Dare You To (Pushing the Limits #2)(40)

My chest is heaving and I gasp for air. The silence that falls between us is heavy and I’m drowning under its weight.

“That’s not true.” Scott pauses as if he’s waiting for a reply. He picks up the textbook and sets it on the dresser. Right beside Mom’s parole officer’s card. “Get some sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”

No, we won’t. He leaves for work before I wake for school. Scott gently closes the door. I race across the room, lock it, turn off the lights, then toss the covers off the bed, searching for the phone. My fingers shake as I press the numbers. My pulse beats in my ears in time to the name of the person I need: Isaiah. A heartbeat. Isaiah. The phone rings. Isaiah.

“Hey.” At the sound of his easygoing voice I lean against the closet door. “You had me worried. It’s five after ten. You’re late for our one-minute talk.”

Hoping my lip will quit trembling, I close my eyes and will the tears to stay away. It’s all in vain. If I speak, I’ll cry and I don’t cry.

“Beth?” Worry creeps into his tone.

“Here,” I whisper back and that one word is almost my undoing. Isaiah and I—we don’t do phone conversations. Never have. We watched TV. We partied. We sat next to each other—existed. How do you just be on a phone? And that’s what I need. I need Isaiah to just exist.

“Beth…” He hesitates. “Is that Ryan guy messing with you again?”

I swallow a possible sob. I won’t cry. I won’t. “Sort of.” And Allison and my uncle and school and everything and I feel like the walls are caving in, an avalanche preparing to bury me.

Silence from Isaiah.

I bite my lip when one tear rolls down my face. “Do you want me to let you go?”

Dammit. Just dammit—I don’t cry. “Because I know you don’t talk. I mean us. We. We don’t talk.” I swear under my breath. My voice shook. He’ll know I’m upset. He’ll know.

Silence again. Air crackling on the line.

When he lets me go, I’ll fall apart. I’ll have nothing to hold on to. Nothing to anchor me.

I’ll be exactly what everyone wants me to be—nothing.

“I’m okay with silence, Beth.”

I’m still here in this house in the room with too many windows. I’m still exposed—raw—and living in hell. But I have Isaiah and he’s anchoring me. I slide down the wall until I can curl into a tight ball on the floor. “I need you.”

“I’m here.” And we sit in silence.

Ryan

SITTING ON MY BED, I read the text message.

First the fight with Dad, then, at ten at night, Gwen sends me this: Beth Risk???

She waits on the other end for my reply. At least when I play baseball, I can catch the balls beings thrown at me. Dad and Gwen? I’m getting the hell pounded out of me.

I shouldn’t answer Gwen. I should pretend I never read the message. She loves drama. I love baseball. She hated my games and I hated hers. We stopped kissing and touching and dating, yet somehow, like that night at the dugout, we’ve never stopped the games.

I text back: what about her?

The wait for her answer stretches into eternity. I glance away from the phone as if that will make her respond faster. This summer, after Mark left, Mom repainted my room blue.

She loves to redecorate as much as Dad loves to build. They used to work together on projects, but that was before our world fell apart.

Gwen: you tell me I hate texting. You never know what the person is really trying to say. I take a risk. One that will make me an idiot and her dangling monkey if she ignores my request.

Me: call me

My heart picks up a few beats. Will she do it or will she leave me hanging? Since our breakup, when we play the text game, I call her.

My cell rings and I smile. On the third ring, I answer. “Gwen.”

“Stone,” she says without much emotion.

“What’s going on?” It’s an awkward dance.

One I despise. We used to spend hours on the phone talking and now we overanalyze every word and pause.

“You knew who she was the entire time.”

There’s a hint of accusation in her voice.

I work at staying nonchalant. “And if I did?”

“You could have told me.”

I stare at the posters of my favorite teams.

Why would I have told her that Beth is Scott Risk’s niece? They share classes together.

They went to the same elementary school. She could have talked to Beth herself.

“Why did you nominate her?” she asks.

I hear ruffling. The sound is Gwen lying back onto her pillows. She has five of them on her bed and she sleeps with every last one. I can picture her golden hair fanning out.

“You know how much homecoming queen means to me,” she says.

I do. I used to listen as she rattled on about her dream of winning that sparkly tiara.

Actually, I faked interest, then pretended to listen. “You seconded the nomination.”

“Because I’d look like a sore loser if I didn’t, and now I have to scramble for votes.

This would have been a lot easier if you told me sooner she was Scott Risk’s niece. Really, Ryan, I thought we were friends.”

“What do you care? No one knows her and she doesn’t want friends.”