Escape In You (8 page)

I roll my eyes. “It’s hardly dark out.”

“It would have been by the time you got back.”

I shift in my seat, uncomfortable. I don't want to tell him that I do, in fact, wander around the neighborhood on my own all the time, regardless of the time of day. It sure beats the alternative.

He’s quiet for a moment. “Well, it sounds to me like you need a new plan then.”

“A new plan?”

He looks away from the road for a moment to smile at me. “Yeah. Wandering the streets alone in this kind of heat seems like a pretty shitty plan to me. You need a new one. You’re lucky you ran into me.”

“Lucky, huh?” In spite of myself I’m smiling at his teasing tone, at the flash in his eyes. Everything seems to amuse this guy.

“Damn lucky.”

***

Taylor’s new plan for the night apparently consists of taking me back to his place. When he parks at the curb in front of the dark house, I raise my eyebrows. “So, when you said lucky, you meant as in ‘getting lucky’?”

He laughs. “I didn’t mean it that way, no. I just want to show you something.” I still look skeptical, and he grabs my hand. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Zoe.”

I follow him out of the car and up the long driveway. His house isn’t quite as big as Preston’s had been, but it’s close. “You live with your folks?” I ask, surprised. He strikes me as the independent type, and I know he has a steady job. I remember what he’d said in the grocery store, about shopping for his mother.

“Yeah,” he replies, but doesn’t elaborate. I hope I didn’t embarrass him.

He pulls a key out of his pocket at the front door but pauses before opening it, turning to me. “We need to be quiet, okay? Just until we get up to my place.”

I have no idea what he means by “his place,” but I nod. I have quite a lot of experience sneaking through a silent house while those I don’t wish to disturb sleep. He takes my hand again and leads me into the dark entryway.

Even with just the dim light of the moon outside I can tell that the place is massive and formal. A wide curving staircase spreads out in front of us, and an unlit chandelier hangs high above our heads. I’m pretty sure the floor is marble. “Wow,” I whisper.

Taylor holds a finger to his lips, reminding me to be careful, then leads me further into the house. As we walk, I try to make out the various rooms in the darkness. I catch sight of a huge living room filled with furniture, a formal dining room with a table for at least twelve, and a smaller room filled with bookcases and a grand piano. Taylor doesn’t turn on any lights or give me a chance to look at anything, instead pulling me along behind him. We come to a stop in what appears to be the kitchen.

“Stay here,” he whispers, releasing my hand.

I watch as his dark silhouette walks away, and then a light flares above his head.

“That’s better,” he says, and turns to smile at me. He isn’t whispering anymore, but his voice is still low.

He’s standing in front of a double stainless steel sink. The small light he’d flipped on allows me to see that his kitchen is nearly three times the size of ours. Granite countertops stretch along each of the three walls. The cabinets are some kind of dark, rich wood, clearly custom, and everything sparkles with the cleanliness only achieved by the obsessive—or those who can afford to hire a cleaning person.

“This house is amazing,” I say, shaking my head. “No wonder you still live here.”

The smile slips from his face, and he turns to a tall cabinet. I wonder if I’ve offended him somehow, but then he’s pulling open the cabinet door and I realize that it’s a fridge.

“Come here and help me,” he says, as he pulls a loaf of bread and some lunch meat from the door. I walk over to him and take the food he offers. “That should do it,” he says, closing the door with his foot. “I have beer and chips upstairs.”

“You keep beer in your room?”

Before he can respond, a light comes on in the hallway. “Jeremy?”

He freezes, his entire body suddenly tense. His gaze flickers across my face, and I detect something like panic in his eyes. “Stay here,” he whispers, setting his food down on the counter.

“Jeremy?” the voice calls again, getting closer.

“Yeah, Mom,” he calls back. He slips past me and into the hallway, leaving me standing alone in the kitchen. I lean against the counter, wondering why he’s so nervous. Does his mom not like him bringing girls here? Or could it be that he’s more worried about her reaction to me, specifically? I don’t exactly match the high-end finish around me. But then again, neither does Taylor.

I can hear him saying something to her, but his voice is too low for me to make out the words. His mother takes no such precautions. “I don’t know why you think I care,” she says, her voice shrill and slurred. “I stopped caring a long time ago, Jeremy. Right around the time you ruined everything.”

“Mom,” he says, his voice pleading. “Please don’t do this, not now.”

“You show up here in the middle of the night and disturb me. I’ve heard nothing from you all day, not that I should be surprised. You’ve always been a selfish little shit. When have you ever cared one bit about anyone but yourself?”

My mouth drops open. The pure hatred in her voice makes my blood run cold. What kind of mother could talk to her kid like this?

Yours
, a sad voice inside my head reminds me. My mother has certainly had some choice things to say to me in the last few years. But I always know that it’s the illness talking, not her. Taylor’s mom sounds…well, she doesn’t sound anything like a mother.

“That’s not true,” he says, his voice so soft I can barely make it out. “Please, Mom, just go back upstairs and lie down. You don’t need anything else to drink.”

I hear the unmistakable sound of a palm hitting flesh, and Taylor’s tiny gasp of pain. I tense, my body coiled tight.

“This is my house,” she yells. “How dare you tell me what to do? You’re just a worthless, pathetic little brat and you always have been! I’ve known it since you were born. I should never have even had you!”

She’s screaming, her shrill voice echoing through the silent, dark house. I can hardly believe the cruel words she’s saying to him, to her own son.

“Please—” he says, his voice filled with anguish.

“Get away, get away!”

I can tell she’s sobbing, but her voice comes from farther off now, like she’s heading away from the kitchen. “Don’t you touch me! I hate you! I just want my son, that’s all I want. Not you!”

Her sobbing echoes through the house, but it’s definitely fading. Was she going back upstairs? Should I go to him? Before I can decide what to do, Taylor returns to the kitchen. His face is red, his eyes wide and watery. He stares at me, almost defiantly, as if daring me to say something, to judge him. It breaks my heart, that look on his face. The shame and the guilt. The anger and the hurt. It’s almost like looking into a mirror. How many times have I run from my own house with that same look in my eyes? I want to weep for him, to hold him and kiss away the pain. Instead, I set my face in a neutral expression and meet his gaze as I walk slowly to him.

“I can leave if you want.” Somehow, my voice is steady. “But I’d like to stay, if you’ll let me.”

He exhales loudly then suddenly pulls me hard against his chest. I can feel his heart pounding through his shirt, and I wrap my arms around him and squeeze back. We stand like that for a long minute. His arms strain around me, his entire body pulled taut like a wire. His hands shake as they grip my shoulders. Is he crying? Finally he pulls away, looking down at me, his eyes dry but wide and scared.

“Please stay.”

He sounds so vulnerable, so scared, as if he thinks I might refuse him. As if his wellbeing depends on my answer.

“Well, duh,” I say, and take his hand to bring him back to the counter. “I was promised sandwiches. And whatever awesome, totally non-sexual thing you were going to show me.”

A smile ghosts across his face, and he almost looks like himself. “Well, let’s get to it.”

Chapter Seven

Taylor

I can't believe Zoe stayed. When my mother slapped me and stumbled off back to the library, I stood frozen in the hallway for nearly a minute. I was sure by the time I pulled it together enough to go back to the kitchen she’d be gone. But there she is, right where I left her. For a moment she looks horrified, but then something in her face changes. Her eyes meet mine, steady and calm, and then she walks right to me as if she isn’t embarrassed or disgusted by what she heard. She asks if she can stay, and I can hardly believe my ears.

I grab her like a lifeline, like she can save me from the nightmare in this house, in my heart. She’s beautiful and strong and solid, and she lets me hold her, even holds me back.

Then, like it’s no big deal, she asks me for a sandwich and says she will stay.

We don’t talk as I take her out to the garage and up to my place. I feel like I should apologize, or, at the very least, try to explain what happened, but every time I open my mouth the words just won't come.

“You live up here?” she asks, looking around the apartment. “Taylor, this is really cool.”

“Thanks.” I scratch the back of my neck, self-conscious. I never bring people up here, certainly not chicks. On top of what she just witnessed, I’m feeling really exposed.

“You look like you’re wondering if I’m going to rob you,” she says and grins over her shoulder as she approaches my desk. “I won’t, by the way.”

“I know. I just…I don’t bring people up here much.”

“It looks like you don’t stay here much yourself,” she says. “Either that or you’re going for a very minimalist look.”

“I hear minimalism is all the rage.”

She snorts and moves into the kitchen. “So, are we making food or what?”

I join her at the breakfast bar, and hand her plates and the knife. She lays out cheese and turkey, and slathers each slice of bread with mustard. I grab us both a beer from the fridge and rip open a bag of barbecue chips.

“Yum,” she says, as she perches on one of my bar stools with her plate. “This is great, thanks.”

“No problem. But I was thinking we could eat somewhere else. In fact, that’s what I wanted to show you.”

She gives me a questioning look but jumps up from her chair and follows me all the same, her plate in hand. I leave the beers on the counter to come back for after we’re settled, knowing we’ll each need at least one free hand.

“The bedroom, Taylor? Really?”

I laugh. “I told you to get your mind out of the gutter. This is just the way to get out there.”

I reach the window and turn to take her plate so she can climb through, but she’s no longer right behind me. She’d paused at my easel and is staring unabashedly at the piece I’ve been working on.

“Holy shit,” she mutters. “Taylor, did you paint this?”

God, now I feel really stupid. I didn’t intend to show her that, certainly not tonight. There’s only so much exposure I can handle for one evening. Before I can tell her that, she’s setting her plate down on my dresser so she can lean in closer. “Wow,” she whispers. “This is good. Like,
really
good.”

I shrug, even though she isn’t looking at me. It’s a decent piece, or, at least, I hope it will be when it’s finished. I painted the woods where we kissed the other night, but it isn’t a typical landscape. Instead, I’ve been trying to paint it the way I had
felt
it. The heat and the color, the excitement and the joy. And something else too, something very much like hope. I wonder if she can see all those things in the work.

She turns back to me. “I didn’t know you were a painter.”

I shrug again. “I’m not, really. I mean, I paint sometimes. Mostly I draw, though. I’m into graphic art. Uh, comics and stuff. Some 3-D landscapes.”

“Can I see?”

Her expression is hopeful, and it’s hard to refuse her.

“How ‘bout we eat first, okay? I still want to show you something.”

“But later, you’ll let me see?”

“Sure.” I pick up her plate from the dresser, balancing it on top of mine, and gesture for her to climb through the window.

She crosses her arms. “Seriously?”

“I promise it’s totally safe.”

I half expect her to refuse, to demand I go first, but she surprises me by shrugging and climbing right through. I get a lovely view of her ass as she does so. Once she’s through I hand her the plates and climb over the windowpane.

“So,” she says, looking around. We are standing on a thin strip of flat roofing. To our back is the window to my room. About two feet from where we stand the roof cuts off in a steep slope down to the backyard.

“Come on,” I tell her, taking the plates back so she can more easily keep her balance. I lead her down the strip towards the point where the garage roof meets the house. I turn a sharp corner and hold out my hand to her. Once her fingers are safely clutched in mine, I ease her around the corner.

“There,” I say. “This is what I want to show you.”

She looks out, away from the house, and her face lights up. We’re on a wide ledge formed between the pitch of the garage roof and that of the main house. It’s just enough room for two people to sit comfortably, the slope of the roof behind us providing a perfect backrest. But that isn’t what makes the place so special.

“You can see the whole town from here!” Zoe exclaims.

I nod, holding her elbow and easing her down into a sitting position against the roof. “It’s hard to tell from street level, but Alton Woods is on a hill. And our house just happens to be the highest point of that hill.”

“Wow.” I watch as she takes it all in, and suddenly I’m really glad I brought her up here. Since I turned seventeen, I’d only let one other person up here, my best friend Fred. I should feel weird, maybe even guilty, about opening the secret spot up to anyone else, but somehow, it feels right that she’s here.

“I have to run back and get the beer,” I say. “Stay here, okay? Don’t try to, like, go exploring in the dark.”

“Don’t worry,” she assures me. “I have just enough fear of heights to keep my ass planted right here.”