Trouble from the Start (5 page)

I snagged two bags of popcorn, put one in the microwave, and started it up. “So was incarceration an option before my dad brought you here?” I asked casually.

Leaning against the counter, Fletcher crossed his arms over his chest. “What did your dad tell you?”

I rested my hip against the island so we were facing each other. “He won't discuss how he ran into you. Just says you needed a place.”

“That pretty much sums it up.”

“Your dad's okay with it?”

“Who cares? I'm eighteen.”

I couldn't imagine not caring what my dad thought. “You don't get along with him?”

“Look, Twenty Questions, I'm not playing.”

The microwave dinged. I pulled out the bag, put the
other one in and began the next process. Shaking the finished bag, listening as the last few kernels popped, I didn't look at him as I said, “Then I'll play. Ask me anything.”

I could sense him studying me, and I was already regretting my bold words.

“Are you a
novice
when it comes to guys?” he asked.

I peered over at him and smiled. “Did you learn a new vocabulary word last night?”

He laughed. It was only a short burst of sound, but I liked it. “For the record, I know a lot about guys,” I told him.

He looked skeptical. “You ever had a boyfriend?”

“Why the curiosity?” I asked, pouring the popcorn into a bowl.

“Just wondering how much trouble you could have gotten into last night.”

I gave him what I hoped was a saucy grin. “Nothing I couldn't have handled.”

He seemed to come to attention at that. He gave me an appraising once over. “I heard you'd never spent time alone with a guy.”

I wasn't sure how anyone would know that or why it would come up in conversation. The microwave dinged again and I grabbed the second bag. “Not really any of your business.”

“So you haven't been alone with a guy.”

“I'm alone with a guy right now.”

“Not what I meant.”

Which I knew, but he was right—playing Twenty Questions was a bad idea. I picked up both bowls. “It's showtime!”

We had a huge flat-screen TV in the family room, and I could tell that Fletcher was impressed. It was hard not to be. Mom and Dad were each in their respective recliners. Tyler was curled on Dad's lap, which left the couch for Fletcher and me to share. If I didn't know better, I'd think my parents were playing matchmaker. But I did know better because my dad was not going to encourage me to get involved with a guy who sported bruises as often as Fletcher did. I knew my parents weren't thinking, were just following habit. Usually I stretched out on the couch.

Fletcher and I sat with a big bowl of popcorn between us. Mom, Dad, and Tyler were close enough to share a bowl. I dragged the afghan my grandmother had made off the back of the couch and draped it over my lap. With a remote, Dad dimmed the lights, then started the movie.
Despicable Me
. Usually I teared up at the end, but this time I was going to have to stay tough. I could just imagine how Fletcher would ride my case.

For the longest time, he sat stiffly at the other end of the couch, his arms crossed over his chest, and glared at
the screen, obviously wishing he were somewhere else. Then he started to relax. A scene with the minions made him smile. He dipped his hand into the popcorn bowl where it brushed up against mine.

He went completely still, while my heart thundered inside my chest so hard that I was afraid Dad—or worse, Fletcher—would hear it. The spark that shot up my arm was silly, ridiculous . . . unsettling. The only reason I didn't jerk my hand back was because I figured it would give him some sort of satisfaction. Apparently, completely unaffected, he tiptoed his fingers over mine, before scooping up some popcorn and tossing it into his mouth. His gaze never left the screen, but I had a feeling he wasn't watching the minions as closely, that he was aware of every breath I drew, every tingling nerve ending.

I shifted my body, tucked my legs beneath me, and stared intently at the movie, all the while so incredibly aware of Fletcher. My peripheral vision was suddenly like something a superhero would have. Even in the dimly lit room, I could see how long his eyelashes were. I made out the strong lines of his profile, detected a slight bump in his nose that I'd never noticed before but was more pronounced in silhouette. The remnants of a fight, maybe. I wanted to smack whoever had broken his nose, even knowing that Fletcher had probably started the brawl.

The odd thing was: I thought he was evaluating me just
as closely and it made me want to squirm. At school, he often had his arm slung around some girl's shoulders, and she was usually beautiful. I wasn't slender. I was skinny. Downright skinny, with hollow cheeks and high cheekbones. Freckles dotted a nose that was too big for such a narrow face. I wasn't hideous, but I wasn't drop-dead gorgeous either. Usually it didn't bother me, but then I'd never been scrutinized so thoroughly before.

Why did I care if Fletcher was paying more attention to me than the movie? He wasn't going to make any sort of pass at me. He'd had a chance last night and hadn't taken it. So why was I sitting here wishing we were at a real movie theater, watching a nonanimated flick, sharing popcorn, with his arm around me? This was torture.

As soon as the movie ended, Fletcher shoved himself off the couch like someone had set it on fire. He headed for the door.

“Curfew,” Dad barked.

Fletcher turned around, gave a long, slow nod, and said curtly, “Right.”

I couldn't imagine that he'd ever had a curfew. On Sunday nights during the school year it was ten o'clock. That was about ninety minutes from now. I figured he could get into a lot of trouble in that time.

He stood there awkwardly, like he thought he should say something more. It made me uncomfortable to see him
not exhibiting his usual cockiness. If he had been one of Dad's typical projects, I would have done everything to make him feel at ease in his new surroundings. So why wasn't I doing it?

“Thanks for joining us,” I said.

“Sure. Thanks for—” He waved his hand in a semicircle that I figured was meant to encompass the entire day, or at least the movie. “Yeah,” he finished, before walking out of the room.

Standing, I folded the afghan and set it over the back of the couch.

“Are you sure this is a good idea, Jack?” Mom asked, once Fletcher was out of hearing range.

“He'll adjust.”

Mom looked at me, nodded toward Dad—or more specifically, Tyler, who was still curled on Dad's lap. That was my cue that she wanted to talk without little ears—or my ears—listening.

“Come on, squirt,” I said to Tyler as I lifted him in my arms. “Time for bed.”

“Read me a story?”

“Absolutely.”

A
story ended up being three before he finally drifted off, but I didn't mind. Thinking about how much I'd miss him when I went off to college, I wandered into my room. One of my favorite places was the window seat in the
corner. One window looked out on the front street, the other overlooked the garage. Sitting on the large purple pillow, I brought my legs up to my chest, wrapped my arms around them, and gazed out at the garage. I didn't think it had been a conscious decision on my part not to turn on the lights, to just let the streetlights and moon illuminate the path I'd taken to the windows, but I did feel a little creepy that Fletcher wouldn't know I was here, wouldn't know I was watching him.

Hunched forward, forearms pressed to his thighs, he was sitting on the top of the steps leading to his apartment. I wondered if he was considering making a break for it. I couldn't blame him. Someone who got into as much trouble as he did probably wasn't used to parental controls. And my dad was all about control.

I watched as he lifted a bottle to his lips, took a long swallow. It looked like a beer bottle. If Dad caught him with that . . .

Wasn't any of my business, but I'd been big sister to about half a dozen kids during my life, and while Fletcher was older than I was, I couldn't quite shrug off my protective nature. With a roll of my eyes and a huff, knowing I was probably going to regret it, I headed outside.

I liked listening to the quiet. It wasn't totally without sound, but it was hushed, calm. I could hear the occasional car going down a distant street, a dog barking. I could hear the crickets, the wind rustling leaves in the trees. I could hear the creak of a gate opening, the slap of flip-flops on a cement path.

Avery hesitated at the foot of the stairs. Her reluctance to be here radiated off her in waves. She squared her shoulders and started up. I didn't want to admire her, but I did. She had a strength, a toughness that wasn't immediately visible from the outside. You had to look close. Or closely, I guessed. Verbs, adverbs, adjectives. What did it matter? Words weren't going to change my life.

I'd labeled her a suck-up, a Goody Two-shoes. When the truth was: she was just nice.

I didn't know what to do with nice.

She lowered herself to the step I was sitting on, pressed her shoulder against the railing to put space between us. She was leaning so hard against it that I was surprised the wood didn't splinter and give way. She didn't say anything, just sat there, arms wrapped around her stomach, staring out into the street like it appeared I was doing. Only, I was watching her.

“My dad can be a little overwhelming with his family time,” she said softly. “It's his job, I think. There's always a chance when he leaves for work, he won't come back.”

“That's morbid.”

“But reality. He got shot several years back when he was working undercover, nearly died, so he never takes time with us for granted. I love him, I love that he's attentive, but between you and me, I can't wait to move out, to have some freedom.”

I didn't know why my gut clenched at the thought of her leaving. What did I care where she went? Still, I heard myself ask, “When are you going?”

“The fall, when I start college.” She seemed to relax, her shoulders rounding slightly. She sighed. “Austin. I'm going to Austin, major in biology, become a doctor. What are you going to do after graduation?”

“Probably get a haircut.”

Her head snapped around so fast that I actually heard
her neck pop. Since I was looking at her discreetly, it didn't take much for me to turn my eyes toward her. Her brow was furrowed and her mouth was slightly scrunched up. I didn't think she often looked confused.

“You're kidding, right?” she asked.

I shrugged. “My hair is getting pretty long.”

She released a deep sigh and uncurled her body, frustration with me chasing away whatever wariness she'd felt when she first arrived. “Can't you share anything? Why do you have to be so mysterious?”

Because sharing meant opening yourself up to hurt. I wasn't going there, not with her, not with anyone. Instead, I lifted the bottle I held between two fingers and took a deep swig.

“My dad is not going to be happy that you're drinking beer. Where did you get it, anyway?”

“Grocery store.” I took another swig.

“How? You're not—” She swiped it out of my hands.

“Hey!” I objected, but I wasn't childish enough to try to get it back.

She examined it more closely. “It's root beer.”

“Your powers of deduction are amazing, Sherlock.”

She faced me fully. “That's what you were drinking last night. That's why you didn't reek of beer, why you said you were fine to drive.”

“You noticed how I smelled?” I asked, although the
truth was that I remembered the strawberry scent of her hair as I held her close.

Ignoring my question, she took a sip, shook her head, released a light laugh that caught on the breeze. “It really is root beer.”

“Want me to get you one?” I asked.

“Nah.” She offered the bottle back to me.

I finished it off, set it aside. And we both just sat there, looking out. It was a nice neighborhood, nicer than the one I lived in. Mine couldn't even be called a neighborhood really. Just a string of trailers.

“I could cut your hair,” she said quietly.

I peered over at her. “Yeah, right, I'm going to let you take scissors to my hair.”

She grinned. “Clippers, not scissors. I could use my dad's.”

“So I look like a cop? No thanks.”

“I wouldn't cut it that short.”

“I'll think about it.”

“Might help with the job interview tomorrow.”

“It's pretty much a done deal, thanks to your dad.”

“Yeah, my dad is pretty good at making things happen. Want to know something funny about him?”

I could not imagine there was anything at all funny about her dad, but maybe it would give me some leverage. “Sure.”

“He hates donuts.”

“He's a cop. They're supposed to live for donuts.”

She laughed lightly. “I know, right? But my dad can't stand them, and I love them. When I was little, he'd picked me up from day care and we'd go to the donut shop across the street. We'd sit at the counter. I'd get a donut, he'd get a cup of coffee, and I'd tell him all about my day. The smallest things fascinated him.” She linked her fingers together. “I haven't thought about our trips to the donut shop in years.”

If I had that kind of memory, I'd think about it every day.

She studied me, and I wondered what she saw. Probably a loser. Most people did.

“I think it's neat that your dad taught you to work on cars,” she said. “Is he a mechanic?”

“No, he just liked to tinker. He had a '65 Mustang that he was restoring. I would just sit and watch. One day he let me tighten a nut.” I'd been about five. I remembered his hand covering mine on the wrench as he guided my movements. “I was hooked after that.”

So maybe I did have some good memories. Like Avery, I'd forgotten to think about them.

“What happened to the Mustang?” she asked.

“He sold it, I guess. I was just a little kid. One day it wasn't there anymore.”

“That kinda makes me sad.”

Somehow I wasn't surprised. I'd seen her tear up during the movie—over cartoon characters. “My dad isn't sentimental. He probably needed the money. Or maybe it was someone else's car all along. Unlike your dad, he's not a big talker.”

“Is that why you don't reveal much? You're like your dad?”

I didn't want to be, but I heard myself say, “Probably.”

She sighed. “Yeah, sometimes I think we're more like our parents than we realize or want to be. And on that note, I'll say good night.” She stood. “No family movie time tomorrow night.”

I wasn't about to admit that I'd enjoyed sitting beside her tonight, watching a sappy movie. I was used to being alone, used to watching out for myself. It was strange to have people around who were trying to take care of me. Meals, chores, movies.

Watching her descend the stairs, I knew I needed to be careful around her. She had a way of making me want to tell her things that I'd never told anyone. That could only lead to trouble.