When You're Ready (11 page)

“Why don’t you invite her to come party with us? You’ve been glued to your phone all evening, so I know she’s hot. I know I don’t have all the muscles and tattoos, but do you think she’d be into a guy like me?” He grinned and I had to stop myself from punching him in the face.

“Not on your fucking life, Ethan,” I growled, despite the fact that I had passed him my leftovers plenty of times before. “Not this time.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “Chill, man. Relax.” He started chuckling before suddenly turning serious. “Wait. You’re not going soft are you?” I frowned at him, but didn’t say a word. “Holy shit! Scout Clayborne is pussy whipped!” Ethan howled with laugher.

“Don’t make me kick your ass, man. You know you can’t fight worth shit.”

I sipped my drink trying to figure out what the hell I felt for Nola. Ever since I met her I couldn’t get her out of my head, but pussy whipped? I had never been in love before, never even believed it really existed. I mean, if my parents didn’t give a shit about me, how could I expect anyone else to, especially a girl I just met? But something about Nola made me think it might be possible.

Ethan finished laughing and drained his drink. “The playboy has finally met his match, eh? Damn man.” He shook his head again. “I think we’ve talked enough business for one night. Go get your girl.”

* * *

Nola walked out of Pink Taco looking tired, but somehow, still beautiful. Her shoulders sagged and she rubbed her neck before taking out a wad of cash and counting the bills.

“You shouldn’t do that,” I said, wondering how often she counted her money in public.

“Scout?” She walked toward me still holding the bills in her hand. “What are you doing here?”

“First, put that away. You can’t be out here with a bunch of money in your hand.” She started to speak, but changed her mind and put the cash in her bag. “Second, it’s midnight, right? I came to give you a ride home.”

Nola cocked her head to the side and stared at me. “First, I told you that wasn’t necessary. I’d figure it out.” She covered her mouth and yawned before continuing her sentence. “And second,” she crossed her arms like she was about to cop an attitude. “Thank you.”

Nola broke into a huge smile and I couldn’t help but match her grin. I thought she was going to give me shit for showing up at her job unannounced, but she looked too exhausted to be upset. I grabbed her hand and we walked to my car. When we got inside, Nola handed me a ten-dollar bill.

“What’s this?”

“Gas money,” she said with a straight face.

I broke out laughing. “Seriously?”

“I give Tara gas money for taking me home sometimes. Since we don’t know each other that well yet, I don’t want you to think I’m trying to take advantage of you or something.”

“Nola, I showed up at
your
job to give you a ride because it’s late and I was worried about you. How could you be taking advantage of
me
?”

She shrugged. “I dunno. I just don’t want you to think I’m trying to get over on you. We’re friends, Scout. I want you to know I appreciate you.”

Friends
. The last thing I wanted to do was be Nola’s fucking
friend
. Thinking she needed to pay for my gas was bad enough, but now she just wanted to be friends?

I tore out of the parking lot and headed toward her apartment, speeding down the empty streets reeling from the F-bomb. I had enough friends back in Pacoima; I didn’t need to add a gorgeous one to the mix. Besides, I didn’t want to be Nola’s BFF. I wanted to be her man.

I gripped the steering wheel and punched on the gas as we headed down Wilshire. I had to convince Nola I could be more than just a friend, more than some guy who gave her rides from work and helped her with her paper. I had to make her realize how serious I was about getting to know her and opening my heart—whatever was left of it anyway.

By the time we got to La Brea I decided I would be Nola’s friend— until I could show her I wanted so much more.

“Hey, you okay?” Nola asked. I turned to glance at her and saw her eyes knitted in concern.

“Yeah, I’m cool. Why? What’s up?”

“It’s just…you’re squeezing that steering wheel so hard it might break off in your hands, and you’ve been speeding like one of those crazy pizza delivery guys in that commercial.”

“What?” I asked, thrown for a loop.

“You know those commercials where the pizza is bouncing all around while the guy does like 100 miles-per-hour? That’s you right now, Scout.”

I winced, but didn’t say anything.

“Look, I really appreciate you giving me a ride tonight…and earlier today. And yesterday,” she said, and I loosened my grip on the wheel. “It means a lot to me. I owe you big time.”

“It’s nothing,” I said, keeping my voice flat. “Don’t worry about it.”

Nola shook her head and placed her hand on my arm; I flinched. “Scout, it’s totally not
nothing
,” she snapped her finger, “I know. I’ll make you dinner. Just as a thank you.”

“Dinner?”

“Yeah, it will be awesome! Let’s see,” she tapped her chin, “what’s your favorite meal?”

I glanced over at her and she was looking at me expectantly. “I don’t really have one.”

“What?” she gasped. “How can you not have a favorite meal?”

I shrugged, it had just worked out like that. Growing up, I ate so infrequently anything I had instantly became my favorite meal because I never knew where the next one was coming from. Explaining this to Nola, however, was out of the question.

“What did your mom cook the most when you were younger?”

“My mom didn’t really cook a lot,” I said flatly, not adding the part about her being too busy scoring drugs to care about whether I lived or died.

“Mine either, actually. My dad cooked
a lot
. He was really good at it, too. Did your dad cook?”

Yes, crack
, I wanted to say, but didn’t. “Not really.”

“So what did you eat growing up?” She asked, and I suddenly felt uncomfortable with her innocent line of questioning.

I hunched my shoulders and floored it again. “Mostly stuff from a box. Hamburger Helper and whatnot.”

I saw Nola watch me from the corner of my eye. “Okay,” she said. “I’m going to cook you a
real
meal.”

We pulled up in front of her apartment and for once, I couldn’t wait for Nola to leave. I hated that she saw me as just a friend, but I was even more bothered by the wound she’d opened up about my parents. I didn’t like thinking about them—or the shit they’d put me through—at all. And I didn’t want to unload my parental baggage on Nola. Not right now; I hadn’t even won her over yet.

She put her hand on my thigh and my dick instantly began to swell, betraying the anger I felt receding in my chest. Thinking about my parents pissed me the hell off, but somehow, Nola’s touch made all of that bottled up rage dissipate into thin air.

“Want to talk about it?”

I leaned my head against the headrest and stared at her. “Talk about what?”

Her eyes softened and she sighed. “Sorry, Scout.”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry about,” I said, hoping my cock would go down.

“Yeah, I do,” she said, her voice as sweet as maple syrup. “I should have paid attention to the signs.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You and your parents. You guys aren’t cool, right?”

I looked away from her, focusing on a cat scurrying across the street outside of my window instead.

“Hey.” Nola grabbed my face and brought it back to her direction. “I’m sorry, okay? I know what it feels like when people ask you about your family and that’s absolutely the last thing you want to talk about because it hurts too much.”

“You don’t understand,” I mumbled, on the verge of spilling my guts.

“You’d be surprised.”

I slid her palm to my lips and kissed it. I wanted to tell Nola everything, wanted to show her the cigarette burns my parents left dotted across my legs and chest. I wanted to explain why I still stayed up all night coding even though I had more money in the bank than I would probably be able to spend in this lifetime or the next. But I was scared.

If I peeled back the layers and let Nola into the darkest, most painful parts of my life I was afraid I’d lose her too.

“Nola, I—“ I started to speak, but she shushed me, placing a finger to my lips.

“It’s okay. Whenever you’re ready to talk about it, I’m here.” She grabbed her bag and kissed me on the cheek. “Goodnight, Scout. Thanks for the ride…and for everything.”

Nola opened the door, but before she could get out of the car I grabbed her hand.

“My parents,” I started, but quickly stopped, too scared I’d be the one in tears this time. I leaned my head back again and exhaled loudly. “They were completely fucked up.”

Nola closed the door and stroked my hand while I sat there trying to figure out what the hell to say. I could feel the words building in my throat while all of the ugly emotions I’d swallowed over the years bubbled in my gut, threatening to come spewing out.

I didn’t want to talk about my parents, had told myself I would never mention them again if I could help it. But I couldn’t squash the desire to crack myself open for Nola. I wanted her to see the real me. I needed it.

Nola traced her fingers over the back of my hand, making small soothing circles. To my surprise she didn’t ask me a bunch of questions I wasn’t prepared to answer, she just waited until I was ready to say more.

“I grew up in the valley, Pacoima actually. Are you familiar with it?”

“No…not really.”

“Well, back in the day it had a lot of gangs, crime, and drugs. And not a lot of White people,” I chuckled in spite of myself, remembering how I was called a
bolillo
, or white bread, for most of my childhood. “My parents were heavy into drugs. Cocaine at first, and when that got too expensive, crack.” I stole a glance at Nola to see if she was planning to run. Her eyes met mine and they were still gentle and caring and she didn’t look like she was itching to leave. “They were always high or drunk or some combination or both, so I was on my own a lot.  I got into a lot of trouble when I was younger—fights, stealing stuff, smoking weed, that sort of thing—and a lot of kids in the neighborhood gave me shit about being White.”

“Because you didn’t fit in,” she said just above a whisper.

I nodded.

“I can totally relate.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said, still rubbing her thumb along my hand. “I’ve never really fit in anywhere. I was always too White to be a considered a real Black girl, and too Black to be considered White.”

“Then you understand. It seemed like every time I stepped outside of my door people ragged on me about one thing or another. If it wasn’t because I was white, then they ribbed me about my crackhead parents. And it if wasn’t that, they talked about how poor we were. I couldn’t catch a break, so I got really, really good at throwing punches.”

“At least you had that.”

“Yeah, it almost got me killed a few times, but I made it.”

“And look at you now,” Nola smiled. “You survived.”

“So did you,” I said, covering her hand with mine.

Her smile dimmed. “I’m still working on it, but hopefully I’ll get there one day.”

“You will, I don’t doubt it for a second.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I’m going to help you,” I said, bringing her hand to my lips again. “We’re in this together.”

12
Nola

I stumbled into Powell Library, half-asleep. It was just after seven in the morning, and after working until midnight the night before, I felt barely alive. Instead of spending two hours on the bus, I splurged on a $25 cab ride to campus. The extra hour of sleep was worth every penny.

As I walked through the entrance of the enormous building that looked like something straight out of Hogwarts, I couldn’t believe my weekend of hell was just beginning. I still didn’t know how I was going to pull
two
back-to-back double shifts at the restaurant and deliver a paper Professor St. James wouldn’t hate, but I had no other option but to try.

After finding a spot and setting up my laptop, I snuck a handful of trail mix and quickly chugged down an extra strength 5-hour Energy Shot. Not quite a breakfast of champions, but it would have to do. I only had four hours to devote to my paper before I had to leave for work, so I needed to make the most of it.

I logged into Google Scholar and started searching for sources for my essay, but I couldn’t focus. My body seemed to trudge along in slow motion, and my brain felt like it was wading through a thick cloud of fog. I struggled to come up with the right combination of keywords for the search, but the only thing that came into sharp focus was Scout.

I had come so close to messing everything up when he dropped me off. I couldn’t help it, though; hearing about his parents broke my heart. I should have known Scout’s story was just as dreadful as mine, but I guess I hoped he had been spared that kind of trauma.