Two Roads (2 page)

As soon as I lock eyes with Logan, a fake smile spreads across my lips.

He fake-smiles back.

“Cali,” he says calmly, nodding to acknowledge my presence but doing nothing more.

“Logan,” I reply. “Good seeing you here.”

“I think ‘unfortunate’ is the word you’re looking for.” He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away. Just continues to lock eyes with me. It’s like a Texas showdown, if you replace the firearms with our dagger stares.

I give a loud, fake laugh and slouch back farther into my seat, putting my feet on the edge of the table. Jaden watches me carefully, smiling like he finds all of this funny, and he probably does. But as much as I thrive off of my rivalry with Logan, it’s not funny to me.

It’s heavy.

It’s personal.

It’s the only thing keeping me from breaking out into sobs whenever I remember Ben.

“Mind sharing why you are here?” Logan says calmly. His arm is resting on the table and even though he should seem totally uncomfortable with me looking like this and sitting here, he’s not. He actually appears to be... relaxed. Dammit. I hate when he does this better than me.

I toss my hair several times, forcing him to watch as my bangs swish slowly back and forth. He starts to look away but then seems to remember that looking away means losing, and if there’s one thing Logan Waters doesn’t like, it’s being my inferior. I feel the same way about him. So he just bites his lip and watches me, narrowing his eyes.

“Why do you think I’m here for a reason?” I say, matching his coldness. “Maybe I just want to flirt with the most
attractive
guy in school?” I look at him, then almost spit the coffee from before into Logan’s face at the gravity of the lie.

He continues to glare at me, slipping a hand into his pocket to what I can only assume is some sort of weapon. Maybe he really does want to kill me. “That’s so flattering,” he says blankly. “Quite kind of you to say,
Cali
, I might add.” He says my name like he is calling me Voldemort, dragging it out and making the disgust clear as day, but without once betraying any emotion in his features.

Shit. I need this guy’s poker face.

“Isn’t it?” I yawn loudly, stretching my legs farther onto the table. Jaden is still grinning from ear to ear, glancing between us like we’re live TV. He seems to enjoy watching us almost as much as we enjoy hating each other.

Next I glance around the table, looking for something else to bully Logan with, and my gaze automatically fixates on his hot chocolate. My eyebrows narrow. “Give me that,” I say suddenly, shooting a hand out to snag the mug, and before he can protest, before he can knock it away, it’s in my possession. Logan doesn’t look fazed, though. He just straightens up in his seat and lets a smirk flicker across his lips.

Goddammit.

I stare at the mug, lying there in front of me, then back up at Logan. His eyes are trained on mine, and he looks way too confident considering I have his prized hot chocolate in my possession. As I watch the mug, I know I should just leave it, drop it, let it all go, but that would be too unlike me. That would be letting him off the hook.

And let me tell you: Logan is
not
going to be let off the hook.

Ever so slowly, I lean in toward the hot chocolate, pretending to examine the poor excuse for a drink--a coffee-wannabe, if you ask me--and then I wrap my hands around it and lift it up.

The mug is cold.

I roll my eyes. Of course it’s cold. Poor nerd boy can’t drink hot chocolate
hot
, or even warm, because it’ll burn his precious little tongue. So instead he has to drink it like it’s been cooled for hours, as you would do for a small child, if even. I can’t believe I used to have a crush on him four years ago.

He’s watching me closely now, and I feel my smile grow because I know what to do. I lean my mouth into the mug and take a long, exaggerated sip.

It tastes as terrible as it looks. All overly sweet and cold and childish; I can’t believe someone would drink this. But just to make a show of it, I roll the liquid around in my mouth a few times, pretending to savor it, but when I look back up, I hate how Logan doesn’t appear the slightest bit bothered.

“This is awful,” I say to him. Still no reaction--god, he’s good.

“I appreciate the input,” Logan says after a while, not taking his eyes off of me for a second. Red hot hatred pulses between us, and I swear if someone dropped a match right now the tension in the air would make this whole place explode. But as composed as Logan appears, something is there--something that can only be rage. I see it in the intensity of his stare, the tightness in his jaw, the way he does not move an inch during this whole thing.

There’s a pause, and I decide to take another sip of the wretched liquid for good measure. “So what were you all
doing
before I dropped by?” I say, making sure my tongue drags out the word ‘doing’ just a little too long.

“I’d love to tell you all about it on your way out,” Logan says, batting his eyelashes in the most fake flattering way I’ve ever seen. I bite back a laugh, because really, I love this. I love going at it with him. It makes everything else--all of my problems, my fears, my guilt--fade away, until it’s just me and Logan and our mutual hatred.

“Is that so?” I ask, taking another drawn-out sip and hoping he snaps.

He doesn’t take the bait. “It is,” he says. His gaze still has yet to falter, so I make sure mine doesn’t either.

“Well.”

“Well?”

“
Well
.”

Logan’s gaze is searing, and as we stare each other down, my whole body feels on fire. The hatred and guilt and tears and everything of the last four years surges up all over again, and I feel it crushing the space between us. Jaden keeps whipping his gaze from Logan to me, waiting to see what the next move is going to be, and so do the two other Unimportant and Nameless Logan Geek Friends.

“Oh,” Logan says after a minute, a small smile passing across his lips. I hate that smile so freaking much. “I forgot to tell you.” He reaches somewhere behind him, and I narrow my eyes. When he turns around, he’s holding a coffee cup and smirking. It takes me a minute to realize it’s my coffee.

My coffee.

Mine.

Oh no he didn’t.

My blood boils almost immediately, and I resist the urge to spring to my feet and attack him as he holds up the coffee to his mouth, sniffs it, and then smiles when he sees the rage in my eyes. My heart races furiously in my chest, and I have to dig my fingernails deep into my palm to keep from lunging at him. (I kind of value my coffee. Like, a lot.) So I just sit there, feigning calmness, as he takes a slow sip of the coffee, exaggerating it as much as I exaggerated mine. By the time he’s finished, I am seething.

“This is awful,” he says, mimicking me. He winks at me then, and I just glare at him. I hate how strangely awesome my traitorous brain finds this.

The truth is, when Logan and I are going at it like this, we’re in our own little world. A world full of fire and passion and hate and dying puppies, sure, but our own world all the same. It’s just us, just me and him, just our insults and our pranks and our twisted, refreshing, perfect and so screwed-up hate for each other. In a really really really strange way, it’s kind of nice. Actually, “nice” does not even begin to describe it. My hatred for Logan is terrible and refreshing, wonderful and horrible all at once.

“Asshole,” I say, letting the hatred seep into my voice, taking a sip out of his hot chocolate.

“Bitch,” he replies, and he gulps down more of my precious coffee.

Heat pulses between us, and the laughter and gossip and all the other sounds in The Dungeon disappear. The world seems to go silent, and when I glare at Logan, he is all I see. He--in all of his innocence and wit and completely frustrating geekiness. He--with his deep blue eyes and glasses and perfect dimples. He--the guy who ruined my life.

Everything else fades away, and it’s just him in front of me right now, him and me in our own little world.

And I love it.

And I hate it.

And I don’t understand it for one second.

Everything is intense when it comes to Logan. Everything feels amplified. The hate, the confusion, the passion--all of it is so freaking strong. I loathe him, loathe how he succeeds everywhere I fail, loathe that he knows how to get to me better than anyone else in the world, loathe that I need his rivalry as badly as I do.

I lean into the table and make a point of touching my tongue to the roof of my mouth.

It’s on
, the gesture says, and Logan just smiles.

“Loser,” I continue, trying to sound as cold and calm as possible.

“Heartless freak,” he shoots right back.

“Dickhead.”

“Asshole.”

“Bastard.”

“Jackass.”

“Guy no one wanted.”

“Girl whose parents hate her.”

His friends keep jerking their heads back and forth between us. “Idiot.”

“Jerk.”

“Imbecile.”

“Moron.”

“Asshat.”

“Oaf.”

At that, Logan stops, bites his lip like he’s trying to stop himself from laughing, and we both silently declare me the victor of this round. Once again, I come out on top. (I hate how I just worded that.)

“Those were very original insults,” I say after a minute, the ferocity between us slowly fading. We are much better at pranks than we are insults.

He watches me, dark hair falling over his eyes in a way that would be so sexy if it weren’t so freakish looking. “Right?”

“You bore me,” I say after a minute.

“I’m glad.”

I stand up, sliding the mug back in front of him. “Later, asshole.”

He smiles, but it isn’t a mean kind of smile. If anything, it’s… well, it’s warm. Soft. “Later, bitch.”

I try not to insult him further--it’s not as easy as it sounds--as I slide out of the table, leaving him and his friends to their hardcore hot chocolate nerdity, and stride back over to Blondie. I’m about to walk completely away, too, when I get an idea.

I stop.

It’s a
brilliant
idea.

Without even bothering to consider the consequences, I spin right back around, snatch the hot chocolate mug from Logan’s hands once again, and take a huge sip. I watch as he turns to face me, still smiling lightly and revealing those dimples of his. I smile back.

He isn’t going to know what hit him.

Literally.

He starts to say something, to insult me probably, to snatch his precious hot chocolate back and hope I leave--which I won’t--but I don’t give him the chance. My whole body buzzes with excitement as I lean forward like I’m going to whisper something into his ear. I know this is a mistake, this is stupid, this is not going to end well, but I also know I can’t stop myself. So I take a deep breath, swing forward my mug filled with his cold hot chocolate, and then I release.

And the hot chocolate hits Logan square in the face.

Let me repeat: hot chocolate. Hits Logan Waters.
Square in the face.

I don’t even know what’s happening to my life anymore.

I gasp and stumble back, lost and confused and totally not believing that I just did that. Logan seems almost as shocked as I am. Stunned, even. Unmoving, I’d say, as the dark liquid drips off of his whole face. I watch him carefully, putting the hot chocolate back on the table, and I can see the anger in his eyes, the fierce burning rage. I look down at him, expecting to feel pride at what I just did, to feel giddy and confident and so freaking excited, but instead I feel the opposite. Because when I look down at Logan Waters, who is covered in hot chocolate and looking like he wants to stab me and I know it’s all because of me, I feel something I never expected to feel: guilt.

“That one was for my brother,” I hiss, more for myself than for him. I start to turn away a second time then, start to walk past him and stride right out of the whole Dungeon before I break into tears like they do in reality TV shows, when I feel something warm and wet splash across my back.

I spin around, ready for him to snap at me and for me to feel shitty all over again.

But that’s not what happens.

Instead, I see Logan holding my coffee mug in his hand, smiling at me from ear to ear, and I realize the warm liquid that is now covering the back of my shirt is my coffee.

He threw my own coffee at me.

The. Effing. Bastard.

“And that one was for me,” Logan says, eyes intense and trained on mine.

Never in my life have I felt more relieved.

~

She stopped laughing

Stopped smiling

Stopped feeling

Stop being.

Until him.

~

My
parents always said they named me Cali because it was a fitting name, because it sounded nice and that’s how they always wanted me to be: nice. Cute. Perfect. The girl who wears the flowery pink dress and lets everyone remark about how sweet and adorable she is. But as much as they may want that, I always knew the name Cali, which could be interpreted as being short for California, was their way of telling me I was supposed to move to Silicon Valley with them, invent shit, and change the world because if I wanted to be as flawless as they are, that’s what I have to do.

That’s the only thing they’ve ever wanted in their daughter: for me to turn out just like them.

But being like my parents, after all they’ve done to me and Ben, is dead last on my agenda. I just want--I need--to be me. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, but the issue with having brilliant, engineer parents is that no matter what I do,
I
am never good enough. Not for them. Not even for myself.

Confession: I’m not nearly as confident as I pretend to be. I’m one of those “all talk, no game” kinds of people, right down there with the worst of them. My parents seem to have been right about me after all: I’m useless. Ever since Ben died, I’ve done nothing but fail, fail, and fail some more. And I can’t stop it. I can’t stop hating myself for not doing anything to stop it, can’t stop hating my parents for causing it all and Logan for not noticing the signs and I just fucking hate the last four years of my life.

So I keep quiet. I don’t talk about what happened. Barely even think about it. I live my life as someone I’m not, someone I wish I was, to escape the guilt. Because the one thing I’m good at? Is pretending. I pretend to be a mean girl. I pretend not to care. I pretend to be normal, to be happy. I’m supposed to be like Lindsay and everyone, to love hookups and do it all the time. And I’ve tried that, believe me. I’ve had sex before, but it doesn’t make me feel better. It doesn’t make me feel anything at all, really, and I don’t do it. But I pretend to hookup all the time anyway. I brag to my friends about sex that never happened, because it makes me feel like I belong somewhere. It makes me feel less and less empty, like I’ve been ever since Ben died and my parents started trying to control my life.

I mean, I still cry myself to sleep every night. I still spend my days wishing I could go back to before four years ago. I still feel worthless, but at least pretending to be someone else dulls the pain.

That carefree mean girl, however, is not me. I mean, it’s me, but it’s not
me
me. Deep down, I know I’m better than that. I’m real. I’m human. I like root beer floats and coffee and running on the beach and dancing with people in the rain. I like smiling, challenges, scrap pages, and people who notice me for… me. I love poetry a nearly unhealthy amount, even though I’ve never been able to share that part of me, or the poems I write, with anyone else.

As soon as I leave The Dungeon, I hop into my broken-down green Jeep and drive across town to some weird Italian sandwich shop Mom and Dad told me they wanted to try now that they’ll be in town for a few days. This morning they said to meet them here to “talk,” which I immediately translated in my head to “rant about what a precious waste of their money I am.” I park in the corner of the lot--easy escape in case they decide to murder me--step out of the car, shut the door, and walk inside. Cool air blasts me as soon as I step through the doorway, and I close my eyes, already regretting this. The sandwich shop is small and cramped, smelling strongly of cheese and too much tomato sauce, with freezer after freezer lining the wall and old metallic chairs shoved in front of tables in the middle of the store. A large kitchen sits in the back, and the raucous laughter of the chefs drifts from it.

I sigh.
Of course.
More happy people.

I make the immediate mistake of looking around for my parents, because I find them both in the corner of the tiny sandwich shop, menus in hand, staring at me without so much as smiling. Dad holds a butter knife in his hand, too. Awesome. Maybe they’ll kill me after all. It would make things
so
much easier.

I take another breath, willing myself some strength for the shitstorm I know is about to unfold, and then I approach them. I hold my head up high and feign the most confidence I possibly can, which really isn’t that much. But I can’t let parents see me weak. Not ever again.

“Cali,” Mom says emotionlessly as I slip into the nearest chair.

“Mom,” I say in the happiest voice I can muster, but it ends up not to be very happy at all. I turn to my Dad. “Dad,” I say. He nods at me.

Not even a hello.

You would think they would at least say hi after four months of not seeing their own daughter. But apparently, they’ve been too “busy” to see their least favorite mistake, otherwise known as me: Cali Monroe.

Both of my parents are dressed in their usual boring work clothes, or “business clothes” as they ordain them--suit, tie, and constantly shined shoes. They’re both the most cliché business people I’ve ever seen, Mom with her rectangular glasses, intimidating smile, and over-gelled brown hair which is pulled back into a ponytail and Dad with his short gray hair, brown eyes, and lips that fall into a perpetual flat line. It doesn’t look like he’s smiled since I last saw him.

I groan to myself as I sink back farther into my chair. They haven’t changed a bit. Which means what they think of me won’t have, either.

See, for me to work at my parents’ world-renowned engineering business when I graduate, I have to be qualified, so they hate that I refuse to study engineering at all--meaning I can’t work there. But more than that, they hate where my other passions lie: in books. In
poetry
, or as they call it, “the only profession that leads you straight to living on the street.” Today they have engineered--pun intended--yet another meeting to convince me to find a way to switch my English major into something more engineering-related and drop “this whole poetry nonsense,” as well as dispel my apparent “tough girl” attitude.

Not once have they asked what
I
want. Not once have they asked how
I’
m feeling. Not once have they cared.

Sometimes I think if they tried just one time to accept me for me, I wouldn’t always feel so hopelessly small.

Dad clears his throat. “It’s good to see you, Cal,” he says to break the silence.

I reach for a menu, not wanting to meet his gaze. “You know I hate that name,” I say.

He rolls his eyes.

Needless to say, Dad always wanted a boy.

“So Cali,” my mom says, shooting my father a look I can’t read and putting her hand on my arm. I pull back instantly. She always has to play mediator.
Always
. I sense her glaring when I turn away, but I don’t care. I don’t want to see her face. I focus on the menu instead, even though I’m not hungry at all.

I don’t think I can ever be normal around my parents again. Not after what they did to my brother Ben.

“We brought you here to talk, Cali,” Mom says, a little more coldly this time. “You’re a sophomore now, going on junior. You…
we
…need to start thinking about your career plans.”

I can already tell this is going to be a long lunch, so I reach out and start chugging my water.

“I have career plans,” I say back, not really wanting to go through this again but knowing I don’t have a choice.

“Like what?”

“I want to be a poet. Work in publishing. Something.”

Mom sighs. “Listen, Cali, I know--”

“I don’t want to work at your fucking company, Mom,” I hiss. Barely five minutes into the conversation and they’re already making my blood boil. This may be a new record.

I restrain myself from standing up and running out of the building altogether by digging my fingernail deep into my palm. It burns, but at the very least it keeps my composure, something I’d hardly be able to do otherwise.

Mom looks desperately to Dad, who in turn gives me his usual blank, disappointed stare. “Cali,” he says, sighing, “I know you have this deluded fantasy that you can make a living writing poetry--”

My stomach churns, and I dig my fingers deeper into my palm. Oh hell. “Deluded?” I say, letting the words shoot off my tongue.

So maybe they won’t kill me after all. I may end up killing them first.

“Do you seriously think you can make it as a poet?” Mom interjects, pushing aside her menu and leaning closer to me.

“I don’t know, Mom,” I say. “I don’t know. But I’d really prefer not ‘making it’ doing what I love than ‘making it’ doing something that makes me miserable, like you are clearly pushing me toward.”

“Honey,” my mom whispers, trying to play innocent. She still hasn’t learned it doesn’t work on me. “We aren’t trying to make you miserable,” she continues, her brown eyes locked on mine. “We just want what’s best for you.”

“Then why do
you
get to decide what’s best for me?” I say. I think I’m going to go crazy. Or no. Maybe worse. Like a full-on insane kind of thing.

Something hot and wet glistens in my eyes, and I stiffen automatically when I feel it. Holy fuck. I’m going to cry. I’m seriously going to cry. Right here. Right now. It’s as if all of the emotions, all of the pain and emptiness and everything since the last time I saw them is crashing down on me at once.

I want to throw something. Punch something. Kick something. Let out all the tears. Anything to get rid of this hurt in my heart.

Mom looks at me sadly, cocking her head to the side and puckering her lips into that pity-face I hate so goddamn much. “You’re just a kid, sweetie,” she says.

“Just a kid? I’m an adult, Mom! I’m twenty fucking years old! And I may not be able to find a stable job, but I sure as hell know what I do and don’t like. I’m already miserable enough, big thanks to you. I can make my own decisions, and I’m not going to make myself feel even worse by joining your goddamn company. I don’t care if you think it’s good for me. I don’t care if you’re trying to help. Because
you aren’t helping
.” The words race out of my mouth before I can stop them, hard and angry and all true, and Mom looks shocked that I’d stand up to her. Dad, of course, just shakes his head. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him not upset with me.

We’re silent for a long while after that, and I let out a breath, hating myself all the more for what I said. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, meaning it. I love them. I really do. But after everything, it’s hard not to hate them too. “What are you getting for lunch?” I say to change the subject, pulling out my menu.

Both of them just stare at me, perplexed and heartbroken and so, so disappointed. And I hate it. I hate their disappointment. I know how miserable they make me and they made Ben and yet, I still cling to this hope that if I just try hard enough, if I just show them how much I love poetry, maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to impress them. Maybe I’ll change their mind. Maybe they’ll appreciate me. Maybe they’ll even accept me.

But they don’t, and every single time, my heart breaks with theirs.

I tried this plan all of freshman year. They hated that I was going to a non-Ivy League or engineering-based school, but they paid for me anyway, so I worked my ass off to get all A’s and B’s and show them that I can be successful too. Even after all the wrong they caused Ben and me, I still tried to win over their approval like a complete fucking idiot. But it’s no surprise that when I came home for the summer with the stellar grades, smiling and ready for them to finally accept me, they just shook their heads and told me flat-out that they’re wasting their time, energy, and money on me and that I was worse than Ben.

So I’ve officially given up. I’ve stopped trying. I let myself fail my classes time and time again just to prove a point. I tell myself I’m doing it for Ben, to send my parents a message that controlling my life like they did with his was what caused all of this, but I know in my heart I’m doing this for me. Because I am selfish. Because I am scared.

A part of me feels almost guilty about it, with the threat of academic probation looming, and I hate that after everything, I still want my parents to notice me. I hate that I keep hoping things will change, because they never do. No matter what I do, whether I fail or excel, I am always going to be their disappointment of a daughter. I am always going to be the one who was always too afraid to follow in Ben’s footsteps.

“Well,” my dad finally says. “It looks like we need to talk some sense into you.” He opens his mouth to say more, probably to lecture me for the next hour about what a hopeless waste of his money I am even though I already got
that
talk six months ago to open my sophomore year, when Mom puts a hand on his arm.

“Walter,” she says, piercing brown eyes trained on me. “Don’t.”

I think she thinks she’s helping, when really, she is doing absolutely nothing. Dad starts to argue, but then he looks at her, sighs once again, and gives in. With a grunt he goes back to picking at the piece of bread on his plate.

The waitress comes by then, momentarily saving me from the hell that is this conversation, takes our orders, and disappears into the kitchen.