All Broke Down (Rusk University #2) (27 page)

“Can we go for a drive or something? Just get away for a bit?”

I hesitate, unsure what to think. I might not know much about relationships or breakups, but common sense says you don’t go somewhere with someone if you’re planning to dump them.

Even when I’m worried about what she’ll say, I still can’t tell her no.

“Sure. Okay. Hop in.”

She doesn’t go around to the passenger side. Instead she opens my door, and climbs up first. I’m surprised to see her sit in the middle seat, and it makes it a little easier to breathe around all the worry. She doesn’t act like we’re breaking up, especially when I climb up beside her and she loops her arm around mine when I reach for the stick shift.

“Any preference where we go?”

She shakes her head. “Somewhere quiet.”

I take the highway south out of town, and take an exit for a smaller highway that leads out to some small towns between here and West Texas. I never planned to drive back that way, back in the direction of home, but off the top of my head, it’s the only place I can think of to take her. Just before we hit the first small town I pull over onto the side of the highway. It’s mostly ranches and farms out here, so the only lights around for miles are my headlights. I park so that they shine through the barbed wire fence and out onto the field of green beyond us. I think for a few moments and then switch the lights off, leaving us in the dark.

“Come on.”

I open my door and slide out, holding out a hand for her to join me. Then I lead her around to the tailgate of my truck and lower it.

If I were better at this kind of thing, I would have a blanket or something else so she wouldn’t have to sit in the dirty bed of my truck and ruin her nice clothes.

But I don’t have a blanket, and I have no fucking clue what I’m doing. So I just do whatever comes to mind. I climb up in the back and lift her up with me. I take a seat leaning back against the cab and pull her down in my lap. I’ll have to be the blanket, be the thing that keeps her clean and warm.

She ducks her head beneath my chin and pulls her knees up to her chest. The cicadas are out in full force tonight, and the sound of them reminds me of heavy rain. They’re so loud that I don’t notice Dylan is crying until I feel her damp cheek against my neck.

“Dylan?”

She doesn’t answer, and when I try to get a look at her face she keeps herself pressed tightly against my neck where I can’t see.

“Baby, what’s wrong?”

“I should never have asked.”

“Should never have asked what?”

She shakes in my arms, and her gasped breaths are getting bigger, louder.

“I’ve gone all this time in the dark, and it should have stayed that way. But I thought I needed to. Thought I needed to know.”

“You’re scaring me, Dylan.” I’m so bad at this shit. Hell, I go off and hit people when I can’t handle my emotions. How am I supposed to deal with someone else’s? How am I supposed to deal with her crying when every broken breath she takes feels like the slice of a knife over my chest? “Talk to me. Please.”

“I’m adopted.”

I tense. “And you just found out?”

She shakes her head against my neck. “No. I’ve always known. I was in foster care until I was nine, and then I was adopted.”

It stings that I didn’t know that. I should have
known
that.

But I never asked. I stopped asking questions because I didn’t want her to turn around and ask me.

“Okay. So . . . what’s changed?”

I feel her swallow, and she fiddles with her hands nervously until I lay one of mine over the top of both of hers.

“Wednesday,” she answers. “When I asked you that question again . . . I started thinking that it wasn’t fair of me to ask you to deal with your past, when I’ve deliberately chosen to remain ignorant about so much of mine. I’d always sworn I didn’t want to know. I thought it would somehow jeopardize what I had with the Brenners, with my adopted parents. But as soon as I thought about it at your place, I knew I had to know. I
wanted
to know.”

“Wanted to know what?”

“My birth mother. I know she d-died. That’s why I was in foster care, but I didn’t know how. On Thursday, I asked my parents, and they told me.”

I run my fingers along her braid, dipping underneath occasionally to lightly stroke her neck, and I press my cheek tight to the top of her head.

“How?”

She trembles harder in my arms, and I pull her closer, thinking maybe if I hold her tightly enough, I can keep whatever is making her shake at bay.

“She was killed,” she says. “Her boyfriend. He might have been my dad. We’re not sure. Anyway, they fought a lot. My mother told me that, my adopted mother, but now I think I can remember. Maybe. Or maybe it’s just my head filling in the blanks, but I think I remember the screaming. He was a drunk. And he hit her. He hit her all the time. But one night he kept going, kept hitting her, and he must have just snapped or something because he kept right on going until he killed her. Then when it was over, he killed himself, too.”

“Oh, baby. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

I press my lips to her forehead, and she’s still shaking so much it scares me. I’ve never felt so helpless in my life. I keep squeezing and kissing and touching her, but it’s not enough. Nothing changes.

“I don’t know why,” she hiccups. “I don’t know why I’m so upset. I knew she was dead already, but . . . I can’t. I can’t stop thinking about it. I imagine it, how it must have happened. And I imagine what my life would be like if it hadn’t. And—”

She sobs harder than ever and pulls her arms tight around herself. I want her to put her arms around me, to pull me into her pain. It’s ten times worse having her curling up in this ball with me on the outside.

“I imagine that life, and I’m glad, Silas. I’m glad she died, and I got adopted. How horrible of a person does that make me that I’m
glad
? I talk about helping people, about being compassionate, but really I’m selfish and awful.”

She says something more, or she tries to, but she’s crying so hard that I can’t understand the words.

“You’re not. You’re not awful.” I say those words again and again, but I’m not sure she hears me.

I don’t know how to make it better, so I just do my best not to make it worse. I hold her. I hold her, and I know now why caring about another person is so damn scary. It’s not that they won’t care about you back, because that either happens or it doesn’t. You live with it or you do everything you can to change it. The really scary thing is the moment you realize that for the rest of your life, you’ll feel twice the pain, twice the joy, twice the fear.

Twice as helpless to control it all, too.

I think about what Coach told me . . . to live the way I play.

I don’t know that it’s the right thing, but I try it anyway. When a teammate is in trouble, when defenders are closing in, the best thing I can do is block for him, take the hits for him.
With him.

“I’m glad, too,” I tell her. “I’m glad you were in a home where you were safe and cared for. I’m glad you were able to grow up into exactly the person you are. So, if you’re a horrible person, I am, too. But being glad for the things you have and where you are is not the same as being glad that your mother died. You’re a smart girl, and you know that life isn’t black-and-white like that. You can separate those two things. Same as I’m not glad I was suspended from the team, but I’m glad being suspended gave me a chance to know you. Everything in the world might be connected, but that doesn’t mean the way we feel about them has to be.”

It takes a while, but eventually she stops crying. She lifts her head from where she buried it in my neck and lays it on my shoulder instead. She tells me about the foster homes she remembers, and about the Brenners adopting her.

I thought I’d known who she was . . . my perfect girl who was spending all her energy trying to please and help other people. And that’s in her, sure, but it isn’t just other people she’s trying to impress. She’s been trying to convince herself that
she
belongs in that world, too.

And damn if I don’t know
exactly
how that feels.

I think about telling her about my childhood, too, but I don’t know if that will make things better or worse. Maybe it will show her she’s not alone, that the past is chasing all of us, determined to pull us back into memories long gone and pains that should be healed. Or maybe it will make her feel worse right when I’ve finally got her calm.

If there’s a chance she feels the same as me, then it’s possible she’ll take on my hurt the way I took on hers. And I don’t want to do that to her . . . not tonight.

So, instead I scoot forward a few feet and lie down in the truck bed. I keep her balanced on top of me, cradled against my body, and together we stare at the blue-black sky until the world starts to feel big again.

Chapter 24

Dylan

T
he night before school starts back, I’m supposed to go to this cocktail party for all the deans and regents and important alumni.

Officially, I’m going on my father’s invite. But Dad’s out of town, so I’m using it as one last-ditch effort to drum up support to keep the homeless shelter open.

And because I’m crazy (and he asked), I’m taking Silas with me. I reason with myself that it will be good for him to be in that kind of atmosphere. He’s not so great with the authority figures, and this way he can practice with me there to smooth over the rough edges.

I have no idea why he would want to go to something like this. Maybe he’s worried I might break down again like last night. Or it’s just an excuse to see me in a little black dress.

Probably the latter.

A small part of me (or a big part) was looking forward to ogling him, too. Silas Moore in a suit is probably a recipe for a heart arrhythmia. When he shows up in jeans and a nice button-down, I’m only mildly disappointed. It’s not the suit of my fantasy, but he still looks good. Tall and broad and sinfully handsome.

And to make things even better, he’s easygoing and charming. Right up until the moment we enter the party. It’s in one of the old libraries on campus, and the place is all leather and rare books and glass cases.

And Silas—he’s silent. Like try-to-pretend-you’re-a-piece-of-the-wall silent.

He seems content to just lurk by the food table, and he looks miserable every time I drag him into a conversation. So eventually I let him do his thing, and seek out a few people I know in the crowd, answering questions about school and my parents, before casually dropping mention of the shelter into conversation.

It works for a little while, but eventually I can’t stand the feeling of Silas’s eyes on me as he sulks against the wall across the room.

So I politely excuse myself from my conversation with Mrs. Simon, the little old lady I’ve been chatting with for ten minutes. She’s sweet, and she knows my father, and she could be an asset with the shelter. All reasons I should stay and talk to her, but I can’t.

“Hey, McBroody,” I say. “You know you don’t
have
to be here if you’re miserable. I can manage this alone.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not leaving.”

“Okaaay. Well, then can you stop glaring at everything.”

His frown deepens. “Sorry.”

I place a hand on his arm and lean closer. “Is that a ploy to try to get me to kiss you?”

One corner of his mouth curves up. “Maybe. Is it going to work?”

I don’t bother hiding my smile, which is why I’m grinning like an idiot when someone calls my name, and I turn around to find my parents staring at me.

I blink, and when Mom’s eyes flick to my hand on Silas’s arm, I drop it to my side.

“Dad. I thought you were out of town.”

“My meeting got pushed until next week, so your mother and I decided to attend the party after all.”

“Oh.” That’s all I say.
Oh.

It’s Dad who walks over to introduce himself to Silas because I’m hearing this roaring in my ears, like something about to crash and burn because this was never supposed to happen. That was my one rule. I’ve let Silas bend and break every other one in my life, but these two worlds were supposed to stay separate.

“Richard Brenner,” my father says, holding his hand out to shake.

I don’t know if Silas is freaked-out by this. I can’t bring myself to look at him. But he returns my father’s handshake and says, “Silas Moore.”

I see Mom looking at Silas’s jeans, and I can just imagine what condescending thoughts are going through her head. She thinks I’m supposed to be with Henry. That we’re a perfect couple, and I should just wait for him to come back around.

I should set her straight, but not like this. Not with Silas there to take half the fall. We’re temporary. We’re simple.

We’re a series of wants and desires, and nothing else.

He is
not
the meet-the-parents type. That’s pretty much asking for him to get spooked and run.

“Silas,” my mother says. “How do you know our daughter?”

I answer for him. “We’ve met once or twice at school.”

I hope they’ll leave it at that. But Dad has a freakishly good memory.

“Your name sounds familiar,” my father says. “Do you have any family members on the board? Maybe alumni?”

I hear Silas laugh, one of those laughs that
clearly
aren’t about something funny. But I still can’t look at him.

“No, sir. I’m on the football team. Maybe that’s it.”

Dad’s eyebrows rise. “The Rusk football team?”

“Yes, sir. Running back.”

Now Dad’s eyebrows slam down and his lips purse together. “Right. Silas Moore. Now I remember.” And from the steely look on his face, he’s heard about Silas’s suspension. I try not to let the panic show on my face.
Of course
Dad would have heard about that. He always knows everything that’s going on at Rusk. Everything that impacts the school’s reputation, and thus their ability to bring in money.

This isn’t just going downhill. If I don’t end this now, it will be akin to tumbling down the side of a mountain. Dad will poke and pry and pin Silas to the spot until he gets whatever answers he wants. That’s how he works.