Return of the Bad Boy (2 page)

“What? I can’t—“ He stops when he sees the wrath in my eyes. He backs away and points to my VW. “Okay, I’ll just get the hitch.”

“Just . . . remember your promise. No talking,” I mumble, thinking,
Let’s do this in double time. The sooner we do, the sooner I can be away from him.

And I need to be away from him. After all, escaping my parents wasn’t the only reason I left Friesville. In fact, it wasn’t even the biggest reason.

No, the biggest reason was Dax Harding.

D
espite it being
the dead of summer, the ten-mile ride up Callow’s Hill Road to my house is decidedly icy. Or maybe that’s just because Dax insists on blowing the AC full-blast, right at my face and bare arms. The boy has always had a temperature problem. He’s hot, literally. His skin is always on fire, unlike mine. We went to the movies once, and I sat with my legs and hands piled on top of his, to ward off the arctic air in the Forum theater. I find myself thinking of the way he used to sit in the driver’s seat, just like he’s doing now, and snake his warm fingers under my hairline and tickle the back of my neck. If anyone else tried that, it would’ve annoyed me. But something about Dax Harding’s callused mechanic’s fingers, that rugged, intoxicating smell of oil and grease that used to burrow itself in his every pore…

No. Stop thinking about him.

Remember how hard you worked to forget. You can’t fall back into old habits now. He’ll be gone soon and then you can pretend this was all just a dream and get back to your real life.

Except that real life and my real job haven’t exactly been going so well either, lately.

I shake off the old memories and anxieties and drum my fingers on the armrest in tune to some country song playing softly through the truck’s speakers.

We are so different, it’s hard to believe I never saw it before. Everyone was shocked when we became a couple, the nerdy good-girl and the jaded bad-boy. It’s just like my parents kept telling me: We have absolutely nothing in common.

Despite myself, I venture another look over at Dax. He has his arm hooked easily over the wheel and is mouthing the words to the song, looking out at the tree line as if it’s the most glorious thing he’s ever seen. The thing is, Friesville is trees. Trees and farms. And that’s it. There is barely anything new anywhere. It’s completely smothering. And yet this boy obviously can’t get enough of it.

I can’t help it. I laugh. He is kind of cute when he’s peaceful like this, which makes me instinctively want to poke him.

He looks over at me, confused, an amused smile creeping over his face. I wait for him to ask me what I’m laughing about, but he doesn’t. So I say, “You are
such
a hick.”

He narrows his eyes at me, but doesn’t say a word. I realize it’s because he promised not to talk, and that only makes me laugh harder.

Finally he speaks and his voice is strong and confident, as always. “Just because I’m not dressed up like some dog’s dinner, like you? You’ve spent too much time in the city, Katydid.”

I reach over and change the radio station. It’s mostly static, but then I get something guaranteed to annoy him: Celine Dion.

He winces as if in physical pain. “You didn’t just touch my radio.”

“Yeah. Um. This song rocks. Titanic? Only one of the greatest movies ever.”

He’s staring at me as if I just announced my decision to shave my head and join a cult. “Do it again, and this hick is going to hog-tie you,” he says, switching it back.

“Hmm. Not a Leo fan, I see.”

He stares straight ahead. “I don’t watch chick flicks.”

“It’s not a chick flick. There’s action and adventure. Spoiler: The ship hits an iceberg. Chaos ensues.”

He’s giving me a warning look, but his eyes drift down to my chest. “If it’s anything like that song, no thanks, darlin’. I don’t want my eyes bleeding, along with my ears.”

I’d been sitting there rigidly, with my arms folded over my chest, but I must’ve gotten too comfortable and let my guard down. Because of the frigid air blowing right at me, my nipples are still hard. I quickly cross my arms back over my chest. I can not get comfortable with Dax Harding. That’s the worst thing I could possibly do.

I cross my legs tightly to hide the sea of goose bumps on them, but he catches that, too. “What. You nervous?”

“No, of course not,” I snap. “Cold. It’s like the frozen tundra in this cab. I think I saw a polar bear back there, trying to hitch a ride.”

“Oh. Why didn’t you say something?” He reaches down and turns off the air, sounding genuinely apologetic. That’s the closest thing to an apology I’ll ever get from him. When he removes his hand, it grazes my knee for a split second, sending fireworks straight up to my center. I flinch.

He should
not
be allowed to make me feel that way, after all this time.

He notices my reaction, too, and clears his throat. “How long are you in town for?”

“Just a week.”

He reaches across to the glove compartment and pops it open with his fist. An assortment of lollipops greet me. “Blow pop?”

I shake my head, stunned to see such a blast from the past. Dax started smoking when he was twelve, because his dad was too busy drinking his life away to care much about him and his younger siblings. The first time he kissed me, I wanted to take the focus off the obvious fact that he was my first kiss, so I told him that I hated cigarette smoke, even though truthfully, I’d never felt or tasted anything so amazing. The next day, he told me he’d given up smoking. He went and got himself a bunch of lollipops to suck on, whenever he had a craving.

One of the many things he’d done to contradict the Dax Harding reputation everyone always whispered about.

But as it turned out, those nice things he did? Lies, all lies.

“Are you
still
having cravings?” I ask as he closes the glove compartment and unwraps the candy.

“Cravings?” He shakes his head and pops the head of the lollipop into his mouth. “Why, are you?”

“For what?”

He gives me a long, appraising look that makes me flush, but I look away and snort, trying to cover the fact that I’m weakening as we speak.

“For you?” I scoff. “No. Please.”

“Yeah? So what brings you back here after all this time?” he asks. “You had to find out what I was up to, right?”

He’s kidding, being the jokester he always used to be, which makes me smile, even though the truth isn’t far off. I
have
thought of him. Often. More often than is healthy. In fact, during my first year away, all I did was have this pathetic fantasy that he’d show up at my dorm, telling me he couldn’t live without me. I shake my head. “Sorry to disappoint, but no.”

“Admit it. You staged the breakdown just so you could see me again.”

I have to laugh. “No, it’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

Dread pools in my stomach as we pull up to my little ranch house. My parents hate Dax. I know, hate is a strong word, but in this case, it fits. My father is big on protecting me, but he’s also big on me being happy, so if there’s something I really want, he can usually be counted on to cave and let me have it. But the last time my father and I discussed Dax Harding, my dad used a phrase he’d never used before or since:
I forbid it.
In fact, my father’s never called Dax just Dax, or even Dax Harding. It’s always, always been “That Dax Harding”, as if there are a dozen other ones living in town. As in,
I don’t know what you see in That Dax Harding. You’re selling yourself short, spending time with That Dax Harding.

Dax is obviously thinking the same because he doesn’t even pull into the driveway. He idles in the center of Callow Hill Road, grabs a Phillies cap that’s stuffed in the visor, and screws it down over his ears. “Forgive me for not coming in,” he says, pulling the cherry lollipop from his lips with a smack. “I’ll give you a call tonight.”

I clench my teeth, thinking of the many secret, hushed phone conversations I’d had with him while hidden behind the piles of old model railroad memorabilia in the basement. “But—“

“About your car,” he says. “I should be able to get it looked at right away.”

“Oh. Right.”
Stupid, Kath. Really stupid.

As if on cue, the front door to my house swings open, and out pops my father’s balding head.
Perfect.
I can’t quite make out the expression on his face but I don’t have to. He has an expression reserved for Dax and Dax alone: eyes narrowed, lips are set in a straight line, face flushed like a red zit on the verge of popping.

I swallow hard as my thoughts trail to the real reason I’m here. I think about telling Dax, but then I decide against it. He’s history, and he needs to stay that way. The less he knows about my life right now, the better.

I gnaw on my lip as I push open the door and slide out of the seat. He reaches into the back and hands me my bag. “Don’t wait for me to get inside,” I mutter. “Just go, okay?”

He’s staring at my dad, who looks like he’s about to shoot death-lasers from his eyes. Dax gives a little wave and a sly smile. “Yeah. See you later, Katydid.”

Oh, that nickname. It did me in, every time. He used to say it mockingly:
Katy did’n do nothin’ bad.
But then every time he’d coax me to doing something just a little bit dangerous, like sneaking out to meet him under the tree outside the house, he’d cock his head to the side, grin mischievously, and say,
Katie did. What else can Katie do?

And now his green eyes lock with mine, and I can’t help the way it forces the air out of my lungs. I open the door and step outside, and I know something for sure.

I need to stay away from this man. Far away.

If I don’t, I’m going to fall harder than I did last time. And last time?

It was a disaster.

T
he rain has pretty much stopped
as I step out at the curb of the home I grew up in. Dax’s tow truck growls to life and grinds slowly away.

I force myself not to look after his truck as he drives off, try my best not to be aware of the churning ache in my chest and stomach as I experience the sense of loss when he’s gone.

Just a few minutes of seeing him, hearing his voice, and I’m back, as if I’ve stepped into a time machine. Back to being in his grip, needing and wanting him all over again, the way I swore I’d never let myself feel again.

I stand at the curb until there is nothing but the sound of the birds chattering in the tall trees surrounding our property. I walk up the long, puddled gravel driveway, bracing myself for the third degree to come. My father has disappeared from the front door, but that doesn’t mean the thought of Dax has disappeared from his head.

No, more than likely it’s blooming in his head, turning into all these crazy scenarios in which
That Dax Harding
has corrupted his only child.

The house hasn’t changed since Christmas, except now the Santa decoration on the roof is gone, the lawn is freshly mowed, my mother’s geraniums are popping up from the window boxes, and they’ve added a new red birdfeeder to the large oak at the side of the house.

I met Dax at the base of that oak a dozen nights for hungry, forbidden kisses, his hot fingers skirting my ribs, searching desperately underneath my t-shirt . . .

Shaking off that memory, I suck in a breath as I step onto the front porch. My father suddenly appears behind the screen door, popping it open and stepping outside. “Oh, Katie!” he says, as if he’s surprised to see me. He has a Robert Ludlum thriller in his hands and is using his finger to bookmark the place, but he wraps his other arm around me and gives me a kiss on the top of the head.

I study him as he pulls away. I only saw him for graduation three months ago, but he’s changed since then. He has a smart new haircut and he looks thinner. When I’d spoken to mom a few months ago, she’d said he’d gotten pretty serious into exercising on the treadmill. But despite the new, fitter look, his eyes look . . . tired. Sad. Defeated.

He pokes his head past me and searches down the hill, but Dax is long gone. “Was that a tow truck I saw?”

Real smooth, dad.
“Yeah, my car broke down.”

“What? What’s wrong with your car?” He peers at me over his bifocals. “Why didn’t you call us?”

“I don’t know. But I can handle it. I called the auto club and they sent Dax out,” I explain breezily, but I can already see my father’s body responding in the way it always does whenever Dax Harding’s name is mentioned: eyes firing up, posture tensing, fists clenching. I add quickly, “Don’t worry, Dad. He just gave me a ride.”

He presses his lips together. “I told you . . .”

Yes, he’s told me lots of things. And for the most part, I’ve always listened.

He’s standing in front of the door so I can’t even escape past him into the house. I give him a friendly nudge. “Come on, Dad, it’s no big deal.” I look past him. “Where’s Mom?”

He steps aside, then grabs my bag from me. “In the kitchen. We were expecting you for dinner, so she made your favorite. Summer stew.”

I step into the foyer, inhaling the mouth-watering aroma of tomato sauce simmering with zucchini, and look around. My mother thinks decorating a house means filling every square inch of the walls with photographs, and since I’m their favorite subject, there are about two-dozen photos of me in this room, covering the flowered wallpaper. I walk past the leaded glass mirror and smile at the newest addition: a photo of the three of us from my college graduation.

Then I catch a reflection of something in the mirror and frown.

Boxes. Dozens of them, all packed up in the living room. All my father’s railroad memorabilia from down in the basement, packed and ready to go.

This is why I’m home after all.

My parents are splitting up.

My mother told me the plan: She’s moving to a retirement community in Florida to live with my aunt, and he’s going to head out to Colorado to stay a few months with cousins. But it all sounded so surreal. Like I’d come back here and find out I’d made it all up in my head.

The truth crashes around me. This is really happening. They’re moving out and leaving this place, my home.

I whirl back around and realize my father is still staring out the door, as if Dax is hiding in the bushes, waiting to attack.

“Dad, we’re losing AC,” I tell him, pushing the door closed.

He nods and looks down at the book in his hands. “All right. You’re just . . . are you sure you and he weren’t . . .”

I snort. “What? Getting it on in his truck?” I laugh at the ridiculousness of it, and wrap my arm around him. My dad’s a slight man, and only getting slighter as he ages. In my pumps, I’m taller than him. “Come on, you know he’s the only mechanic around. What else was I supposed to do?”

“You could’ve—“

“I know. I could’ve called you. But what could you have done? You would’ve just had to call his garage, anyway. I just didn’t want to bother you, considering the. . .” I can’t bring myself to say those words.
The divorce.

His eyes fill with storm clouds for a moment, but before I can ask him how he is, he says, “So, you’re looking sharp. How’s the job, my big shot legal eagle? Are you getting those applications ready?”

I force a smile. My dad will never be accused of having any fashion sense whatsoever, so “sharp” to him is anyone in decent shoes. And as much as I’d rather leave thoughts of my soul-crushing job behind, I can’t refuse to talk about it with my dad. Any time I get him on the phone, it’s the first thing he wants to talk about. He brags to all his friends that I’m the
Smart Donahue
who’s making it in the big city and going to take the legal world by storm, as if I’m soon going to be arguing cases in front of the Supreme Court or something. “Well, it’s—“

Before I can launch into my latest lie about how awesome it is, I hear my mother calling to me.
Thank god.
She appears in the doorway to the living room, throwing her hair into a ponytail. “Oh, hi, beautiful!” she says.

She comes up close to me, smelling comfortingly like her floral perfume I know so well, and plants a kiss on my cheek. “What’s this about your car? It wasn’t an accident, was it?”

I open my mouth to speak but my father quickly fills in: “No, Gloria. It broke down.”

She doesn’t even look at him. “Oh, no. Are you all right?” she asks, sympathetic.

Before I can answer, my father mumbles, “She got That Dax Harding to tow it. He just dropped her off.”

All sympathy on my mom’s face turns to alarm. “Dax Harding was in our driveway?”

It would sound much the same if she’d said
Charles Manson was in our driveway?

I head her off before that seed in her brain can take root. “It was just a quick tow, and believe me—that was even too much for me.” It’s not a total lie, but the reason it was too much for me is exactly the opposite of what my parents would want to hear. I keep that part to myself. “Anyway, enough about my broken car. What’s for dinner?”

My father starts to say something about Dax, but luckily, I’ve managed to sway my mom off the Dax Conversation and to the thing she loves to concentrate on most: Feeding me. She holds up a hand to stop my dad from continuing the Dax topic. “Enough, Henry. She just got home and she’s hungry, can’t you see?”

She’s scowling at him. I’ve never seen her look so totally hateful at another human being before, much less my dad, who she’s always gotten along with. They hardly ever fought before. In fact, she’d always tell me the story of how they met with stars in her eyes. They were both going for their Masters in Education at Penn State and were put together as study buddies in Child Development class. They were the type of parents who still held hands and kissed and gave each other lovey-dovey looks that made me squirm.

Now, he swallows his words and bows in apology, which only makes me feel bad for him. He looks so . . . small. I shift my gaze between them, wondering if this awkward moment is going to be the first of many more this week. Suddenly, she tears her eyes from him and smiles lovingly at me, magically recovered.

What the hell did I just witness? They’ve been married for thirty years. When did things get so goddamned chilly between them?

But she’s back to my good old mom again, as we walk, arm in arm, to the kitchen. She pinches my side and says, “You’re getting skinny. And hasn’t anyone told you to be careful about wearing silk in the rain?”

I groan. Yes, she has told me that little nugget of info, at least a hundred times.

My mother heats up my stew in the microwave while I pull down earthenware bowl from the cupboard and get myself a Diet Coke. The aroma is more than heavenly, making my mouth water like a fountain. It’s also comforting. There’s a reason she thinks I’m getting skinny.

Turns out, adulting is stressful. Not only that, eating Frosted Flakes as one’s only meal for seven days straight will do that to a person.

And when my boss didn’t reimburse me when I fronted the money for one of our takeout orders, he threw my entire budget out of whack, and a quart of milk was all I could afford at the store.

Mom brings the plate of food to me, I do my best not to inhale the entire plate in record time.

My mother sits down next to me with a hot cup of tea and says, “What’s wrong with your car?”

I shrug, then say, mouth still full, “It just died. I don’t know. He’s going to call with the damage later.”

She purses her lips. “Dax?”

I nod.
Oh, here it comes . . .

She takes a sip of her tea. “You should let your father take care of it.”

“Fine,” I say absently. What she’s worried about doesn’t matter.

Dax doesn’t have my new cell phone number anyway. He won’t be able to call me directly, so he’ll have to call the old house phone. When he does, he can speak to my father and relay all the information to him.

And as much as it pains me to do it, I’m intending to stay far away from him again, starting now.

Yes, Dax makes my insides turn to Jell-O, which is exactly why I have to avoid him at all costs.

She reaches over and touches my hand. “I meant it about Dax, honey. Really, you have to tread carefully when it comes to that boy.
”

I roll my eyes. “I know, mom. I got it. I’m not going to see Dax again. So just
stop.”
Maybe it’s the chilly atmosphere, but I think that’s a new record: getting into an argument with my mom in the first fifteen minutes of being home. I yawn. “I think I’m just tired. I’m going to head upstairs and turn in early.”

The stern look on her face morphs to concern. She reaches over and tucks a stray hair behind my ear. “Okay, honey. Leave that dress in the hallway. I’ll see if anything can be done.”

I put my bowl in the dishwasher, grab my bag, and head upstairs to my bedroom. When I get there, I pause in the doorway, where I’d measured my height from the time I was able to stand. There are dozens of little scrawlings in my improving handwriting, along with my age. I sigh.

The funny thing is, when I left for college, I never worried for a second that my parents might turn my empty room into a sewing or exercise room. While other parents couldn’t wait for that chance, mine made it clear on the day I left for college that this would stay my room, period. Forever, end of story. It’s all white wicker and Laura Ashley lace in pale pink and mint green. My mother took me to a department store to pick it out when I turned eight.

It’s mine.

Even though I was just here for Christmas, somehow, the whole place looks smaller, different. I realize I’m looking at it with new eyes, the eyes of someone who knows she might not see this room ever again.

The thought of another family living here makes a knot form in my throat. This is my place. My home.

I throw my bag on the ground and collapse on the bed, staring up at the Unicorn poster over my bed.

During the one and only time Dax came into my bedroom, I was eighteen. Since my house is a ranch, he climbed in the window. I’d never had a boy in my room before that. He’d made all sorts of jokes about how my bedroom was perfectly fine for any six-year old. When I was officially so embarrassed I couldn’t even look at him, he swooped down and kissed me. My first kiss. Before that, I’d thought the smell of cigarette smoke was disgusting. One taste of him, and I became an addict. We’d only known each other three days.

Dax had that surprising way about him; he’d make you think he was heading one way and go in a completely different direction.

Sighing, I strip off my still-damp dress, leave it in the hallway for my mom to deal with, and riffle around in my bag for a new pair of clean underwear I already know I didn’t pack. Sighing, I peel off my wet undies and get into my comfy boxers and tank. I snuggle down into my familiar bed and start to charge my phone, already predicting and dreading what I’m going to see when I open my work email, because heaven forbid I don’t look at it for an hour.

I feel sicker and sicker as I scroll through each unread message. I’d had my out-of-office assistant on, of course, but obviously, no one pays attention to those. There are at least a dozen emails from Fowler. The looks he gave me when I asked for an advance of my vacation time in order to settle things back home could have frozen the Caribbean.

I’d only been at the job three months, but the news of my parents’ divorce was not just catastrophic. It was so unexpected, it practically took the breath out of me. I walked around in a daze the first 24 hours after my mother’s phone call, trying to process it.

I told Fowler I’d keep checking my emails, and it’s obvious the douchebag was testing to make sure I was telling the truth. I type in a text to him:
Sorry. Just got in. My car broke down and my phone lost its charge.

I stare at the words. Any excuse seems insufficient. Well, for Fowler, anyway. He’s short with a Napoleon complex, so he’s fond of marching around the office spitting out phrases like, “I don’t need excuses, I need action.”