Defending Taylor (Hundred Oaks #7) (12 page)

Dad packs his laptop into his briefcase and leaves the house without another word.

I cover my eyes with the heels of my hands. Mom always said Ben wasn’t good for me; if she found out the truth, she’d rub it in my face for eternity, and I don’t think I can handle any more shame.

I’ve already made a mess of Dad’s campaign. The situation is way past me not wanting to be a snitch. If I tell the truth now, it would only hurt my family more—the press would skin us alive:
Antidrug Senator’s Daughter Covers for Drug Dealer Boyfriend
.

• • •

I’m so jittery, caffeine is probably the last thing I need, but I get in line at Donut Palace anyway. I keep my head down in case somebody recognizes me from the paper this morning and check my phone as I wait to reach the counter.

My sister sent me a text:
get your shit together.
My brother told me:
you need to lay low for a while.

Damn.

I inhale deeply. The smell of coffee always soothes me.

“Hey, Tease.” Ezra elbows me.

“Hey,” I reply softly.

“I saw the news. Those people are bastards.”

I try to smile, but my lip quivers instead. When he sees, he sweeps me into his arms and hugs me in front of the entire coffee shop.

“Thank you for not yelling at me,” I say.

“Huh?”

“That’s all anyone has done so far today.”

With a concerned look, he touches my cheek. “I’ll get your drink. Go grab us a seat, okay?”

I sit down in our usual booth, the one overlooking the cornfields.

Once he has our coffees, he slides onto my bench, bumping his hip against mine. Our thighs touch.

I lift an eyebrow at him. “We’re going to be those people? The ones who sit on the same side of the booth?”

“Well,
yeah
.”

I lean to my left so I can reach into the back pocket of my jeans and pass him the handmade coupon from his birthday gift:
One coffee on me!

He laughs when he sees it, seeming so much happier and lighter now that we talked about our past. He pushes my coffee in front of me, then opens Miss Brady’s daily envelope.

“My guidance counselor takes her job waaaay too seriously.”

Ezra pulls out the slips of paper and gives me a few.

I read the first one. “What is your favorite memory?”

“What we did last night,” he says with no hesitation.

My cheeks heat up. And don’t even ask about the lady parts.

He holds up another of Miss Brady’s papers. “What does your perfect day look like?”

“What we did last night,” I say with a giggle. He wraps an arm around me and kisses my neck. I could get used to this. I place a hand on his chest, feeling his strong muscles.

“School sucked so bad yesterday,” I say. “I don’t want to go today. I just want to sit here with you.”

“I wish I could blow off work and hang out too, Tease, but you can’t hide.”

“Can’t I?”

“I know things are hard right now, but everybody will forget about all this crap soon. The press always loses interest quickly. They’ll find some other drama to glom on to.”

“I know, but I keep messing things up for my dad.”

Ezra massages my thigh. “For real though. What does your perfect day look like?”

“I’d sleep in. Lie around in bed for a while. Meet up with you. We’d get some coffee and French toast in Nashville, then walk along the waterfront. Maybe go in some shops or a bookstore. Then you’d buy me a present,” I say cheekily.

He smirks. “What kind of present?”

“Something not alive. Mom would kill you if you bought me another pet.”

“Would this work?” He passes over the
One coffee on me!
coupon.

I pluck it from his fingers and slip it back into my pocket. “No, but nice try.”

“Okay, so I’ll buy you something nonliving. Then what would we do?”

“We’d go back to your place and watch some really bad TV.”

He wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close. “We’ll do all that on Sunday, okay?” he murmurs. “If today gets sucky, just keep your perfect day in mind…just keep
me
in mind.”

School passes by in a blur.

More kids ask me for pills. More kids make fun of me. More teachers give me suspicious looks.

But Alyson the goalie stops by my locker before lunch to see if I’m okay. “I’m sorry about Coach. My parents are upset you weren’t allowed to practice yesterday. They’re going to call Dr. Salter about it. I don’t want to play without you.”

I give her a small smile. “Thank you. I like playing with you too.”

She points over her shoulder with her thumb. “You coming to lunch?”

“I think I’ll hit the library. I’m not in the mood to deal with Nicole.”

Alyson grins at that. “I don’t blame you.”

In class that afternoon, I can’t focus, because I keep thinking about how much I’ve hurt my family. Jenna and Oliver aren’t perfect. I mean, Jenna cheated on Jack Goodwin, and one time, Oliver drank so much he puked out the window all over Mom’s rosebushes. But neither one has ever done anything
this bad
. Why can’t I get what happened off my mind? Why do bad memories stick like superglue?

In the past, I’ve seen news stories where people have gotten themselves into crazy predicaments because they didn’t tell the truth up front, and as a viewer, I always wondered why they let their story, their situation, get out of control. I get it now. Sometimes, problems grow like a crack in the ceiling that starts out small but expands if you’re not paying careful attention. Then the roof caves in.

They say the cover-up is worse than the crime. Don’t I know it.

I smile, however, when Ezra sends me a text about halfway through this interminably hellish American history class:
You ok?

Yeah. Thanks.

Miss you.

He’s so sweet, I can’t help but text:
xo

He sends back a picture of a golden retriever puppy. I needed that. Last night, he confessed the reason he doesn’t use social media is because reading online makes his brain hurt. He spends more time questioning what he reads than actually reading, so he doesn’t bother anymore. I’m glad he’s willing to text with me.

I also get a group text from Steph and Madison.

Mads:
Tee, how are you?

Steph:
We love you!

Me:
love you too, girls. Things suck.

Steph:
:-/ what can we do?

Me:
Talk to me about anything besides my dad’s campaign

Mads:
Tell us something that makes you happy!

Me:
Went to Ezra’s last night. Found out why he missed my party.

Steph:
!!!!!! why!?

Me:
It’s not my story to tell, but it was a good reason and I forgave him. And I think we’re together now…

Mads:
OMG!!!!

Steph:
Is he lick-able?

Me:
Totally lick-able

Steph:
Eeeeeeeeeeeeee! What happened?

Mads:
Did you hook up?

My girlfriends and I have never kept the details from each other, so I give them a rundown of what it was like being in Ezra’s arms and in his bed. My friends are probably giggling at my texts. Especially when I admit:
He knows exactly what he’s doing.

Steph:
Hehehe. Does he find you lick-able?

Me:
Classified info ;-) ok. Fine. YES!

Mads:
I’m happy for you, Tee.

Me:
I miss you guys…

Steph:
Miss you more!

Mads:
Yep! Time for class. chat soon.

The rest of the day slugs by. I drive home from school, looking forward to a quiet night. I don’t want to work on applications or study for Monday’s calculus exam. All I want is to relax.

When I’m safely in my driveway, I send Ezra a text:
Can we do something fun tonight?

Bowling?

Bowling?!

What’s wrong with bowling? Snob.

I snort
. Fine, let’s bowl.

We’ll get dinner first. I’ll come pick you up after I shower.

I go inside my mausoleum of a house, glad that Mom and Dad aren’t here. Marina tells me my parents went to a campaign event in Nashville and won’t be home until late. She gives me my snack of cheese and crackers.

Rather than wallow in my own pity, I need to do something constructive. I hop onto a stool, open my iPad, and pull up the Internet. I search for
dyslexia
, then click on a link to dyslexia.org.

Who has dyslexia?
the site says.
Anyone can have it, even very smart people.
Like Ezra.

The website says people with dyslexia read with the right side of their brain instead of their left, but it’s the left side of the brain that can keep sequences straight. This is why dyslexics don’t read things correctly sometimes. It’s hard to diagnose after grade school, because most kids stop accidentally transposing letters and numbers when writing by the time they are seven or eight. Reading, however, can remain a problem.

There’s no cure.

With a deep breath, I read on, finally finding some good news. Specialized education and training programs can help. Emotional support is also important though, and while I can give him that, I doubt his parents ever will. How will he believe he can get better if the people around him aren’t encouraging him? Hiding it won’t help.

I bring up the Cornell website, search for the keywords
learning disability
, and click the result that says
Student Disability Services
. I scan the page.
Cornell strives to create and sustain a welcoming, accessible, and supportive environment.

The webpage has a lot of complicated information about diagnostic interviews and assessments, but I can tell that the school is willing—and wants—to help its students. Maybe I can show this to Ezra. Explain that he’s not alone and that he doesn’t have to give up his education just because he thinks he can’t succeed.

“Miss Taylor?”

I turn around on my stool to face Marina.

“You have a guest.”

I push the home button on the iPad, clearing the screen. “Who?”

“Ben Cooper.”

I gasp and cover my mouth.
What is he doing here?
Slowly, I climb down from my stool and make my way into the living room. There’s Ben in his St. Andrew’s white button-down shirt, blue plaid tie, and khakis, staring at one of our abstract paintings that Mom bought in Paris. The few times Ben visited our house when we were dating, he always had this dazzled reaction, like when Dorothy steps into the land of Oz for the first time.

“Ben.”

He turns and rushes toward me—to hug me like he used to. But I give him the Heisman. He stares at my outstretched palms, shocked.

“Why are you here?” I ask.

His Adam’s apple shifts as he swallows, and that’s when I see the tears in his eyes. “I needed to see you. You haven’t been answering my texts.”

“I blocked your number.”

He takes a step back. “I’m so sorry, Tee. I never thought this would happen. I was so grateful when you helped me, but I didn’t think it would turn out this way.”

“Neither did I.”

“I saw the news today.”

I cross my arms. “So did everybody else.”

“I’m going to fix it.”

“What? How?” I reply, panicked. The situation is already sticky enough!

“I’m going to come forward to the school. Tell them the drugs were mine.”

“You can’t! Then what I did would all be for nothing.”

“They’d let you come back to school,” he cries.

“St. Andrew’s might take me back, but it doesn’t matter now. My father’s campaign has gone to shit because of me. My reputation is ruined. My family is already angry and disappointed. Can you imagine how pissed off they’ll be if they find out I was covering for you? The press would be even worse if they find out I covered for a drug dealer.”

He grasps his dark curls. “I can’t live with this, Tee. I hate what the news is saying about you. It’s not true.”

“Then you should’ve said something when I got kicked out of school.”

“I fucked up. But I’m going to say something
now
.”

“You know what really sucks? You should’ve come forward before, because you care about me, because you love me. The only thing driving you now is your guilt.”

That shuts him up. An embarrassed flush fills his face. “I need to tell the truth.”

“And what about what I need? Isn’t this all screwed up enough? Don’t you dare mess things up with my family.”

The living room suddenly darkens; outside the window, a cloud passes over the sun. “I need to know something,” Ben says. “When your dad didn’t get you out of it, why didn’t you admit they were my pills?”

“Because I’m not a snitch.”

When he picked me up at Card House for last year’s homecoming dance, holding a pink corsage, his blue eyes were wide and excited. Now tears threaten to leak out of them. How did our relationship come to this?

“You should leave now,” I say quietly.

The antique grandfather clock strikes loudly five times.

Marina reenters the room. “Miss Taylor, Ezra just arrived.”

Jesus. Nobody has worse luck than I do.

Ezra appears in the doorway with a lazy smile. It turns into a hard scowl when he sees I’m not alone.

“Taylor,” he says, coming to my side, placing a protective hand on my shoulder, because every guy’s M.O. is to act all caveman in front of others. He lightly pecks my cheek and gives Ben a cool glare. “What is he doing here?”

I’m a little annoyed that Ezra would kiss me in front of my ex. That’s a dick move. On the other hand, I sort of enjoy seeing Ben’s face flare up in rage.

“Carmichael,” Ben says with a tilt of his chin. They weren’t in school together at the same time, since Ben didn’t start St. Andrew’s until junior year and Ezra was a freshman in college at that point, but Ezra met Ben at Easter lunch last spring when my family celebrated with the Carmichaels. That whole day was a clown show.

Mom wasn’t happy I brought Ben home, because she thought he wasn’t good enough for me. Mr. and Mrs. Carmichael ignored Ben, since they didn’t know who his parents were. Jenna flirted with him, and Oliver was happy that I was happy. Dad didn’t seem to care one way or the other, because he was upset Mom forgot to order mint jelly for the lamb.

Ezra didn’t crack a smile that entire day. He just kept stabbing his carrots and shoving them into his mouth, all the while giving Ben stink eye. After lunch, I told Ben not to worry about Ezra, referring to him as a “Cro-Magnon” (mature, yes, I know), and then Ben and I spent the rest of the afternoon making out in the basement.

Here, now, Ezra laces his fingers with mine. It’s not lost on Ben. He flinches at the sight of me holding hands with another guy.

Ben scrubs a hand through his curls. “Can we please talk in private?”

I never officially said good-bye before I had to leave St. Andrew’s, but everything has changed between us. Seeing him hurts too much. My voice cracks when I say, “You need to go.”

“Taylor, please,” Ben begs. “It wasn’t easy to get a ride here. I had to sneak off campus. I don’t know when I’ll be able to see you again, and we need to finish our conversation.”

“There’s nothing left to talk about,” I say.

“I’ll walk Ben out,” Ezra says. “Then we can go get dinner.”

Ben looks from me to Ezra. “Are you with him now?”

Ezra and I didn’t have the relationship talk last night. He said,
“Let’s see where this goes
.
”
To me, that means we’re exclusive, but I won’t be the first to admit it. Not today, at least. I don’t want to feel any more vulnerable than I already do. Also, I don’t want to hurt Ben. I’m not a bitch like that.

But I don’t want to hurt Ezra either. So I just stay quiet, gnawing on my lower lip, trying to decide what to say. I guess my silence is the answer.

Ben shoves his hands in his pockets. “I deserve this.”

Ezra scrunches his eyebrows together, giving me a questioning look.

“I’m sorry, Ben,” I say and turn my back as Ezra walks him out. It’s weird seeing someone I used to be so close with but who now seems so far away. Tears drip out of my eyes, making me sniffle.

When Ezra returns, he gives me a long hug. “You’re shaking. You scared I’m gonna beat you at bowling?”

“Yup, that’s totally it.” I laugh quietly, then wipe my nose with the back of my hand. So attractive.

He pushes the hair away from my forehead, focusing on the little white scar near my hairline. “I remember this. You cut it on a rock when we were playing football.”

I smile when he presses his lips to the scar.

“Can I ask you something?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Oliver told me that you and Ben broke up because you didn’t want a long-distance boyfriend. But that’s not true, is it?”

“No,” I whisper.

“What happened?”

I shake my head.

“I won’t push you…just tell me one thing: did he hurt you?”

“Physically, no. It’s that he…he wasn’t who I thought he was.”

“Did Ben give you the pills?”

I pause before responding, to play this carefully. “I needed them, Ez. To stay awake to study.”

“I understand that. I know what it’s like to feel that kind of pressure.”

He pulls me into his arms and hugs me long and hard, cocooning me in a safe place.

• • •

At the bowling alley, I rent a pair of red, white, and blue shoes and put them on. Ezra does the same. He’s the only guy I know who can make ugly bowling shoes look hot.

I sit down behind the computer to type in our names.
Tee
and
Ez
appear on the TV screen above our lane.

“Should we flip a coin to see who goes first?” I ask.

“Ladies first.”

From the racks of balls behind the lanes, I choose a neon-orange one that doesn’t weigh too much. My arm muscles are good enough to throw a soccer ball in during games, but that’s about all they’re good for.