Vertical Lines (The Vert Series Book 1) (9 page)

“I told them I would keep my eye on you—make sure you didn’t do anything else to embarrass them. Better watch out, sis, I would hate to have to make a phone call telling Mom how much trouble you’re having.”

He stands, triumph written all over of his face. I wonder when we became like this—pitted against one another, using leverage to save ourselves at the other’s expense. It doesn’t matter—unless I want to spend four more years hoping for a change, instead of creating one, I have to let him know I won’t be pushed around.

So I smile and stay seated—hands folded, delivering my next blow with the poise I was taught.

“Thanks for taking such good care of me, Mase.” He tilts his head—always unprepared for the insult, just like poor Lani was unprepared for me to fight back all those years ago. “You know—retaking this class. Didn’t you take Calculus II last year? That’s really selfless of you—repeating a class just to keep an eye on me. Unless…” His face gets red. “Unless Mom and Dad really sent
me
here to look out for
you
—you know, in case you were thinking of failing again.”

His jaw is clenched, like his fists. “Stay away from me, Jordana. I’m warning you.”

“Stay in class, Mason. You’re out of warnings.”

He keeps his eyes on me while he walks to his seat. I lose sight of him since he goes to the back, which is good, because while the other night was satisfying on an impulsive level, this moment feels bigger than that. Mason and I were never friends—but we were never enemies, were we?

The spamming of text messages I get from him for the next forty-five minutes answers my question. They are different words all amounting to the same thing:
watch out
. I don’t respond—I take my notes and listen half-heartedly to him and his idiot friends, who are chirping the entire time the professor leads us through a small review.

Halfway through class, the professor stops and looks their way.

“Mr. Richards—so glad to have you back this year.” Mason chuckles—his amused, I-know-I-have-an-audience laugh. I would bet my car he’s cracking his knuckles under his desk, though. One of many nervous tells he has.

“Glad to be here, sir.”

“I’ll bet,” the professor says easily. “Since we don’t want you to be here again next year, though, I highly recommend you bring a pencil to class this semester. And sit somewhere you won’t be distracted. Third time is most definitely not a charm.”

There is no response, and the professor continues on for the rest of the class, not just going through the syllabus but actually giving notes and assigning homework. When class is dismissed, I walk through the door, stopping in the hallway. I take out my phone and type a message:

Enjoy Loyola.

I hit
SEND
and smile the entire way to my next class.

+      +      +

Nala and I meet for lunch, realizing our Tuesday/Thursday schedules line up timewise. I’m seated at a small bench in the quad area; she’s sprawled on the grass, a candy bar and a cup of fruit salad in front of her.

“For someone who does all of the things you do for your body—the yoga and swimming and such—you eat like a small child.” She rips the Snickers into chunks and drops them inside the fruit cup. “What are you doing?”

“It’s like chocolate-covered strawberries,” she says, crumbling the last of the candy bar into the cup before dusting her hands off.

“Except it’s a four-dollar fruit-cup with three kinds of melon and one grape inside of it.”

“Use what you have; that’s my motto.” She shovels in a bite and chews. I wait. “Pretty good—a little watered down, but it will do the trick.”

She scoops up more, offering her fork to me. I shake my head. She shrugs and pops it into her own mouth, picking up her orange juice and sipping. I take a bite of my turkey sandwich. Five-seed bread—not as good as sourdough, but pretty tasty.

“I ran into my brother today.”

“Oh yeah? Does he forgive you for ruining his outfit the other night?”

I smile, despite myself. “I don’t think so. In fact, I think we’re in a war now.” I set my sandwich down and sip from my mini bottle of Pellegrino.

“What kind of war?
Sons of Anarchy
or
House of Cards
?”

I’m intrigued enough to smile. “I’m not going to do a driveby and shoot him if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Strategy it is. What’s your first move?”

I wrap up what is left of my sandwich. “I’m not really sure. Just like I’m not really sure why we’re fighting. It’s not because of his pants,” I say when I see her look at me. “He was embarrassed at worst, annoyed at best, because of that. Today… I don’t know, today it was different. Like he really hates me.”

“Does he?”

My eyes veer to Nala. She’s watching me patiently, the clear plastic cup half-full of chocolate and fruit forgotten while she listens. “I want to say
no
. First, because he’s my brother, and second, because he has no reason to hate me. I mean, our parents do everything based off his wants, his needs, his achievements—which are more fabricated than earned.” The annoyance in my voice is clear as day. “Why would he hate me, when all I’ve ever done is hear how wonderful he is?”

“Maybe that’s exactly why he hates you—all of the attention and pressure is on him, when you’re only required to do as you’re told and then left alone.” She shrugs when I stare at her, doing my best to comprehend what she has said. “Either way, if you need a general to assist you, I’m in.”

I nod my thanks, grabbing my bag and standing with her. We go opposite ways to class, and the entire time I walk, I think about Mason and whether or not Nala is right.

Chapter 16

Brooks

Jordan’s face is staring at me from my computer screen when my phone buzzes from somewhere behind me. I ignore it, staring at the girl in front of me, trying to decide who she is.

I haven’t altered the photos, haven’t divided them into folders beyond the single one with her name on it. Usually, it’s a place, a feeling, an idea which details the folder names. I don’t focus on people, I focus on what they’re doing, what we can see, what they tell me just in being who they are. But this is different.

Jordana.

Her name is all the folder says, and I wonder if I’ll ever get more.

My phone buzzes again to indicate a voicemail. Since I’m not quite ready to start working, I turn and walk to the coffee table to pick it up. I swipe my finger over the icon, holding it up to my ear. Ashton’s voice whispers out.

“Hey… it’s me. Mom said you came by, so I thought I would call you.” She pauses. I hear a faint noise in the background and I imagine her sitting cross-legged on the floor, her shoulders hunched while she picks at a thread on her shorts or the laces on her shoes. Her eyes will be cast down; even when she’s in a room alone, I fear my sister never looks up.

“I’m sorry, Brooks. I just… I don’t know. I’m fine,” she says quickly. Her voice is breathy and small. It could be nerves, it could also be her respiratory system, struggling because she’s not strong enough to breathe and talk on her own at times.

“I’m fine, okay? And I’m with Mom, so you don’t need to check on me. You don’t need to worry anymore.”

I close my eyes, the images of Jordan fading away until the familiar blank canvas of darkness descends on my brain. “I have to go. Can you tell Nala... just tell her I’m fine. I’m fine,” she says again, her voice almost a whisper. “I don’t want you to worry. Please, don’t worry.” Another pause. A noise in the background and her voice is muffled, like she’s placed her hand over her phone. “Bye, big brother.”

I don’t delete the message. I want to—I want to hit
DELETE
and pretend I didn’t hear it, pretend I don’t know what she’s saying. But I don’t. Instead, I click out of my phone and set it down. With my hands over my head, I stare out the windows to the beach, and I breathe.

Ashton wants to be strong—I don’t know if it’s a learned trait or just who she is, but her idea of strength always comes in telling people not to worry.
Don’t worry; I’m fine. Don’t worry; I’m okay. Don’t worry; I’ve got it.

But she never does. Since she was too young to remember, Ashton has never had it. She’s always been at the mercy of this disease—this cancer of the mind that has been chipping away at her soul, and her life—for fifteen-plus years. A disease based on image and perception, a distortion of the mind so large there is no bringing her back. I’ve put her into treatment at least seven times—as an outpatient, as an inpatient… she isn’t better. She doesn’t have it. And I worry.

Rubbing the back of my neck to relieve the tension, I turn away from the water and glance up to meet Jordan’s face on my computer screen.

She’s staring at me—her eyes wide and unsure, her face telling me something I can’t quite hear yet. The message my sister just left me plays over in my head—
don’t worry; I’ve got it
. A lie she’s told herself—and me—countless times. I remember Jordan last night, telling me she lied more than I knew.

Grabbing my keys and phone, I head out.

+      +      +

When I get to Jordan’s dorm, I realize I don’t know her actual dorm number. Impulse is great until logistics get in the way. Briefly, I think of turning my truck back around and leaving. I don’t chase girls—and I sure as hell don’t go looking for one to make me feel better unless that includes taking our clothes off.

Ashton’s voice floats through my head, so childlike, so lost, and I turn off the truck engine. It’s not chasing—it’s research. I tell myself that even as I’m pulling out my phone and scrolling to Jordan’s contact. I tap her name and roll down my window, waiting while it rings. It goes so long, I’m getting ready to hang up, and then her voice is on the other end of the line.

“Hello?”

There are some loud noises in the background, and she has to pitch her voice a little.

“It’s Brooks.”

“I know—my phone has this crazy thing called caller ID”

Her voice is dry, but I can hear the humor in it. Despite the intense urge I have to punch something, my lips curve.

“I’m at your dorm.” Silence, except for that background noise. It gets louder. “What are you doing?”

“Hold on a second,” she says into the phone, and then her voice is muffled. “That was a red light.”

Another person speaks, and I know she must be driving with Nala. “Yellow.”

“Yellow means slow down.”

“Red means stop, green means go, yellow means make your choice, and I chose to go through it.”

Whatever Jordan says next is lost, and then she speaks to me, her voice crackling with the wind. “Sorry. I’m actually with Nala, pulling into the parking lot of our dorm right now.”

“Handy. I’m in the back.”

I should hang up, but I don’t. I stay on the line with her, listening as she gives me a small play-by-play of where she is. Nala’s Jeep comes into view, whipping around a corner and careening over a speed bump. In my ear, I hear Jordan yelp.

“Relax, she won’t kill you. I’m the one who taught her to drive.”

“So, it’s you I have to thank for this? Three red lights and no doors?”

I don’t know when it left, but the anger and frustration I was carrying with me earlier is barely a memory. Jordan’s voice curves my lips just a little more—the uptight mixed with the feisty.

“You’re in one piece, Red, relax. Look alive,” I tell her, and get out of my truck at the same time the Jeep jerks to a stop next to me. I hit
END
and nod when Nala jumps out of the driver’s side. She has two paddleboards tied down to the top, and she’s wearing a mesh cover-up over her bikini.

Almost every memory I have of her includes an image similar to this.

“You at the Cove?”

She nods. “Yeah, it’s soft and friendly. It was Jordan’s second lesson. She’s not bad,” Nala says. I turn and watch Jordan hop down from the passenger side. Her cover-up is longer than Nala’s, stopping at mid-thigh instead of her hips, but it doesn’t do a great deal more to hide her. It’s shaped like a poncho, the material crocheted and showing quite a bit of skin.

And her skin—porcelain with a rosy glow. While her face sports freckles over the bridge of her nose and her cheeks, the rest of her is like expensive china—pure and smooth and flawless.

How did I miss this?

Her legs are long, slender, and smooth; my eyes follow them up, even after they disappear under the black fabric. I can see the outline of her narrow hips and her waist, the gentle swell of her breasts. My body is tingling in anticipation, and suddenly, I’m thinking of more than painting, more than talking… more than feeling wired with nowhere to put my energy.

“I hope you don’t have your camera,” she says. My eyes snap to hers, which are a little amused. “You’re staring.”

“Get used to it.” The rosy hue of her cheeks gets deeper, until the blush of embarrassment spreads halfway down her neck.

“Jesus, Brooklyn, you’re going to have her in flames soon. Back off.”

I don’t even glance at Nala. “Come out with me.”

Jordan’s eyes widen a fraction. “Now?”

“Do you have other plans?” She shakes her head. “It’s not even seven o’clock on a Thursday, Red,” I say when I see her hesitate. I step closer, lowering my voice. “I thought we decided we were good for each other the other night.”

She doesn’t look at Nala, who I know is still staring hard—and she doesn’t look at the ground. She’s embarrassed, a little confused maybe, but she tilts her head slightly and keeps her eyes right on mine while she thinks. Goddamn if I can figure out why I like that so much. “I need to change,” she says eventually, and relief pours through me. I nod, stepping back.

“I’ll wait here.”

Jordan walks away and I watch her, wondering what the hell I’m doing.

“Hey lover boy, whatcha doin’?”

Hating that it’s like she’s inside my head, I shove my hands into the pockets of my shorts, wishing Nala had followed her roommate. “Waiting.”

“Yeah, I see that. You know, Brooks,” she continues, shuffling toward me in a pair of the ugly-ass hippie sandals she always wears. “This is the second time I’ve caught you swooning for my roommate.”