Текст книги "Confessions of a Kleptomaniac"

Автор книги: Jessica Sorensen

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

Like everything else, it does, and eventually the room grows quiet again.

“Does Wynter always send you songs to cheer you up?” I ask.

“How’d you know this was from Wynter?” she questions, setting her phone down on her lap. “Did you read my messages?” She doesn’t seem angry, only curious.

“Sorry. I didn’t really mean to read them. They were just kind of there, you know. Besides, I’m kind of fascinated with your friends.”

“You mean my intimidating friends?” she says with a trace of a smile.

Getting her to smile makes me feel proud, like maybe I’m taking a step in the right direction of getting her to forgive me.

“I’ve decided they’re just intimidating to outsiders. They seem like good friends.”

“They are. They’ve always been there for me when I’ve needed them.”

“It’s good that you have that. I’m kind of jealous of you.”

“Of me?”

I twist in the chair, facing her. “Yeah. I just think it’d be nice to have friends I could tell anything to without worrying about them making fun of me.”

“I don’t tell them everything,” she utters softly. “Not because I think they’d make fun of me or anything—I know they’d never do that. There’s just some things I’m embarrassed of . . . like the thing you saw me do the other day.”

“You shouldn’t be embarrassed about that, especially around me. I really do get it.” More than I want to tell you.

“Why I stole . . . It’s not as simple as you think it is.” Her head angles to the side as a contemplative look crosses her face. “Can I . . . ? Do you care if I . . . ?” She looks away from me. “Never mind.”

“No, go ahead. Say what you’re going to say. The guy who runs this thing is going to be here soon, anyway, and he’s going to ask everyone a shitload of questions.”

She immediately frowns. “Really?”

“But you don’t have to answer all of them if you don’t want to.”

“I wish I didn’t have to talk at all.”

“I think a lot of people here are the same way. It’s hard talking about problems, isn’t it?”

She nods, chewing on her bottom lip, bringing all of my focus to her mouth. Her lips look soft and natural, and I think I prefer the look over Piper’s heavily done lips. Every time we kiss, I end up getting lipstick all over, and it’s a pain in the ass to get off.

“How long have you been coming to these things?” she asks.

“A few weeks.” Should I say anything about why I’m here? Fuck it. She’s going to find out sooner or later. “I was caught stealing from Mountain Ridge Grocery, and the owner—Larry—said he wouldn’t press charges just as long as I came here.”

Her eyes widen in astonishment. “You were caught stealing?”

“It was really stupid. I don’t know why I thought I could get away with it. My shirt looked so bulky.”

“What’d you take?” she asks, mildly curious.

I pick at a tiny hole in the knee of my jeans. “Soda, chips, and a steak.”

She seems unfazed by my confession, which makes me wonder just how many times she has stolen.

“Is it . . . ? Was it the first time you ever stole?”

I nod. “What about you? Was that day at Benny’s your first time?”

She shakes her head with her lips fused.

“I’m sure you have a good reason for doing it, though,” I add.

She looks sad and regretful. “I think you think too highly of me. Everyone does. I’m not as good of a person as everyone thinks I am.”

“Or maybe you just don’t see yourself clearly because of other stuff.”

“What kind of other stuff?”

“I don’t know, like things your parents have said to you.” That my friends and I used to say to you. Why can’t I say it aloud? Just say, I’m sorry.

She opens and flexes her fingers as she stares down at the scars on her hands.

I open my mouth to apologize, but I can’t figure out the right words or if there are any right words. A simple sorry doesn’t feel right, not after all the stuff we did to her, the things we said. Logan even spread a rumor that her body was covered with the same scars she has on her hands. He never explained how he would possibly be able to know that, but no one cared. They only believed it.

“What happened?” I ask, grazing my fingers along her palm.

She shivers as her hand trembles.

“Sorry,” I quickly apologize, pulling away. “Do they hurt?”

“No, they’re just a little sensitive.” She stretches out her fingers. “Our house caught on fire when I was four, and I was stuck in my room for a while. I got them when I was crawling across the floor, trying to get out. There are a couple on my knees, too, but they’re really hard to see.”

“Holy shit! That had to be scary.”

“I can’t really remember what happened that well. Sometimes, when I’m asleep, I can remember crawling across the floor and someone scooping me up, but that’s about all.”

I reach out and trace my fingers along the scars again. “Did it hurt? I mean, when your hands were burned?”

“Yeah, it did. That part, I do remember.” She shudders from my touch again, but this time, I don’t pull away.

It’s not like I’ve never touched a girl like this before. I used to flirt a lot and was known as a touchy, feely kind of guy. Usually, girls flirted back. But Luna remains still, staring at my hands with a combination of fascination and tension.

I stroke her palm, wondering how long she’ll let me touch her like this before she pulls away. Hopefully, not for a while because I find the movement comforting, like we’re connecting somehow. Or maybe it’s because I’m having an actual, real conversation.

I ask, “How’d the fire start?”

She rips her gaze off my fingers on her palm. “From what my parents say, someone started a fire in the fireplace that spread through the house.”

My jaw drops to my knees. “So it was started intentionally?”

“That’s the story. The police never did find out who did it, though.”

“You say that like you don’t buy the whole story.”

“Sometimes I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know . . .” Her forehead furrows. “When I dream about what happened, I can sometimes remember being carried out of the house. The thing is, my parents say a fireman rescued me, but I swear it feels like I knew the person . . . I felt so safe in their arms . . .” She shakes her head. “But anyway, I’m probably just remembering things wrong because I was so little.”

I trace the tip of my finger down one of the longer, angular scars. “Have you ever told your parents about it?”

She nods. “They’re the ones who told me I’m probably remembering wrong. They said there was no way I could possibly remember something that happened when I was four years old and that I should just be glad the fireman pulled me out of the house. They do that a lot, though—try to tell me how I think.”

“I’m not surprised,” I say. “Have they always been that way? So . . . intense?”

“Pretty much.” She rotates in her seat so we’re both facing inward and our knees are only inches apart. “One of the first memories I have is of them collecting all my toys, bagging them up, and throwing them in the trash can. Then I got this big lecture on how I was too old to play with toys, and it was time to grow up and start learning to behave properly. I was five when she did that.”

“You were five? That’s fucking crazy. My younger sister’s eleven, and she still has a toy box and everything.”

“That’s just one of the many stories where I felt like I had to grow up too fast.” Her expression unexpectedly fills with worry. “I’m sorry for yammering your ear off. I don’t even know why I’m telling you all of this. I don’t usually talk about it with anyone except my friends, and that’s only because they’ve seen my parents do . . .” She flicks her wrist, motioning behind us where her parents reamed into her moments ago. “Well, what you saw them do.”

“I told you that you could talk to me. I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it. Besides, I like listening to you talk.” I like having an actual conversation that carries depth.

“Really? Why? My stories are so . . .”

“Real? Honest?”

“I was going to go with messed up.”

“Still, they’re real. I haven’t had a real conversation in a long time.” Since my father died. “Whenever I’m with my friends, they always want to talk about sports or who they screwed around with at last weekend’s party. And Piper . . . All she wants to talk about is the dance and what party we’re going to hit up—” I stop myself as Luna’s demeanor shifts. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” She tries to shrug it off, but I can tell that she’s lying and that something is bothering her. My bet is Piper did something to Luna. I wouldn’t be surprised since I’ve seen Piper do a lot of messed up shit to people over the last year while I was dating her, and I just stood by and watched.

“So, you have a little sister, huh?” she asks, changing the subject. “That’s got to be nice, not being the only child.”

“It’s nice sometimes, but she can be a pain in the ass when she doesn’t get her way.” Although, lately she’s been quieter, which is why I’ve been trying to spend more time with her.

“Still, it’s better than being the only child and being the sole focus of your parents.” Her phone hums from her lap, but she doesn’t pick it up.

“I’ve never looked at it that way, but I get what you’re saying,” I reply. “There’s been a ton of times I’ve gotten away with stuff because Mia had my parents distracted with something she did.”

“Do you guys do a lot of stuff together?”

“We didn’t used to, but ever since . . . my father died, I feel like I need to spend more time with her because he’s not around to do it.”

“That has to be hard, losing him when you’re so young.”

“It was hard.” I pretend to have an itch on the corner of my eye to cover up the tears trying to escape. “He was really involved in my life. He’s actually the reason I’m so into sports. When I was about four, he started taking me to soccer games, baseball games, football—pretty much every single sport you can think of. When I started playing sports myself, he never missed a single one of my games, and he was the same with Mia. She was really into dance for a while, and he would always go to her recitals, even though they were really boring.”

Her eyes get misty. “He sounds like a really good dad.”

“He was the best.” My voice cracks. “It was hard when he got sick. He had a hard time when he couldn’t do as much stuff with Mia and me anymore. I think he did more stuff than the doctor’s said he could.”

“What was he sick with?” she asks then hurriedly adds, “Never mind. You don’t need to tell me if you don’t feel like talking about it.”

“No, it’s okay. He died of cancer.” I remember the day my mom and dad sat Mia and me down to tell us, and it becomes more complicated to fight back the tears. “It was crazy. It was like, one minute, he was perfectly healthy, and the next, he was telling us that he was sick. He didn’t look sick at first, but then he started chemo, and he got weaker and frailer until he didn’t even look like my dad anymore . . .” I trail off as my hands start to shake.

“Grey, I’m so sorry.” She places a hand over mine, steadying it. “We don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to.”

“No, I want to,” I tell her, surprised by how much I really do. “I haven’t actually talked to anyone about it. Even with my mom, I don’t feel comfortable enough because I’m afraid she’s going to cry, and Mia is the same way. Every time I bring him up, she gets upset. And my friends . . . None of them are good listeners like you are, and they make me feel bad whenever I bring it up because they think I’m being too depressing.”

“Well, I’m here whenever you want to talk.” Her lips pull into a smile as she repeats the words I said to her.

I open my mouth to tell her that I’d really like to talk more, but the door swings open, and five people wander in, putting an end to probably the most honest conversation I’ve ever had.

When I was fourteen years old, I stole a jacket when my mom was taking me school clothes shopping. It wasn’t even a jacket I liked. It was too big and bulky and was this horrible shade of puke green.

Right before I jacked it, I was following my mom around the store, watching her put clothes in the cart that I was supposed to wear while listening to her ridicule every person around us.

“Oh, look at that girl, Luna.” She pointed at a girl around my age who was wearing a tight black dress, matching boots, and who had a stud through her nose. “Imagine how she’ll end up in a few years. Probably on the corner of a street.” She didn’t even say it quietly, and the girl gave us a nasty look.

I was beyond embarrassed and wanted to say something, but like always, I kept my mouth shut and didn’t express how I truly felt. I felt something silently snap inside me, break, and I stole for the very first time in my life. For the briefest second, I felt in control, like I was somehow yelling fuck you to my mom without actually saying the words aloud.

After I made it out of the store with the jacket, I gave it to a homeless woman standing near the store, like somehow giving it to her made me a better person. It didn’t.

I’ve known what kind of person I am ever since I was seven years old, and my parents tried to explain to me how I was supposed to act, what I was supposed to wear, and who I was supposed to be. I remember thinking it didn’t sound like someone I wanted to be, which had to make me a bad person.

I spend most of the session listening to the rest of the group talk about their problems while silently drowning in my own. I desperately want to steal something. My hands twitch to snatch something up and hide it in my pocket. I long for control. Long to breathe for two goddamn seconds. But I can’t go anywhere.

Or can I?

I glance at the exit door several times, debating whether to get up and make a quick trip to the store. I could be in and out in five minutes. But what if my parents found out I left? All it would take is for one of their church friends to spot me and for word to get back to them.

What do I do?

What kind of person am I to be sitting here, contemplating this?

I’m so fucked up.

My head is crammed full of thoughts that are in no way related to the session, and I can barely think straight. Thankfully, Howard, the guy in charge, doesn’t push me to talk. Grey does, though, during what Howard calls sharing-our-feelings time.

“I felt bad about what I did.” His hands are balled into fists and he’s staring down at the floor. “No matter why I stole the stuff, it wasn’t fair to just take it from someone else, you know? But it felt like this other person took me over and let me justify putting that stuff in my pocket.” He lifts his head, and our gazes collide. “But I don’t think that makes me a bad person.”

It feels like he’s trying to send me a message, like he gets me. I wish he did. Maybe then I could finally open up to someone and release the pressure building in my chest, instead of having to steal in order to do so. He doesn’t understand me, though, even if he thinks he does.

Grey has stolen a total of one time, and I’m guessing it was just a rebellious act to get a rush. He doesn’t understand what it’s like to go to the store with the sole purpose to steal, what it’s like to feel like you have to do it; otherwise, you have to feel your entire world spinning out of control. He isn’t sitting here contemplating running out the door just so he can put something in his pocket in order to get some messed up form of temporary peace.

He does, however, know more about me than he did twenty minutes ago. I don’t even know why I told him all those things about my family and the fire. It just sort of poured out of me. It seems that I had the same effect on him since he told me all those things about his family and his dad. I’ve always been told I’m a good listener, but I’ll admit, I never thought the day would come when I’d be a good listener for Grey Sawyer or that I’d ever offer to be the person he could talk to. Listening to him talk about his dad, I saw a sweeter side of him, one I didn’t think existed.

“I totally get what you’re saying,” a woman in her mid-twenties with short, black hair says, drawing me out of my thoughts. “It’s like when I used to get high. I’d always justify what I was doing, but after I crashed, I always felt so fucking bad about what I did. I don’t think what I did made me a bad person; I just made fucking bad choices. I wish my sister could see how hard I’m trying and forgive me. I know I did a lot of terrible shit to her, but I’ve been trying to get my shit together, you know?”

“Give her some time,” Howard says. “I know it’s hard, but like with how you’re still healing over your addiction, your sister needs time to heal, too.”

The woman nods, anxiously thrumming her fingers on her knees. “I hope so. I really do . . . I miss her.”

I think about my own parents at home and wonder if they’ll ever forgive me for the stuff they discovered about me today. I doubt it. They were already upset from finding the stuff. But when they pressed me for how I got the money for everything, and I couldn’t come up with answer—other than to say my friends gave me all the stuff, which I would never do—they somehow put two and two together.

“You stole it, didn’t you?” my mom asked, but it wasn’t a question. Somehow, she just knew her daughter was a thief. “I should’ve seen this coming.”

“This is partly your fault.” My dad put some of the blame on my mom, which surprised me. Usually, they blamed me for everything. “Clearly, you haven’t been controlling her enough.”

“I’ve been trying”—she slammed her fist against the table where all my stolen stuff was piled—“but she’s uncontrollable. She doesn’t do what she’s told. I don’t think it’s something that can be fixed. She might not be able to be fixed.”

Shock ricocheted through me. Never in my life had I seen her so . . . out of control.

“Well, she definitely doesn’t get that from my side of the family,” he said, shoving his chair back from the table to stand up. “Find a way to fix her.”

I expected her to make me burn all the stuff, but I should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy. After all, she did warn me that, if I messed up again, the punishment would be worse than burning my clothes.

Going to the sessions for a week is only the start. I’m also not allowed out of the house except to go to school, to the sessions, and to the library for an hour a day. The last part was only a stipulation because I told my mom I had a school project to work on that required after school time with a group who is meeting at the library. Part of me lied just so I could get a break from the house, but I also didn’t want to back out of tutoring Grey when I had promised him I would.

Still, that’s not my biggest problem. I’m basically on my parents’ version of house arrest, which means I’ll be around them more. This will only make me want to steal more, but I’ll have less of an opportunity to do so.

Crap. What am I going to do? How am I going to deal with this?

“Luna, the session is over.”

My palms are damp with sweat as I blink out of my trance. To my surprise, almost everyone has cleared out of the room.

Grey is standing in front of me with concern in his eyes. “You kind of zoned out. Are you okay?”

I glance at the time and realize I have five minutes to get home. The only way I’ll make it is if I run.

“Crap, I’m going to be late.” I spring from the chair as panic sets in.

Grey has zero time to move out of my way, and my chest collides with his as my forehead knocks into his chin.

“Shit,” he curses as he trips back, clutching his chin.

I slap my hand over my mouth. “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine.” His face is contorted in pain as he rubs his chin.

I glance from the door to him. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m positive.” He lowers his hand, and his lips tug into a joking smile. “You have a really hard head, though.”

I let out an edgy laugh, my gaze darting to the door again. “I know I’m going to sound like a jerk, but I have to get home, like, right now; otherwise, my mom’s going to add on more to my punishment.”

“You don’t sound like a jerk at all, and I swear I’m okay.” He waves at me to go.

I shoot him a grateful look then rush for the door. “Sorry I bumped you in the head,” I call out.

He strides with me, flattening his palm against the door to open it for me. “Are you still going to be able to make it to the library tonight? Because it’s okay if you can’t. I’ll understand.”

The instant I step outside, I pause. My instinct is to run into a store, but shit! I don’t have time.

It feels like a weight is crushing my chest as I turn away from the stores and speed walk toward the corner of the street. “No, it’s cool. I told my parents I had a group project I have to work on.” I pause at the end of the sidewalk, deciding which route is the quickest. “Which way’s faster?” I mutter, dragging my fingers through my hair.

“Where do you live?” Grey appears by my side. I tell him my address, and he ponders something for a second before he veers to the right. “Come on. I know a shortcut.”

I run after him, my sneakers thudding against the concrete. “One that will get me home in three minutes?”

“That all depends.”

“On what?”

He shoots me a challenging grin. “On how fast you run.”

He takes off, and I race after him. People walking through the neighborhood openly gawk at us as we sprint past them, laughing. When the sidewalk reaches a dead end, Grey doesn’t slow down, running straight for a six-foot, wooden fence that separates the neighborhood from a small tree area. He stops when he reaches the fence and crouches down with his hands linked.

“Hop on and I’ll boost you up,” he says, barely out of breath.

I trip to a stop, gasping for air. I really need to start exercising more.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you or anything.”

He gives me an are-you-kidding-me look. “I think I can handle it.”

I prop my foot into his hands and grasp on to the top of the fence. He grunts as he stands up and hoists me up. I get my balance then jump down onto the other side, landing in the dirt on my hands and knees. Then I trip to my feet and stumble for the trees.

I hear a soft thump behind me as I barrel into the trees. I glance over my shoulder and see Grey jogging after me.

“What? Did you think I was just going to let you wander into the forest by yourself when it’s almost sundown?” he teases as he gets ahead of me and runs backward down a dirt path that cuts straight through the trees. “Just what kind of a guy do you think I am?”

“I have no idea.” I might have thought I had an idea, but I’m not so sure anymore.

He smiles, like he reads my thoughts, then reels around and quickens his pace. I struggle to keep up with him and his ridiculous athletic skills.

“How did you know about this shortcut?”

“I take it home sometimes,” he answers with his eyes on the path ahead.

“I thought you drove your truck to school?” I ask, but instantly realize my mistake.

He glances out of the corner of his eye at me. “How do you know I drive a truck?”

I give him what I hope is an indifferent shrug. “Doesn’t everyone around here know what everyone drives?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” His head tilts back as he gazes up at the pale pink sky.

I study his profile, his lips I once dreamed of kissing, his scruffy jawline I’ve always wanted to run my fingers across, his skin that looks so soft and is somehow not drenched in sweat like mine is right now. I’m not sure how I got to this moment, running home with a guy I’ve secretly liked since forever who saw me steal, saw my parents chew me out. Saw that I’m not the nice girl everyone thinks I am. Why isn’t he running in the opposite direction?

“I don’t have my truck anymore.” Pain emits from his eyes. “I sold it when my dad died. It sucked, too, because he was the one who gave me the truck.”

“I’m so sorry. That had to be hard, giving up something he gave to you.”

“It was, but we needed the money.” His gaze fastens with mine. “No one’s noticed I don’t have my truck anymore, not even any of my friends.”

“Really? Not even Logan?” I ask breathlessly as I swat branches out of my way.

He shakes his head. “Logan’s a self-centered dick. The only way he’d noticed my truck is gone was if he suddenly needed a ride somewhere.”

“What about Piper?” I cringe at the hint of jealousy in my tone.

Since when do I sound jealous? That’s not like me. Or is it? Maybe I’ve never gotten the chance to be jealous before, and it’s really a huge part of who I am.

A hollow laugh leaves his lips. “Yeah, Piper and Logan are kind of the same with that. It’s okay, though. I’d rather them not notice. Then I don’t have to talk about why I had to sell it.”

“I get what you’re saying,” I pant, wiping the sweat from my brow. “I don’t talk to my friends about everything. I mean, I love them to death and everything, but sometimes I worry about stuff.”

He hops over a log blocking the path. “Worry about what exactly?”

“That they won’t love some of the things that I do . . . won’t understand why I do the things I do.” I dodge around a pothole in the path then turn to my side right as a revelation smacks me across the face. Grey is going to see the home I live in and know I’m not stealing because my family lives in poverty.

I search for an excuse, something that will get him to turn around and go home before we make it to my house. But before I can think of a good lie, the trees thin and my two-story home with a lavish front yard and three car garage comes into view.

I guess it’s time to tell the truth. It was going to happen eventually, anyway. Besides, after he opened up to me about his dad, I feel terrible for lying to him and letting him believe I’m a better person than I really am.

I suck in a breath and blurt out, “I know you think I stole because I’m poor, but I’m not. I’m just a bad person who steals stuff.”

He carries my gaze even when the path curves sharply to the right, and I have to look away to regain my equilibrium. Silence sets in, the awkward kind that makes me squirm. I dare a glance in his direction and cringe at the disgust in his eyes, the same disgust he had the day he turned me down for the dance.

“Thanks for telling me about the shortcut.” I pick up the pace, even though my legs are furious with me.

He doesn’t come after me, which is good since I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to look him in the eye ever again.

I make it home with seconds to spare, getting the door shut right before my mom calls.

I know I should feel grateful that I made it home in time and avoided further punishments, but all I feel is trapped, in desperate need to get control again. I can’t breathe. I swear the walls are about to close in and crush me to death.

A small part of me wishes they would.