Breakable (Contours of the Heart, #2)(20)

I wanted to reach across the cab and touch her. I didn’t.

It could have been so much worse.

But I would never, ever say that to her.

In her dorm lot, I parked and locked the truck, handing her the keys and walking with her to the side entrance. I fought to keep my hands to myself. I wanted to comfort her, but a stranger’s touch was the last thing she needed. Though she was familiar to me – unique and fascinating – I was unknown to her.

She didn’t even know my name.

I asked for her ID at the door, figuring she’d have a difficult time swiping the card, the way her body was shaking. I wondered if I should walk her all the way to her room, or if that would feel like a threat. It was a miracle she’d allowed herself to trust me this far.

Then she gasped when she handed over the card, her eyes on my knuckles. ‘Oh, my God. You’re bleeding.’

‘Nah. Mostly his blood,’ I said. Like that’s comforting. Jesus.

I swiped the card and handed it back, staring down into her face, now fully visible under the dome light of the entryway. My eyes touched what my fingers couldn’t, tracing the visible tracks of her tears, the smudges of mascara beneath her eyes. I wanted to smooth the anguished furrows from her brow with my thumbs, pull her within the circle of my arms and press her face against my chest, let my heartbeat calm her.

‘You sure you’re okay?’ I asked, and her eyes filled instantly. My hands curled into fists at my sides. Don’t touch her.

‘Yes. Fine,’ she said, gaze falling from mine. What a horrible little liar she was.

She would tell a friend what happened. A roommate, maybe. Someone known and trusted. I couldn’t be her confidant and I knew it. I’d served my purpose, and I only wished I’d served it better. Faster. I’d be pissed off at myself forever for my initial hesitation in following her out tonight.

I asked if I could call someone for her, and she shook her head no, skirting round me, careful to avoid any physical contact – even a brush of fabric. Further evidence of my anonymous status.

I watched her walk to the stairs, the heels of her shoes tapping against the tile floor, the glittered, forked tail swaying absurdly behind her, no matter how stiffly she moved now. Her costume’s horns were long gone.

‘Jackie?’ I said, carefully, not wanting to startle her. She pivoted, her hand on the rail, waiting. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

She bit her lip, holding herself together, nodding once before gripping the rail and running up the stairs. I turned and left, certain those four words would be the last thing I’d ever say to Jackie Wallace.

It was a good last thing to say.





7



Landon


Boyce Wynn, previous fellow occupant of the middle-school outcast table, had become my nemesis. If I’d have called him that, he’d have had no clue what I meant and would have called me a * and/or threatened to kick my ass. In other words, the same as what happened when I said nothing to him.

Contrary to some things adults like to say, responding to bullies – if you can’t beat them – gives them power, because then they know you care. I didn’t intend to do that. Principal Ingram had threatened me with her zero tolerance, and Wynn probably could kick my ass in addition to getting me expelled. He was big and mean, clomping around like one of the upperclassmen, who put up with him because he was rumoured to have access to drugs, alcohol and stolen car parts. Also, he didn’t threaten them. He only screwed with those he perceived as smaller or weaker.

Which meant me.

There wasn’t an outcast table in the high-school lunchroom, so choosing where to sit required an impromptu decision, two seconds after paying. A wrong move could be fatal.

On crap days, social lepers ate outside in the quad, but when it was nice out we stayed in, relinquishing the quad’s sunny tables and benches to guys like Clark Richards, the youngest son of a developer my grandfather hated, and girls like Melody Dover, Clark’s popular blonde girlfriend.

There weren’t many crap days here, weather-wise – rain or high winds, the occasional hail and tornado threat. Otherwise it was warm and sunny, even in the winter … which meant I spent most lunch periods inside. The safest spots were at vacant ends of tables where no one semi-popular or Wynn-like sat.

But that didn’t stop them from finding you when they went looking for entertainment.

Example 1: It’s surprisingly easy for someone to propel a lunch tray across a cafeteria table – sending it crashing to the floor and launching food in every direction – without slowing his stride or acting as if he had anything to do with it.

I began grabbing a foil-wrapped, suspiciously preserved sandwich and bottle of water in the line instead of a tray of hot food.

Example 2: Whoever invented locker rooms – where several rows of solid metal and concrete block whatever happens in the back from the coach’s sight – was a dick. Thanks to an ambush, I lost a pair of secondhand Chucks and my vintage camo cargo pants. Because I wasn’t mental enough to ID the *s, the coach’s remedy was to have me choose something to wear from the lost-and-found barrel – which gave off an odour suggesting something had died at the bottom and was currently decomposing.



I smelled like literal shit during last period, every girl nearby wrinkling their noses and scooting their desks as far from me as possible, while guys made brilliant observations like, ‘You reek, Maxfield. Try telling your handler to hose you off occasionally.’ Et cetera.