The Space Between Heartbeats (2 page)

WEDNESDAY, 7:15 AM

“Nicky!”

The first thing I register is the morning sun, harsh and unrelenting, even through the drawn curtains. My head feels as if it’s filled with sludge and someone is using my brain as a bass drum. Beneath me, the bed is about as comfortable as a pile of rocks. The rest of my bedroom blearily comes into focus.

“Nicky,” Mom yells. “You’ll be late.”

I look at my bedside clock, the red numbers fuzzier than usual.
7:15 am
. I sit up, adrenaline surging through me. I hate being late for anything. It’s an old irritation, formed from years of trying to get my perpetually tardy sister out the door. I try to move off my bed, but let out a groan, clutching my aching temples.

My palms are clammy, and I realize I’m still wearing my miniskirt. In fact, I’m wearing
all
my clothes from last night, my top now slightly wrinkled from sleep, my boots viselike on my calves. My mouth goes dry—why didn’t I at least take off my boots? I can still feel the dog tags pressed against my skin.

A sour feeling settles deep inside me. I got into Amber’s car last night, we arrived at Matt’s house, I saw Trent with Lauren, and then . . . nothing.

I cringe and rub my forehead. I swore after last time, I’d never let myself do this again. I hate this feeling. Forgetting a night is always unnerving, no matter how many times it happens. It makes me feel like an . . .

Alcoholic,
a voice whispers.

I’m fighting back embarrassed tears when my mother opens the door without knocking. “Nicky?”

I give her a stony glare. I hate it when she calls me that. I’ve gone by Nicole for over two years now, unable to stomach the sound of my old nickname. My mother takes one look at me still in bed and scowls. Shaking her head, she walks out the door without saying a word.

Typical.

Unable to ignore my headache, I stand slowly, desperately trying to remember last night’s events. Matt’s house. Penny and Amber were there—and Drue, maybe?

Shit. I have school . . . which I am about to be really late for.

With a garbled groan, I grab my bag beside me and rummage through it, finding my compact mirror. My hair looks a little ratty, the dark locks limp on my shoulders. I grab my brush and tidy it up, but I don’t have time for perfection this morning.

Frowning, I dig back through my bag. Where the hell is my phone? I need to call Amber so she can come pick me up. Then again, if she doesn’t hear from me by six-thirty, she assumes I’m ditching. She’s probably already at school, which means I need to beg Mom for a ride.

With a sigh, I descend the stairs and stop at the living room landing, gazing through the sliding glass back door. Outside, the needles of the tall pine tree in our backyard ripple in the wind. Even though it’s like sticking a finger in an open wound, I look at that tree every morning. Some sick part of me thrives on the pain, needs the reminder of what I did, of who I really am.

I find my mom in the kitchen, which is pristine and organized, like always. Sunlight hits the marble island, where a sweating pitcher of milk stands beside a box of granola. She lingers by the fridge, talking on the phone.

“Mom, I need a ride to school,” I interrupt, waving my hand at her.

She ignores me and continues her conversation. “I don’t know, honey,” she says into the phone. She shuts the fridge with her hip and steps over to the island. Today she’s in a charcoal knee-length pencil skirt and matching jacket with a cobalt-blue blouse. She looks stunning. Even after everything she’s been through, the woman knows how to make an impression. Sometimes I think Mom finds it easier to simply focus on appearances. It’s the one thing we seem to share these days.

She slams her coffee mug down. Black liquid jumps over the edge and lands on the counter. “Well, how should I know? Do
you
keep track of her every movement?” She turns and grabs a dishcloth, her voice getting louder. “She’s your daughter, too, you know.”

I clear my throat. “I’m standing right here,” I remind her. It’s not unusual to hear my parents fighting, but it is unusual to hear them fighting about
me.
Maybe they heard me come in late. Maybe they actually care for once.

“Yeah.” My mother sighs. “I’ll call the school.”

She rinses out the cloth and places it neatly on the edge of the sink.

“Yep. Love you, too.” The words sound routine, emotionless, like there’s no truth to them. She hangs up and sighs heavily.

“I
am
going to school, just so you know. But if you want me to get there on time, you’ll need to give me a ride,” I say.

She doesn’t look up, but gulps down the last of her coffee and shoves the milk back in the fridge.

“The silent treatment? That’s what you’re going with today?” I cross my arms over my chest. “That’s really mature, Mom. You should start writing for a parenting magazine.”

She glances around the room, her cool blue gaze brushing over me like I’m nothing more than a speck of dirt as she checks to make sure she has everything she needs. With a sharp sigh, she fluffs up the back of her short blond bob, gathers her square leather handbag, and heads out of the kitchen.

I want to apologize for pissing her off. I want to admit I have no idea what happened last night and I’m sorry that I came in really late . . . again. I want to tell her that I’m scared. But there’s an impassable gulf between us that grows larger every day, filled with all the things we won’t—
can’t
—talk about.

I follow her to the entryway, wondering if it’s even worth it to plead for a ride. The idea of her stony silence isn’t exactly appealing, but being late to school has consequences, too. I’m really not in the mood for detention today.

“Look, Mom—”

The tinny ring of her phone cuts me off. Mom opens the front door as she pulls it out of her jacket pocket and presses it to her ear.

“Jackie, my favorite client.” Her bright, plastic voice makes my skin crawl. “Of course you’re not bothering me. What do you need?”

“A ride to school,” I mumble over my shoulder as I brush past her and out the door. It’s so unfair that her work contacts always get her sunshine, while her family is left with the melancholy dregs.

“Well, I have the open home scheduled for two on Saturday, so we still have a little time left. Why don’t I make some calls and get back to you?” She pauses when she reaches her car and lets out a merry laugh. “Don’t worry, you will be my number-one priority today.”

“Unlike me.” I throw her a pointed look. She glances away from me as she nods and
hmms
at Jackie. “Ugh, forget about the ride. I’d rather walk anyway.” I turn on my heel and make a quick retreat down the driveway, yelling over my shoulder, “Don’t forget to call the school to tell them I’ll be late.”

The walk to school is just under two miles. I look at my watch and pick up the pace. This day has detention written all over it.

I get about three blocks from the house before my feet start to bother me. Just as I’m regretting my choices, I hear the welcome sound of an approaching car—maybe Mom has decided to take pity on me, after all. I glance back, but instead of Mom’s sleek silver sedan, it’s an ugly mustard yellow beater, rock music blasting from the open window. And just my luck, Dale Finnigan is in the driver’s seat.

His long curls hide the angry red scar that cuts across his face, a jagged line that starts just below his right eye and runs all the way down to his chin. As he draws closer, I see his fingers tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel. He is completely lost in his music as he speeds past me. At the corner, his brake lights flash red. The sudden urge to call out and wave for him to stop courses through me, but he disappears before I can act on it. Even if he did notice me, there is no way he would ever offer me a ride. He hasn’t even
looked
at me in four months. And I can’t blame him, not after what I did.

It happened a few weeks before school broke for the summer. I was rummaging through my locker when Dale approached.

“Hey, Nicole.” He shot me that classic smirk of his, his scar bending to accommodate his smile. No one knew what happened to him, only that it happened before he started at our school that year. For some reason, I couldn’t help but want to run my finger down the raised pink line. Everything about it—everything about
him
—drew me in. His warm brown eyes, his quiet thoughtfulness, his air of mystery . . . I found him undeniably intriguing. But he was someone the old nice me would have liked, back when I was still Nicky. He hung out with my former friends, like Adam, Lisa, Jake, and Brody, the people who got good grades and ran for student council and volunteered on weekends. I’d left the old me behind, and Dale wasn’t someone the new popular Nicole could afford to be seen with.

Dale handed me my phone. His fingers brushed mine and I tried to ignore the heat that spiked inside of me.

“You left this in English last period.”

“Oh, thanks . . . Darren?”

He cringed so slightly I almost missed it. “Don’t worry, no one’s watching. You don’t have to pretend that you don’t know my name. We’re practically neighbors, after all.”

I sighed and leaned against my locker. “Thank you, Dale. I was wondering where it was.”

He shifted on his feet. “So, um . . . Spotify was still open and I know I shouldn’t have,” he said in a rush, “but I checked out your playlist. You have really great taste.”

“You what?” My cheeks flamed. I didn’t even let my friends see what I listened to. There were only two things I really clung to from my past—my unique taste in music and my good grades. Even as I forced myself to change, I couldn’t let either of those things go. My new friends would never understand my obsession with either, which is why I kept it totally private. And now Dale knew and he . . . wait . . . he thought I had great taste?

He fidgeted with the dog tags hanging around his neck. The words
GRANITE—ROCK HARD
were punched into them.

“No way.” I leaned closer, studying the metal rectangles. “Where did you get these?”

“Their reunion concert last year.” He grinned.

I looked up. “The one at the Hollywood Bowl?”

“Yeah.” His eyes sparkled. “My sister took me.”

I stared at him in awe. “I really wanted to go to that. I can’t believe you like Granite.”

He chuckled. “An obscure glam rock band from the nineties? What’s not to like?”

I bit back a smile as I met his gaze. His eyes had flecks of gold I’d never noticed before, and he had the lightest dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Suddenly, I realized how close we were standing. We looked almost . . . intimate. I let the tags go and stepped back. “I didn’t know anyone else our age had even heard of them before.”

“Yeah, well, some of us have.” Dale shrugged, suddenly looking shy as he slid off the dog tags and held them out to me. “Do you want them?”

I shook my head, completely taken aback by the offer. “What? No. I can’t take those from you. They’re epic.”

“I know. That’s why I’m giving them to you.” He took my hand and dropped the necklace into my palm, closing my fingers over it. His skin was warm, his touch light and delicate. The smile I’d been fighting finally bloomed on my lips.

“Thanks,” I said softly.

Dale shoved his hands in his pockets, looking a little embarrassed. “I got a drumstick from the same concert, and that’s even more epic in my opinion. Besides, those will look great on you.” He gazed down at his shoes as if they were the most interesting things in the world.

“Thank you,” I said, rubbing the dull metal with my thumb.

He cleared his throat, squeezing the back of his neck and glancing at me. “So, why do you like Granite so much?”

“Oh, my dad used to be into them,” I said, the smile slipping from my lips. When we were younger, my dad occasionally took Jody and me on his business trips to LA. He’d blast Granite, and we’d sing our heads off as we flew down I-10. The memory stung, a reminder of how my family used to be and all the little rituals we’d lost along the way.

“Nicole?” Amber’s clipped tone sounded from down the hallway. Penny walked besides her.

My blood went cold and I threw the dog tags into my locker, slamming it shut as my friends approached.

Dale gave me a dry look. “Really?”

“You should probably get going,” I whispered. “I’ll catch up with you later.” But he just stood there, a slow smirk spreading across his face. Penny’s eyes darted back and forth between us, struggling to comprehend why we were talking.

“Hello, ladies,” he greeted them smoothly. I had to admire him. The guy wasn’t scared of anyone.

Amber’s upturned nose crinkled. “Are you lost?” Her tone was acidic as she took in Dale’s baggy gray T-shirt, scruffy ripped jeans, and bright red Converse.

I stood up a little straighter, not missing Dale’s flat expression as he eyed Amber. He was so unimpressed it nearly made me laugh.

“So, thanks for returning my phone,” I said coolly, trying to make it obvious that we were done here.

“You’re welcome.” He put his hand on my elbow. “Hey, maybe we can catch up after school tomorrow, listen to some music.”

Penny sneered while Amber crossed her arms over her chest, and looked at me expectantly. I knew what she wanted: me to put Dale in his place, to make him regret ever talking to me. I had to protect the icy reputation I’d worked so hard to cultivate.

So that’s exactly what I did.

Shrugging his hand off, I looked him right in the eye, my tone sharp. “I’m busy tomorrow, so, no.” Scared he might make everything worse by trying to arrange another time, I eyed his clothing in disgust and went for the jugular. “Now, fuck off, Scarface.”

My friends snickered and Dale’s expression fell. Pity flashed in his eyes, followed by a deep disappointment that seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. It wasn’t hard to read his mind.

You should know better.

I wanted to apologize as soon as I said it, but it was too late. The words were already out there, heavy in the air between us, and I couldn’t take them back.

I looked back at him just once after I walked away. Dale was pulling his shoulder-length curls down over his face, a pathetic attempt to hide his scar.