All Broke Down (Rusk University #2) (16 page)

“Sweetheart,” Mom says, laying a hand on Dad’s arm. “You know she has a lot on her plate right now.” Henry. She’s blaming it on Henry. “Perhaps she was feeling frustrated about other things and misplaced those feelings.”

I shouldn’t let her talk for me, I should say what I’m feeling. That’s what Silas would tell me to do.

I close my eyes. Now is not the time to think about him. He is so far away from this world, this life I have here . . . it’s not even funny. If I bring him into this place, even in my thoughts, one of two things will happen.

This place will win, and I’ll drown in guilt over the things I’ve done with Silas.

Or Silas will win. The new, unstable me will win, and it will shatter this last remaining façade I have. My parents will know just how far I am from living up to their expectations.

And neither of those is something that I want. So, as of this moment, I put up a wall, and refuse to let either world cross into the other.

Besides . . . Dad is still going, so I’m not out of the woods here yet. He says, “Be that as it may, she has to think about the repercussions of her actions.” He turns to me. “We’ve raised you to think for yourself, to be smart. And while I understand and respect your feelings about the shelter, you have to remember that I work with the city council on a regular basis. Your mother went to college with the mayor’s wife. It’s one thing to participate in a group protest, I won’t deny you that, but to single yourself out in such a way as you did, puts this entire family in a difficult position.”

I hadn’t even thought about that. It’s a small world in the elite circle my parents run in. Of course they would know all the big players in town, the ones who control where the money goes.

“You’re right. I didn’t think about the ramifications of what I was doing. I just . . . I wanted to make a difference. And this is something happening in our backyard, not some big political movement in another state or another country. It’s so close, and I let passion cloud my judgment.” And even though I make a habit of not talking about my childhood, of pretending like it was another life, another world, I mention it then. “And I know what it’s like not to have the basic things, not to have a home. That’s hard enough; it shouldn’t have to get harder for those people.”

I try and fail at keeping the emotion out of my voice. My parents respect logic, not feelings. And one has no place with the other.

“You can’t fault her for being compassionate and for acting instinctively, Richard. That’s how you do business, and she’s just emulating her father. And really, as far as mistakes go, it’s a small one in comparison to what other children her age get up to. And people talk, I happen to know for a fact that several of the councilors’ kids have been in trouble for far worse. They’ll understand.”

“Yes, but I hold Dylan to a higher standard. She’s better than other kids her age, more aware.”

I’m not. I’m just better at pretending.

“And she’s met that standard for years without any issues. She’s not an employee, Richard. She’s your daughter.”

Dad lays down his knife, and it clangs against his plate. He frowns down at the food that he’s only really been pushing around since the conversation began.

“So what do you propose I do? Let her off without any form of reprimand?”

I speak up then. “I decided to sign up for the Renew Project that the university is sponsoring, the one where students are repairing homes for the underprivileged and elderly in town. It’s three days a week until school starts, and then every Saturday through the end of September. I thought it might be a good way to channel my frustrations into something positive. To give back.”

“There,” Mom says. “That sounds like a perfectly respectable way to redeem her actions.”

Dad frowns, but says, “Fine. I suppose that works.”

Under the table, I unclench my fists, the indents of my fingernails smarting on my palms. With that settled, Mom picks up the conversation for the rest of dinner, asking Dad questions about his trip, telling him about the few days she spent without him and how miserable she was.

And for the first time, I look at the two of them and wonder if they love each other. Or if they’re just like Henry and I were . . . a good fit.

I think then about my birth mother. I never think about her. There’s not much point since she died before I was put in foster care. But I can’t help but wonder now how different my life would have been with her. Would I know myself better? Would I even
be
myself?

It’s too much to think about. And it can’t change anything anyway. That part of my life is long gone.

When I’m getting ready to leave and head back to my apartment an hour later, Dad wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me in close. “I don’t like being disappointed in you.”

Something pinches in my chest, and somehow, even though he’s hugging me tight, that one sentence is the worst moment of the whole night.

“I don’t, either.”

Even after he lets me go, it still feels like his arms are constricting around me, like there are these bands that are always there, but now they’ve gotten just a little bit tighter, a little bit more noticeable.

I try to forget about them all the way home, try not to feel them as I crawl into bed. But there are too many things I’m trying to forget, and I can’t seem to block any of them out effectively.

And Silas was right.

I so badly need to breathe.

Chapter 13

Silas

B
rookes is in the kitchen when I head downstairs in the morning. There are few things that can make me get up this early in the morning. Football is one of them. Dylan is apparently another.

I walk past him for the pantry, where I dig out a couple of protein bars for breakfast. Dylan should be here any minute, so I don’t have time for anything more.

“So, I guess you’re not coming to practice,” Zay says.

I look down at the old jeans I’d pulled on instead of athletic clothes.

“Coach told me not to.” I peel open the wrapper on one of the bars and take a bite.

“For how long?”

I shrug. “A week.”

He whistles. “And two games?”

“At least. He threatened worse if I don’t get my shit together.”

“I’m sorry, man. I should have said it yesterday. I can’t imagine how you’re feeling.”

“Not good.”

He stands and takes his dishes to the sink.

“What
are
you doing today, if you’re not allowed at practice?”

“Something with Dylan. I don’t really know.”

“Dylan?”

“The girl who handed you your ass yesterday.”

He crosses his long arms over his chest and surveys me.

“You’re seeing her again? You guys a together or something?”

“Nah. Not really. She’s, I don’t know, a preppy rich kid sowing some wild oats. I doubt she sticks around long.”

The words feel wrong in my mouth even before I say them. But just because I have to open up to her, doesn’t mean I want to spill my guts to everyone. It’s better if everyone thinks she is just another girl.

But as usual, Isaiah Brookes is a hard man to fool.

“Normally it’s you that doesn’t stick around long.”

I throw away the empty wrapper for one bar and tear open another. I don’t reply because lie or not . . . he’s right, and I don’t know why this time is different. My deal with Dylan isn’t a relationship . . . I don’t want or know how to have one of those, but I also hope this deal sticks. I have to make it work not just for football, but to keep her around. I can’t think about why that’s important right now, but it is.

“Is she part of this? Whatever mess you’ve got going on?”

“No. God no. She’s just about the only damn thing that’s
not
part of it.”

The doorbell rings, and I finish scarfing down the last of my breakfast.

“That’s her. Do me a favor? Tell Coach I’m working shit out.”

I’m almost out of the kitchen when he calls out my name.

“Yeah?”

He says, “Be careful.”

“I plan on staying far away from all kinds of trouble.”

“I meant with this girl. I don’t want it to fuck your head up more if it goes south.”

I don’t have a reply to that, so I just nod instead. I stride the last few feet to the front door and pull it open. Dylan pulls off her sunglasses and gives me a small smile. She’s wearing a blue tank top that’s almost the color of her eyes, and her thick hair is pulled back and away from her face. I can see the straps of a sports bra over her shoulders, and it has her tits pushed up and together. A pair of worn, perfectly fit jeans hug her hips just right.

She looks comfortable, and she’s not trying to impress me. But I’m impressed anyway. Her eyes scan my own attire, and she asks, “You won’t mind if those clothes get ruined, right?”

“What exactly do you have planned for us today, Pickle?”

Her eyes narrow. “I’m going to get you back for that. Just wait.”

I step out onto the porch and pull the door shut behind me. “I look forward to seeing you try.”

The car she’s parked on the street out by my mailbox is a sleek steel gray number with smooth curves and money written all over it. I glance at my busted old truck in the driveway and decide that our vehicles pretty accurately represent the differences between us.

I can’t help but run a hand along the car in admiration as I round the front to get in the passenger seat. I wouldn’t mind running an appreciative hand over the car’s owner, either, but she’s been careful to keep a few feet between us from the moment we exited the house. When I climb into the car, though, it’s small enough that my elbow touches hers on the middle console.

“So what has Dr. Dylan prescribed for the day?”

She pulls out onto the road and heads away from the university.

“You can’t be mad.”

Not what I want to hear this early in the morning.

“Shit. You’re not taking me to some kind of crappy self-help thing, are you?”

“Not self-help, no. But there is helping involved.”

The mysterious smile she gives me is fucking sexy, and I reach over and trail my finger over her bare shoulder. She shivers, and I shift my hand up to brush across her neck, too.

“You’re going to make me have a wreck.”

I glance out the windshield. “You’re coming up on a red light.”

When she slows to a stop, I lean across the console and kiss the place where her neck meets her shoulder. She shifts away as soon as my lips touch her skin.

“Silas.” Damn. I’ve heard that tone before. I look up, but I don’t move away. If there’s anything I am, it’s stubborn, and I’ve not had nearly enough of her to be done yet. She says, “I’ve not exactly handled this in the best way.”

“Then go back to my place, and we can handle things right. Or pull over, I’m not picky.”

She rolls her eyes, and puts a hand on my shoulder to push me away. I go, but not happily.

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it. Clearly, I’m attracted to you.” Well, at least she’s admitting it out loud. “But the thing is . . . we’re not dating. And we’re not going to date. So I think it’s better if we keep things between us as platonic as possible.”

“What if ‘platonic as possible’ is not at all platonic?”

“It has to be.”

“I think you’re confusing dating with being in a relationship. Dating can be casual. Dating is low pressure.
Dating
isn’t off the table.”

Fuck. I have to be addicted to this girl or something because I have never
ever
actually brought up the idea of dating a chick. Usually, it’s them who brings it up. Or they just assume we’re dating after one hookup. I haven’t even slept with this girl, and I’m already falling all over myself to do something I never do.

“And what happens then? We go on one
date.
We sleep together. And then you’re done dating me?”

“I told you, Pickle. Once is never going to be enough where you’re concerned.”

“Great. So maybe we see each other a handful of times. That might sound appealing to you, but not to me.” She stumbles over the last words, barely gets them out.

“Why do you always insist on lying to me? It
is
appealing to you. You just don’t want to admit it.” She looks at me like an animal who has been cornered, like she knows she’s caught.

Then a horn sounds behind us. The stoplight is green, and Dylan rushes to push the gas and direct the wheel.

I don’t give her the opportunity to backtrack or change the subject.

“I think I understand you, Dylan. You don’t want a casual relationship with me because you’ve probably been taught all your life that that kind of relationship is wrong. Or you’ve been told it always ends up leaving you heartbroken after you get too invested. And maybe that is who you are. Maybe you’re the kind of girl that can only be in serious relationships. Or maybe that’s just the kind of girl you’ve told yourself you are. I bet you’ve never been in anything but long-term relationships.”

She swallows and tightens her grip on the steering wheel, hiding her face from me as she turns the car onto another street.

“I’m right, aren’t I? Come on. Tell me. How many relationships?”

She clears her throat and then with her chin up answers, “Two.”

“And how long did they last?”

“A year and a half on the first, and . . .” She trails off.

“And?”

“Four years. And some change.”

“
Damn.
Four years? You just turned twenty-one, and you’re telling me you’ve spent over five years of that in serious relationships? You’ve probably been in a relationship since the moment you were allowed to date.”

She shrugs, and I know I’m right.

“You might think you need to stay away from me because I’m not your usual relationship material, but I think that’s exactly
why
you need me. You need to just have some fun. Be young for a little while before it’s too late.”

She sighs, flipping on her blinker with a little too much aggression, and turning onto another residential street.

“Okay.”

For a moment I think I’m just hearing what I want to hear.