The Lovely Reckless(51)

Marco seems satisfied with my response and works through the first three problems with me. Sofia is right; he’s a good teacher. He frowns a little when he concentrates, and I’m having a hard time keeping my mind on chemistry.

“Are you in any other AP classes?” I want him to tell me why he dropped them.

Marco clenches his jaw and draws triangles in the margin of the scratch paper we’re using. “Not since last year.”

“Why not?” It’s none of my business, but the more I learn about Marco, the more I want to know.

He pushes his chair back and leans forward, hands clasped between his knees. He keeps his eyes trained on the floor. “My life got screwed up, and last year it all caught up to me.”

The raw emotion in his voice makes it seems like the wounds are still fresh.

Without thinking, I touch his shoulder. Marco’s pain feels familiar, like we’re haunted by similar ghosts. He flinches beneath my fingers, and I start to pull my hand away. He catches my wrist and lets his thumb drift to my palm, tracing tiny circles on my skin.

“If I asked what happened, would you tell me?”

Marco pulls my hand in front of him along with his and slides his fingers between mine. My skin tingles.

I’m afraid to move. We’re holding hands. What if it was an accident? But he closes his other hand on top like he’s worried I’ll let go.

I won’t.

He takes a deep breath. “My mom died of cancer when I was thirteen.”

“I’m sorry.” I squeeze his hand.

“It happened fast, which is good, I guess, because she didn’t suffer long. But my old man was already screwed up, and her death threw him over the edge.”

“What do you mean by ‘screwed up’?” I’m praying he doesn’t tell me his father is a drug addict or an alcoholic who beat his kids.

“My dad used to street race in high school. Someone on the NASCAR circuit heard about him, and my dad ended up racing for real. But his career didn’t last long, and he came back here and married my mom. He always drank, but when she died, he started racing again—on the street, at the track. Anywhere he could lose money.”

“Is that who taught you to race?”

Marco clings to my hand. “Yeah. But only because it’s easier to con people into racing a fourteen-year-old.”

What kind of father pimps his son out to race for him? My mom always chose Richard over me, Lex’s parents have no idea where she is 90 percent of the time, and Abel’s mom drinks her way through life one glass of wine after another. But none of them have ever used us to make money.

“I’m sorry.”

Marco’s frown deepens, and he runs his fingers over our joined hands. He raises his eyes and looks at me for the first time since he started talking about his father. “You know what sucks? That’s the happiest part of the story.”

I know how it feels to carry a story inside you—one that you want to share with someone, but you can’t find the words. “If you don’t want to talk about this anymore, I understand.”

“This might not make any sense, but I want to say it out loud. Deacon, Cruz, people in my neighborhood—they know what happened. But I’ve never told anyone else.”

And he chose me.

Marco clears his throat. “Racing didn’t satisfy my dad for long. He wanted more money and the respect he lost when his NASCAR career ended, so he upped his game. He stopped racing cars and started stealing them.”

His father is a car thief—the kind of criminal my dad spends every day trying to catch.

“That’s what he was doing the night of Sofia’s accident. The asshole was delivering a stolen car. It was Sofia’s birthday. He promised to take her out for ice cream after they dropped it off. But the cops caught up with him first.” Marco lets my hand slip out of his and folds his arms over his head, shielding himself. “He crashed the car. All those NASCAR races he won … and he crashed the car. Maybe if the cops weren’t chasing him, he wouldn’t have crashed.” His breathing grows heavy, and he shoves the desk in front of him. The metal legs screech across the floor.

“Is that how she got the scars?” I ask softly.

He nods. “It was a vintage car, so the windows weren’t made of safety glass. The windshield sliced Sofia up when it shattered, and she was trapped inside.” Marco jumps out of the chair and paces, as if it’s physically painful for him to stay still.

“What about your dad? Was he all right?”

He slumps against the whiteboard behind him. “The asshole walked away with a few bruises. Actually, he ran away.” Marco takes a deep breath. “He left her, Frankie. And the cops didn’t know Sofia was in the car. Her head didn’t reach the top of the seat, and by the time the cops caught up to the car, my dad was already running.”

Without thinking, I’m out of my chair and across the room. I pull him against me and wrap my arms around him. His heart pounds against my cheek.

“The car flipped, and it was crushed. She couldn’t get out.” Marco buries his face in my neck and leans against me, his breathing ragged. The weight he’s carrying bears down on me, heavier than my own.

“Did the police figure out she was in the car?”

“No. Deacon lived up the street from where they crashed. His dad used to beat the crap out of him, and they got into it that night. Deacon was walking it off, and he saw the accident. He had to climb through what was left of the windshield to get her out.”