DREAMS of 18 Page 8

  “It was a stupid gift from one of my friends. Don’t worry, I’m gonna set this and her on fire tomorrow.”

  “Yeah? For your birthday?”

  It’s a taunting voice, aimed to sting. It does and my embarrassment grows.

  “New Year’s,” I still tell him.

  If he wants to mock me for it, I won’t take away the opportunity. He has every right.

  Besides, it was a New Year’s gift from the one and only Renn. By then, I’d told them all the truth and she bought me this present as a joke. Surprisingly, it made me chuckle at the time.

  I’m not chuckling now.

  I’m doused in shame.

  “Take ’em off,” he orders instead of acknowledging what I just said, gesturing toward my sunglasses.

  “Uh, I’m not sure that it’s such a good idea,” I offer truthfully.

  It’s not as if I don’t want to take them off. In fact, I’ve been itching to take them off ever since I saw him through the glass back at the bar.

  But what if I take them off and my anxiety comes back? What if his eyes, like so many others’, make my skin crawl?

  I won’t be able to bear it.

  For years, I wanted him to see me, just see me. Even though I avoided him myself, I harbored this little dream where he’d see me and his heart would start beating faster. But now I’m not sure if I’ll be able to take it, his eyes, and it scares me.

  He’s not taking no for an answer though.

  “Just do it,” he clips.

  As if he’s the boss of me, I do it. I reach up and take them off and wait for my doomsday brain to start ticking.

  I wait for the familiar flush to rise up around my throat and familiar prickling and itching and hyperventilation, to come back.

  The flush happens.

  I do feel the flush but it’s the same kind that I felt back at the bar, when I saw him. The edgy kind. The kind where the heat spreads out from my stomach and covers every part of my body, making me red.

  Making me bloom like a rose for him.

  Oh God. Thank God.

  Thank fucking God.

  I can stand his eyes on me. I can.

  I can take it when his eyes move from one spot of my face to another. And they move thoroughly, almost frantically.

  He goes from the top of my hair to my stubby eyelashes. From the side of my rounded cheeks to my small chin. From my little, slightly freckled nose to my parted, bee-stung lips.

  I can take it all.

  Maybe it’s the shy thing again. I’m shy to the world but not to him.

  With that happy thought, I do my own taking in of his face.

  Or rather his hair.

  His hair has grown in the past ten months – that’s the very first thing I think of. It’s longer now, flicking against the collar of his blue plaid shirt.

  Not to mention his cheekbones. Strangely, they’ve grown too.

  They have sharpened, giving him somewhat of a gaunt look. And God, his eyes. The pupils are dark, blown-up, almost black but they are rimmed with red.

  He looks… wild.

  Messy and even untamed.

  My Strawberry Man.

  “You have a beard,” I say in awe.

  Like he’s the only man in this world with facial hair.

  For me, he might as well be.

  In fact, that beard makes him look sexier. More masculine and dominating. Kind of older in that bone-tingling sort of way. It makes his strawberry like mouth even pinker and thicker.

  “And you’re really here,” he muses.

  He squints too as if he can’t believe that I’m here.

  As if he’s seeing things and all this conversation was part of a dream.

  “Unless you…”

  I trail off, realizing what I was about to say. I was about to repeat what he said to me that night.

  “Unless I what?”

  His eyes are glinting in the dark. Glinting with knowledge. I think he knows what I was about to say.

  “Unless you do this a lot,” I whisper to him. “See things that are not there.”

  I thought he’d get angry. Get agitated, but he doesn’t. All he does is shake his head and mutter almost to himself, “Seeing things. Yeah, you have no idea.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  That seems to piss him off though. My non-apology apology.

  “How the fuck are you here?” he asks, drawing out the fuck.

  This is it.

  I need to tell him. I need to say sorry. I need to ask him what I can do to make it up to him.

  “I came for y-you.”

  The reply blurts out of me without thought or any effort.

  He flinches.

  But it’s the truth. I did come here for him. I came here to face him and his anger. I came here to fix what I broke.

  “For me,” he says woodenly.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of what happened. What I did. I hurt you and –”

  Suddenly, a squeak escapes me because his fingers are on my bicep.

  Before I can comprehend what’s happening, he jerks me forward by the sleeve of my t-shirt.

  And knocks the breath out of me.

  At his yank, my spine snaps off the wall and my feet stumble.

  Then he turns around and begins walking, dragging me behind him.

  I only have the time and presence of mind to pick up my enormous hobo and sling it over my shoulder.

  “What… What are you doing?” I ask his broad back.

  The ripple of his muscles is the only answer I get.

  “Where are we going?” I ask again, trying not to look around at the pedestrians.

  Who are all watching us as we pass them by.

  I can feel their stares. Most of them are jerking to a halt at the sight of us. At the sight of a large man dragging a tiny girl by the sleeve of her t-shirt.

  That’s the part that I find more horrifying than the stares, him pulling me forward with the sleeve of my top.

  The part where he isn’t touching me.

  Not even through my clothes.

  He has made a fist out of my t-shirt and he’s pulling on that.

  Is it because he can’t stand to touch me? Is that why he won’t put his hand anywhere on my body, not even to manhandle me?

  Maybe I make his skin crawl the same way the world does mine when it stares at me.

  I look up at his profile. It’s stony and cold and frankly, super terrifying.

  “Mr. Edwards –”

  He cuts off whatever I was going to say by delivering his harshest jerk yet. His fist tightens, making my t-shirt stretch and distort against my body, making me think that he’s going to tear off the fabric.

  “Mr. Edwards, you’re hurting me.”

  He comes to a stop then, at my blurted-out warning.

  Spinning around once more and facing me, he pushes me back, his knuckles digging into my flesh. My spine hits something – something metallic – and I gasp at how cold it is against my heated body.

  He studies my face, my frown, my parted and panting lips with a menacing look. “Trust me, I haven’t even begun hurting you.”

  His growled-out words sink into my skin, sink into the exact spot he’s clutching me at, the exact spot where his knuckles are almost gouging a hole on my arm.

  This is it, then.

  I wanted this, didn’t I? I came here to face his anger and here it is.

  Be careful what you wish for.

  Be careful because you just might get it. You might just get burned by the dark, dark eyes of a beast.

  “Mr. Edwards –”

  I try again, and again he cuts me off. “Get in.”

  “What?”

  “Get in the truck.”

  I look back and realize that the something metallic that I’d hit a few seconds ago was his truck. We’re back to where we started – at the bar
where I found him.

  Where I watched him kiss another woman.

  “You want me to get in your truck?” I ask inanely.

  No answer. But he does clench his teeth and I notice that when he does it, the bones of his face look even more chiseled and blade-like.

  Like if I accidentally touched his face, I might cut myself.

  “But I’ve never been in your truck before. I thought it wasn’t allowed.”

  Yikes.

  Could I sound any younger than I did just now?

  Allowed?

  He leans toward me, looking me in the eyes, like he really wants me to concentrate on his next statement. “Get in or I’ll put you in. And you’re not going to like the way I do it.”

  “P-put me in?”

  He straightens up, and letting go of the sleeve of my shirt, he grabs me by the waist.

  In a flash, I’m in the air. My feet leave the ground and my eyes go wide but I don’t even get the chance to gasp before I’m being dumped on the seat of his truck.

  I have no idea how he did that so fast. How he got the door of his truck open while still holding me and how he deposited me inside like I’m a bag of feathers, all in the space of three seconds.

  All I know is that I caught a grimace on his face when he put his hands on me to do the deed.

  Man, he really hates me, doesn’t he?

  The sight of that grimace is so jarring, so saddening – even though I should’ve expected it – that I don’t even let out a tiny ow when my butt hits the leather and my glasses and cap fall away from me. I still manage to hold onto my hobo though.

  Mr. Edwards is about to shut the door when I put my hand on his chest and stop him.

  I think along with stopping him, I stopped time, as well.

  Or at least, it feels like it.

  It feels like I stopped time, froze it and froze the world around us, by putting my small hand on his massive chest.

  His grip on the door goes really tight. So tight that I can see the tendons in his wrist stand taut. As taut as his pecs.

  Which I’m touching right this second.

  “Get your hand off me,” he orders.

  Immediately, I do.

  I glance at his razor-sharp features. “My glasses. I-I need them.”

  “What?”

  “My sunglasses. They fell. On the ground.”

  He gives me a deadpan look like he didn’t hear me.

  But then, a muscle jumps on his cheek and I think that maybe he’ll run over my sunglasses with his truck just to spite me.

  In my head, I’m already thinking about getting a new pair, probably a few more as a backup, when he bends down and grabs them. He returns them to me with a jerky motion of his hand and I accept them quickly, before he changes his mind and throws them away.

  Clutching them to my chest, I say, “Thanks.”

  Again, he goes to snap the door shut but I stop him.

  “My cap. It fell too.” His chest rises and falls on a long breath and I can’t help but add, “B-but it’s okay. I didn’t love it that much. We can just –”

  He steps back and slams the door in my face, in the middle of my sentence. I flinch and my eyes fall shut as the strands blow over my cheeks.

  I’m going to buy a new cap tomorrow. I’ll order it online like I’ve been doing since I got out of Heartstone and it’ll be fine.

  It’s okay. Everything’s okay.

  I’ll buy several new caps and sunglasses, in fact. I’m actually surprised at myself that I haven’t yet since my entire life depends on them now.

  Lesson learned.

  A few seconds later, he opens the door to the driver’s side and slides in. He has my cap in his hands that he throws over at me and I catch it, letting go of my glasses.

  It’s like he threw me air and I caught it, breathing again.

  Swallowing, I peek at his harsh profile. “Thanks.”

  His reply is snapping his seat belt around himself, which reminds me that I have to do it too. Before he can get even more pissed, I fasten the seat belt around me.

  And then we’re off.

  To parts unknown.

  “Where are we going?” I ask hesitantly, watching the play of lights on his broad frame as we pass by restaurants and stores and various buildings in downtown.

  Silence.

  “I’m assuming it’s somewhere to talk?”

  Nothing.

  I squeeze my hobo with my legs. “Actually, I have a car. Uh, it was parked right there, a little bit farther. If you’d told me where we were going, I could’ve just followed you.”

  I throw him another glance to check if he’s listening. But I can see no outward signs of that. I might as well be not here.

  Inside his truck.

  I’m inside his truck.

  Whoa.

  I’ve imagined it so many, many times before. I always thought it would be a dream unfulfilled, like all my other dreams when it comes to him.

  “It’s spacious,” I murmur, looking at the roof, the dashboard, his old-fashioned CD player.

  Then I notice the smell.

  I sniff.

  It kinda smells… boozy. Not too much but slightly. There’s a hint of it.

  Now that I’m thinking about it, Mr. Edwards smells that way too. Musky and tangy like liquor.

  I clear my throat and continue to dispel the awkward silence. “The truck, I mean. It’s spacious. So it’s not like I don’t like it. But I guess, if I had my own vehicle, I could just drive myself back. You know, when we’re done talking. But now, you’ll have to drop me off and…”

  At this, I get several ticks on his jaw.

  “But it’s okay. I can just call a cab.” Then, “You guys have cabs here, right? I didn’t see a single one on my way over.”

  Still nothing.

  “Of course there are cabs here.” I chuckle nervously. “Stupid question. But if you could just give me like, a number? Like, where I can call, that’d be great. Oh!” I throw my hands in the air. “I can Uber. You guys definitely have Uber, right?”

  Oh God, this is not helping. I’m getting more and more nervous. Why won’t he say anything?

  Just say something, anything.

  I don’t like this silence-before-the-storm type situation. I swear I’m about to hyperventilate.

  “Mr. –”

  “How’d you know I was here?”

  Fucking finally.

  I tuck my hair behind my ears and answer, “Uh, I saw it on Facebook.”

  “Facebook.”

  “Yes. I saw that you were living here.”

  I know how that might sound. That I was stalking him or something. But I don’t wanna lie to him.

  “How’d you see it?” he asks.

  “Brian… He, uh, posted about it.”

  At the mention of his son, his fingers tighten on the wheel. In addition to that, his nostrils flare and I have absolutely no idea what to make of it.

  “So what, you thought you could drop by to say hi?”

  I squirm in my seat. “Not hi, exactly. I told you I came –”

  “Why aren’t you in college?” he grits out, staring at the road.

  Whoa, okay.

  The correct answer is, I’m not in college because I lost my shit last summer and spent some time in a psych ward. And now, going to a crowded place like college terrifies me so I’m taking it easy.

  That’s the correct answer.

  But the other correct answer is, I’m fine now. I’m handling things. It’s all in the past. So what’s the point of telling him?

  I feel the leather of my hobo with my legs as I tell him, “Because it’s summer vacation. College is usually out.”

  Lies. Lies. Lies.

  I’m lying to him and I wanna throw up. But again, what’s the point of telling him when it’s all done and over with?

  He accepts my answer by clenching his jaw and white-kn
uckling the wheel.

  A few seconds pass until he asks another question. “Your parents know you’re vacationing here?”

  No.

  They think I’m at a yoga retreat with the girls for my anxiety issues; they helped with the convincing. Nelson recommended it a long time ago and last week, I fake-agreed to go.

  “Yes,” I lie the second time in the space of a minute, and the bile is so high up my throat that I feel it on the tip of my tongue.

  “Is that right?”

  I can see why this is a little harder to believe for him but I keep at it. “Yes. That’s right.”

  “Your parents know that their innocent little schoolgirl daughter’s here. With the alleged sexual predator. Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

  He’s quoting that article from the Cherryville Chronicle and as soon as he’s said it, the tic in his jaw doesn’t stop.

  My heart follows its lead and begins to tic as well, slowly gaining speed.

  “First of all, I’m not a schoolgirl. I’m an adult. I can make my own decisions,” I tell him fiercely. “Second of all, my parents don’t care. My mom’s busy with her new affair. And my dad’s out of the country for the rest of the month.”

  After my accident, my dad remained the same but my mom changed.

  She started to kinda care for me. Not a lot, of course. I’m still the living proof of her exploits. But she had a talk with Fiona about the photo and the social media disaster; not that my sister listened but still. Mom even started to ask about my health, my treatment, my therapy and all that.

  More than that though, she gets pretty worked up whenever Mr. Edwards is mentioned. Especially when I’m the one mentioning him, insisting on his innocence and my culpability.

  In her eyes, it was Mr. Edwards’s fault.

  He somehow made me kiss him and I’m the innocent one, and I’ll never understand why. She’s always been so sure that I am Satan’s re-incarnation.

  Sometimes I think she’s the one who had that article printed in the paper, making me out to be this damsel and him the villain.

  In any case, we’re not a happy family and since I never step foot out of the house, it’s really, really tough. So as soon as I told her that I was going with the girls for the summer long yoga camp, she booked my tickets in a flash – great idea, Violet, she said – and then, I overheard her talking to her new boyfriend on the phone, making plans to meet with him the following day.