ll go?”

  “Yeah.” Though I don’t understand why the heck this is so important to him. “I’ll go.”

  Noah collapses back on the hood of the car and, honest to God, looks relieved. “Thank you. It’s crazy, but I want you there with me.”

  “I like being with you.” And boys think girls are confusing. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “You didn’t. Come here.” Noah widens his stance, and I cozy up next to him between his legs and settle my head on his chest. We stand like that for a while, and I lose myself in the soothing and addictive beat of his heart.

  Noah pulls at my curls, and a tingle reaches my toes. “Do you believe your mom’s going to change? Is that why you think about letting her into your life?”

  The chicken in my stomach begins to crawl back up, and Noah’s fingers creep onto the nape of my neck and start a slow massage.

  “I don’t know,” I answer. “I guess. She could be a good mom. Like I told Mrs. Collins, she was never the cooking or baking type, but she was awesome at doing fun stuff with me. Mom used to let me play dress-up with her clothes and makeup. As I got older, she used to talk to me about art.”

  “Is that what you miss? Having someone who understands your art?”

  I replay being in that room full of people who love art so much that they forgot their own canvases to watch me work. As much as it freaked me out, it was insanely cool.

  “Maybe. I...my mom...” How do I explain it? “She’s my mom. See...Mom being selfish...always making everything about her...that wasn’t the bipolar. That was just her. I get that now more than I got it before. Meeting her at the cemetery, hearing what she had to say, knowing that she was finally taking care of herself and she still couldn’t say she was sorry...”

  The words catch in my throat, and breathing becomes difficult.

  There’s this need inside me, this desperation to say out loud that one frantic and dark truth that no one knows. The one thing I internally beg for day and night. “I want to forgive her, but how can I forgive her when she can’t admit that she’s sorry?”

  Noah’s massage increases when my muscles tense. I wait for him to get mad because I’m considering cutting my mom slack, but the rebuttal segment of the conversation never solidifies.

  “Why do you want to forgive her?” he asks in a soothing tone, and a part of me is a bit startled that he’s not angry.

  Why do I want to forgive Mom? “Dad loves me, but he has Ashley and Alexander. Aires...is gone.” My voice breaks, so I let any thought of him drift away with the cool breeze blowing across the parking lot. “Mom seems to be trying. It’s messed up that she asked her friends to buy my paintings, but...”

  My hand touches my throat in an attempt to ease the strangling sensation. “I’m tired of the blackness inside me—this goo that sludges in my veins. I’m tired of being angry. I’m tired of being heavy. Letting the past go, it’s got to be easier, right?”

  I peek up at him, wary of Noah’s reaction.

  “I’m the wrong person to ask,” he says. “Me and the past aren’t friends.”

  My forehead wrinkles, and a burst of worry overtakes me. What demons did Mrs. Collins dredge up?

  “I’ve tried to let go of the past,” I tell him. “But it’s like running laps and being shocked I finish where I started.”

  A car rips into the parking lot, and the beams of the headlights flash over us as they turn toward the main entrance of the hotel.

  “If your mom said she was sorry, you’d forgive her,” Noah says as a statement.

  As the prospect of actually forgiving her sinks in, I snuggle closer to Noah. The newly found memories of my mother lying beside me while blood flowed from the cuts on my arms torture my mind. Noah tightens his hold as if he could squeeze out the nightmares.

  “I think I want to forgive her,” I answer. “But I’m scared to.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s selfish. Mom has always done what she wants, never thinking about anyone else. It’s like after I saw her in the cemetery, my entire view of the life we shared together got distorted. If I forgive her, doesn’t that imply I’ll have a relationship with her again? And if that happens, does that mean I have to trust her again? Does that mean I have to put up with her selfish crap because she said she was sorry? But if I don’t forgive her, will I always be bitter? I’m exhausted of being bitter.”

  I’m sick of feeling alone.

  I’ve got Noah, but will we work? Are we a forever type of thing?

  An invisible vise clenches around my heart, and I can’t comprehend anything associated with Noah leaving. He drew me plans for a house—our house. We made love. This is forever now. Noah would have never made love to me if we weren’t a forever thing, but there’s this doubt. This lingering doubt that Mrs. Collins said I’m not facing.

  My mom is blood family, and family is that segment of my life that’s supposed to stic
k with me. If that’s the logic I should follow, shouldn’t I be wavering toward having more family in my life rather than less?

  If I’m going to continue to be so starkly honest, raw to the point that the truth rubs like sandpaper against my soul, then I’ll admit the last fear. “Is having bad family better than having no family?”

  Noah dips his head so that his cheek is against mine, practically shielding me from the world with his entire body.

  “I don’t know, Echo,” he whispers. “I don’t know.”

  Noah

  Through the rim of light outlining the drapes of the hotel’s window, I can decipher Isaiah as he rolls to a sitting position and places his feet on the floor. Like he does most mornings, he pops his neck to the side—a release of the pressure that builds inside him day after day.

  Echo flips in her sleep, and I shift along with her. For the first time on our trip, she took sleeping pills, and she slept like the dead. The stillness of her body throughout the night would jerk me awake. Each time a wave of horror thundered through me, thinking that she had left.

  Is having bad family better than having no family? Echo’s question has circled my mind. I asked about her mom in an attempt to understand my mom’s family, but I only upset Echo.

  I’m a goddamned selfish bastard.

  Swamped in guilt, I press the balls of my hands onto my forehead. Echo said her mom was selfish, but I’m just as bad. I never once thought about Echo sleeping in a room with two other people and the fear she must possess over having a night terror in front of them. Echo hates relying on the pills, and I drove her to them.

  Just fuck me.

  The dim light from the clock radio shines against Isaiah’s double row of earrings, and he jacks his thumb in the direction of the bathroom. We’ve been living together in cramped quarters for over a year and have memorized each other’s rhythms. “You want the shower?”

  “It’s yours,” I mumble. “I’m going to grab Echo some coffee. You want anything?”

  Beth launches a pillow at me, and I catch it in midair before it can hit Echo. “For you two to shut up and go back to bed.”