Deeper (Caroline & West #1)(102)

I hate this place today. I hate Oregon, too—the ocean, the buttes I’ve never seen. I hate trailer parks. I hate West’s mom for being such a failure, for loving a man who doesn’t deserve to be loved and taking the man I love away from me.

So much hatred. But my hate doesn’t feel poisonous or toxic. It feels true, inevitable. I have to hate these things, because here they are, parked in the middle of my life. A giant metal box of Impossible, seams sealed, and when I kick it, it echoes. When I knock, no one answers.

Hating it is the only option I have.

I’m still sitting there on the steps an hour later when Nate’s friend Josh walks out of the station and pauses to light a cigarette.

“Caroline,” he says when he sees me. He’s inhaled, and he chokes on the smoke and takes a while to recover his voice. “Jeez.”

He doesn’t ask, What are you doing here?

He knows why I’m here.

Long-haired, loose-limbed, floppy Josh. I thought he was my friend. I thought he liked me.

He ratted out West.

“Is Nate in there?” I ask.

“What? No.”

“So it was just you snitching on him.”

He looks like I’ve smacked him in the forehead with a mallet. Totally unprepared for this conversation.

I stand up for the sole purpose of taking advantage of his surprise. Thinking of my dad in his office—the way he rises to pace when he wants to take a position of power over me—I even put myself a step above Josh. Why shouldn’t I use whatever advantages I have?

Why shouldn’t I prosecute? Haven’t I earned the right by now?

“What did he ever do to you?” I ask. “What did I ever do, for that matter, to make you hate me so much? I don’t get it. I need you to explain it.”

“Nothing. I mean, I don’t hate you.”

“You turned him in.”

“No, I didn’t, I swear. I—”

“What happened? Did you call in a tip, or did they pick you up?”

I watch his face with narrowed eyes, waiting for a sign. But I don’t need to be sharp to see it—it’s obvious. “They picked you up. What did you do?”

“I was smoking a blunt in my car.”

“Where, on campus?”

“In the Hy-Vee parking lot.”

“You’re kidding me.”

He shakes his head.

“You got picked up for smoking dope in your car at a grocery store? How stupid are you?”

Now he won’t look at me.

“So they asked you who sold you the pot, and you gave them West’s name. Even though it was a lie.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“You had a choice. You just chose what was easy. Why not pin it on West? Nate hates him, anyway. It’s not like West is your friend. He’s just a dealer. He’s expendable. He’s nobody. It’s not like anybody loves him or anyone will care when he’s kicked out of school, right? He’s not as important as you. No one is as important as you.”

And the longer I’m talking, the angrier I’m getting. Not even at Josh. At Nate.

I was never really human to him. Never fully a person. If I had been, he wouldn’t have treated me the way he did—not while we were going out, not in August, not now.

He’s behind this. I don’t care if it’s Josh who turned West in—it’s Nate who made it possible. Nate who convinced all our friends, Josh among them, that I was a psycho bitch. Nate who treated me like shit, hurt me, and assaulted me, and Nate who got away with it.

I’ve spent so many months not being angry with him.

Why the f*ck have I not been angry?

“Where’s Nate?”

“I don’t know. Sleeping?”

“Is he home?”

“Huh?”

“Did he go home to Ankeny for break yet? Or is he still here?”

“He went home.”

“Thank you.”

I jog down the steps, leaving Josh there for … whatever. For the crows to pick at. For April’s rains to wash away.

I don’t give a shit. I’ve finally got force and velocity, a direction to point in, and as soon as I hit the sidewalk, I start to fly.



By the time I get to Ankeny, it’s nearly eight, and the highway is clogged with people on their way to work. The traffic in Nate’s neighborhood is all headed in the opposite direction from me, so I already feel like I’m breaking rules when I park in his driveway. Even more so when his mom comes to the door.

His mom is so nice. She was always great to me. She seems not to know what to do with the fact that I’m standing on her doorstep, which I can understand. I used to be allowed to come in without knocking. I practically lived here senior year.

Now I’m dangerous—to her son, to her peace. She knows it. I can tell.

“Is Nate here?”

“He’s not up yet.”

“I’d like you to wake him up.”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I am here.”

“You ought to let the college handle this, Caroline.”

I’m tired of the word this. I’ve heard it a lot since I first heard it from my dad—a word employed as a refuge, a little piece of slippery language that can be pulled over the head and hidden behind. This situation. This trouble. This disagreement.