When You're Ready (12 page)

What’s the saying? Like attracts like? I didn’t need any more reminders that I was completely jacked up, but Scout was a beautifully complicated reminder that my life had been a series of terrible events. First, my dad died of a drug overdose, then my mother went crazy and forgot I was even there, and now I was quickly falling for a guy who was
the
absolute worst for me but somehow made me feel better than I’ve felt in years.

Maybe I’m addicted to Scout.

I mean, how else could I justify my feelings for him despite the very real risk of losing my head and ending up just like Sandy Jane? Falling in love with Scout could lead me down the same jagged path to crazytown my mother had traveled, but no matter how much I tried, I just couldn’t keep Scout from creeping into my mind. Whenever he called or sent texts I felt high, like I was floating on a cloud of sheer happiness; and when I expected to hear from him but didn’t, I felt so damn alone.

I hated that Scout had such an affect on me but I didn’t know how to kick the habit. Growing up, I’d never smoked weed or dropped E like the other kids, even when I wanted nothing more than to escape into something other than my messed up life. But Scout Clayborne was quickly becoming my drug of choice.

“Focus, Nola,” I told myself. I’d wasted a half hour replaying the scene in Scout’s car and kicking myself for not kissing him. I was so close to planting my lips on his and replacing some of his pain with a little pleasure. But I chickened out.

Scout hadn’t tried to kiss me, or even touch anything more than my hand or my leg, and I was starting to get a little worried.

It was stupid, and even though I
knew
we should just be friends, it bugged me that he hadn’t even
tried
to make a move
.
The few guys I had gone out with were usually pawing at me ten minutes into a date, but Scout and I had hung out a few times and he had always kept a respectful distance. It was both admirable and freaking frustrating.

“Dammit,” I muttered, mad at myself for letting my thoughts drift back to Scout
again
. I grabbed another handful of trail mix and refocused my attention on my laptop, but before I could commit to the task at hand my phone started to buzz. It was him.

I stepped into the hall to answer; aware I was already smiling.
Damned addiction.

“Hey Scout. What’s up?”

“Morning beautiful. Just calling to see if you were up yet. What time should I bring over the coffee and croissants?”

“Shit,” I hissed. “I forgot to tell you.”

“Tell me what? Everything okay?”

“Sorta. I have to work a double shift today, so I got an early start. I’m already at the library.”

“Seriously? It’s not even eight. You took the bus?”

“No. I splurged on a cab.” I heard Scout exhale loudly on the other end of the line. “Yeah,
exactly
. But at least I got to sleep a little longer.”

“Damn, Nola, how come you didn’t call me? I would have given you a ride.”

“At six in the morning, Scout? That would be kinda crazy, don’t you think? Besides, you’ve done way too much for me already and I wasn’t going to interrupt your sleep. I’m barely making it myself,” I chuckled to lighten the mood.

I could tell Scout was annoyed, but I wasn’t sure if it was because he wanted to see me or if he felt slighted because I didn’t ask him for help. Either way, I couldn’t spend all my time with him,
or
obsessing about him. It would make kicking the habit that much more difficult.

“You’re on campus, right? Which library?”

“Don’t even think about it.”

“C’mon, Nola,” he whined, then dropped his voice to a wanton growl. “You don’t want to see me?” he asked, and I could hear my heart thump-thump-thumping in my ears.

Of course I wanted to see him. If it were possible—and not
completely
desperate—I’d be with him all the time. And not only that, I longed to be pressed up against him, maybe somewhere in the stacks, his lips devouring mine and my hands running over his taut muscles. I’d had this fantasy about a dozen times since I met Scout. The two of us making out in any number of public spaces—his Mustang, the back room at my job, in the middle of a dance floor, in a hot tub, on a balcony in Jamaica with the stars twinkling overhead. You get the picture.

I shook my head, trying to dislodge the vision of Scout and me from my brain. “That’s not it. I just don’t want to mess up your Saturday.”

“And you won’t. I’m supposed to be helping out, remember? You write the paper, I bring the food?”

“Yeah, but that was before I had to pull a double.”

“That doesn’t change anything on my end. Remember what I said last night?”

How could I forget? Scout told me we were in this together, and the stupid part was, I wanted to believe him.

“Nola,” he said, snapping me out of my thoughts. “You remember, right?”

I nodded even though he couldn’t see me. “Yes…”

“Good. Now, which library?”

“Powell,” I said, just above a whisper.

“Okay, baby. I’m on the way.”

* * *

Scout

“So let me get this straight. You have to work
two
double shifts
this
weekend?”

I couldn’t believe Nola agreed to work 24 hours in a two-day span. She said her boss didn’t give her much of a choice, which pissed me off because it was clear he was taking advantage of her. Desperate people often did desperate things, and from what I could tell Nola was just barely scraping by. Like so many others, she was probably one or two paychecks away from being out on the street, so she put up with her boss’ bullshit. But I vowed to put an end to it. Nola wasn’t going to run herself ragged on my watch, especially when she didn’t even have to.

“Crazy, right?” she said between sips of her coffee. ”I have
no
idea how I’m going to pull this off, but I don’t have much of a choice.”

“You can always quit,” I said under my breath.

Nola’s head snapped in my direction. “Quit what?”

“Your job. Your manager sounds like an asshole. And he can’t legally make you work two shifts, you know that right?”

She gave me a little shrug like she knew the situation was fucked up, but was resigned to deal with it. “What option do I have? If I quit I won’t be able to pay my rent or cover my tuition. I’m so close to being done, Scout, I can’t give up now.”

This was insane. Nola was going to work herself into an early grave, and for what? A few hundred dollars a week?

I knew what it felt like to want to make something,
anything
, out of yourself and bust your ass until it happened, so I sympathized with her. But Nola was brilliant, and beautiful, and big-hearted. She deserved to be as carefree as some of the trust fund babies I saw walking around UCLA like they owned it. And I was prepared to make it happen.

“Look, you’ve barely had any sleep, and now you’re about to spend the next 12 hours on your feet only to get up and do it all over again tomorrow?” I asked. “It’s not healthy, Nola.”

“I’ve done it before,” she said, dismissively. “I’ll be fine, Scout. I just need to get through the next few days and then I can relax.”

“And what if your body gives out before then?”

Nola pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and hunched her shoulders. “I dunno, it doesn’t really matter, does it? No one besides Tara cares anyway and she’s just as busy as me.”

“Bullshit,” I said, but Nola just stared into the distance. 

The only emotion I usually let myself feel is anger. Over the years I’d become really good at channeling my pain, humiliation, shame, and uneasiness into pure rage. When I was younger I’d get pissed off without much provocation, and back when I was brawling every day, I relished my ability to knock guys out if they even
looked
like they were about to talk shit about me.

Hearing Nola say nobody cared about her made me feel sick. I would be fucking gutted if something happened to her; but of course it was way too soon to tell her this. I couldn’t even explain why I felt so protective of her; it was irrational at best and downright crazy at worst. But what I felt for Nola could only be explained in clichés I never believed in before the night we met—kismet, soul mates, fate.

I tried to shift the focus off of my feelings. “I’m sure your mother would be worried sick if something happened to you.”

Nola rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t count on it.”

“You’re kidding, right?” I asked, hoping Nola’s mother was nothing like mine.

“Nope, I’m not. She wasn’t abusive or anything,” she said, taking another sip of her coffee. I relaxed a little, thankful she hadn’t experienced that particular horror. “But after my father died, she seemed to forget I was even there.”

“I’m sure she was just in shock. Losing the love of your life has to be painful.”

“And losing your dad isn’t?” she snapped, tears dotting her eyes. “I was 10, Scout—TEN—and she retreated into herself and left me to fend for myself
for three years.
Then we picked up and moved over and over again. Can you imagine how that felt?” Nola asked, staring straight into my eyes. “Can you?”

I didn’t know what to say. If my parents had packed up and moved I would have thrown a fucking party; instead they beat me when they were angry, screamed at me when they were coming down from a high, and were missing in action when I needed them most. My parents were nothing short of horrible, but I’d been lucky enough to fall into a group of friends who became my brothers. Apparently, Nola didn’t even have that; she was all on her own.

“At least you learned to fight back,” she said, jarring me back to reality. “Every year there was a new city and new bully waiting to torment me. All I did was pray for the day I could finally get the hell out and live some kind of normal life.” Nola wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Trust me, Scout. My mother doesn’t give a damn about me. Nobody does.”

Her words stabbed at my heart. I wondered what kind of mother could turn her back on a girl like Nola; it was too inconceivable for me to wrap my brain around.

“That’s not true,” I blurted out. “I care about you, Nola
,”
I reached for her hand,
“a lot
.”

“Scout,” she sighed, “you haven’t even known me that long.”

“Baby you can’t put a time limit on what’s meant to be.”

“Oh, God.” Nola laughed, but not a happy one. Instead it came tumbling out like she’d heard a stupid joke and was playing along out of sympathy. “Please tell me you don’t believe in happily ever after, soul mates, and true love.”

Her burst of cynicism caught me off guard, but I tried to brush it off. “Would it be such a bad thing if I did?”

Her smile disappeared. “Yeah, actually, it would.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because love is dangerous. I saw what it did to my mother and I told myself that would
never
happen to me.”

“Never?” I asked, taking Nola’s words as a challenge I was determined to beat.

“Never,” she said again, her curly hair swaying back and forth.

Game on.

13
Nola

“Midnight, right?” Scout asked.

We were sitting in his Mustang and I was trying to convince myself that the next 12 hours wouldn’t be so bad. I was doing a horrible job, though. I knew it would be hell.

“Yeah, midnight,” I said, not bothering to try to talk Scout out of picking me up this time. I would probably never admit it, but the truth was, I was looking forward to it.

“You can still back out, you know,” he said, stroking my hand. I caught him staring at my lips and for a millisecond I thought he might kiss me.

“And do what? Run away? Become a hobo? Join the circus?” I chuckled. I was already sleepy, slightly delusional, and was starting to sound like a crazy person. Maybe my mother and I weren’t so different after all. When I was little, she’d ask what I wanted to be when I grew up, suggesting all manner of ridiculous jobs.

“You can be a magician, or a folk singer, or an acrobat!” she said once. “You’re already flexible, Nola darling. Maybe you can be all three.”

I giggled at Sandy Jane’s absurd ideas before turning somber. “I just want a regular job, mommy. You know like a nurse or a banker.”

“Why? Regular jobs are nothing but traps that suck the life right out of you. Don’t you want to see the world? Do something crazy? Have some fun?” my mother asked.

“Yeah, I guess,” I said, thinking about how much I adored our trips to Saint Ann’s Parish. “But not all the time, mommy.”

My mother patted my head and sighed. “Such a serious little girl. You need to live a little. You’ll see.”

And I did. I saw how my parents’ fast living left my father dead and my mother a hollowed-out shell of her former self, so concerned with dulling her own pain she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, acknowledge mine.  I saw how “living” quickly dissolved my quirky, but amazing childhood that was once full of adventure, love, and laughter, into an extended nightmare I was still trying to wake up from. I saw it all, and it was way too much to handle.