Vertical Lines (The Vert Series Book 1) (7 page)

“Stop what?”

“That smile—the one you’re wearing now. You’re being smug, like you knew this would happen when you brought me there tonight.” Unclasping my sandals, I stand and take them to the closet, placing them in their spot. I stay there, staring at the clothes ranging from gowns to designer jeans. “Growing up, I was an odd-looking child. Too skinny,” I elaborate. “Lots of crooked teeth, overwhelming amounts of red hair, skin that hated the sunshine, and freckles that came no matter how much sunblock I used.” I laugh, fingering a picture I hung of my brother and me, taken years ago when we hadn’t yet learned we were pitted against one another.

“My mom got me braces as quickly as she could, a stylist soon after, and a wardrobe that made even my figure look acceptable. A rigorous diet and exercise program, and here I am. I’ve never thought I was ugly,” I explain. “But with girls like you running around, I’ve always accepted my role as pleasant looking.”

“Girls like me?”

I turn and motion to her, still doing her relaxation breathing on her bed. She’s changed from this morning, her shorts and swimsuit replaced by a white sundress, which is thin and vintage with an empire waistline and eyelet stitching at the hem. She’s got a double band of jade bead-flowers around her head, all of her hair flowing over her shoulders.

“Yes,
girls like you
. Boho chic, the kind of girl who buys repurposed clothing and thinks ChapStick is a cosmetic. I always thought you were a myth, and then I moved here and lo and behold, here you are. Perfect.”

I smile to soften my words. “It’s harsh to see that and know it’s real. But then Brooklyn goes and says these awful things to me which shouldn’t be complimentary and still somehow feel like they are, telling me he needs my face. It’s weird and too much—but it’s also flattering.”
Like maybe someone notices me
. I press my lips together.

Nala studies me a second and then nods. “I thought the same thing once. I looked at girls like you, the put-together kind, the ones with glossy hair that’s always straight, unblemished skin, and a wardrobe that costs more than the house I grew up in, and I felt like I couldn’t possibly compete.”

“What changed?”

Her smile is distant. “A lot. Too much to explain right now. You want to know the thing that saved me from myself and all of the people I was letting influence me?”

“Yes.”

“Remembering that beauty isn’t one thing. It isn’t one person. It’s features, personalities, ideas, beliefs. It’s confidence.” She stands, stopping in front of me on her way to her closet. “It’s you, Jordan. Not because of your hair or money or clothes, but because of who you are. I hope Brooks shows you that.”

Chapter 12

Brooks

Before she left last night, Jordan agreed to meet up with me and gave me her phone number. Even if she hadn’t, I would have found a way to get in touch with her, but having it makes things a lot easier.

I opted to call her early this morning instead of texting. Texting is impersonal and makes it easier to say
no
.

“How’s tonight work out for you?”

“It’s the first day of classes.”

Nala said something in the background, but it was not clear enough for me to hear, and I didn’t care enough to ask. “Good. You shouldn’t have too much homework then.” I didn’t have to see her to know she was hesitating. “Come on, Red. I’ll buy you dinner.”

Honestly, I think that was my only leverage. She agreed, and I hung up quickly so she couldn’t change her mind, texting her the time I would be at her dorm. Now, I’m thirty minutes late meeting Jordan and that pisses me off. Truthfully, everything pisses me off right now because I just came from my mother’s house in La Jolla where Ashton is “taking some time.”

In reality, she’s hiding. From me. From Nala. From herself.

“Mom, why did you let her quit the program and leave treatment?”

I asked this earlier, after making the fifteen minute trek up the freeway to her mansion in La Jolla. It makes her feel like a queen, but every time I’m in the five-thousand-square-foot structure, all I can think of is a tomb. Large, blank walls, lots of cabinets—expansive countertops and floors that never have anything marring them.

Before she met and married her third husband, my mother and her second husband bought a home in Bay View, right above the harbor. He was a schoolteacher—tenured, twenty years older than she was, and far too humble for the lifestyle she wanted to live. But he was stable, and willing to marry her, and that’s all my mother really wanted.

Taking care of herself has never been something she aspired to. Being taken care of is all she knows. When she’s unmarried, that falls to me. Or, when she’s married to a guy who can take care of her, but can’t talk to her, like now. She’s on her fourth husband; he’s the most wealthy to date, but he’s also the busiest. Theo—the second husband who saw me through middle school—was just too nice. Whatever Cheri wanted, she got. In the end, that included half of his retirement and the Bay View house.

She sold that when she met Duane, her third husband, tucked away the nice sum in a separate bank account, and let him move her to La Jolla, far away from the normal people and into a world only the wealthy understand. She still lives in the same home, the one she got in the divorce settlement, and whose property tax and maintenance is currently paid for by a plastic surgeon ten years younger than she. He is just as happy to be taken care of by an older woman as she is to have her life paid for by a younger man.

She’s even happier that Ashton’s home and playing the doting daughter. Along with looking and acting like a grown up, my mom doesn’t like making grown-up decisions; when Ashton comes home, she welcomes her with open arms and pretends her daughter is fine.

Even now, when it’s obvious Ashton is not only still sick, but that she’s using again. Hence, the necessity of the program Nala and I placed her in almost a month ago.

“Oh, you know Ashton. She doesn’t like to be around all of those people, sharing her private business. She loves to be at home, with me.”

“Because she knows you won’t ask her any questions, or make her do anything she doesn’t want.” Reigning in my temper as best I could, I let out a deep breath. “Where is she right now?”

“Out.”

“Where?”

This is where the conversation fell down—my fault,
obviously
. My mother felt attacked, and didn’t I think she loved her daughter (the same daughter she couldn’t bear to take to treatment herself because it made her too sad), and why did I always blame her for everything. Nothing was accomplished after this; I apologized, asked her to talk to Ashton about at least visiting her therapist here or going back to group, and then kissed her before leaving.

Now, I’m screaming into the parking lot outside of Jordan and Nala’s dorm, still sweaty and dirty from the work I was doing with Hunter before I made the useless trip to my mother’s house. There is drywall under my fingernails and in my hair. My whole body feels like it’s covered in dust.

A part of me almost sent a text to cancel, knowing the mood I’m in. But I stopped myself, because more than I want to go and punch something, maybe take a run on the beach and sweat this anger out, I want to work again. Right now, working means Jordan.

Pulling up to the curb, I put the truck in park and take my phone out of the cup holder, ready to dial Jordan and let her know I’m here when I see her sitting on a bench near the building, watching the people passing by.

I kill the engine and pocket my keys, stepping out of the truck and heading toward her. It’s almost five o’clock, and there are people walking in every direction, bags and phones and conversations whirling. I ignore them all, soaking in the seconds I get to watch Jordan while she watches them.

She looks tidy, her denim button-down tucked into a warm yellow skirt that skims her thighs, ending a couple inches above her knee. Her legs are crossed, her purse on her lap. Her face—I could look at it all day and never see the same thing. Right now, it’s aware while she takes in the people walking around her, but there’s a longing just beneath the surface. I can see her brain cataloguing, identifying, storing information away. My fingers itch to bring her to life.

I want to know—I
need
to know everything she’s thinking.

I get close enough she must see me in her peripheral. She turns, standing when we make eye contact. She’s wearing some dainty shoe, a ballet slipper look-alike, wrapped around her ankle with one thin band. They’re flat, so when I step closer, I look down while she looks up.

“I didn’t know if you were going to make it.”

“Got caught up.” I don’t apologize for not texting or calling, and her raised brow tells me she notices. “You comfortable to walk in those?” I point to her feet.

She answers without looking down. “Yes.” I wait for a second, content to look at her. Her mind is churning, I can see it. Outside, she’s calm—her eyes though, they give her away. “Where are we going?”

“To eat. I’m hungry.”

I take her hand, turning to walk toward my truck. She hesitates, I keep going, forcing her to keep up. It’s rude, but I can sense her starting to backtrack, to regret agreeing to see me, and I don’t want that.

“This is me,” I say, pointing to the truck at the curb. It’s relatively new, but I use it to haul equipment and materials for Hunter, so it’s got some wear on it, along with a noticeable amount of dust and dirt on the outside.

“I have a car.”

“I know. It’s a nice one.”

Huffing out an irritated breath, she stops abruptly, forcing me to stop with her or drag her some more. “Problem?”

“I thought I would drive. Follow you.”

“No.” I turn back and start toward the truck.

“Excuse me?”

“I like the way you say that, Red. Real proper and polite.” I open the passenger door and turn to her. I still have her hand, and though she’s attempting to look annoyed, there’s a little bit of uncertainty lurking beneath the surface.

“I don’t know you. You don’t live here. It’s not only safer, but more practical for me to drive myself, so you don’t have to come out of the way to drop me off later.”

“Are you always practical?” I ask. The slight tightening of her fingers on mine tells me I’ve hit a nerve.

“There’s a study that shows the first time girls relinquish control is when they become susceptible to assault. It usually begins as a
no
, and their attacker turns their rejection into a
yes
.”

“Jesus, let’s hope you don’t think that’s what I’m doing.” I’m not opposed to making waves when it gets me what I want, but now is not the time for that. I want her to
want
to spend time with me—not think I’m trying to weaken her resolve so I can abuse or take advantage of her—which means she needs to understand me a little bit—or at least feel intrigued.

“I’m not a stranger, Jordan. I’m not some sick fuck carrying an ulterior motive, and I’m not worried about driving five minutes out of my way.” I step away from the truck toward her. She lifts a foot as if to step back, and then sets it down in the same place. She’s afraid, but she doesn’t want to be. I respect that. “I almost canceled tonight.”

Her eyes widen a fraction. “Did you change your mind—about me?”

“No, I didn’t.” For some reason, it feels imperative she know that. I step even closer, dropping her hand. Reaching up, I frame her face in my hands, ignoring her doe-eyed stare and frozen body. “I had a frustrating day, and it seemed easier to cancel. Except—I need to work, Red. Really work. Your face… it makes me see again.” I hate how much power this gives her over me. “Which means, for a while, I need you, no matter what happens during my day.” I step back, and she swallows audibly, drawing a slow breath in.

I wait, my hand on the open door of my truck. Relief sweeps through me when she nods and steps forward. “Where do you want to eat?”

Chapter 13

Jordan

“Mind if I grab a shower real quick?”

This is the first time Brooklyn has spoken since we left campus. He pulls through his neighborhood and up to his house. I’ve been talking non-stop, making observations, comments, asking questions I answer myself.
Verbal vomit.
My mother hates it. Years of etiquette, lectures, and social guidance have been forgotten while my nerves threaten to eat me alive.

I’m reduced to a babbling imbecile—something I haven’t been since I was twelve—while the stoic artist next to me keeps his chiseled jaw closed.

Which is why, when he asks me a question, I’m so shocked I open my mouth but no words come out.

“Finally run out of breath?”

I snap my mouth shut and pull air in through my nose.
Get it together, Jordan. You’re better than this
. Not really—but I’m a master at the pretend game.

“Finally find yours?” His raised brow is more amused than impressed. “No, I do not mind if you
grab a shower
. You’re filthy.”

It was meant as an observation—but the minute the words are out, I hear how snotty they sound. He’s not offended, though. In fact, my statement has him laughing. The sound is rich and out of tune with the usual silence he exudes. I keep my mouth from falling open, but I watch him.

He leans across me and yanks the handle on my door before pushing it open. “I can do that,” I say. Honestly, I’m a little flustered, first from the laugh, second from the thoughtfulness, gruff as the execution was.

“I know.” He gets out of the truck and I follow. He throws his keys on a small table by the door, heading through the open space to the narrow hallway. I follow, stopping inside the kitchen only big enough for a small stove, fridge, and two-top bar table in dark wood.

The high metal stools paired with it show his artistic flare again.

“Make yourself comfortable.” He hands me a beer and disappears down the hallway to the bathroom.

I walk back into the main living area and look around like I did yesterday. The walls are blank, the white making the space open instead of closed off. The furniture is beautiful—each minimal piece its own work of art: the small wooden table looks reclaimed with its metal legs, the track lighting I didn’t notice yesterday, the speakers imbedded in each corner of the ceiling.