Deadly Little Lessons (19 page)

I
’
M ALONE IN MY ROOM
, and the salty beach air filters in through the window, making me feel both restless and cold. I crawl into bed and pull the covers over me, suddenly realizing that I’m famished. I almost wish that my dad were here so that we could sneak out for chips and chalupas. I roll over, facing the window, thinking how adamant he was about defending his and Mom’s decision to keep the truth about my birth a secret.

And as much as I hate to admit it, I can’t help wondering what difference it would’ve made if he and Mom had told me the truth years earlier, when I was Sasha’s age, perhaps.

Would I have ended up just like her?

The question haunts me, spinning around inside my head, colliding with all my other questions—like a video game gone awry. After at least an hour of trying to come up with answers, my thoughts start to dull and blur, and I begin to nod off.

A knock on the door startles me awake. I open my eyes and sit up in bed. It’s a little after seven a.m. I get up, assuming it’s Wes, that he wants me to join him for breakfast. I open the door, my eyes widening, unable to grasp who it is that’s standing there, just inches from me.

I pinch my skin, noticing I have goose bumps. This isn’t a dream. I’m not asleep. There’s no way this is part of a hallucination.

“Ben.” His name is like candy inside my mouth.

Without even thinking, I slide my arms around his waist and rest my head against his chest. He smells like bike fumes. “What are you doing here?” I ask, able to feel his heart beat fast beneath my cheek. “And how did you get in?”

“I came here,” he says, wrapping his arms around me as well, “because this is where you said you were.”

I get dizzy just holding him like this, just breathing him in.

Ben moves to take my hand. “Come on,” he says, closing the door and leading me back inside my room. He sits me down on the bed. His skin is extra tan, most likely from riding around on his motorcycle and roaming the streets playing tourist all day. “I’ve missed you,” he says, making my insides ignite.

Part of me wants to tell him how much I’ve missed him, too. But I don’t, because I don’t want to get hurt. And I don’t because of Adam. Instead, I squeeze his hand harder, hoping he can feel how much I’ve ached.

“I got your message,” he says, pulling his hand away. Maybe the sensation is too intense. “So, tell me what’s going on.” His dark gray eyes never stray from my face.

I break down and tell him about my parents, how for years they kept a secret from me: “My dad isn’t my real dad,” I say. “And Aunt Alexia is actually my mother.”

Ben’s face doesn’t show a speck of surprise, but then again it never really does. Maybe it’s because of everything he’s been through, everything he’s already seen and heard. Or maybe it’s because he doesn’t
want
to show surprise and inflict his feelings on me.

“So, who
is
your real dad, then?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I say, proceeding to tell him about the intern at the halfway house where Alexia once stayed, how he was kicked out of his college program as a result of violating the facility’s code of ethics, and how he has his own life now.

“But he still might want you in it,” Ben says. “Do you think you might want that, too?”

I shrug, unable to fathom the idea of a father who isn’t the dad I know.

Ben asks me a few more questions—basically about whether my aunt’s aware that I know the truth and how my parents are feeling as a result of my finding out. I answer everything, still uncertain about how to feel. But what’s nice is that Ben doesn’t tell me how to feel either. He doesn’t try to fix things or provide any anecdotes. Instead, he simply cradles me against his chest and asks me to tell him more.

Lying face to face on my bed now, we spend the next two hours talking things out, only our hands touching. Ben slides his fingers up and down the length of mine. The motion itself seems innocent enough, but I couldn’t feel more yearning.

“Can you tell what I’m thinking?” I ask, clasping his hand in mine. The warmth of his skin is intoxicating.

Ben blinks hard, as if he does indeed know, but his face remains completely serious. “Do you want to talk about what you’ve been sculpting?”

A stream of sunlight shines in through the window, illuminating his face, which glistens with perspiration. I gaze at his mouth, remembering having mentioned my mysterious (and disastrous) sculptures during my phone message to him.

“Are you searching for a girl?” he asks, gazing at my mouth now, too.

My cell phone rings before I can answer him. At first, I ignore it. But after four rings, Ben rolls onto his back and insists that I get it.

I reluctantly lean over him to answer the phone, pausing when I see Adam’s name flash across the screen.

“Hi, Adam,” I say, realizing that my voice sounds less than enthusiastic.

“Hey,” he says, seemingly oblivious of my halfhearted tone. “Do you have a second? We need to talk.”

“I agree. But I’m a little tied up at the moment. Can I call you back?”

“I’m actually in your lobby.”

“What?”

“Would you mind calling down here to tell them that I’m safe?”

What is it?
Ben mouths.

I hang up without thinking. “Adam’s here,” I say. “Downstairs. He’s on his way up to my room.”

“I should go,” Ben says, getting up from the bed. “You two should have some time on your own.”

“No,” I say, getting up, too. “Don’t go. Please. It’s not like we have anything to hide here.”

Standing right in front of me now, his eyes go slightly squinty, as if maybe my words have hurt him, and then he goes out the door.

A
FTER BEN LEAVES
, I call down to the lobby to tell the person working at the front desk that it’s okay if Adam comes up. When he arrives at my door, I invite him inside, but he wants to take a walk instead.

“Why?” I ask, though I can see from the look on his face—his swollen eyes and the tenseness of his mouth—that something is definitely wrong. “I mean, what’s going on? What are you doing here?”

“Let’s go for a walk,” he insists, as if he’s planned it all out and being outdoors will somehow make what he has to say easier.

“Tell me what’s going on,” I say, my mind racing as I try to guess the reason for this impromptu visit.

He shuffles his feet and looks at the ground. “I really care about you,” he says, stuffing the tips of his fingers into the pockets of his jeans. “But, I don’t know. I feel like things were a lot easier before. I mean, I understand there’s a lot going on with you right now, but I almost feel like what’s going on is pulling us apart.”

“It is.” I close the door behind him and then sit down on my bed. “But only because you don’t want to hear about my problems. You just want things to go back to normal.”

“And why can’t they?” he asks. “Why can’t you deal with the news and move on? Why are you letting it dictate your life?”

“I have a right to feel what I’m feeling, Adam.”

“Okay, but at what cost?” He comes and sits down beside me. “We had something really good, Camelia.”

“Had or have?”

“That depends,” he says, taking my hands. “I’m willing to talk about what’s bothering you, but you have to be willing to help yourself.”

“That’s why I’m here,” I say. “I wanted to get away, remember?”

“Yes, but being away means putting distance between us, too. I mean, if you were away and I felt secure about us, that would be one thing. But you keep sending me mixed messages, so I never know where we stand.”

“So, wait, are you trying to say that you drove all the way out here just to tell me that our relationship isn’t working?”

“Would you have preferred if I’d said it over the phone? I care for you too much, Camelia.”

“I care about you, too,” I say. “And you’re right; our relationship
isn’t
working, but I’m not the only one who sends mixed messages. You say you want me to tell you how I’m feeling, but can you honestly say that’s true? You don’t want to hear about the tough stuff. You just want me to be happy all the time.”

“Is that so bad?”

“It’s not bad,” I tell him. “But it’s also not realistic—at least, not all the time. Not everyone can simply blink their problems away.”

“No one’s asking you to blink them away, but it isn’t healthy to dwell on them, either.”

A breeze comes in through the window, sending shivers all over my skin. Should I be relieved that we’re finally verbalizing what’s obviously been on both our minds? Or heartbroken that our relationship has come to this?

“There’s something else,” Adam says, giving my hands a squeeze. “This isn’t easy for me to tell you, so I’m just going to say it.” He swallows hard and then takes a breath. “I lied about saving your life.”

“Excuse me?”

“At that guy’s apartment,” he explains. “When you went to save Danica’s sister…”

I nod, wincing at the memory of breaking into that psychopath’s apartment four months ago, seeing Danica’s sister tied up and gagged, and getting beaten up so badly that I blacked out.

I remember waking up, but still only half conscious, and seeing a blur of two guys fighting. Later, Ben told me that Adam and Jack (the psychopath) had fought and that Adam had saved the day. But I could tell even then—from the way Ben would barely look me in the eye, and from the way it seemed he was passing me off to Adam (the hero), trying to convince me what a great guy Adam was—that he wasn’t telling the truth about the way things had played out.

“I hadn’t intended on lying,” Adam continues. “But when Ben said it—that I’d saved you—I kind of just went along with it. It didn’t feel right, but I guess I liked the idea of being your hero.”

I nod again, relieved to know the truth. Ben
was
the one who saved me that day.

“So why are you telling me this now?” I ask, suspecting that it might be his way of distancing us.

“I just thought that you should know.” He lets go of my hands. “It’s been bothering me for a while. And we promised not to keep secrets.”

“I remember,” I say, fully aware that I haven’t been completely open about everything, either.

“Do you hate me?”

I slide the back of my hand against his cheek. The heart-shaped charm on the bracelet he gave me dangles against his chin. “I don’t think I could ever hate you.”

“So where does that leave us now?”

“I’m still going to be dealing with stuff,” I tell him. “I mean, I want to move past this, but it’s going to take some time.”

“How
much
time?” He smirks.

“I’m not sure.” I shake my head, almost amused that he would ask, but unsurprised that he doesn’t offer to wait. “This drama doesn’t have an expiration date.”

“In other words, it’ll just fester inside you?”

“What can I say? I’m a festering kind of girl.”

“A festering girl who needs some time on her own,” he says, meeting my gaze.

I hug him—hard—until my arms ache.

“Call me for anything,” he says. I know he thinks he means it.

“Ditto,” I tell him, confident that I
do
mean it. I’d drop almost anything to be there for him. I give Adam one final kiss before he finally says good-bye.

A
FTER ADAM LEAVES
, I curl up on my bed, remembering that day in Jack’s apartment: being only half conscious, feeling someone stroke the side of my face while he told me how much he loved me. I’d always thought it was part of a dream, but now I’m pretty sure that I was awake, and that the someone was definitely Ben.

I check the clock. It’s after ten. My pottery class is already well under way. It’s certainly tempting to skip it, but instead I grab my bag, reminding myself of why I’m here—or at least why I’m
supposed
to be here—and then I leave the room.

By the time I get to the pottery studio, I’m already an hour and a half late. The door is closed. The hallway is quiet. I try the knob, but the room is locked.

I peek through the vertical window that runs along the door. There’s a row of pottery wheels at the back of the studio. A different student works at each one, while other students await their turns. Professor Barnes looks on, pacing back and forth.

I knock on the door; Professor Barnes comes toward it and our eyes meet. He pauses for just a moment before resuming his pacing, as though I’m not even there.

I knock again, harder this time. Finally, he comes back to the door. He opens it a few inches and furrows his brow in annoyance. “Class has already started,” he says.

“I’m sorry I’m late. I just—”

He holds up his hand to stop me from talking. “Not my concern.”

“Well, can I still come in?” I ask. “I promise to follow along. You don’t have to re-explain anything.”

“You want to come to class, you need to get here on time. It doesn’t get much simpler than that, Ms. Hammond.” He closes the door and returns to the row of students.

In the hallway, I lean my back against the wall and sink down to the ground. I want to hate Barnes, but I know he’s right. My priorities have shifted a bit. I’m not dedicated to my pottery—not the way I used to be.

My cell phone rings in my bag. I fish it out and check the screen. It’s Ben. “Where are you?” I say when I answer.

“Still here, on campus. I didn’t feel right leaving like that, and I saw Adam drive away.… I take it things didn’t go so well?”

“They actually went exactly as they were supposed to,” I say, confident that it’s the truth, “but that doesn’t make it any less hard.”

“Can I come back up to your room?”

My heart pounds. I want to feel happy about talking to him, but I also can’t stop this angst. It knots up in the center of my gut. “Meet me in the lobby,” I tell him.

About ten minutes later, I walk through the lobby doors. Ben is already waiting for me. He’s standing at the front desk.

“Hey,” I say, feeling my insides heat up all over again, despite the hundred-odd reasons I should feel dismal. I sign him in—my fingers shaking—and then lead him upstairs.

Once inside my room, he takes my hand, forcing me to face him. His solemn expression tells me that he can sense the jumble of emotions inside me.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

I wilt into his arms, eager for him to hold me and to feel this anxiety.

Ben leads me to my bed. “Everything will be fine,” he whispers.

Tears of gratitude and sorrow run down my cheeks. I’ve never felt so loved and lost in all my life.