Текст книги "Spark"

Автор книги: Erin Noelle

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Glancing down at my history notebook, all I see is a chaotic mess of squiggly lines, arrows, and question marks, the perfect representation of what I hear when I’m sitting through Dr. Langford’s lectures. The woman jumps from topic to topic so fast I’m lucky if I don’t have whiplash when I walk out of her class. And I currently have twenty-four hours to make heads or tails of this rubbish scribbled on my papers, or risk failing the class.

I attempt to reread the highlighted passage from the text for the fourth time, but yet again, I retain none of it. Slamming the book shut, I chuck it to the other side of the bed—the side that still smells like him—and fall back on my pillow with a frustrated groan, staring up at the blank ceiling.

It’s been three days since I stormed out of the coffeehouse, leaving Crew and Mary behind. I’ve talked to her several times since, and neither of us has heard from him. Not a single text. He hasn’t come for his clothes, which I gathered and packed in his bag that sits in the corner of the room, taunting me ruthlessly, and nobody seems to know where he’s staying. Dakota and Juno went on a reconnaissance mission up to Half Pipe last night, but he wasn’t working, and whoever they talked to claimed not to know anything.

At this point, I’m not even sure how I feel anymore. Before the last couple of months—before I met Crew—my life was virtually stress and drama free, and though I’d never experienced the high of the highs like I did with him, I’d also never suffered through the lowest of lows.

And damn, until now, I had no idea how low it could be.

I knew he’d be angry at me when I tricked him into meeting with Mary. I was well aware he’d lash out, most likely saying things to purposely hurt me, but never in my wildest dreams did I ever think he’d stoop to that level.

Eventually, I could’ve overlooked the entire ‘whore’ thing with a proper apology and some major ass-kissing, because honestly, it wasn’t like he was too far off-base. After the funeral, I willingly allowed him to use me—my body mainly—because it was the only way I knew how to be there for him, since he refused to talk about anything. I thought he just needed time to process Caleb’s death, and ultimately, though he’d never be the same, he’d recover and I’d be the one there to help him through. That’s what you do for people you care about. You give them whatever support you can.

But blaming me—shit, blaming any of us—for what happened that morning was excessively hateful and cruel. Caleb’s accident was terrible, gut-wrenching, and the most devastating thing I could ever imagine, but it was exactly that. An accident. I’d felt guilty for the first week or so, knowing I contributed to the circumstances that left Caleb alone when he needed us most, but after talking things out with my parents and Grams, I knew in my heart no one was at fault.

“Hudson?” Grams knocks lightly on the partially open door, yanking my attention out of another Crew daydream. “You doing okay, love? Are you coming to breakfast this morning?”

Shaking my head, I shimmy up to a sitting position and reach for the discarded textbook. “No, I’m not hungry. My last final—the hardest one for me—is tomorrow, and I have to cram pretty much straight through.”

“Surely you can stop to eat. I think you’ve lost five pounds in the last few days alone. All of this studying you’ve been doing, barely ever leaving your room, can’t be healthy. Come on,” she demands, flitting over to my bed and tugging on my arm. “Let’s go eat. Your brain needs fuel to get smarter.”

Laughing softly, I allow her to pull me off the bed and into the kitchen, where she already has a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and hash browns waiting for me. My stomach roars to life as the appetizing aromas fill my nostrils. Okay, so maybe I am a little hungrier than I thought.

I slide onto the chair and dig in to the breakfast, scarfing it down so fast that I’m sure my belly will hurt in a couple of hours. Grams hovers, which is uncharacteristic for her, so I come right out and ask what’s going on. She and I have a loving, but no-nonsense kind of relationship.

“What’s up, Grams? You’re acting strange,” I announce in between bites.

“The boy. What happened?”

Sighing, I rest the fork against the edge of the plate and wash down the bite with a long swig of orange juice. “What happened?” I repeat her question, staring down at the remaining strips of bacon, at a loss. “That’s a damn good question, and I’m still not exactly sure.”

I continue eating as I tell her everything that happened on Monday afternoon, pretty much word-for-word, since I’ve replayed the scene in my head no less than six hundred times in the last seventy-two hours. And then I await her response, hoping for one of those really impactful lines you get from older people who’ve learned a lot of wise life lessons in their years.

Instead, she says, “You need to have sex with someone else.”

My jaw hits the table. Say what? I just rehashed this horrendous story of how the first and only guy I’ve ever had real feelings for—the guy I gave my virginity not too long ago—completely tore my heart out of my chest and squashed it like a poisonous bug scurrying across the floor, and my grandmother’s words of advice are to go sleep with someone else?

“Are you serious?” I finally manage to say. “What would that help?”

“What could it hurt? You need to relax and let things be the way they’re going to be. It’ll all work out exactly the way it’s supposed to in the end, and in the meantime, getting a little nookie could only help to improve your mood. It used to help me. You should never underestimate the power of a cute boy and a good orgasm.”

Oh. My. God. My grandmother just used the word nookie and is discussing orgasms. I think I may need to vomit. Thank goodness I’ve already cleaned off most of my plate, because my appetite is absolutely nonexistent now.

“I’ll…um, I’ll definitely consider your suggestion,” I sputter out the words while standing up and carrying my dirty dishes to the sink, “and thank you so much for breakfast. I love you, Grams.”

As soon as I’m back in my room, I’m about to dive into the dull material, when I get an idea. Maybe Grams is right…well, kind of. I’m not sure about hopping into the next available bed I can find with Joe Schmoe is the best thing, but I have been hiding out in this room for entirely too long this week, and I desperately could use a change of scenery.

Grabbing my phone from my nightstand, I type out a text to Beckham, hoping to kill two birds with one stone.

Me: Hey, it’s Hudson. I know it’s last minute, but do you want to study for the History final together today?

His enthusiastic reply flashes across the screen in less than a minute.

Beckham: Definitely. I’m about to leave campus. All of my notes are at home. Wanna meet me there in 30?

Me: Just send me your address. C u soon.

Hurriedly, I change out of my yoga pants and tank top, and slip into a gray hoodie and a pair of jeans, which rest lower on my hips than usual. Huh. I guess my Grams was right about me dropping a few pounds. I contemplate adding a belt, but decide against it.

After stuffing my notebook and textbook into my backpack, I double check the cigarette case to make sure there are a few joints in it, then toss it in too, certain we’ll be taking several smoke breaks throughout the day. Once my feet are cozy inside my Uggs, I double-check my appearance in the mirror and decide my makeup free face and ponytail are going to have to be good enough today. I don’t have the time or the desire to do anything else; I’m just happy I already showered and brushed my teeth this morning.

I call out to Grams, letting her know where I’m going, then jump in my car and pull out onto the main road, already feeling a tad bit better. The drive to Beckham’s takes a little longer than it should, thanks to my inability to follow driving directions, but after circling the same block no less than four times, I’m eventually able to find the apartment complex.

Parking my car in the first spot I can find, I hop out and sprint across the lot, my backpack lazily slung over one shoulder. The blustery December wind whips across my face, turning the tip of my nose and my ears into icicles before I reach his unit. Gratefully, the door swings open mere seconds after I knock, and I’m greeted by Beckham’s smiling face.

“Hurry. Get inside and warm up.” He ushers me in and gives me a quick hug, hastily shutting out the cold behind me. “Someone needs to tell winter she’s early this year.”

Chuckling softly, I nod as I remove my boots and jacket, leaving them both in the entryway. “Yeah, it went from an unseasonably warm November to a brutal December in the blink of an eye.” Just like my life did.

“Can I get you something to drink?” he asks while leading me into the small, rather dirty kitchen. “Let me see what we’ve got.”

Unrinsed plates are stacked on one side of the sink, and it looks like the countertops haven’t seen a wipe down in at least several weeks, but neither seem to faze him in the least. The trash threatens to overflow onto the floor, the can brimming with empty beer cans and takeout containers. One particular Styrofoam box on top displaying the Half Pipe Pub logo catches my eye, and my chest tightens uncomfortably at the thought of him. A mixture of worry and anger washes over me, and I begin to think that getting out of the house wasn’t such a good idea.

Sticking his head in the nearly empty refrigerator, Beckham scrounges around trying to find something to offer, but comes up empty. “I guess all we have is beer, and I know you don’t drink, unless you just want some water from the sink.”

The thought of drinking out of one of their glasses grosses me out. God only knows when the last time they were washed, or if soap was used at all.

“No, I’m okay right now. If I need something later, I may go on a coffee run,” I reply, hoping my face isn’t revealing the true level of my disgust with the place. Who lives like this?

“Sorry, I would’ve had some other options here if I’d known earlier you were coming.” Grabbing a Bud Light, he pops the top and brings the can to his mouth, guzzling down the horrible smelling drink. “Just let me know when you’re ready to take a break and we’ll go get something…maybe some food too.” Yeah, there’s no way anything in this place isn’t expired.

Backpedalling out of the kitchen, I glance around the living room, wondering where I should unpack my things around the clutter of magazines, video game controllers, and empty food and drink containers. I think that’s even a bra draped across the back of a recliner. Ewwww. Don’t get me wrong; I understand the whole bachelor pad thing, and it’s not like I expect Beckham to keep a Martha Stewart worthy apartment, but this is ridiculous. I’m going to have to take another shower as soon as I get home.

“I thought we’d set up in my bedroom, in case my roommates are here and try to distract us. It gets a little crazy around this place sometimes,” Beckham announces when he notices me surveying the room.

He nudges my elbow and signals for me to follow him into the small hallway. Cautiously, I trail behind him into the first room off to the left, and though his room is far from spotless, it’s a definite improvement from the main living area. The furniture all looks like it came straight from the Ikea showroom, and the platform bed, which has probably never been made properly, is buried in a heap of blue and gray linens. Clothes are littered around the floor and there’s a scrunched up Mickey D’s bag in the corner from who knows when. But it doesn’t smell too bad, and the windows even have curtains.

Exhaling a small sigh of relief, I drop my backpack onto the floor and find a spot to sit cross-legged on his bed, facing him, but not too close. Then, we both gather all of our review materials, spreading notes and books out around us on the navy comforter, and begin an intense study session.

A couple of hours into it, we reach a natural breaking point between the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries and I pull out my favorite rectangular case from my bag, snatching a joint from inside.

“Is there a good place to smoke in here, or should we go outside?” I ask while digging a lighter out of my pocket.

“In here’s fine. Let me grab a clean ashtray.” He stands up and grabs a small terracotta bowl from the top drawer of his dresser, then drops back down on the low mattress, this time flat on his back with his head angled close to my lap. I consider scooting over, but don’t want to be blatantly rude or make things uncomfortable, so I stay put.

Flicking the lighter, I take a nice, long, and steady hit from the spliff, careful not to cause any runs in the paper, and once I’m satisfied it’s burning evenly, I hand it off to him. For a couple of minutes, we sit quietly, sharing a stoned smile as we puff-puff-pass, back and forth. Then, the sound of some muffled voices followed by a door being swung open startles me, causing me to jump and swivel my head toward the hallway.

“Come on! I know you want to again!” a girl calls out from what sounds like another room as heavy footsteps in the hall grow near. “I got a Brazilian yesterday, just for you!” she adds with a giggle.

I watch intently, curious to what in the hell’s going on, ‘cause I thought we were the only people here. But nothing in the world could’ve prepared me for the sight of Crew walking by the open doorway, shirtless and barefoot, with hair still damp from a shower.

Or a really long, sweaty fucking.

“Please move,” I hiss through gritted teeth, glaring at the half-dressed girl blocking the door I’m trying to pass through. “I need to get my shirt from the dryer. I’m already running late.”

I don’t add that I’m late because she decided to join me in the bathroom while I was showering, uninvited, and then proceeded to get pissed because I still denied her after a ridiculous, over-the-top striptease. I’m not sure how else to prove to her I’m really not fucking interested, but she still seems unfazed.

“Just a quickie then,” Tasha purrs, pouting out her bottom lip as she runs her finger over the lace trim of her bra. “Do you want me to beg? Is that it?”

No, I want you to move your pathetic ass out of my way.

I really need to get the hell out of this apartment before I kill her. What the fuck was I thinking Monday, when I left the bar with her? This girl is the epitome of everything I hate. Annoyingly obnoxious, conceited—though she shouldn’t be, now that I’ve seen what she looks like first thing in the morning—lives in a pigsty, and clingy as fuck. No, no, no, and hell no.

Apparently, she was so drunk the first night we came home, she doesn’t even remember us hooking up—hence the mid-deed pass-out—and has been relentless on the pursuit of it happening again. Uh, no. I can’t stand the thought of another night on their nasty couch, with her douchebag cousin parading by with his latest piece of tail. Fuck, last night, he didn’t even shut his door, and I had to listen to her catlike howling until they finished ten minutes later. Longest ten minutes of my life. Thank fuck the guy has no stamina.

Which is where I’m headed now. To beg Rory to save my sorry ass from this hellhole I’ve landed myself in, at least for a little while, until I can save up some money and figure out my next move. I’d hoped to bail on Tuesday, the day after this horrendous decision, but Rory went MIA, and I’ve been stuck way longer than I wanted. Brody said he had to go out of town for an emergency and would be back in a couple of days, then Rory finally messaged me this morning that he was back, working a double shift.

Shaking my head with exasperation, I finally just pick her up and move her out of my way, setting her down on her bed. “No. I don’t want you to beg. I don’t want anything from you. I’m leaving.”

“Come on! I know you want to again!” she yells as I throw the door open and stalk out of her room. “I got a Brazilian yesterday, just for you!”

The minute I step into the hall, the pungent scent of weed smacks me in the face and my thoughts immediately drift to Hudson. A sharp ache of what might have been shoots through my chest, causing my breath to hitch and my entire body to tense. God, what the fuck has happened to my life?

Continuing my path to the laundry room, I casually glance inside Beckham’s room as I pass by, expecting to find him with one of the other Half Pipe waitresses he’s had on rotation. I freeze when my gaze lands on the crystal blue eyes that haunt both my days and my nights. Shockwaves rip through me, tearing me apart at the seams.

Hudson.

She’s here.

In his fucking bed.

I blink, enraged, and then my fists are pounding Beckham’s face over and over again. There’s a roaring sound filling the air. Me? My eyes focus and I realize what I’m doing, but I don’t stop. I can’t. How fucking dare he touch her? He’s not fighting back anymore, but I continue, my arms relentless. I feel nothing, say nothing, just bury my knuckles into his limp body again.

A piece of blond hair drifts across my eyes and I pause, shaking my head furiously. Hudson is clinging to my back with her lips pressed to my ear. I exhale harshly, trying to hear her words through the haze.

“…have to stop. Caleb wouldn’t want this…”

His name. Coming from her sweet voice.

My arm is pulled back, ready to strike again, and I freeze, suspended in indecision.

My eyes race over the scene in front of me.

Blood. Deep, dark red. Everywhere.

Beckham’s face.

The bed.

The floor, where we ended up.

My hands.

Caleb.

His body, his head, floating in a crimson pool of blood.

Dead.

Yanking my arm away, I shrug Hudson off me and stagger backward, my trembling hands raised in surrender, overwhelmed with memories. Tasha rushes past me to Beckham’s side, hyperventilating as she checks on him, and as I retreat into the hallway, my eyes lock firmly on Hudson’s thin frame. Kneeling on the floor, her shoulders hunch with despair as sobs rack through her body. Her focus is neither on me nor Beckham. Instead, she’s staring down at her hands resting on her lap and the shattered cigarette case lying flat in her palm.

“Hey, man. Sorry I had to bail on you the last couple of nights. I had to take care of some things back home.” Rory offers an apologetic smile as I approach the bar, my mind still encased in a dense fog. “Brody said you were looking for me. What’s going on? You look like shit.”

I sit on the stool and stare at him, but say nothing. It’s all I can do to not breakdown right now.

“Crew? You all right man? What happened?” he asks sharply, leaning over the bar toward me.

“I need…I was wondering, uh…” Fumbling over my words, I stop and shake my head, attempting to clear my thoughts before starting over. “I’m looking for a place to stay for a little while, and I was hoping I could crash on your couch. I’ve got a little money saved up, and I don’t want to waste it on a hotel while I try to figure out where I’m going permanently.”

“You plan on sticking around here, man, after everything that’s happened? You’re not going back to Texas?”

I hesitate, opening and closing my mouth. “There’s nothing back there for me,” I finally manage.

“Something for you here?” He cocks his eyebrow with interest.

Hudson’s face flits through my mind and my heart lurches painfully.

“Not anymore.” I grip the hair by my temples with my fists, my head suddenly pounding.

He glances down at my bloody knuckles, which I tried to wipe off with a napkin in my car, and sighs heavily. “Did you do anything that’s gonna land you in jail?”

I shrug. “I guess if he wants to press charges it’s a possibility.”

“Whose blood? Yours?”

I can’t help the smirk that tips the side of my mouth. “Beckham’s. I’ve been staying at Tasha’s.”

Without bothering to hide the scowl on his face, he slams his hands down on the polished wood and releases a string of curses, garnering the attention of the handful of customers in for an early lunch. “Fucking shit, Crew. What did I tell you about messing with that girl?” he roars. “I warned you repeatedly, and yet you still ignored me. I knew…I knew when you left here Monday, something just like this would happen. I wasn’t trying to be a cock-blocking asshole. I was trying to be your friend.”

After hushing him and glancing around, I give him the short version of what happened. After staring at me in silence—judging me, I know, but I deserve it—he sighs and slides a bottle of water over to me and opens one for himself, swallowing nearly half of it in one gulp.

“I’ve got a spare couch for you, but you’ve gotta get your shit together, Crew. My life here is drama-free, and I really fucking like it that way,” he says more calmly, though his tone is full of conviction. “I know what happened to your brother really fucked you up. I can’t even pretend to imagine how you feel, but you’re spiraling out of control and don’t even realize it. You need to stop being so goddamn selfish and face your demons. What happened was an accident. You could spend the rest of your life playing What If, but the truth is you’ll never know, so stop punishing yourself and the people who love you. Your mom has already lost one of her sons. Do you really want her to lose both? Is that what Caleb would want?”

His last sentence echoes in my head as I choke on the shame thickening in the back of my throat.

Is that what Caleb would want?

Is that what Caleb would want?

Is that what Caleb would want?

I have to get out of here. He’s right; it was past time to man up. “I gotta go, but I’ll be back to take you up on that offer,” I call out over my shoulder, bustling toward the exit with one destination in mind. My family’s apartment.

My confidence shrinks with each passing mile, and by the time I’m fitting the key inside the lock on the front door, I’m moving at a snail’s pace. I don’t know if I can do this.

All of the moisture disappears from my mouth as I let myself in, the stale smell of death lingering in the frigid air. Sluggishly placing one foot in front of the other, I eventually make my way down the hall to Caleb’s bedroom and stop in the doorway, sucking in a deep, agonizing breath as my eyes dart around the small space.

Looking around, I can’t comprehend it’s been almost four weeks since my little brother fell and cracked his skull open during a seizure, which eventually led to him bleeding to death. The autopsy showed therapeutic levels of marijuana in his system, so we’ll never know what went wrong. The autopsy showed he died of blood loss, but the lack of marks on his hands indicate he was unconscious by then. If he’d be clawing his way to the door, there would have been evidence. Mom found comfort in that. I didn’t. I should have been here.

The floor has been scrubbed of the sea of blood and the bed has been remade as if it’s waiting for him to return anytime now. All of his personal things remain on display, and his clothes still hang in the closet.

Robotically, I inch into the room, an onslaught of raw emotions raining down on me with every painful step. Breathing normal is fucking impossible as the tightness in my chest intensifies, the memories associated with everything I see overwhelming. Irrepressible tears fall freely down my face, and I don’t even bother wiping the wetness away.

Bending down next to his beanbag chair, I pick up the video game controller and trace my fingertips over each of the rubber buttons, sobbing as I think about how many hours Caleb spent with this in his hands. It would’ve been at the top of his list for most prized possessions.

After I return the plastic device to where it was, I stand up and walk over to his dresser, where the black Denver Broncos beanie he bought in the airport when we first landed in Colorado sits. Lifting it to my face, the refreshing scent of the shampoo we’ve always shared inundates my nose, and I remember him telling me the shampoo was a chick magnet.

“No girl can resist the just-walked-through-a-waterfall smell. They all want to touch it and play with it while they rub their boobs against your arm,” he’d claimed with a shit-eating smirk plastered across his face.

I chuckle lightly at the memory. God, that kid was something else. Everyone loved Caleb. His smile and easygoing attitude were infectious, and more than anything, he was genuine.

Setting the hat down, I open the top drawer of the chest and, not surprisingly, I find two perfectly folded stacks of t-shirts, the way Mom always organized our clothes. I pull a few out and images of him wearing each of them appear in my mind, a big, goofy grin spread across his face every time.

When I go to pull the next one out, something shiny in the back of the drawer catches my eye, and I hurriedly move the rest of the shirts out of the way to see what it is. A loud laugh erupts from me when I find a handheld vaporizer, a small sack of weed, and a lighter. My little brother kept a secret stash that all of the cops and detectives who had been here didn’t even find. After they found no sign of forced entry or foul play, and the autopsy didn’t show anything suspicious, the case was officially closed as an accidental death.

Moving from the dresser to his bed, I lean against the mattress as I pick up the framed picture from his nightstand of him, me, and our mom from South Padre Island two summers ago. Three tanned, smiling faces stare up at me, standing in front of our beachfront hotel, and even though we were already dealing with Caleb’s diagnosis, we were blessed to have each other.

Is that what Caleb would want?

I hear the question again in my head, and the answer is now resoundingly clear. Caleb would want us to be happy, like he was every single day of his life, no matter what he had to deal with. He’d want us to not hold back from life, to give it our all. And he’d want us to remain a family and always be there for each other.

No matter what.

Especially now, when we need each other the most.

Holding tight to the photo, I pull my phone out and text my mom, asking her to meet me here when she gets off work. Thankfully, she replies in less than thirty seconds, agreeing to show up after her shift, and I blow out a relieved breath. Glancing at the clock, I realize she won’t be home for several hours, so I pull the beanie on my head, grab the pot, and plop down on his beanbag chair, where I smoke and play video games, feeling closer to Caleb than I have since he died.