All Broke Down (Rusk University #2) (15 page)

“Hey,” I say. His chest is pushing forward against my hand, but not enough to move me like I know he could. “Hey. Look at me. Getting angry at him won’t change the fact that you’re angry at yourself.”

He glares over my shoulder. “Maybe not. But it will take my mind off it.”

I grab his jaw and make him look at me. “We made a deal. You have to listen to me or none of this works. Getting angry at him doesn’t fix anything, so let it go.”

He lets out a harsh breath, and under my hand, he grinds his teeth together.

“Fine.” His eyes shift from me to his two roommates, and I let my hand drop away from his face. I go to move, but he rests a hand at my waist, keeping me close. Then he says to his friends, “I fucked up today. I know that. I knew it even as it was happening. And I’m gonna figure my shit out. I promise.”

That was actually a pretty mature almost-apology.

My heart clenches for a moment because I can feel the desperation buzzing around him. He does have issues. And I don’t love that his first inclination is always to get angry, but there’s something there. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but even with the violence and the issues and the dangerous sex appeal . . . there’s something about him.

I believe in him.

His friends don’t say anything, and when I turn to look at them over my shoulder, they’re leaving the kitchen. But Silas apparently isn’t done.

“Isaiah.” His friend turns. “I
am
sorry, but I will kick your ass if you can’t mind your own business.”

I sigh, and think,
baby steps.
His friend nods his head thoughtfully and exits the kitchen without a word. I relax and breathe easy for the first time since his roommates walked through the door.

Silas pushes some of my hair behind my ear, and I glance up.

The look in his eye flattens me, twists me up, and wrings me out. A girl could read all kinds of things into the look he’s giving me.

“Thank you,” he says. “You were right. That would have made things ten times worse.”

“That’s what friends do.”

That look
disappears. And I’m both incredibly relieved and a little sorry to see it go.

“So . . . what’s the plan?” he asks me.

For possibly the first time in my life, I am completely without a plan. I’ve got no backup, no safety net below me in case I screw things up. And I can’t decide if it’s more exhilarating or terrifying.

He must get where my head is at because he clarifies: “Our deal. What do we do first?”

It’s hard to think with him this close to me, and I’m still a little too caught up in what we almost did as part of that
deal.

“I answered your question. So now it’s my turn.”

He doesn’t look happy, but he shrugs, and I figure that’s as close as I’m going to get to a go-ahead.

“You asked me what I’m afraid of . . . now I want to hear your answer.” He opens his mouth, and I cut him off. “And I don’t mean getting kicked off the team. I want to know what’s behind that . . . what happens if you do get kicked off the team? Why is that the worst thing that could happen?”

The stare he pins me with is dark and clouded, and his jaw is clenched so tight it might as well be wired shut. And I take pity on him.

“You don’t have to tell me right now. But that’s part of this, Silas. If you’re not willing to eventually let me in, there’s no point in me sticking around. Think about it.”

“I don’t need to think about it. I’ll do what I have to, but . . .”

“But you need a little time. I get that. We’ll start small.”

“With what?”

I think for a moment and then ask, “What are you doing tomorrow?

The expression that pulls at his face is excruciating.

“Nothing. I’m suspended from practice for a week.”

“Good. Then I’ve got an idea. I’ll pick you up at eight forty-five in the morning. Wear something that you don’t mind getting messed up.”

I turn to leave, but I get precisely two steps away before he catches my hand and pulls me to a stop. His thumb rubs over my knuckles once, and then he lets me go.

“He’s right, you know. I will pull you down with me.”

I lift my chin and reply, “If I go down, it will be because I jumped, not because you made me fall.”

He shakes his head and laughs once under his breath.

“I don’t even know what that means.”

I want to tell him that that’s exactly what he’s been doing. Whatever it is that he’s worried about has him so messed up, so afraid that he’s going to fail that he’s sabotaging himself. Self-fulfilling prophecy. But I think he’s been preached at enough for the day, so I just smile and say, “See you tomorrow.”

Hopefully. Provided my father doesn’t lock me in my old bedroom and never let me out. I’m almost out of the kitchen when Silas calls out again.

“Dylan?”

I turn.

“He was wrong about the other thing, though.”

“What other thing?”

“If they hadn’t walked in . . . I wouldn’t have been done with you. Once never would have been enough.”

I leave.

I leave before I give in to the need to touch him again, to coax
that look
back to life. I leave before I fulfill my own prophecy and dive headfirst into something that could ruin me. Ruin us both.

It’s not until I’m climbing back into my car that I realize that I didn’t get my underwear back.

I drop my head against the steering wheel and groan. So much for keeping things simple. “You are in so much trouble, Dylan Brenner.”

And trouble’s name is Silas Moore.

“Y
OUR FATHER ISN’T
here.”

That’s the first thing Mom says upon opening the door when I arrive for dinner that night. I let out a breath and allow my rigid posture to relax. I changed clothes before coming over because I couldn’t touch my shirt or skirt without remembering the way Silas had pushed my clothes aside. I’m at my most comfortable in flowy skirts, oversized shirts, and sandals. But in my parents’ world (and Henry’s world), I got used to slacks, pencil skirts, and fancy blouses. Mom sweeps her eyes down my form, and she doesn’t say anything, so I assume my black pants and cap sleeve top meet her expectations.

She doesn’t work, unless you count serving on various boards and charities, but even at home, she’s always dressed in business attire. I step inside the house. My heels click against the familiar shiny hardwood floor. Even after all these years, being in this house still feels a little like being in a hotel. Everything is a little too polished, a little too decorated, a little too clean to feel like home. Or at least the kind of home that I see in movies and read in books, a place where you’re at ease and feel comfortable and safe. I’ve never really had that kind of home, not even now that I live on my own.

My roommate, Antonella, is even more of a perfectionist than I am. I organize everything into boxes and shelves and drawers. She’s the same, only armed with a label maker and a tendency to color-code . . . well, everything. I was really lucky to meet her in my history class the year before last. We sort of gravitated toward each other because we were both quiet, serious, and studious. I’ve branched out a little from that . . . found things I like doing outside of school, but Nell is still all about class, class, and more class. She takes an ungodly number of them, and our roommate bonding only consists of doing homework in the same room.

I follow Mom into the kitchen with its sleek, modern lines, stainless steel, and professional equipment.

“Where is Dad?” I ask as she checks on the food she’s keeping warm in the oven.

“His flight had a slight delay, but he should be here soon.”

I nod, grateful for the tiny reprieve to continue thinking about how best to approach the conversation of my arrest with him.

“Is the table already set?” I ask. It would be good to have something to do.

“It is. I’ll admit, I’ve been a little bored with your father gone. I actually set the table nearly an hour ago just to pass the time.”

I laugh because even though she’s not my birth mom, she might as well be. We’re alike in so many ways.

“Do you want to practice your speech on me?” she asks.

I pull my lips up into a smile that feels too frail. “No thanks. I’ve thought through it so many times that it’s kind of playing on a constant loop in my head.”

“Then we’ll talk about something else.” I love her. So much. Sure, she’s not the homey, coddling mom that I dreamed of having as a kid. She never snuggled beside me in bed or played board games with me or let me eat cookies before dinner. But she’s kind. And I’ve never met a more levelheaded, understanding person in all my life. All I ever wanted was to be like her, but if this week is any indication, levelheaded is going to take some work.

“How’s Henry?”

She is stubborn, though. Something I could live without.

“We haven’t spoken.”

“Oh, honey. You realize this is just a phase, don’t you? It happens in every relationship, especially ones that begin as young as yours did. He’s a man and he’s young and stupid, and he thinks he needs to see what’s out in the world in case he’s missing something. But he’ll see soon that there’s no one out there better for him than you.”

I don’t answer. He might decide I’m what’s best for him, but one of the few things I do know right now is that Henry breaking up with me was the best thing that could have happened. It’s not that Henry was bad. He’s a really nice guy, and I could certainly do far worse, but . . . he’s just Henry. And I don’t want to live the rest of my life with someone who is
just
anything.

“You’re handling it really well, darling. I’m proud of you. It shows how mature you really are.”

She’s not referring to the arrest, of course. Because that’s the opposite of handling anything really well. She means emotionally . . . or the lack of emotion anyway.

I was here when Henry broke up with me. He’d asked to come over and we’d sat on the wooden porch swing outside while he explained that he didn’t feel the same way about me as he used to. When it was over, I went inside and told Mom, and I think she expected me to lose it. To break down and sob right there in the foyer. Instead, I’d gone into the dining room to set the table like I always did when I stopped by for dinner.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“I know you said you didn’t want to talk about it, but you can tell me if this protest business was about Henry. You’ve always been so mature for your age, and your father and I both understand that emotions can make people behave erratically.”

“It’s not about Henry,” I tell her.

He was just the catalyst, the first string to snap before all the rest followed. I wasn’t lying when I told her that my explanation was running on a loop in my head, but what I didn’t tell her is that there are other words I can’t get out of my head, words that keep drowning out that practiced speech.

I think you’re starting to suffocate.

I hear the front door open then, and the thump of my father’s briefcase being dropped by the door. Mom places a cool hand on my cheek and leans in to press a kiss against my forehead.

“You’ll be fine. You know your father loves you.”

As he enters the kitchen, he’s loosening a maroon tie. He’s old enough that his hair is silvering on the sides, but his face still looks young and healthy. I don’t know how he does it with all the stress from work. Nor do I really even have a great grasp on what “work” is. All I know is that he inherited money from his father, and then invested it in a number of places that paid off. I know he owns significant shares in a number of different companies, still invests in the occasional start-up, and serves on multiple boards, including the board of regents at Rusk.

He kisses Mom on the cheek and then says, “Dylan,” in a quiet greeting before kissing me on the forehead.

“How was New York?” Mom asks.

“Hot,” he answers. “Miserable, actually.”

She clucks her tongue and helps him remove his suit coat.

“You go get settled at the table. Dylan and I will bring in the food.”

She goes off to hang up his coat, and I grab a potholder to start removing the food from the oven. Mom is one of those women who won’t serve the food in the same container they make it in. Instead she lays it all out on nice plates and platters like every night is a dinner party.

Another thing I’ll never get used to. That’s just something else to wash when dinner is over, and for what? To look pretty for the two minutes before people start digging in? It’s not until after we do just that, ruining the presentation of Mom’s food, that Dad speaks up.

“Well, then, Dylan. Let’s hear your case.”

I take a deep breath and start in.

“I know you’re disappointed. I behaved in a way that didn’t reflect well on myself, this family, or the cause for which I was advocating. I’m not giving you excuses because I don’t have one. I made a mistake, a rash decision, and though I regret it, I’ve learned from it. I let frustration and impatience rule me rather than acting reasonably and intelligently. And I’m sorry.”

It comes out how I rehearsed it, to a T.

“That’s all well and good, sweetheart, but it doesn’t tell me why.”

My brows furrow, and I try not to frown. “I let frustration—”

“You’ve said your speech, Dylan. It was well thought out and respectful. Thank you for that. Now let go of the pretense and give me a real explanation.”

My lungs are filled with dust, I can’t seem to inhale or exhale. Having an incredibly intelligent and resolute businessman for a father really sucks sometimes.

“I don’t have one.” Or rather . . . I don’t have one that won’t make me sound like an ungrateful, spoiled brat. So what if being part of this family is a little suffocating? It’s still a family. It’s still something that wasn’t supposed to be in the cards for me, but somehow these two people who literally have enough money to have anything they want . . . somehow they wanted me. And I’m not going to drag that through the mud. Not after all they’ve done for me, the things they’ve given me that I could never have dreamed of having.

I
want
to be perfect for them. That’s all I’ve ever wanted . . . to make sure they never for one second regret taking me in.