Catching Raven (2 page)

e     r     i     c

Hours before
the accident...
and the other accident
.

Every other week I’m required to see
a therapist. It was one of the conditions my uncle placed on me before he took
me in as a kid. Dr. Vivienne Mitchell has been my therapist for the last year.
Thank God she’s willing to make house calls. She’s different from all the other
shrinks I’ve had because she has the decency to talk to me like I’m her client,
not her patient. That’s key. There’s nothing worse than being talked to like
you’re a sick person when you’re not. Doesn’t hurt that she’s smoking hot,
either.

Vivienne opens the file resting on her lap and jots down some notes.
Sometimes I wonder if she’s just doodling. How hilarious would that be? I’m
sitting here spilling my guts and she’s drawing cartoons like she’s Walt
Fucking Disney. Then again, if I had to listen to everyone’s problems on a
daily basis, I’d probably be sketching too. I’m already antsy to get out of
here and we’re only fifteen minutes in.

“How are you adjusting to a new school?”

I shrug. “Fine, I guess.”

Truth be told, I absolutely hate it here. Transferring right before your
senior year blows. It’s not like I had any say in the matter. Austin is nothing
more than a cheap imitation of a life I used to know. Different house,
different people, same predictable bullshit.

“Tell me about your classes. Are you taking anything you like?”

“Art.”

She glances up and smiles. Vivienne knows art has always been a huge part
of my life. It’s my coping mechanism for everything. When I’m sketching or
painting, nothing else can interfere. In a house where I constantly had to be
on guard, art allowed me to express myself without consequence. It gave me an
escape from the never-ending shitstorms and monumental disappointments.

“Are you thinking about joining any extracurricular activities?”

“I’ve thought about trying out for the track team, but that’s not until
spring.”

“Okay, what about activities outside of school? Any that interest you?”

I know what she’s getting at. She wants me to stay out of trouble this
year.

“None that you would approve of.”

She tilts her frames down and pins me with her gaze.

“You’re eighteen now, Eric. You won’t be able to get off scot-free
anymore. The underage drinking, the graffiti, the fighting—those things will go
on an adult record if you get caught.”

“I already told you that fight wasn’t my fault,” I say defensively.

“I understand, but let me ask you a question. Do you honestly believe
that Levi had no influence over you that night?”

This is a big bone of contention with us. She’s doesn’t approve of the
people I surround myself with, and I’m over her telling me how I should live my
life. She thinks some of my friends are bad influences—Levi being the worst.
She’s not entirely wrong, but I refuse to admit that out loud.

“I make my own decisions.”

“Of course you do, but is it possible you would’ve handled the situation
differently had he not been there?”

“If Levi wouldn’t have been there, the fight never would’ve happened in
the first place.”

“Exactly my point,” she says, settling back into the chair. “He’s an
instigator. That concerns me.”

There she goes pretending to be my mother again. Growing frustrated, I
run my hands through my hair and lean forward, needing her to understand where
I’m coming from.

“Look, he’s a good friend who’s been there through some dark shit. That’s
not easy to find. Most people would flake. I’m not saying he’s perfect, but he
has my back and vice versa. I refuse to cut him off just because you don’t
approve.”

“I’m not telling you to cut him off. I’m simply suggesting that you take
a step back and distance yourself for a little while. It might help give you a
better perspective.”

“A better perspective on what?”

She folds her hands in her lap. “You say he has your back—and perhaps
that’s true—but you’ve also told me he has a habit of letting you take the fall
for his mistakes. Do you think that’s fair?”

“Life isn’t fair.”

“Eric, you can choose whether or not you want to keep putting yourself in
these situations.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

“Next subject.”

She picks up her pen and makes a small note. This is how we operate. If
she tries to take me somewhere I’m not willing to go, she’ll drop it and come
back to it later. I know it’s just a matter of time before Vivienne makes me
revisit my childhood. We’ve slowly been building up to it. As we get closer and
closer, I feel myself detaching and giving fewer and fewer fucks. She’d tell
you that’s because I’m a
slap a Band-Aid on it and call it good
kinda
guy and she’s a
we’re going to heal this wound properly from the inside out
kinda woman.

Her method is far worse.

“Fill me in on what else is going on,” she encourages.

“I applied for another lawn care job.”

“Have you heard anything back?”

“Not yet.”

“Are you still saving up for a car?”

“Duh. I’m the only eighteen-year-old I know without a car.”

“What kind of car are you leaning towards?”

Any hope she had of steering me off this topic went right out the window
the second she asked me that question. We spend the rest of the session
discussing cars, street racing, and graffiti. I divulge where my favorite spots
are to paint, and the areas I’m planning on hitting up tonight after dark. She
tries to talk me out of it like the sensible therapist she is, but a hint of a
smile manages to escape, betraying her warning. It’s nice to be reminded that
once in awhile, she’s actually capable of being cool.

r     a     v     e    
n

Present Day

I’m in love with a boy. Not just any
boy, a boundary-testing, pussy-chasing scoundrel, who also happens to be one of
my best friends. Eric Hansen has been corrupting my world since high school. He
was a too-cool-for-school senior—a rebel with many causes—and I was your
average overeager freshman, secretly vying for his attention.

I couldn’t tell you exactly when the shift happened—when we stopped being
ourselves and started being
us
. It was gradual. A slow burn that
smoldered over a series of uneventful days, weeks, months, or even years. It
snuck up on us, as defining moments often do in one’s life. Then it consumed us
from the inside out.

Beautiful chaos.

Unfortunately, there are a million and one obstacles standing in the way.
The first one is my current beau, Brandon. We met at Bellotti’s while I was
working one night. He came in to eat dinner with some friends and ended up
asking for my number. I admired his confidence, so I said yes. We’ve been
dating for a couple months. He makes me feel good. Cherished.

This brings me to the next obstacle: Eric’s perfected the art of getting
laid. The endless string of women have become as routine as grabbing a morning
coffee. Every time I turn around, there’s a new girl in his arms—or in his bed.
He loves to treat them to a latté and fry them up some breakfast the next
morning. Why not make them feel at home right before you kick them out, right?
Eric logic? If there is such a thing. Guess it makes the Walk of Shame more
bearable.

I don’t want to fall into that same trap and wind up being just another
latté girl. It’s the biggest reason why I haven’t succumbed to his numerous
advances throughout the years. Somewhere along the way, he stopped pursuing,
and we both found ourselves trapped in the friend zone. Timing is everything,
and we suck at it.

“Um, hello? Earth to Raven.”

My gaze immediately snaps to my best friend, Tori Reynolds. Anyone in
need of a loyal girlfriend who’s drama free? Too bad, suckas—she’s all mine.
Like twins separated at birth, we clicked and fused six years back. We were two
lone chicks swirling in a sea of insecurities, dancing to a Madonna song
straight outta the Guy Ritchie era. Insta-love was in motion.

I grab my straw and poke at the ice, then swirl it around and bend
forward to take a sip of my lemonade. Leaning back against the booth, I give
her my full attention.

“Sorry, my head was off somewhere else. What’s up?”

She grabs the pitcher and pours herself another frozen margarita. Doesn’t
matter that it’s the middle of the day and she’s underage. Tori neither
operates on “suit and tie time,” nor does she partake in blatant forms of age
discrimination. It’s not an easy fight but someone’s got to step up and be a
shining example in this morally corrupt society of ours. Honestly, what are
people thinking these days?

“I was just saying that your birthday is coming up in a couple weeks and
we need to plan something spectacular. Is Mia coming back for the summer?”

“Yeah. Her dad’s picking her up from the airport next week.”

Amelia Foster is another member of the crew. She lives in Kansas most of
the year under the oppressive constraints of Mommy Dearest—a woman who is
nothing more than an empty vessel for vodka to take human form in. No wonder
she stays with her dad during the summer. Glass half-full version: she gets a
three-month reprieve. That’s something, I guess.

“Aces. I’ll shoot her a text tonight and see if she wants to get in on
the event planning.”

“Don’t bother. Mia despises over-the-top décor. Says people place too
much emphasis on showing off and not nearly enough thought on the actual
experience.”

“I’m sure she’d be willing to make an exception for her best friend,”
Tori argues.

“Grudgingly. And we’d never hear the end of it.”

“What if we get her drunk and slip her some penis?”

“Got one stashed away that we can borrow?”

“Maybe,” she plays coy. “Speaking of penises, how goes the Eric and
Ravenna saga?”

“Same old. Empty promises, messy emotions, insomnia, blue balls, you name
it...it happens to us.”

“Common side effects of Friend Zone.”

“It’s the worst.”

“Do you ever wonder if Brandon’s pretending to be unobservant so that way
you’ll be more prone to slipping up, giving him the perfect opportunity to
catch you in some compromising situation that looks sketchier than it really is?
Then, when you least expect it, he’ll screw you over?”

“All the time,” I respond. “But Brandon doesn’t work that way. He’s sweet
and trusting. Besides, there’s nothing to hide. Harmless flirting does not a
scandal make.”

“And wishful thinking does not a reality become.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you can sit there and tell yourself that flirting with Eric
isn’t harmful, but we both know it’s just a matter of time before lines get
blurred and feelings get crushed.”

“Nothing’s going to happen. Definitely not while Brandon’s in the
picture.”

“Do you actually believe that?”

Something fiercely protective festers inside me. “It’s easy for you to
sit there and make assumptions, but you have no idea how our dynamic works. No
one does.”

“Oh, please. I’ve had a front row seat for years. Sorta an expert at this
point. Plus, you even said yourself that it’s getting harder to ignore your
feelings for him.”

“Which is true,” I admit. “But I’ve got it under control.”

“If you say so,” she says, her tone filled with doubt. She glances down
to check the time on her phone. Her eyes pop out of her head. “Ooh, I have to
cut this short or I’m going to be late.” Tori slides out of the booth, stands
up, and slings her purse over her shoulder. “Sorry to bail on you like this. I
totally lost track of time.”

“Where are you going?”

“I have an appointment to get my rainforest waxed.”

I grimace. “Lovely.”

“I’ll keep you posted.”

“Please don’t.”

“Prepare to say goodbye to Cousin Itt. I know you’ll miss her dearly.”

“Filthy lies.”

“Brutal truths.”

“Get out of here and call me later.”

“No promises. I have a dinner date—hence the Brazilian.”

“Now
that
you can keep me updated on.”

“I fully intend to. Peace out, Girl Scout.”

She bids me farewell with a backwards wave and disappears.

I finish off my plate and cue the waitress, then glance down to check my
phone for any missed messages. A text pops up on the screen from my Modern Day
James Dean—a.k.a. Eric.

MDJD:
You down for a late-night painting sesh tonight? I’ll spring for
Rudy’s BBQ if you promise to be nice.

Me:
I could be persuaded with brisket and potato salad. And when am I
ever not nice?

MDJD:
Gee, idk. Maybe when you decided to punch me in the balls last
week?

Me:
That was an accident and you know it!

MDJD:
Semantics. Anyway, 8. Be there or be square.

Me:
Word on the street is it’s hip to be a square.

MDJD:
Anyone who uses that phrase is clearly a square.

Me:
Careful. My fingers are flexing for a ball busting.

MDJD:
You’re a lousy flirt.

Me:
Says the guy who lives for it.

I shake my head and smile, then drop the phone inside my bag.

* * *

Four Years Ago...

I fall backwards onto my bed and
stare up at the ceiling. My parents would ground me for an eternity if they
knew I was considering sneaking out. My clock says 11:27 p.m. I’ve been
obsessively watching this thing tick by for the last twenty minutes.

Longest twenty minutes of my life.

I grab my sandals, tiptoe out into the hall, and check to make sure
everyone’s asleep before journeying downstairs. This is the only instance where
the sound of my dad’s snoring is reassuring, not obnoxious.

Flashes of lightning ripple across the sky, helping me see. As if this
wasn’t going to be difficult enough, now I have to worry about the threat of
thunder shaking the whole house. The faintest noises have me on edge. I’ve
surpassed bold and sneaky and gone straight to reckless and stupid.

When my bare foot hits the bottom step, I slide my shoes on and lightly
pad across the tile. I take a deep breath for some extra courage and slip out
the back door, leaving a small sliver of my good girl persona behind.

It’s hard-to-catch-your-breath humid out. Beads of warm rain gently fall
on my exposed skin, making me shiver with anticipation. Soon it will be
pouring. Before I can talk myself out of this, I run. I’ve never been a huge
risk-taker, but the freedom of breaking rules feels exhilarating.

My legs pick up speed, eager to reach his place. I can see his glowing
porch light ahead. A large canopy hangs from above, shielding the deck. I count
the houses as I race by, being careful not to trip and fall. My muscles ache in
protest as I round on his house. I jog up the steps and attempt to catch my
breath.

Now I remember why I tell people I’m allergic to running.

There’s a light on inside, but no sign of Eric. I’m afraid to knock on
the door and wake anyone up. Has he changed his mind? Did plans fall through
because of the rain and I didn’t get the memo? I hope that’s not the case. How
embarrassing would that be? This is getting weird. I should go.

Suddenly, a moving shadow is cast on the wall. Eric appears at the
window, scaring the crap out of me. He smiles and motions for me to come in. I
stay put. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. I don’t know him that well. Going
inside his house during the middle of the night was never part of the plan. He
promised we’d stay in the neighborhood since I was scared of getting caught.

He moves to open the door. “Get inside.”

“This wasn’t part of the deal,” I say breathlessly, still recovering from
the run.

“Plans change.”

That’s it?

“I’m going to need more than that.”

He props his forearm up against the doorframe. His shirt rides up an inch
or two, exposing a small patch of skin.

“What I have in mind can’t be done outside when it’s raining.”

“What exactly do you have in mind?”

“Come see for yourself.”

I look in the direction of my house.

He drops his arm and straightens his posture. “Didn’t I say you’d be
safe? Nothing’s going to happen. If you’ve changed your mind and don’t want to
be here, I’ll grab a hoodie and walk you back home. Just say the word.”

Do I want to leave? No. But I shouldn’t be here. This isn’t me. I’m not
the girl who sneaks out of her house at night, ditching her common sense for a
guy. Just once I’d like to be that girl, though.

I step inside and remove my shoes.

“Are we the only ones here?”

“Yeah. My uncle left for work a half hour ago. He won’t be back until
morning.”

“Does he always work nights?”

“Every day but Sunday.”

He heads for the kitchen and picks up a dishtowel, then throws it my way.
I catch it and pat myself dry, tossing it back when I’m done.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

The house is clean and organized, but I wouldn’t use cozy as a word to
describe it. The walls are completely bare, minus a wooden sailboat hanging
underneath a plaque that reads: Captain's Quarters. A navy blue couch is
sitting in the living room next to a swamp green recliner. What really ties
everything together is the horrendous shag rug being used as the centerpiece.
The style freak inside me is dying a slow, painful death at the sight. No
excuse. You can live on a tight budget and still be trendy. I’ve seen it
happen.

Eric leads me upstairs. With each room we pass, I try to sneak a peek
inside. We come to the end of the hallway, and he opens what I assume is his
bedroom door and flips the light on.

That’s when my entire perception of Eric unravels.

Rich, vibrant brush strokes caress my senses, luring me in. “Oh, my God,”
I whisper, taking five small steps into the room and spinning around. Explosions
of color breathe life into the small space. My jaw drops as I attempt to take
everything in. It’s too much. All the beauty, creativity, art; it hits you all
at once. This couldn’t be more of a contrast from the rest of the house. I’m
not only impressed; I’m envious. He needs to come over and decorate my room.
Like, yesterday.

I turn around to face him. He’s leaning against his dresser, watching me.
“Did you do all these?” I motion around the room. I can’t shake the pure wonder
and fascination in my voice.