Collateral Damage

  Shit. That's not what I expected to hear. Not even close. I struggle to mask the shock I know is written all over my face—in my voice. "Not even with Blake Hanson?"

  Her face pales a little, though I can't tell if it's from the name or if I'm just now noticing the horrible lighting in this room. She stares at her notes, lost in thought.... And she doesn't answer.

  Not even with Blake Hanson.

  My God. How long have they been dating? A year? And she doesn't even love the guy? That is seriously jacked up. How can she not see how jacked up that is? "I'll take that as a resounding no."

  "Of course I love Blake," she sputters. But she refuses to look me in the eye, and I'm not convinced. After all, you can't bullshit a bullshitter.

  "You didn't say you did," I point out.

  She shakes her head, finds the courage to latch her gaze onto mine—her green eyes on fire. But she hesitated. She knows she screwed up. Maybe she even knows what a prick her boyfriend is. Honestly? I'm relieved.

  "I don't have to," she says. "It's understood."

  Understood? What does that even mean?

  "I asked if you'd ever been in love, and you said no."

  "I love Blake." Her forehead creases a tiny bit, as if feeling these words for the first time. As if even now she doesn't know what to make of them. They're foreign to her. Unfamiliar. She doesn't love Blake Hanson. She's not even pretending to.

  "Then why didn't you just come out and say it? Why did you even have to think about it?" I ask.

  "I have a right to think about it."

  "If you really love someone you shouldn't have to think about anything. You should want to say it. It's not difficult."

  Her cheeks turn pink. "That's absurd. I'd know if I was in love, right?"

  "I would think that you should," I reply.

  "Okay, then." She turns her attention back to her notes.

  I fight back a smile at the realization that this girl has been dating the same guy for a year and she doesn't even know if she loves him. Poor Blake—perpetually stuck on first base. No wonder he's so anal. Maybe I should cut him some slack.

  "Why are you doing that?" she asks, annoyed.

  I can't help it—I can't stop smiling. "What?"

  Her fingers tighten to fists. "That. Laughing at me."

  "Why are you getting so defensive?"

  "I'm not defensive," she insists.

  "Do you love Blake? It's a simple question. I don't know what the big deal is." The harder I smile the more flustered she becomes. I almost hate having so much fun at her expense. Almost. "Yes or no, Jade?"

  "Yes...No...I mean...." She heaves a troubled sigh.

  Mission accomplished.

  I lean back in my chair. "You don't love Blake Hanson. In fact, you don't even know why you're with him anymore."

  "Really? Then tell me, Parker. Why am I still with him? Please. Enlighten me." She rolls her eyes for effect, but the damage is done and she knows it.

  "You're with him because he's safe. You're happily stuck in your little comfort zone. You've been with him for so long you don't even know why you're together anymore, but you'll never let him go because he's so dependable. It's a relationship of pure convenience." I tip the chair back on two legs, hovering comfortably. "The cheerleader and head basketball player. I mean...can you get any more stereotypical? I bet you go out for pizza every Saturday night, too. And sometimes he calls just to tell you good night."

  "I don't cheer for basketball," she says. She doesn't deny the rest.

  "It's basic, Jade. What you need is a little excitement in that monotonous life of yours, and I doubt Blake Hanson provides that for you."

  "Blake is a nice guy. He's...perfect."

  Yeah, Blake Hanson is a nice guy like I'm going to be nominated Prom King.

  Wait. Did she call him perfect?

  If I'd eaten any lunch, I would've hurled it by now. "Perfect. Really," I say, disbelieving.

  "Yes."

  "Blake is boring."

  "You said I was boring," she reminds me.

  "My point exactly."

  "How did we even get on this? I thought we were talking about Ethan Frome."

  "We were...until you asked me if I've ever been in love."

  She clears her throat, swallows hard. "What did you think of the cat?" she asks, changing the subject.

  "Creepy. Like Zeena incarnate."

  CHAPTER NINE

  I slip into the throng of students filling the halls, maneuvering through the crowd, pushing against the flow. I'm halfway to my locker when I hear it. Over the shouts and squeals and conversations—the chaos that is a high school hallway between periods—there is one, gentle laugh that soars above the rest.

  I know this sound.

  And, when I glance to my right, I see Jaden. A quick glimpse of that smile, her pink nose and pale lips, as if she's just returned from outside. She disappears in a classroom, Blake by her side. He stops at the door, leaning against the frame.

  So not only is Blake perfect, according to Jade, but they are clearly the perfect couple. Considerate enough not to make out in front of their lockers. Never flashing their relationship status in front of those less fortunate. I'll bet they've never even had a fight.

  But she doesn't love him.

  Because if she did, she'd make out with him in front of her locker between every period. She'd tell everyone she met that she belongs to Blake and he to her. And they'd fight like hell, because fighting requires passion, and love is passion. When the fighting stops—when the passion's gone—that's when things fall apart.

  I continue past them, pressing on.

  At the end of the day I hover at my locker, taking my time changing out books, listening to conversations around me.

  Someone's grounded.

  Parents are so unfair.

  Someone else failed Coleman's biology quiz.

  My boyfriend's ex-girlfriend is a total bitch.

  Jesus. These kids can't all be clean. They found a pile of drugs on campus last year, for God's sake. Someone at this school knows something about someone. I need specifics.

  I scan the hall. Two lockers down there's a guy—small and skinny—with these untamable curls hanging in his face, hiding him from the world. He has this perpetually lost, loser thing going. I'd swear he was a freshman if he wasn't in the senior hallway—not the kind of guy I'd typically seek out for information, but I'm running out of options.

  Parker Whalen is about to get social.

  "Hey, man," I call. He and his friend continue their conversation, ignoring me, so I try again. "Hey."

  His friend nudges him with his elbow, eyes wide, and whispers: "Dude, I think he's talking to you."

  The kid turns toward me, tosses the hair from his eyes with a practiced shake of his head. "Yeah?"

  "Hey," I repeat. "So is there like, anything to do in this God-forsaken town?"

  He eyes me warily, not understanding. "Like...what do you mean?"

  "Things to do? On weekends?"

  "Play video games. Chat," his friend offers, shrugging casually.

  "I mean like parties. You know, don't people hang out after ball games? On Saturday nights?"

  "I hang out at Tyler's," the friend says.

  The guy with the hair must be Tyler.

  "We don't get invited to parties," he says.

  "Come on. A couple of guys as bad-ass as you?"

  Tyler's brow furrows. "Is that a joke?"

  I heave a sigh. "Yeah. Not really." This is going nowhere. When I was in high school, we didn't wait for invitations. We found out who was hosting and crashed. But that's when I was popular. When I mattered. And that was Hamilton. This is Bedford. Which is an entirely different kingdom, apparently. A kingdom without celebrations of any kind. "So you're telling me no one at this school has ever thrown a party?"

  Tyler swings his bookbag over his shoulder, shuts his locker door, and he and his friend take off.

  "I guess that's a yes," I mumble.
/>
  "No," a voice behind me says. "There's nothing to do here." I turn to find a girl in an over-sized flannel shirt and clunky shoes, hugging a stack of books to her chest. Her hair is pulled up in these spiky pigtails. There's paint on her sleeve.

  Art student.

  "This place is dead on weekends," she continues. "It's too small. Too many parents know the other parents...." she trails off. "Anyone looking for a good time heads to Trenton."

  "Trenton?" I repeat. "Isn't that a little far to go to party?"

  She shrugs. "Depends on how bad you want it. There's more to do there, anyway. Shopping. The movie theater. Plus the college is there."

  "Prescott?" Prescott is one of the smaller state colleges. It's a good thirty to thirty-five minute drive from here.

  "Yeah. Apparently Fifth Street is where it's at. It's like, Fraternity Row." She rolls her eyes.

  "I take it you're not a fan," I say.

  Another shrug. She glances down the hall. The crowd continues to thin. "It is what it is."

  "Then maybe I'll see you down there sometime."

  She glances back at me, a hint of a smile playing at her lips. "Not likely."

  CHAPTER TEN

  "What a dump," Erik says. "How are you even surviving this place, dude?" He pokes at a slice of pizza with his fork. "I think this cheese is past its prime."

  Guido's is the only real restaurant in all of Bedford, and I use the term "real" loosely. What I mean is that it's not fast food, which is its only true appeal. And as the only real restaurant, I try to overlook the matted carpet—which is one massive stain—the worn vinyl seating, and the string of half-lit Christmas lights lining the wall in front of the kitchen.

  It's not only the cheese—the whole restaurant is past its prime.

  "Yeah, well, I appreciate you coming down from your high-rise to mingle with the serfs," I say.

  "It's the only way I can get any time with you anymore. This wonderland has your weekdays, Callie claims your weekends.... My mom told me about the wedding, by the way. Congrats. Were you gonna call me? Send a cigar?"

  "You don't send cigars to people when you announce your engagement," I point out.

  He reaches for his glass of soda. "Shows what I know. Anyway, it's not at all pathetic that I had to find out about my best friend's wedding through my mom."

  "It just happened," I explain. "I haven't told anyone. Callie is doing enough of that for the both of us. My plan was to take it slow."

  Erik laughs, shakes his head. "It's almost endearing how clueless you are about girls and weddings."

  I survey the restaurant—the waitresses bouncing from table to table. The place is packed, almost every available seat filled. In this case, being the only game in town has its advantages. "Don't worry. I'm getting schooled."

  "I'll bet Callie is schooling you real well," he teases. "I'm the best man, right?"

  Best man? I haven't really thought about...

  "You hesitated," he accuses. "I can't believe you hesitated!"

  "I didn't hesitate," I argue. "Of course you're my best man. It's just...I'm busy. I haven't given it much thought, yet. We still have more than a year to worry about it."

  "I'll need a year to plan your bachelor party," he says. "I'm in charge of that too, right?"

  I hardly hear this, though. There's a group hovering in the doorway, the manager greeting them with a hearty: "Buon giourno!"

  I could've sworn.... "Bachelor party?" I repeat, straining to see around a waitress gathering menus from a table in the middle. "I guess."

  He laughs. "Classic."

  The waitress heads for the kitchen.

  And there she is.

  Blake Hanson takes her by the hand as they cross the restaurant, weaving around tables. They're with friends. Ashley and Savannah, and Tony Perri from the basketball team.

  "What do you think of Vegas?" Erik asks.

  They pile into a booth.

  "Too expensive," I reply.

  "No Vegas. That's all right. It's not hard to find trouble in Hamilton."

  I lean forward, just enough...but I can't see Jaden at all. Her prick of a boyfriend is in the way. "We were pretty good at that," I mutter.

  "I know, right? Look at us now. I mean, look at you. You have a gun and a shiny badge and everything."

  "A far cry from whence we came."

  "Is that Shakespeare?" he asks.

  I glance at Erik, confused. Shakespeare? "No. I don't think so."

  "I'm just saying—who would've thought the night we were getting handcuffed, that one day you would be doing the handcuffing?"

  "Let's not go there."

  "Why not? It's the best comeback ever! Street thug to man in blue."

  "Jesus, Erik. Can we not talk about this here?"

  "Seriously, dude. They should totally make a movie off of you. No wonder you're giving Callie free reign with this wedding shit."

  Blake leans back in the booth, and I can see her again.

  If she doesn't really love him, then why does she even bother? Why would anyone waste their time with someone they aren't absolutely sure they want to be with? What's the point?

  She smiles at him—something he says—and her whole face lights.

  Shit.

  Maybe she does love him; she just doesn't know how to say it.

  A prickle of something that might be jealousy slides across my skin.

  "Hello?" Erik asks. "Earth to Whalen. Where are you tonight?"

  "Nowhere," I reply, tearing my eyes from Jaden McEntyre and the guy she doesn't love.

  "Liar. Something over there is obviously more interesting than I am." He cranes his neck, following my line of sight.

  "It's just some people I know."

  "Who are they? Do you need to go over and say hey or anything? Or should we hide? Is this a stake-out?"

  I force my eyes not to roll. "No. This isn't a stake-out."

  "So who am I looking at? The two guys? The incredibly hot blonde?" he asks, watching them.

  "Savannah?"

  "Two brunettes?"

  "That's the table," I confirm.

  "Man. Did you say Savannah? She is fine. What are they feeding girls these days?"

  "Shut up."

  "I'm serious. Is she legal? Can you introduce me?"

  "No. On both counts." I don't know if she's eighteen or not. I wouldn't trust Erik, even if she were. "Are you trying to get me fired?"

  Erik laughs. "It must suck to be around so much quality ass all day and not be able to touch it."

  I ignore this. "I'm hitting Trenton later tonight. Apparently that's the place to party if you live around here."

  "Aww, yeah. Chris Whalen's bustin' up some parties."

  "Not yet. Just some reconnaissance."

  I steal another quick glance at their booth. Blake wraps his arm around Jaden's neck and pulls her close, kissing her forehead.

  My jaw tightens.

  She doesn't love him.

  She can't really love him.

  It's so freaking hot in this restaurant. I reach for my glass of soda.

  I can't believe she thinks he's perfect.

  "What is wrong with you tonight?" Erik asks. "You keep staring at them like that I'm going to walk over there and ask if they have room for two more."

  "Sorry. The girl with the long brown hair? She's my English partner, and I'd really like for her not to see me."

  "Then stop staring at her."

  "I'm not staring at her," I say. "I'm...keeping an eye out."

  "So by partner you mean...." he trails off.

  "We have this big project due in a couple of months. Essays, an oral report, the works. We're reading Ethan Frome."

  "Sounds awful."

  "It's not," I reply.

  "The book or the project?" he asks.

  "Both."

  "Wow. Chris Whalen loves books. And brunettes, apparently. Are you going to stare at her all night?"

  My cheeks flood with heat. "I'm not staring at he
r."

  "Could've fooled me. So what's she like?"

  What is Jaden McEntyre like? Smart. Perceptive. Pretty.

  "You know, we should probably get a box for this and get out of here," I reply, ignoring the question.

  Erik pushes his plate aside. "We should probably skip the box and go find a real restaurant," he mutters.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I'm a liar, yes, but there's no point denying that something inside me lifts when I hear the push of the metal door, the cafeteria noise—when I see Jaden McEntyre strolling toward me, books hugged tightly to her chest.

  "Hey," she says.

  A cool breeze blows between us. The pages of my textbook flip over and over and over. I stop them and keep writing, trying to appear unaffected. "Hey."

  "I, um, was wondering if you want to get together and talk about our themes after school. You know, for Ethan Frome?"

  "Sure."

  "Okay," she replies. The relief in her voice is apparent. "And um, I was thinking if, instead of meeting in the library, you could come to my house...or...something."

  I glance up at her.

  What's wrong with the library?

  It doesn't immediately register that she might not want to be seen with me—that I'm ruining her stellar reputation—until she bites into her lower lip. She seems almost...nervous.

  This can't be her idea.

  "Yeah," I say, focusing on my notes, ignoring those lips. "I'll need directions."

  Another arctic draft passes through as she unzips her bag. I watch her write the address, her letters swirly and calculated and formal. Practiced. She's going to have to work on that if she's going to be a doctor. She hands me the note, and I immediately recognize the street name. She lives not too far from Main. In the historic district. Where the rest of the money lives.

  This can't be her idea.

  "So. Your friends giving you trouble? We have to hide out now?"

  "No. Why do you ask?" she replies quickly—too quickly. And not only do her cheeks flush, she can't look me in the eye.

  She wouldn't last five minutes in an interrogation room with me. "You are a horrible liar."

  She smiles, glances toward the cafeteria, but doesn't deny the accusation. "I have to get to lunch. But um, maybe I'll see you around three-thirty?"