Promise (18 page)

I can't think. I drop my head onto my forearms and watch the streams of filthy water washing off the street into the storm drain next to me.

There’s a hand on my shoulder. I don’t know how to move.

“Come on. Let’s go.” Louis has me under my arms. I can feel the pressure as he pulls me up.

I’m surprised when I don’t crumple back down. My feet move, my legs do their job, and I’m numb. I don’t feel. Anything.

Inside his car, Louis is silent for a few blocks. I watch the darkness roll by, an occasional figure dots the sidewalk, and I think about Dad’s face when I walked into Windfield. For a moment, before he thought about it, he looked happy to see me.

“Man, you know how sorry I am. I can’t believe it either. You don’t deserve this, Beck. You don’t.”

I let out a sniffing laugh, trying to figure out why I don’t deserve it.

“They said the fire door to your dad’s apartment contained the fire and smoke. Whatever was in the loft side is fine. The fire was really just in the apartment kitchen. They’ll investigate, but they said you can get back in the loft tomorrow to get your stuff or whatever. If you want to, that is. You can stay in the guest house as long as you want.”

“I should have been there. I could have gotten him out.”

“Man, don’t. You’ve got enough of that bullshit on your shoulders already, don’t take more. Don’t do it, it will kill you, Beck. It will kill you this time.”

“I don’t care.” I stare out the window, watching the empty store fronts and boarded up windows on the street.

“Man, don’t go dark. I
get
it, I do, but I’ve seen you go there before. I’ve had to drag you out of some scary shit. You’ve done one hell of a job getting your life together and keeping it there. Don’t let this blow it up. There was nothing you could do. You know they’ll investigate and find out it was some damn electrical thing. And, if you want the truth, then that’s fucking on
me
because it’s my damn building, and I asked you to live there to help my ass out.” Louis’s voice catches and gets louder with each word.

“It’s not on you.” It’s all I can muster. My friend is knocking himself around, and I couldn’t even come up with something better.

Don’t go dark, Louis said.

I don’t think I can stop it. I’ve never been able to stop it.

I feel like someone is pulling my guts out through my damn ass. It hurts. Like cancer eating at me while I sit here feeling like I’d just lost the last opportunity to figure out my life.

“Listen.” His voice goes hard, and I give him the bare minimum of my attention. “I know what’s going on in your head. It’s coincidence. Bad fucking luck. That’s all.”

“There is no bad or good luck; there’s just luck.”

“Jesus, shut the fuck up. You know what I mean. What happened has nothing to do with you. What happened on that dirt road in Afghanistan had nothing to do with you. What happened with your mom and your sister had nothing to do with you. The world sucks sometimes. It sucks more for some people than for others, and you’ve had about ten helpings of your share of suck.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing here. I mean, what am I going to do? I don’t know how to live a normal life. I’ve been back, what? Five days? Six? And already I want to fucking blow something up. I want to wrap my hands around a throat and watch the life leave someone’s eyes. But the only person I seem to want to kill is—”

“
Stop
! I’m fucking serious. I’ll make a phone call right now and put you somewhere safe if you fucking say it, man. Don’t. Please.”

Louis is the only person that knows what happened when I couldn’t take it anymore. He’s seen me down in the well, daring life to snatch me from death. Gun in my hand, sitting in the corner of some abandoned building on Center Street where the mess wouldn’t matter. Twelve years old without any hope that the pain corroding my insides would ever go away.

No one knows about that except him.

“What the fuck, Louis.” My voice shatters as I smash my head against the passenger window. “Fucking
fire
? Really? Why did it have to be fire?”

The pain explodes in my head, and I barrel my fists against the dash until Louis pulls the truck over and wrangles me into a headlock.

“
Stop!
Just stop. I don’t fucking know why, man. I don’t.”

I turn and lay a blow on the side of his face. I don’t care who he is, I just want to hurt someone, and he’s here.

“
Fuck
!” He keeps the hold on my neck even as I grapple at his forearm.

It doesn’t take long for my brain to run out of oxygen, and my head starts spinning. He's got me tight, and even with berserker fury, I need oxygen.

“You done?” he growls when I finally go slack.

Yeah, I’m fucking done.

“Let go, you ass.” His grip loosens as I shove him off me and lay my head in my hands.

He pulls the truck back into the light traffic, and I feel like I must weigh two thousand pounds. Even my fingers feel heavy. Every breath is torture to get in and out of my lungs.

My phone is buzzing in my pocket. I dig it out for the distraction.

PROMISE: Hi, sorry to bother you. I forgot my scarf in your dad’s apartment. Just wanted you to know. I’ll get it tomorrow when I come, BFF. :-)

I type in six various replies before I stuff the phone back in my pocket without hitting send.

I’m not sure what the fuck God has against me, but I’m beginning to take it personally.

Promise

Jeremy is pacing in the hallway outside the apartment by the time I get there. I know he’s here to help me, but sometimes I feel like he’s overdoing it. Almost bullying me into how he thinks I should live my life.

“What took you so long? I was getting worried.” The annoyance I hear is not translating his words of concern.

“What’s going on? Why couldn’t you just tell me over the phone?” I dig in my backpack pocket for my keychain.

I jiggle the key in the lock and swing the door open, stepping into dark apartment. Jeremy is right behind me, shuffling me inside, his hand already pushing the door closed behind us.

“Turn on some lights.” His entitled, overbearing tone raises the hair on my arms.

He’s been a part of my life for so long, ever since the day the State of Ohio decided a ten-year-old girl should not be left alone to raise an eighteen-month-old in an apartment with no heat and empty cupboards.

I passed from case worker to case worker for years. Ever since my file transferred to him, he’s been in my life.

After I turned eighteen and “aged out,” he kept in touch. More than kept in touch, he’s become a friend.

At least, I think that’s what we are. He’s decent looking in a middle-aged sort of way. He could use some polish, but I could see how someone would find him at least dateable. I know he wants more from me than friendship.

But, I’ve not wanted anything like that with anyone, ever. Not since Steven decided to crap all over a needy, vulnerable, teenage girl’s crush.

It was more than a crush; I thought I loved him. And worse, I thought he loved me. Lesson learned.

But this last week I’ve felt that wanting again. I can’t fight off the looming sense of dread I have when I think about going farther down this road with Beckett.

I flip the light switch turning to see Jeremy staring at me at me.

I quickly spin and fiddle with a loose piece of yarn on the cuff of my sweater.

He walks over and takes an apple out of the basket on the kitchen table and bites into it with a loud crunch.

Help yourself.

My chest is tight because I sense he’s withholding information. I get the feeling he gets off on this kind of macabre power play.

“What? Is it Jordan? Something about Jordan, right?”

“Yes.” He takes another casual bite of the apple and smacking his lips together as he chews before continuing. “I want you to know I’m doing everything I can to help you. I made some calls yesterday to see if we could delay the court date. I pulled in as many favors for you as I could,” He pauses to shake his head. “But, they won’t budge. Mostly, they think you need to be in a more stable living situation.”

“More stable? How is this not stable?” I look around the apartment. Bruce is meticulous. This place could be a show model for the damn complex. “I’m in a good neighborhood. We keep the place spotless.”

Just don’t go in
my
room. Canvases are stacked and leaning everywhere. I have sheets all over the floor, splattered with paint, and my clothes are heaped inside the closet in wads and crumpled balls.

“
Yes,
more stable. They think you need to be on your own. Not living with a
homo
.” The disdain in his voice makes me sick.

I cross my arms and squint at him, hoping he takes the hint and dials that down.

“This is a nice apartment. Bruce is a roommate and a great human.”

“I’m just here to give you the truth, sweetheart.” He’s back on his feet, stepping toward me, his voice full of patriarchal condescension, and settles his hands on my shoulders.

“So, what should I do? I can’t afford to move out. I could never afford a place as nice as this.”

“Well, that’s what we need to think about. You need to show the court you’re stable and have the means to provide. They like
normalcy.
I will never tell anyone about your other job, either. That would lose the case for you for sure.” I can’t believe when he smiles and takes another bite of the apple.

“Should I quit the club? I need that money, but I’ll quit dancing if it will help.” I hate the desperate choke in my voice. I realize I’m still clutching the strap of my backpack. I drop it to the floor and lower myself in a heap onto the sofa.

“Why are you dressed like that? Why aren’t you wearing your scrubs?” Jeremy ignores my question.

“Like what?” I smooth the sweater down and cross my legs because his intense stare is making me feel like I’m on the stage wearing my wings.

“Those jeans. A sweater. You look nice.” He squints his face in disapproval when he sees my mismatched socks. “Where were you?” He closes the space between us, and I pull my arms around my waist.

“What should I do about the other job?” I don’t really care to discuss where I was, and I want to stick to the more important topic. “Should I quit or what?” I snap at him, trying to redirect the conversation.

“No, don’t quit. You need the money. Just understand, I’ll keep that between us.
I’ll
keep that a secret. You can trust me. Just . . .” He sets the half-eaten apple bite-side down on the coffee table and looks directly at my chest before lifting his eyes to meet mine. “Start thinking about making a more stable presentation. We have to present the very best version of you we can.”

I feel almost like he is touching me with his eyes, and an unpleasant tension rises in my stomach.

I also see something distinctive in the front of his khaki pants, and a panic begins to bubble up. He’s let me know in the last few months that he would like our friendship to be more, but I just haven’t been ready for anything like that.
Clearly
, he is.

In one day, I’ve created two very visible erections. I’m completely unsure how I feel about that.

I want him to leave. He’s never given me a reason to be frightened of him, but right now a rush of heat is covering my cheeks, and my ears are ringing. I feel cornered.

“Well, okay. Thanks. I’ll see what I can do to find my own place.”

He puts the backs of his fingers to his lips. I can’t be sure if he is covering up a smile or just wiping away the remnants of the apple’s juice.

“Good.” He puts both his hands on his cheeks. “Just start thinking of ways to make you the best version of
you
we can.” He drops his hands by his side, spins and flops down on the sofa next to me.

If he says “we” one more time, I’m going to kick him. I’m not some damn science fair group project.

He runs a hand through the course brush of his hair and lets out a huge sigh as though all of this is such a burden for him.

He is seven or eight inches shorter than Beckett. I didn’t realize he was kind of short until today. Now with him sitting so close, he smells like he just came out of the kitchen of some greasy diner.

He also wears a fanny pack.

“Is that it then?” I level my voice. He knows this is the most important thing in my life, and he seems so flippant.

“That’s it,” he says casually. He lays a hand on my knee with a condescending pat.

I grit my teeth fighting the urge to pull my leg away as he takes a breath to continue his pious pontification. “Just remember,
I’m
the one helping you. If it weren’t for me, you would have
no
shot. I’ll help you make this happen. You just need to listen to what I tell you. I
care
about you. Probably more than anyone ever has. I’m always thinking of ways to get you what you want, just remember that, okay?” He pats my knee again, stands up and stretches like he’s bored.

His question is clearly rhetorical since he shows no interest in whether or not I’m going to answer.

I get to my feet blowing out a slow breath and tugging my sweater down. I take a step forward hoping it will urge him toward the door. He pauses at the kitchen table, lifts another apple and stuffs it into his jacket pocket, leaving the half-eaten one sitting where he left it. He looks at me like I’m some shelter dog waiting for a stay of execution, then steps right in front of me.