One Small Thing(37)

“I can’t figure you out, Beth.” His voice is low, wary.

“I can’t figure me out, either,” I quip, but my tone is weak and so is the smile I try to muster.

Chase slowly moves toward me, and my heartbeat quickens. Not from lust, but because his presence itself is intimidating. He’s tall and broad. His jaw is covered with scruff. His jeans are ripped and his black T-shirt stretches across his big chest.

“I was never a crier before. I didn’t even cry at...” I wave my hand. He knows what I’m talking about.

“Maybe that’s why you keep crying now.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Spare me the pop psychology.”

“Fine.” He starts to walk away.

I don’t want to be alone. I may have thought that was a great idea at first, but now, faced with his back, I realize I don’t like that at all. I grab for the bottom of his jeans.

“What?”

“Don’t...” I swallow and force my request out. “Will you sit down? It’s hurting my neck to keep looking at you.”

“I’m going back to study.” He gently shakes his leg, trying to loosen my grip.

“No.” God, is he going to make me beg? I shutter my eyes and plead, “Please.”

He makes a small sound, halfway between surrender and frustration. The former wins out. The air shifts as he drops to the ground beside me.

I drop my head to my knees, but I don’t let go of his jeans. He doesn’t shake me loose, either. The silence that was so uncomfortable at first becomes a comfort. Or maybe it’s Chase who’s the comfort.

“Who are you hiding from?” he asks quietly.

“Who am I not?” I twist my head, resting my cheek on my knee. He looks beautiful even from this angle.

“But why? You’re Ra—” He cuts himself off. “You’re Elizabeth Jones. Why would you have to hide?”

“Because I’m Rachel Jones’s sister,” I say bluntly. Both of us have been skirting around her, but there’s no point. “Because her name is on a plaque on the wall. Because her bedroom looks the same way it did when she died. Because every part of my life is dictated by her death.”

His face tightens. “I’m sorry. That’s why I shouldn’t be here.” He waves to my hand still latched onto the hem of his jeans. “I’m a bad reminder of her.”

“No. Not really. When I look at you, I don’t see her.” I close one eye and then the other. He remains the same no matter what view I have. The same straight nose. The same sharp jawline. The same oval-shaped deep blue eyes. “I guess that makes me wrong.”

I sit up, resting against the spines of the books. The denim between my fingers is soft, worn down from all the times it’s been tumbled in the dryer. I wonder if he’d be okay if I cut off a piece. It seems to bring me comfort. Of course, my parents would find it and demand to know why I brought contraband into my prison cell.

I snort.

“What are we laughing about?” he asks wryly.

I tell him, because why not. He already thinks I’m a sicko for seeking out his company. “I was thinking about asking for a piece of your jeans but my parents would confiscate it. They’re my wardens, you know.” I glance over to see if he has a smile on his perfect face. He doesn’t.

Instead, he frowns. “Your wardens? You think you live in a prison?”

“Yeah,” I say unthinkingly. “They dictate where I go and when. Who I see. Where I’m going to college. I don’t have access to my car. They made me quit my volunteer job at the animal shelter and my real job at the Ice Cream Shoppe. They took the door off my bedroom.” I whisper the last part because it’s so frickin’ humiliating.

“They took your bedroom door off?” Chase’s mouth drops open and his eyebrows shoot up.

“Yes!” I semi shout. Worried, I check to see if anyone heard me. “Yes,” I repeat in much quieter tones. “See, wardens.”

“Not to downplay your misery, but that’s not what a real prison is like.”

“Close enough,” I mumble.

“No. Not even close. Granted, the door thing is fucked-up, but prison is literally being locked inside a tiny cell with a drain in the corner where you have to piss. You get three meals a day and you eat them in a cafeteria full of punks who are probably thinking about stabbing you with their forks. There’s no freedom to move between classes. You don’t get the sun on your face whenever you feel like it. Anytime they want, they can ask you to strip off your jumpsuit and bend over to make sure you’re not hiding real-life contraband in your ass.”

My cheeks are red-hot with embarrassment. I keep forgetting that Chase was in actual prison.

“They don’t even call you by your name. You’re a number. ‘Number Three-Ten, get your white ass out here and mop up the shit on the floor.’” He mimics a high-pitched, nasally tone that must’ve belonged to one of his guards. “I get that you think life is terrible, but your life isn’t a prison. Not like a real one, at least.”

“Sorry,” I say with my eyes pinned to the carpet. I’m too ashamed to look at him.

“Don’t be.” He sighs. “I didn’t mean to go off on you. The fucked-up thing is that I thought the same as you before...before prison. My dad was always on me to go to basketball practice. I wanted to screw around, go to the skate park or hang out with my buddies or lie on the sofa and play video games. I didn’t want to go to the gym and practice my fifteen-foot jump shot for two hours. And that was during the year. You think I got a break in the summers? Yeah, right. Dad made sure I went to basketball camp in Lincoln when I came to visit my mom.”