The Lovely Reckless(63)
The red lipstick smudges are still there. “Every kid likes to play cops and robbers. It had nothing to do with being fearless.”
He tries to make eye contact. “I disagree. I think it’s the reason you’re interested in a kid from the Downs. He takes chances, something you never used to do.”
I’m not with Marco because of some subconscious need to rebel. He hates the risks I take, just as much as my dad would if he knew about them.
“Is this what you wanted to talk about?” I ask. “It’s pretty pointless, since I’m not seeing him anymore.”
Dad leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. Not the reaction he was hoping for, I guess. “I’m trying to protect you. Marco probably seems like a nice guy, and maybe he is. But he’s also a felon.”
“You don’t know that for sure.” I push my chair away from the table and stand. “I’m going to my room.”
“Someday you’ll realize I’m doing this because I love you,” Dad calls after me.
I’m raw—my frayed emotions ripped to shreds and tied back together in ugly knots. “Don’t use love as an excuse to hurt me. Find something else to call it. If you loved me, you’d never treat me like this.”
“That’s not true.” Dad stares at me, looking shell-shocked.
“Lots of things aren’t true, but it doesn’t stop people from believing them.”
*
I’m in my bedroom, thinking about Marco when my cell vibrates. I can’t stop myself from smiling when I read the text.
miss you angel
I run my fingers over the words, and my chest aches.
me 2
A bubble of tiny dots appears as he writes back.
feels like i’m still holding you. is
that crazy?
i wish
The bubble appears, and I wait for Marco’s text. When it doesn’t come through after a few minutes, I text again.
you still there?
yeah
My hand shakes as I type the next message. Now that I know how dangerous Marco’s life really is, it’s easy to imagine dozens of scenarios that would prevent him from responding.
what’s wrong?
His response comes more quickly this time.
feels too good to be real. like i’ll
wake up tomorrow & you’ll be gone How can I tell him I feel the same way without making it worse?
i won’t. promise
till tomorrow
nite
I want to read the words over and over so I take a screenshot and e-mail it to myself before I delete the messages and the photo from my phone. Erasing Marco’s messages feels like I’m letting my father chip away at something precious that belongs to me. But Dad is more than just a nosy parent. He’s a cop.
A cop with the power to destroy Marco’s life.
The thought terrifies me, and I’m sick of being afraid.
I yank my journal out of my backpack. Writing makes me feel strong. It helps me dig through the rubble in my head—bits and pieces of memories that don’t fit together yet. I want to be strong enough to stand up to my dad and prove him wrong.
Strong enough to face the past and remember.
For Noah and me, one moment changed everything. It took his life and altered mine. Broke his body and my memory.
I’ve asked myself a thousand times if Noah would still be alive if either of us had done just one thing differently.
If we had left the house a half hour earlier or later.
If we had picked a different club or danced to one more song.
If I had gone out to the parking lot with him.
Playing what if will drive you crazy, but I can’t help it.
Abel still plays it when he thinks about the night his dad OD’d. What if his father hadn’t been alone? What if someone had called an ambulance when it happened? Would Tommy Ryder still be alive?
Those questions won’t bring back the people we loved.
But figuring out who killed Noah might bring me back. The answer is somewhere inside me.
I just need a way to drag it out.
An old episode of VH1’S Behind the Music flashes through my mind—the one about Tommy Ryder. Abel made me watch it with him a dozen times.
An interviewer with teased hair sits across from a leather-clad Tommy and asks the rock legend about his writing process. Tommy talks about the lists of words and phrases he makes, free association, and unlocking his subconscious. “The ideas are already in there, man. I’ve just gotta listen.”
Maybe I just have to listen, too?
It’s worth a try.
I open my journal and flip to a clean page, picturing the inside of the club just before I went out to the parking lot.
White mist from the smoke machine smells like strawberries and burnt matches.
The deejay in a room with a big window above the dance floor.
A bottle breaking.
Couples making out.
“Titanium” starts playing.
The soles of my wedges stick to the floor.
I have a headache and I want to leave.
The velvety texture of the black fabric in front of the door leading outside and static electricity in my hair.
Cars. Streetlights. The parking lot.