Authors: Katie Klein
Collateral Damage (12 page)
"A little thing at the country club in honor of us. For family. Friends. You know, so people can congratulate us. And the first of what I hope will be
many
presents." She laughs.
I prop my elbows on my knees, run fingers through my hair. "I didn't think we were doing anything like that, yet," I say. "Things are...they're hectic for me right now, Cal. I've got school, this assignment...."
"It sounds to me like your project is covered," she points out.
The project is covered? I'm not even.... Wait.
"That's not the project I was.... No, Callie. My work assignment. In fact, I was going to tell you.... I can't make it to Hamilton this weekend."
"What?" The surprise registers in her tone. "But you stayed last weekend."
"I know. And I know I promised things would get back to normal soon, but I'm getting closer. I have a few leads to follow up on."
"Two weekends in a row, Chris.
Two
. It's bad enough I don't see you during the week anymore, but now you're taking away our weekends?"
"It's temporary, Cal," I remind her. "I have to stay on top of this. I'm running out of time."
"What am I supposed to tell my parents? My
dad
?" she shrieks.
Mr. Donovan.
I'll never get out of this one.
"Can you tell them to hold off on the engagement party for a few months? What's the difference between spring and summer?"
"You want me to tell my parents
no
?"
"Not
no
," I clarify. "Just not
now
."
"Fine. Whatever." But I can tell by her voice it's not fine. Not fine at all.
"I'm sorry, Callie. I know you're excited, and that this is important to you. It's important to me too," I assure her. "I want to do this. I want to be part of it. But I need to get this job behind me. I can't focus on anything until it's over."
"No, I'm sorry. I understand. I really do," she replies, voice softening. "Your work is important, too. I don't want you to think I'm not supportive...."
"You've been more than supportive. I'll finish things here soon, then I'll be back in Hamilton. You won't be able to get rid of me," I promise.
This puts the smile back in her voice. "I'm counting on that."
Jaden is on time today.
I wonder what happened to the children of Bangladesh—the ones she was saving every morning in the lobby, the ones who got us into this mess in the first place.
Ms. Tugwell scribbles something on the board. The marker squeaks, fading as she writes. Literary terms. God. I hope we're not having a quiz.
I flip back a few pages, skimming my notes, searching for the words.
But something is off—not right. And it has nothing to do with Ms. Tugwell, who's returning to her desk, or the words she left on that board.
It's her. Jaden. She's watching me. I can feel it.
Don't look up. Don't look at her. She does not exist.
I still can't find the words.
I can't find....
My pulse races. It's not working. She's watching. And I can't....
They're new words. They have to be.
And yes, maybe Jaden is pretty. She might even be beautiful—in one of those unassuming, hardly recognizes it kinds of ways. Girl next door.
I flip to another page.
There are no words.
There's no way she'd put up with me.
I cringe.
Not that I
want
her to put up with me, because that would imply....
Shit.
I'm thinking about Jaden McEntyre. Jade. English Project Jade. I'm thinking about her like
that
.
My spine stiffens.
No. No. No. No. No. This is not good.
Shit.
This is
not
good.
I tug at the sleeve of my jacket and shift positions. It's so freaking hot in here. It's like she's boring a hole right through me with her crazy, green, laser eyes. My skin is on fire.
The rest of our classmates hurry to their seats as the late bell rings.
A quick glance. That's it. A quick glance to see what she's doing. She's probably wrapped up in her own stuff. She probably doesn't even know I'm alive.
I exhale a breath, and, when I look over at her, our eyes meet.
Shit.
I tear them away from her as quickly as they connect. But she saw me. I know she saw me. And God. Those
eyes
.
I can't let her think I'm ignoring her. Even though I am. Even though I'm
supposed
to be.
When I turn my head, I'm not surprised to find her still watching. But I
am
surprised to find her smirking at me—the slightest, tiniest turn of her lips. Lips that demand to be kissed.
And my chest constricts. My heart stops beating. I can't feel it moving at all. And the blood in my veins stops flowing, and it's all I can do to lift my head and nod in reply.
When I turn back to my notes, the blood rushes to my ears. My heart thunders. I inhale sharply, sucking in as much air as possible.
This is
not
happening.
*
*
*
"I'm glad we were able to do this," my mom says. "I feel like I've barely seen the two of you in weeks."
"I know," Callie agrees. "Chris has been so busy with work."
I slide the wooden chair from beneath the table and sit down beside Callie. My dad takes a seat beside Mom. We're at a Cracker Barrel halfway between Bedford and Hamilton. Mom's idea. It's quaint and comfortable and a fire crackles, burning on the other side of the room.
The waitress takes our drink orders as we settle.
"Did Chris tell you we picked a date?" Callie asks, lowering her purse to the floor.
Mom glares at me. "No. He didn't."
"Yes I did," I remind her, skimming the breakfast menu. "We talked about it at the family dinner. I asked you about the first week in May of next year. You said there were no plans."
"But you never confirmed that was the official date," she replies.
"That's because I didn't think we were picking dates," I mutter.
"We weren't," Callie agrees. "But Winnfield had an opening. It was a fluke, really. But we both love the venue, so we felt we should jump on it." She steals a quick glance in my direction. "Right?"
"It's great," I agree.
Pancakes. Eggs. Bacon. I shut the menu, toss it on the table.
"The Plantation is beautiful. I'm so excited for you both!" my mom says. Then, turning to me: "I told Nora. Have you talked to her lately?"
Nora is my older sister—a grad student at Northwestern State. Nora is the good one. The great one, actually. Perfect student. Perfect daughter. She never partied. She was already in college when.... But she was there that weekend. I remember the look on her face when they brought me home—standing on the stairs in her bathrobe, arms folded across her chest, hair disheveled—just as disappointed as Mom and Dad.
I clear my throat, reach for my glass of water. "We've texted a few times. She emailed me a congrats."
"You didn't tell me that!" Callie accuses. "I need her number from you, anyway. I want her to be one of my bridesmaids."
"Sure."
"I've already asked my sister, and I told my brother he can be one of the groomsmen," she continues. "I hope that's okay."
"Yeah. It's fine. I asked Erik to be best man." Not that I
asked
. More like he assumed. But, at this point, what's the difference?
"Really?" The surprise in her voice is evident. "I thought you would ask Rusch."
"Erik and I have been friends since junior high," I remind her.
"But Rusch is like, your partner. You've been together since training." Her brows pull together, confused. "I was sure you'd ask him."
"How is Rusch?" my dad asks.
"Good. He's still working the 'burbs." I turn back to Callie. "You were
hoping
I'd ask him," I challenge.
"I have nothing against Erik," she assures me. "You can have two best men if you want. A whole entourage." She laughs, but it's forced. Awkward.
The waitress interrupts us, hovering as we order our meals. I'm the only one who opts for breakfast. Mom and Callie choose vegetarian dishes, and Dad gets the country ham plate—also known as "the saltiest item on the menu." Mom swears he's a heart attack waiting to happen, and the majority of our dinners out involve some kind of heated discussion about doctors and cholesterol levels. My dad isn't one to shy away from conflict, though. In fact, he welcomes it, because as soon as the menus are taken: "How's your assignment coming along?"
I wipe my palms across my jeans. "It's coming. I have a few good leads I'm following up on."
My dad is a retired sheriff. He feigns interest in the work I do, but asking "how it's going" almost always becomes a segue for how great it was being a sheriff, and how I'm making a huge mistake working for the city. And he definitely doesn't see the appeal of going undercover—it's more like a huge inconvenience. And it is, in some ways.
I can't tell my parents where I live, for instance. They don't know where my apartment is located. I don't keep a landline tied to my name—any communication comes through my cell phone. They know I'm working a school, but they don't know which one.
"Your last assignment went much faster," he points out.
"That's because they were careless."
I spent most of the second semester working a private school near the coast after enrolling as a senior transfer. It didn't take long to find the pusher there. Once I had a solid case built, I passed on the evidence, local agencies set up a sting, and I dropped out—disappeared a few weeks later. Just another student who slipped through the cracks.
"The problems at this school...it's not pervasive. I'm still trying to find a solid link."
"The year is winding down," he reminds me, reaching for his glass.
"I know that. I'm on it."
Thankfully my mom, who is
not
a fan of public displays of controversy, steps in. "Leave him alone, Frank. Let him do his job." She turns to Callie, changing the subject. "So what did your parents say when you told them Chris proposed?"
I didn't exactly propose...I just didn't
not
propose.