Distraction (Westbrook Series Book 1) (37 page)

He sits down on the park bench with his head hunched over in his lap. He is repeatedly grabbing fistfuls of his hair, as he shakes his head. It seems like he is having a debate with himself.

"That can
never
happen again. This must stop, Laila. I'm sorry, but I
need
to be the mature one here. I need to put some distance between us."

How can he go through with this breakup after kissing me like that?

"I'm going to stay at my cousin's tonight," he says sternly, before turning around.

"So that's
it?
We're . . .
through?
" I ask.

I'm still holding my fingers over my lips in disbelief.
The same lips that he had just kissed so hard, so passionately, and for so long that they are now slightly swollen, and almost numb
. I'm completely bewildered by the stark difference between his words and actions. The tears aren't even threatening to surface any more, because my body hasn't even had a chance to settle back down.
I am beyond confused
.

"I'll run back to the house and grab my things. Please let your parents know I won't be back tonight."

I suppose this is his way of saying goodbye, because he doesn't turn around before his feet are jogging away. He doesn't wait to see how I react, or to listen to what I have to say. He just
takes off
with no regard for me at all. I'm left here alone, too breathless to be broken, too angry to be hurt, and too vulnerable to find strength.

The scraping and scuffing noises in the distance, from the kids scaling ramps and showing off new tricks on their skateboards, drowns out the relentless static in my head.
I suppose this is a good thing, considering how I was just dumped by my very first boyfriend, who happens to be the love of my life
.

I have this sudden urge to go for a run myself. I am not really a runner, but there is something about the way Sam had described running that I can't seem to get out of my head.
Does running really help clear your mind?
I could use that myself, right now. Plus, I'm already dressed for the occasion.

I must admit that there
is
something to be said about the way it feels to have your feet pounding against the pavement as you find your stride. The steady, rhythmic, scuffing sound of my soles striking the pavement helps to drown out the noise in my head. I welcome the aching of my rusty muscles, as they ease into the motion. I move my feet forward again and again, until my body feels like Jell-O.

Even though I push my body way past the state of exhaustion, I am surprised when I see my house. Four miles is a lot of running for someone who never runs, and yet I am somewhat disappointed when my feet land on our driveway. I brace myself with my hands on my thighs, and allow my head to hang between my legs.

The burn that takes over my throat as I try to catch my breath is so strong, I feel like I might vomit. I've definitely pushed myself too hard, but the exertion of my muscles and the ache of my body feel really good. It's a physical reminder that I am alive, no matter how dead I feel inside. It's easy to ignore the pain and push past my physical limits. It's the emotional pain that I don't seem to be able to handle.

I kind of get what Sam was talking about. It's almost like the run has somehow scrubbed my mind clean. It's not perfectly clear. The residue from our break-up is still there, but it feels a little lighter and seems less suffocating. Part of me wants to run back to the park and get the car, but as I take a few steps, I notice how my muscles are twitching. I might not be able to walk tomorrow if I continue on.

I open the front door and slip into the house quietly. I want to sneak upstairs unnoticed, so I can take a shower and collapse into bed. As I drag my feet up each stair, my legs yelp in pain, reminding me harshly that I’ve pushed myself too much today.

This is nothing, however, compared to the wrenching ache of my heart when I run into Sam at the top of the stairs. He is freshly showered, wearing a faded, navy, vintage St. Louis Cardinals baseball cap.
Damn it. He sure looks good in a hat, always has.
I love the way the ends of his sandy-blond hair peek out and curl up from under the cap's edge.

I notice his duffle bag is slung over his shoulders, as if he is on his way out, but he doesn't move. We just stand there, staring at each other, trying to figure out what to say to one another. Even though I am standing there breathing, I feel like I'm frozen in time, no more alive than the wooden post I am leaning against.

"Did you run home?" he finally asks, his eyes surveying my flushed, damp skin.

"Yeah. I guess I needed to
clear my head,
" I mumble, wondering if he notices how I am throwing his words back at him.

And just like that, the emotional clutter I had worked so hard to remove comes rushing back. As the burn creeps it's way back into my throat, I realize that no amount of running will ever completely dissolve this pain.

Sam's blue eyes seem to be searching for something in mine, but he doesn't ever find the right words to say whatever is on his mind. Instead, he simply brushes past me, and continues on down the steps, as if I were never here.

Him blowing me off like that, pulls the rest of the pain to the surface with so much force, I have to run into my room before the sobbing takes over. Once my door is closed, I lean back against it. I slowly slide my back down the length of the door until I am sitting on the bare, hardwood floor. I finally allow the tears to break free.
I hate this feeling
. It's like everything is spinning, and I can no longer think clearly.

When I realize that the tears are not likely to slow any time soon, I grab some clean pajamas, a fresh towel, and escape to the refuge of my bathroom.
A hot shower is calling me
.

The hot, steamy water lightly massages my sore muscles, and helps to relieve some of the tension. My tears continue to pour down my face, as steady as the stream of water that is flowing from the showerhead. I go through the motions of washing my hair and body, but I feel like a zombie. I’m completely detached and disconnected. When my tired eyes run dry from all of the crying, I turn the shower knob until the water stops.

A thick layer of goose bumps has already invaded my skin, no doubt because I have let the water run cold. I quickly wrap my towel around me, and rub it against my body, hoping to erase the bumps to warm myself up.

When I glance in the mirror, I barely recognize the reflection staring back at me. My face is scrubbed raw, revealing a shade of red that matches my stinging, weary eyes. My eyes look dull and lifeless. I run my tongue over my smooth, clean teeth, satisfied with my aggressive brushing. My warm pajamas are on, my mouth is minty clean, my skin is covered in a thick layer of rich, milky lavender lotion, and my brushed, damp hair smells of strawberries.

The safety and comfort of my bed is calling me. The exhaustion that settles in as I lay down is overwhelming. I almost don't notice the small white envelope resting on the pillow next to me. My stomach drops, as I stare at the familiar, messy, hand-written strokes that spell out my name. My fingers immediately find the necklace that is still dangling around my neck.

I run my fingers along the sealed envelope. It mirrors both of the envelopes he gave me last night. I am hesitant to open it because I don't think I can take any more heartache tonight. Instead, I toss it on my nightstand, promising myself to read it tomorrow when my mind is more rested.

Chapter Twenty-Four:
We Were Summer
 

I can feel my body rocking back and forth. Where am I? It's too dark to tell. Am I on a boat?

"Hey, yo. Get up, sleepyhead."

What is that sound? Whose voice is that?

"Hey lil sis, get up."

Sam? Is that you? You came back. Did you change your mind? Why
can't I see anything? It's so dark and this boat is too rocky.

"Come
on
. We're going to be late. Get your sleepy
butt
out of bed, before I send Mom up here."

I am suddenly falling, and then my eyes finally open. Kyle is standing over me, shaking me. I am so disoriented for a moment that I have to rub my tired eyes and refocus them, in order to realize where I am.

Like a tidal wave, it all comes crashing into me at once;
Sam and I on my bed, Kyle walking in on us and flipping out, Kyle and Sam fighting,
Sam leaving, dinner with my parents and Sam, Sam at the skate park, our
kiss at the skate park. Oh, God. It was our last kiss. My rigorous run after he left, and the final blow, when Sam just left me standing there at the top of the staircase with not even so much as a "Goodbye." or "We'll talk soon."

My head is throbbing, and the way the bright sunlight is filtering through my open shutters is not helping.
Damn you, Kyle, for pulling those open so early.

Why does crying give you such an awful, mind-splitting headache?
I might as well have drunk half a bottle of vodka because that is
exactly
how I feel right now.
Ouch. My head. Ouch. My legs. What is wrong with my legs? Oh, yeah. I forgot about my run. Shoot. The car is still at the park.

I start to sit up, but quickly fall back down. The sharp pain in my head becomes unbearably intense when I try to move even the slightest bit.
Need Tylenol, now.
It doesn't help that the one person I do not want to see right now is hovering over me with a stupid, shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

"Laila, were you by chance
drinking
last night?"

Even Kyle seems to think I am suffering from a bad hangover. I shake my head, grunt, and bury my head under my pillow.

"Where is the car? You had Mom all bent out of shape, you know. She thought you didn't come home last night. She was about ready to call the Feds. I had to calm her down. You
owe
me. What gives, lil sis?" he asks, while shoving my shoulder hard.

I'm going to kill you, Kyle. Later, when my head isn't hurting so badly.
I pull my pillow to the side just enough to get a peek at him. His amused expression just pisses me off.

"I owe
you?
" This is one of those moments when you ask a question, and you wish you could somehow add the second and third question mark. "
Seriously
, what in your warped mind could
possibly
make you think that
I
owe
you
anything?
" I shout.
Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. I really need to remember to not yell when my head throbs like this.

"
Oh,
I don't know
. Maybe it's because I just
saved your ass
with Mom?" he says sarcastically. "You really ought to crash at Avery's if your going to drink like that, Laila. You're lucky she sent
me
in here to wake up your stupid, hung-over butt." There is still a hint of laughter in his voice that makes me want to scream.

"I'm
not
hung over, Kyle. I didn't drink
at all
last night," I bark at him through clenched teeth. "I just have a
really
,
really
bad headache, and your voice right now, is making it so much worse. Please just
leave
." I try to keep my voice as even and soft as I can manage, in an effort to keep the pounding from escalating.

"Whatever you say, lil sis. I
know
a hangover when I see it.
God knows
I've had enough of them to know. I wasn't kidding. You better get ready fast. We're leaving for church in like twenty minutes." He yanks the covers off of me, and laughs when I moan. I am more than relieved when I finally hear my door shut.
What an asshole
.

I pull myself out of bed, and stumble into the bathroom to get myself ready. The last place I want to be right now is church. I try to think of a good enough excuse that my mom would buy in order to get me out of going. Being sick is out. She might suspect a hangover, too, especially with the car MIA.

Once again, I go through the motions of getting ready, but I feel completely removed from it all. It is as if my body is moving independently from my soul. I throw on a dress and slip on some flat sandals, not bothering with perfume, jewelry, or even makeup. My hair is haphazardly piled up into a messy bun on top of my head. Frizzy spirals are springing loose all around my face, but I do not have the energy or interest to secure them back into place. It's hard to care about your physical appearance when you feel so completely wrecked inside.

Kyle pokes his head into my room again to be sure I am up. "Ready?" he asks.

I nod my head, unable to look him directly in the eyes. He doesn't seem to be mad at me for getting together with Sam, and yet he continues to punish his best friend for it. It is completely unfair. I am as much a part of it as Sam is.

"Here," he snaps, tossing me a bottle of Tylenol. The rattling of the pills in the bottle is like heavenly church bells calling me.
Oh, thank God. I may still be mad at you, Kyle, but right now, you are my hero.

"Are you sure you're ready?" He asks gruffly. He inspects my disheveled appearance while scratching the back of his head. "I hate to say it, but you kind of look like hell, lil sis." He says before chuckling.
Scratch that. He's back to being at the top of my supreme shit list.

I line up the arrows, twist the lid off the bottle, and drop a couple of white pills directly into my mouth. I'm so desperate for relief that I don't even bother waiting for a drink. This is highly unusual since I normally have to do a great deal of coaxing, just to get the pills down my throat, even with water.

It's a miracle I was able to get ready this quickly. I am actually sitting on the loveseat in our family room, drinking a mug of hot coffee, waiting with my dad. The pain has lightened up a little, thanks to the Tylenol and the caffeine. I have a sneaking suspicion the headache will linger faintly for most of the day. Again, it is so much like a dreaded hangover that I'm starting to wish I
had
drained my sorrows in a bottle of liquor. After all, I am suffering the consequences anyway.

My mom is still racing around, trying to finish getting ready herself. I have no idea where Kyle is. I savor each minute though, because it just means another minute of sipping my coffee and remaining still. Dad is too engrossed with the newspaper to notice how miserable I must look. Even if he did, he would never be as blunt and cruel as Kyle was about it.
I suppose that is a special role that is reserved for jerk brothers
.

I chug the rest of my coffee when I see Mom and Kyle race out the front door.
Here we go.

It's almost strange having the four of us together in one car. It so rarely happens now that Kyle is away at school. It kind of takes me back to our childhood, when we would spend our lazy Sunday afternoons gallivanting around town after church. Dad would drive us through the windy, tree-lined back roads that are on the outskirts of Westbrook.

It is always beautiful here, no matter what season it is. In the fall, it is like flying through a maze of unending, blazing red and orange. During the winter, the bare branches are often iced with a mystical, white, wintery glaze. In the spring, the budding flowers and leaves sprout, reminding us it is a new day and that new life is emerging. I love the promise that comes along with spring. It's like we are all given a fresh start. It's a clean slate, where you can make the season be whatever you want it to be.

Right now, it is a full, thick mass of various shades of green, complemented by the occasional sprinkling of vibrant and colorful flowers. Life is already fully in bloom. It's the climax of nature's beauty. Being with Sam was exactly that.
We were summer.

Unfortunately, my season has already changed. An abrupt cold front has moved in, robbing me of my summer early, and destroying everything in its path. The beautiful and fervent life that was once there, is now becoming just a distant memory. It will surely continue to fade and wilt, until the rain eventually washes it all away.

I feel like one of those barren trees, stripped of my leaves, frozen in the frigid air as I wait for the harsh winter storms to pass. It seems unfair. Everybody deserves to relish in the glory of summer.
Why did ours have to end so quickly, before it ever really started?

Kyle nudges me with his elbow. I turn to glare at him, but realize the car is off and is now parked. Mom and Dad are already out. "Are you planning on hanging out here all day, or are you going to grace us with your presence at church today?"

I just want to smack the snarky tone right out of his voice, but decide the church parking lot may not be the best place for me to unleash my fury with my brother.

"
Relax
, lil sis. You know I'm just messing with you. Is your head still bad?" he asks. I ignore him. We trail behind our parents, who are already lost in the sea of people charging through the old, intricately-carved wooden front doors of our church. He seems like he is being extra chatty with me today, but I'm not sure why.
Does he feel bad about ruining my life? I sure hope so. Jerk.

A cheery older gentleman shoves a light blue, folded piece of paper into my hands, and welcomes me with a grin that looks natural, unlike the forced smile that I return. We file into the sanctuary with the rest of the congregation, and make our way to an old, hard wooden pew in the middle of the church, where my parents are already seated. Kyle starts to sit down, but pops back up and disappears. He either saw someone he knows, or suddenly remembered that he has to use the restroom.

I spot Peter Sanchez walking through the double doors at the back of the church, and groan to myself. He is not wearing his white robe, which means he will be looking for a seat with the rest of us parishioners. I slouch my body as much as I can, but I know I'm pretty much screwed. My mom is wearing a bright red and orange floral dress that might as well be a flashing neon sign that says, "I'm right here, Peter."

Sure enough, he walks right up to us and peers down at me with an amused expression on his face. "Having back cramps, Laila?" he asks. A cheesy smile breaks across his face and he winks.
He actually winks at me. He thinks he is so smooth. What an idiot.

"Peter, what hole did you just crawl out of?" I ask him sarcastically, without making eye contact.
We are way past pleasantries at this point
. I usually start with the insults right away and yet, each week he comes back for more. I pull my nail file out of my purse and pretend to file my nails.

"Laila, you are
something else
, you know that? But that's okay. I happen to
like
the feisty ones," he says to me, while wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. "Why don't you scoot over and make some room for me?" I can tell even from my peripheral vision and the creepy way he says this, he is checking me out from head to toe.
Never have I been so glad to look like crap.

"My brother is sitting here, Peter. Why don't you go find someone else to annoy?"

"Oh, senorita. Don't be so
nasty
. I'm just
trying
to be nice. I thought I was your friend.
No?
"

My mom turns around and shoots me a dirty look. "Laila, why on earth are you being so rude? Scoot over and let Peter sit down. There is plenty of room for
all
of us," she scolds me through clenched teeth, under her breath, but Peter hears the whole thing.

I briefly consider ignoring her, but her eyebrow is doing that thing that let's me know I'd better do what she is asking or
else
. As much as I don't want to be anywhere near Peter Sanchez right now, I am in no mood to take on my mother.

A huge shit-eating grin breaks out on Peter's face. "Why
thank you
, Mrs. Patterson. I would be happy to join you for mass. It is so kind of you to ask. My mom and brothers are out of town, and I am all alone today since Dad is preaching."

He is such a kiss ass.
What really pisses me off is how my mom plays right into his slimy little hands. She flashes him a motherly smile while her eyes display compassion
. I feel like I might just hurl right here, all over the church pew
.

"Oh, how
is
your mother, dear?" she asks.