It's not enough, knowing this, so she goes on, asking about my dad, my plans after graduation. There are so many lies spewing from my mouth I can barely keep track of them. She's asking questions I'm not even prepared to answer. I'm freaking lying on the fly now, and I hate to think I'm good at this—I hate to see her hanging onto every word like what I say matters. It doesn't matter. It's not real. This—whatever's going on in this car—it isn't real.
"You don't happen to volunteer as some sort of life coach on the side, do you?" I ask when she brings up college for the millionth time.
Her eyes roll. "Like I have time for that. And don't try to change the subject. I'm serious, Parker. You're smart. You owe it to yourself to go to college and make a better life for yourself."
A better life for myself? I've already made a better life for myself, and I didn't have to go to college to do it. This is as good as it gets for me—and I'm lucky as hell to be where I am. "Easy for you to say. Your parents can afford to send you to an Ivy League school," I remind her.
"I applied for scholarships to help out. And the only reason my parents can pay for Harvard is because I have two older brothers who bailed on higher education."
She stops, lost in thought. And again I wonder what she's thinking.
College? Her brothers? Daniel? The mistakes he made? She knows—she has to know. You can't overlook drug possession charges. If Daniel has a record, he has to explain the arrest on every application he files—for jobs, school, to freaking vote.
You don't walk away from an arraignment like that.
Not unless you're me.
But now I know: that's why Harvard is so important. Her brothers never made it. They left everything up to her.
"You know," she finally says. "The grass isn't always greener...."
She wants to talk about grass being greener? She doesn't know me. She has no idea what it's like to live a lie. How I was two fucking seconds away from being Daniel McEntyre. "You don't know anything about my life. Maybe sometimes the grass is greener."
She's on fire now. Angry. "So you're just gonna run away? You'll have to get a job. You'll have to find a place to live."
Oh my God. Now she's going to tell me how to live my life? I have a fucking 401k! I set aside money every month for retirement. I check bank statements to make sure the trash service payment was drafted on time. She's acting like I can't make my own decisions—like I can't take care of myself, like I haven't been drafting trash service payments since I was eighteen years old! "And you think I haven't figured all of that out? I might not be a control freak, but I do have a plan."
She flinches at the words, an unexpected sock to the gut.
Shit.
She doesn't know.
"That's a low blow," she whispers.
She doesn't know about the apartment and the bills. The job. The fiancée. I'm Parker Whalen—I hate my dad and barely see my mom. I have a problem with authority. I'm going nowhere fast.
Tell her the truth.
I turn to stare out the window, at the empty parking lot. A heavy silence descends.
What is happening here? What is this girl doing to me? Why am I always two seconds from throwing my whole life away when I'm near her?
I glance back at her, and her eyes settle on mine. And even in the darkness they shine, full of life and passion. Excited and angry and concerned and confused all at once. They're annihilating. And for a moment I think I could argue with those eyes forever. That I would never grow tired of looking at them. And the thought—I can't help but smile.
She looks away, awkward and unsure.
"Hey." I sweep the strands of hair covering her face away, tucking them behind her ear. The backs of my fingers brush her cheek. I guide her chin toward me. She sucks in a breath and a blaze ignites, searing my skin. "I love that you're concerned about me, Jade, but I am not a project."
As I say the words, I hope that, somehow, she'll hear the meaning—the truth—behind them. That she'll know. She doesn't have to worry about me. I'm the last person she'll ever have to worry about.
"I didn't say you were."
I release her, but my fingers still tingle, still reel from touching her skin. "Really? Because it's starting to look like it. And I wasn't calling you a control freak. I just think you have enough to worry about without adding me to the list."
"I don't make lists," she says, frowning.
"You know, that actually surprises me."
She turns the heat back up and checks her phone.
"When's curfew?" I ask.
"Fifteen minutes." She glances out the window, gazes at the sky. "Did you see the moon?"
"I did."
"Do you think we'll actually see the sun tomorrow?"
"Don't know."
"I hope so."
Jaden and her endless winter. "I know you do." I reach for the door handle. "Thanks for letting me borrow your heater."
She returns my smile. "Thanks for stalking me."
I climb out of her car, lean against the roof, bending low. "Maybe I can stalk you again sometime."
"Absolutely."
"I was thinking of stalking you Monday afternoon around three. I figured we should divvy up assignments for our project."
"Okay."
In the final moments before we go our separate ways, I try to memorize those eyes. Those cheekbones. Those lips. But when has a moment with this girl ever been enough?
I shut the door between us, circle her car, head back to my motorcycle. The air bites at my face, my hands—every inch of me longing to be back in that Civic—back with her. I slip my helmet on, slide the straps of my bag over my shoulder, shove fingers into my gloves.
One final glance. That's it.
She waves. I nod. Then I linger, watching her back out of the space, cross the lot, and pull into the street.
Already my bike feels lighter—emptier—without her.
I take a right, moving in the opposite direction, eyeing her taillights in my side mirror. And when I reach the stop sign at the end of the block, I wait. My foot finds pavement and I wait, turning in the seat as she disappears.
Just one more glance.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
There's something in my apartment.
My first thought the next morning.
There's something in my apartment. It's buzzing and it won't stop.
I roll off the couch, wipe the sleep from my eyes, check the time on the microwave. It's nearing ten. I never sleep this late.
I meander to the bathroom. The mirror confirms: I look like shit. I feel like shit, actually.
And it finally dawns on me—the buzzing.
My phone.
Callie.
I rush to the living room, search the coffee table, the pockets of my jacket, my jeans—it's in the back pocket of my jeans.
The buzzing stops, but the display announces exactly what I feared:
Callie called. She called six times last night. She's called four times this morning.
The phone buzzes in my hand, but it isn't Callie's photo that pops onto the screen. It's my mom. I heave a sigh and let the call go to voicemail. Somehow I don't think my fiancée would appreciate knowing I answered a call from my mom when she's called ten times in the last twelve hours.
As soon as the message ends, I dial the number I memorized four years ago. Callie picks up on the first ring.
"Christopher?"
"Hey, Cal."
"Jesus, Chris! Do you have any idea how worried I've been?" she screeches. I pull the phone away from my head, ears ringing. "You haven't answered any of my calls! I called your parents and they hadn't heard from you. I thought we made a deal. When you took this job you swore you'd check in every day. You swore!"
"I know. I'm sorry, but something came up.... I shut my phone off early and forgot to turn it back on until...."
"You shut your phone off?" she interrupts.
"Just for the night. I have a solid lead, Cal. I didn't get in until r
eally late, so I figured I'd call you in the morning," I explain. I head to the window, twisting blinds open. My view is of the parking lot. The Burger King across the street. Another cloudy day.
"I told you that I didn't care what time you got in, or what time you called," she says, words clipped. "If it's three in the morning—I don't care, but you can't do this to me! I can't sit here knowing you're out on the streets, not knowing if you're okay."
"It's in the job description," I remind her, voice rising. "There are late nights. Streets. Guns. Criminals. It comes with the paycheck!"
"I deserve a phone call," she replies firmly. "What I don't deserve is waiting up half the night wondering what you're doing and if you made it home all right."
My mind flashes to the night before—not hanging with Gianni and Dave and trailing Vince De Luca until all hours of the morning, but to Jaden. Jaden, who I let borrow Callie's helmet so we could cruise through the countryside after dark. Jade, who I talked to and teased and flirted with. Jade, who I can't stop thinking about, even while my fiancée is grilling me for not calling.
I did promise her, though. I promised to call her every single night. I promised that, no matter what was happening, I'd find a way.
Shit.
I rake fingers through my hair. "I'm sorry, Cal."
"I'm so tired of this," she says, voice breaking. "I'm tired of you being there and me being here. I'm tired of only seeing you on weekends, and lately not even then. I'm tired and I'm worried about you and I miss you like crazy."
I collapse onto the couch, pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to ease the persisting headache. When did things get so complicated? It's not supposed to be this way. It's not supposed to be this hard. "I miss you, too. Look, I have to go out again tonight, but I'll come up first thing in the morning. We'll spend the whole day together—whatever you want to do. Breakfast in bed. A movie. We'll work on our guest list. Our registry. The day's yours, I promise."
"You know I do brunch with my parents on Sunday mornings," she reminds me.
Brunch with her parents.
Mr. Donovan.
The muscles in my stomach tighten. "Then I'll meet you for brunch," I say, forcing a lift in my tone. "What time should I get there?"
It almost works. Almost. "You want to go to brunch with my parents?" she asks, disbelieving.
"Sure."
"You never do brunch. You've done brunch, like, two times since we started dating."
"Because that's you and your parents' thing."
"That's what you always say."
"Do you want me to go to brunch or not?" I ask.
She exhales a weary sigh. "Yes. I would love for you to, actually."
"So...I'm forgiven?"
"I'll think about it."
"I'm sorry for making you worry," I throw in for good measure.
"I'll think about it," she repeats, just before ending our call.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Callie intertwines her fingers with mine, eases closer, holds my arm. "Thank you for coming today," she whispers into the shoulder of my jacket.
We pause at the crosswalk, waiting for cars to pass. I glance at the sky. The clouds.
Where is the goddamn sun, anyway?
"My parents were happy to see you," she continues.
We just finished brunch at a restaurant downtown. Callie's father is an attorney. If there is such a thing as a good attorney, Callie's father isn't it. I respect him, but he's the kind of guy who could walk into a courtroom after months of investigation and ruin everything I've worked for. But then, he's the reason I am where I am today, so I guess I should be grateful there are people in this world willing to send losers back to the streets.
Callie Donovan is a paralegal.
Mr. Donovan pushed hard for law school. There were many heated conversations about this. I had the pleasure of witnessing a few of them—usually while sitting opposite Mrs. Donovan at their massive dining room table. Usually while trying to ingest an almost unpalatable, unpronounceable foreign dish when all I really wanted was a cheeseburger or hot dog. Dinners that always somehow ended with Mr. Donovan demanding I "talk some sense" into his daughter. But mostly I was the first phone call after the fact, where I'd listen to a furious Callie rant about how unfair her dad was between shuddering sobs. I quickly learned to let her go—to let her get it out of her system. Then, when she finished, I'd talk her off the proverbial ledge—promising her it would get better, that he would come around.
I was right.
She won. One day, right before graduation, while arguing that "paralegals do all the real work, anyway," she won. He relented. When she finished her program two years later, he offered her a job at his firm. She took one with the state, instead.
There's a reason I avoid Sunday brunch, and it has everything to do with Mr. Donovan. It has everything to do with the fact that I am not in some criminal database, attached to people like Vince De Luca, because of him.
"It was nice to see them, too," I reply.
We cross the street and enter one of those mega-bookstores. Even with hundreds of thousands of volumes under this single roof, all I can smell is coffee.
"I want to look at the magazines to see if anything new has come in," Callie says.
"You mean since last week?"
She laughs. "Yes."
I follow her to the side of the store, watching her browse shelves along the wall. There are dozens of wedding-related magazines. Wedding dress magazines. Wedding decorating magazines. Distance wedding magazines. Weddings on a budget magazines.
Callie pulls them off the rack, one by one, then sits on a nearby bench. "I just need to flip through some of these to see if they're worth paying for."
This could take a while. "Okay. I'm going to check out..." I glance over my shoulder, reading one of the signs, "Fiction and Literature, I guess."
"Have at it. I'll find you when I'm done."
I wander the aisles, perusing shelves, studying covers, titles. Some I recognize, most I don't. Stopping at the bookstore was never high on my list of priorities when I was in school. I don't know why. Mom had Nora and me signed up for the library reading program every summer when we were kids. Still, books were for nerds. Reading for losers. Who knew I'd eventually find myself in someone like Ethan Frome? Like Heathcliff. Like the phantom living under that opera house, making music for the girl he loves.
I pick up Pride and Prejudice from one of the tables, and that's when I spot it.
Ethan Frome.
It's a hardcover—a collector's edition—with fancy script and metallic lettering. The kind of book meant for display.
Jade and I both borrowed copies from the library. I've already renewed mine. I'm sure she's renewed hers. I flip the book over, checking the price.
"Shit. This gold better be real," I mutter.
There are two copies on the table.
It could be a sign.
If I believed in signs.
I tuck one in my arm and pick up the other, opening the front cover, turning pages over. It's beautiful. It would be a nice gesture—to get her one. She would never expect it.
And I can almost see her—us—in my mind.
I slide the book across the table.
"What's this?" she asks, reaching for it, examining the cover. "Ethan Frome?"
"I saw it at the store and thought of you."
"You were thinking of me?" she asks, eyebrow lifting.
"Possibly."
She runs her slender fingers along the cover, forehead creasing. "It's beautiful."
"You're beautiful," I return.
She glances at me, face flushing. She tucks her hair behind her ear. "Thank you. I love it." She rises from her chair and circles the table, moving closer.
"Find anything?"
I jump, jerking to reality at the sound of the voice, at Callie standing next to me.
"Um, yeah. I just...I don't get this book," I reply, lifting Pride and Prejudice. "I mean, what's the appeal
?"
"Did you read it?"
"We read it in Hockman's class," I remind her.
"I know, but did you actually read it, or did you read some watered-down internet summary of it?"
"I read...it...and maybe a watered-down summary. But I don't get Darcy. He was a douchebag."
"Yes, he's kind of a douchebag at first," Callie agrees. "But that's because he's cautious. He has this role he's trying to fulfill—Master of Pemberley. In walks Elizabeth Bennet and...that's it. Caution be damned."
"Caution be damned?" I repeat, laughing.
"Yes. Anyway," she says, taking the book from me, "he eventually comes around. Does the right thing. Proves he's a good guy after all. He kind of reminds me of you in that way."
He eventually does the right thing. Like, not sneaking around, offering girls who aren't his fiancée rides on his motorcycle. Not thinking about this girl who isn't his fiancée. Wanting to buy her books. To tell her she's beautiful.
"Are you saying I'm a douchebag?" I ask, trying to ignore the guilt simmering in the pit of my stomach.
"You have your moments. So are you gonna get this?" she asks.
"Might as well."
She sets it on her stack. "What else?"
"I found Ethan Frome. That English project I told you about? I borrowed it from the library and thought it would be good to have my own copy."
"You have two." She nods toward the book tucked in my arm.
I have two.
How, exactly, does one explain purchasing two copies of the same book? I could tell the truth—that I'm picking up one for Jaden—but what does that say? It says I like my English partner enough to buy her a book. An expensive book. That I like her enough to look for her in crowded hallways. That I enjoy meeting her in darkened parking lots. That I like feeling her arms wrapped around me.
I swallow hard. "I was comparing them," I lie. "For defects." I return the one in my hand to the table. "It looks like you found a few things," I go on, changing the subject.
"The new shipment came in."
"So...are we ready?"
"We're good," she assures me.
"Good."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE