Rock My Heart (Luminescent Juliet #4) (6 page)

Chapter 9

~April~

I nearly trip over the
long box in front of my door, coming home from work on Thursday. A quick glance
at the return address confirms my suspicion that it’s from my mother. The woman
needs to go to shoppers anonymous, if such a thing exists. Her ‘sale’ purchases
each week could probably feed a family of four. My stepfather could have
already retired as a real estate broker if it wasn’t for my mother’s spending
habits, but then he doesn’t do much to control her. And really, I suppose it’s
none of my business.

After unlocking the door, I shove the box inside
with my foot.

Though I’ve lived in the one bedroom apartment for
over three years, it is sparsely furnished with a loveseat, a coffee table, and
a small dining table. And the walls are completely bare. I’ve always taken at
least eighteen credits and always stayed tremendously busy with tons of
homework. With only three classes left to take this final semester, I have a
meager ten credits right now. The new extra down time I have isn’t welcome. It
leaves me with too much time to think.

I set my bag on the desk and commence opening the
package. It contains two polo shirts—I have a collection of polo tops in every
brand and color that would rival a tennis champion—a pair of gray dress slacks,
a black sleeveless blouse with silver beads around the neck, a silver purse,
and low-heeled silver sling backed shoes.

The sight of the matching outfit with purse and
shoes has me rolling my eyes. Between the endless polo tops and the ‘grownup’
outfits she sends, I’m aware that my mother dresses me like a country club
debutant. When I was a teenager, we’d argue nonstop because I refused to wear
her selections or get my nails or hair done. As an adult who doesn’t care what
she wears, and an aspiring counselor, I understand that my mother’s vision
works. I just don’t need fifty million polo shirts or outfits. Nor can all the
crap she sends me fit in my closets. And that’s with donating clothing on a
regular basis.

I snatch my phone from my backpack on the table, hit
my mother’s number, and start pushing the box toward the bedroom.

My mother answers with, “Aren’t those shoes
adorable? I found them first and matched everything else to those shoes.” Her
tone is gushing.

“Yeah, their great, Mom.” I fish for empty hangers
in the closet. “But I thought we agreed that I have enough clothes.” Other than
the car, my mother and stepfather’s only donation to my college career is
clothes. My real father pays for my rent and tuition along with depositing
money in my account every month. Though my parents were never married, my
father is the furthest thing from a deadbeat dad. And I’m very, very
appreciative of him.

“I just sent one outfit and a few shirts.”

This is true. The box did contain a lot less than
usual. I start hanging up the new clothes.

She lets out a wistful sigh. “I didn’t get to look
at gowns for homecoming this year.”

I wince. I haven’t had the heart to tell her that
I’ve never gone to homecoming in college. Freshman year I even put on the
dress—some ridiculous pink thing—she sent, did my hair, and sent her selfies of
myself, before donating the dress. She’d been so excited about her purchase I
didn’t have the heart to tell her that I wasn’t going.

My mother is a true Southern Belle. Born and raised
in Kentucky, she came in second for Miss Kentucky when she was nineteen. And
though we lived in Ohio while I grew up, she had me, from age six to eleven, in
every pageant possible until I refused to do any more. She’s still a stunning
beauty, and while people say I’m her spitting image, I’m a pale comparison.

I’ve been told enough about how pretty I am that I
believe it, yet I could truly care less about my looks. I don’t want to be like
my mother. She has a good heart, but a nearly empty head. Clothes, makeup,
hair, and house decoration are what dominate her brain cells. I’m not sure if
she was always this way or if centering her entire self-esteem and self-worth
on her appearance produced her airhead. Though she has always tried, I’ll never
be like her.

Attempting to be a bit honest, I say, “Good. I won’t
need a dress. I’m not going this year.”

“Why ever not?” she says in a stupefied tone.

My mother never went to college, but she imagines it
as an extension of high school. Perhaps for some people it is, however I’m here
to get an education, start a career, and above all, eventually help others.

“Too busy with my last semester,” I say, lying
through my teeth and dropping a few things in a waiting donation bag outside
the closet. The bag stays there, since my wardrobe is replenished almost
constantly.
 

“April,” my mother whines. “A four point isn’t worth
giving up a social life.”

I stroll toward the kitchen. “I have lots of
friends, Mom. I went to a dinner party this weekend.” Of course, I don’t tell
her about the piercing that is now making my belly button itch like crazy.
She’d pass out from mortification, if I told her about that.

“Did you have a date?” she asks her voice full of
excitement.

Grrr
.
She
never
lets the dating thing go.
I’m aware she hopes I leave college with a degree
and
an engagement ring on my finger. She has been planning my
wedding since the day I was born. “No, but I met someone nice, so maybe,” I
say, lying for a second time as I open the fridge. It’s as empty as it was this
morning.

“Did he ask you out?”

I shut the fridge, ignoring my hunger pains. “Um,
no, but he got my number.” It’s not that I want to lie. I just spent most of my
teenage years in conflict with my mother, and now in guilt over my younger
stubborn self, I over appease her.

Someone knocks on my door. Probably the girls in two
apartments over. They have a habit of starting to bake something without all
the ingredients. They’re forever borrowing eggs, sugar, or flour. Or at least
trying to borrow them. I usually only have half the stuff they ask for.

“Has he called yet?”

“Mom, my neighbor’s at the door. I need to go.
Thanks for the clothes, but I really, really don’t need anymore.”

“You can always use them for work eventually, you
know.”

“Mom,” I whine as I open the door.

“I’ll try…”

I don’t hear whatever she says next because I’m
shocked at the person standing outside.

 
“Got to go.
Bye,” I say, trying not to stare bugged-eyed at a grinning Gabe, his white
teeth a triangular slash in his face. He’s dressed in all blue, a mechanic’s outfit
I realize. “Um…” I peek past him around the corner, looking for
Riley or Romeo
or
someone
.
“What are you doing here?”

“An unexpected opportunity,” he says in a carefree
tone.

Confused and feeling lost, I repeat his last word.
“Opportunity?”

He leans his long body on the doorframe, crossing
his arms. “A friend, well, more like an acquaintance, loaned me his bike for a
few hours.”

“Bike?” I repeat, sounding like an idiot parrot.

He pushes off the doorframe, stretches out curled
hands, and twists his fists, saying, “You know, vroom, vroom as in motorcycle.”

My brows lower and my fingers clamp around the edge
of the door. “What? A motorcycle?” Rachel’s list lingers in my brain until I
put two and two together. “I’m not…I couldn’t…I don’t have a helmet. Plus I
need to go grocery shopping. So um…”

He grins fully. “I brought an extra helmet, but are
you that scared?”

“A bit, maybe a lot,” I add out of the side of my
mouth, always so damn honest with him. I force myself to let go of the door. “I
really
do
need to go shopping.”

“Well, then let’s go. The bike is a real bike as in
a Harley. There are two side compartments for your”—he slowly looks me over
from head to foot—“two bags of groceries.”

“Three,” I say, through clenched teeth. “I usually
have three bags of groceries.”

“Three will fit fine.” As I stand there silent,
trying to think of another plausible excuse, he says, “Think of how impressed
Jeff will be when I tell him you accomplished not one but
two
items off the bucket list.”

Well that does it. Progress, even fake progress, is
a motivator. “All right, I’ll be down in five. Give me a few minutes to
change.”

He smirks and I shut the door in his face. Inside my
bedroom, I find the thickest pair of jeans I own, a heavy sweatshirt, and low
winter boots. For a warm September day, I look like an idiot, but the fear of
my body skidding across the cement is worth the extra perspiration and out of
season look.

In the parking lot, I’m a bit shocked at the sight of
the bike. He said it was a Harley but the spectacle of all the chrome wows me a
little. “An acquaintance borrowed you this?” I ask Gabe, who waits on the side
of the bike with the extra helmet in hand.

Gabe shrugs. “Dude who works at the shop.”

“The shop?” Apparently, I
have
to parrot him since he never speaks in complete thoughts.

“The garage I work at part time,” he says, lifting
the helmet over my head.

Okay, yeah, given his outfit I should have put
that
together I realize as he clips the
strap on the side of my chin. I’m beyond nervous.

He puts his helmet on and gets on the bike. I’m
having a hard time making myself move. The questioning and pointed look over
his shoulder gets my feet going. With a deep breath, I’m on the bike behind him
and wrapped around him. “How many times have you driven one of these things?” I
squeak out.

“Maybe ten?

“Maybe?” I practically screech as he reeves the
engine.

And then we’re off. Way. Too. Fast. I hold on to his
abs like they’re safety handles and bury my face in his back for most of the
ride. When he slows or stops for a light, I do peek at my surroundings. Those
little glimpses are few and far between. Finally, he pulls into the lot of a
grocery store. Not my usual store, but at this point I just want off the bike.

Once I peel myself from him and stand on safe
ground, he nods to a hardware store at the end of the small shopping center. “I
need a few things. I’ll catch up with you in a few.”

My hand trembles as I unclip the helmet, then hold
it up to him in question.

“Just take it with you,” he says, un-straddling the
bike.

“Okay,” I say weakly, turning toward the store on
legs that feel like rubber. Inside, I grab a cart, set the helmet in the seat,
and begin to find my usual purchases in an unknown store. Between the
unfamiliar store and brain fog, it takes me forever to shop. Irritated with
myself, I open a box of granola bars and precede to eat one, hoping missed
nutrition is the issue with my head.

I’m in the last section—dairy—when Gabe finds me.

He glances at my half-filled cart. “You’re not the
quickest shopper, huh?”

“Do you need to be somewhere?” I ask, ignoring the
remark and grab a carton of eggs.

“No, I just assumed you’d be in line by now.” He
grasps the back of the cart and leans on it as I set the carton by the helmet.

“Never shopped here before,” I say in an apologetic
tone.

He
nods,
inspecting the
items—whole grain bread, dry pasta, granola bars, veggies, and fruit—in my
cart. “Don’t think a diet is necessary for you.”

“I’m not on a diet,” I snap, dropping in a brick of
cheese.

He shuffles through the cart. “Not one ounce of junk
food in here.”

I snatch a bag of fresh carrots from his hand. “I
like to eat healthy for…other reasons than what I look like,” I say
defensively.

His brows go up.

“Poor eating habits and depression have been
linked,” I stammer, then yank the cart from him and go to the yogurt section.

He follows and leans sideways at the end of the
yogurt cooler. “So are you worried about becoming depressed or are you
depressed?”

Am
I depressed?
Fruit
flavors, blueberry, lemon, cherry, and strawberry swirl—a colorful
kaleidoscope—in my vision. I
never
confront the depression question, even to myself, just skirt around it. Most
people go through bouts of depression. It is normal to a certain degree. And no
matter what, I have to keep going, so there is no point fixating on the
question. “That’s none of your business,” I say, grabbing whatever yogurt
flavors are in front of me, then spin away from him.

Luckily for me—or maybe for him since he hit a
nerve—he quietly follows me to the cashier. Surprisingly, he carries the three
bags out for me.

Outside, he shoves—hello, eggs!—the bags into the
leather pouches on each side of the back wheel while I nervously clip on the
helmet. Gabe mumbles a “Ready?” Then without waiting for an answer, he gets on
the bike, facing away from me. After a deep breath, I force myself behind him
and once again clamp onto him.