Every Little Secret (Second Chances #2) (10 page)

Her hands find the bare skin under my shirt. Immediate heat burns and I find the skin on her back. I push her back until she bumps up against the wall.
 

“Noah,” she whispers.

“Yeah,” I murmur, tracing her cheek with my lips until I find her mouth.

“Wanna get out of here?”

“Can you drive?”

“Sure can.” She kisses my neck, gentle drops of liquid fire. “I can think of much more interesting ways to pass the time.”

Finally we make it to her house, a large colonial that reeks of money. “My parents are gone for the night. Want to come in?”

“Can I see your bedroom?” I ask, my words heavy with suggestion.

She shrugs and raises her eyebrows in a gesture of maybe, maybe not. “Only one way to find out.”

I follow her inside but instead of heading upstairs, she leads me down into the basement and her parents’ liquor cabinet. Within minutes we have downed two shots of vodka. It burns a trail through my chest. I grab for her but she ducks behind the granite bar.

She pours me another shot.

I laugh and lean across the bar counter to kiss her. She kisses me back then pushes away, giggling, teasing.

“What do you want, Noah?” she asks.

I lick the rim of the shot glass. “To take the next shot off your chest.”

She studies me. “You bad boy.” She jumps up onto the counter, whips off her shirt, lays across the bar, and pours a shot down the front of her chest. “Go for it, Ace.”

I take her body in, the black lace bra. My body is responding, more than ready for what she’s offering, yet, even in my drunken stupor, I can tell something is off. This isn’t happening naturally. As much as I want to, I don’t take her up on her offer. I was joking. Using my shirt, I dry her off. Then gently, I guide her off the counter. We stumble back and land on the couch.

“You’re more of a gentlemen than I thought.”
 

“Shh. Don’t tell anyone. It’s a secret.”
 

“Trust me. I won’t.” Then she says, “I don’t think I’ll make it up to my bedroom.”

“I don’t think I will either.”

She puts her hand on the button of my pants and leans in for a kiss, hungry and passionate and drunk. Just like me as the shots take full effect
.

***

Back at my parents’ house, my house, I slump over at the kitchen table, a root beer in front of me. I trace lines in the frost, the cold glass numb against my fingertips. It counteracts the heat at the memory of Dalia. The memory that just keeps getting stronger and returning with a vengeance since my relationship with Carly.
 

But it’s not the same. I know it’s not. Carly is not Dalia. I’m not the same cocky boy I was in high school, who thought nothing could touch him. That life would always be easy, a smooth ride that would take me wherever I wanted to go.

I screw off the cap to the bottle and guzzle the root beer, wishing it contained something with a little bit more kick. How can I tell her about Dalia? I’m not being honest and at some point I need to tell her everything, before our secret friendship can turn into something more. It’s lying underneath our pretense of friendship, simmering, biding its time for the right moment.

When will that be? What about Chad? Is she ready for another relationship so soon? And will it be the right timing? Or will it be too late for us? For the truth?

Chapter 7

Carly

I pull up the hood of my sweatshirt and tuck my hair into it. I stand flat against the wall. A slight breeze drifts through campus almost as if it can’t decide which direction it wants to go. The leaves in the trees twitch and then lay still. A second later, a piece of trash skips across the walkways to lie under a bush. One moment the breeze caresses my face; the next I’m in a dead spot, forgotten.

Noah walks by. I refuse the emotion that bristles in my eyes, wanting release, wanting to make me feel something, but just like the breeze, I can’t control what happens in my life. Life isn’t always fair that way.

I spot his head bobbing in the flow of students and then I drink him in. His dark jeans, slightly rumpled shirt and somewhat messy hair. He’s focused today, his stride fast, his gaze set forward. I didn’t have to worry about being invisible or not.

My watch alarm beeps. Time to go to work.
 

I hesitate outside the office door, my hand on the knob. I want to walk away but my dad’s grip on my life is suffocating. I’d lose college, everything. One day, it’ll happen. I’ll break free and fly, my cage falling to pieces around me.
 

With a deep breath, I enter, and carefully let the mask fall over my face, hiding any signs of weakness or fear. I tiptoe to the copy room, not sure what to expect. I open it and peek in to find it empty. I turn on the light and get to work.

A stack of papers lay on the floor, ready for me to organize and put away. I hate being free labor and a way for Dad to hide his indiscretions. This knowledge weighs on me as I work, filing the papers away, finding the spot on the shelves for the folders.

I take a break and fill my water bottle from the cooler. Dad enters a few minutes later, harried, his hair mussed. I watch him smooth his hair and hang his coat. Again, I’m invisible for the moment. I want to speak up, say hello, but he’s in a rush. He enters his office and I slink back to the copy room.

It’s been quiet and safe at work the past couple weeks. Since his last outburst, he’s pretty much ignored me, except for polite conversation and lectures about not letting my grades fall or we might need to consider other options. I still hope that one day he’ll ask how I’m doing outside of monetary reasons. Not that I’d give him more than a one-word answer, but it would mean something and I could tuck it away as a positive memory in our history, and maybe the next time I’d answer.

The office is now closed but Dad works late and so do I. I continue to file, quietly, counting down the minutes until I can leave.
 

The door to the outside opens. Voices murmur low enough that I can’t hear. I stop shuffling the papers and slide one more folder into the stacks. The voices move into my dad’s office. I glance at the stack I need to photocopy and the papers I need to shred before I can leave. I have a bad feeling. I should leave now before it’s too late. I rush to the copy machine and get started. Paper after paper. Double-sided copies.

Part way through, it starts. It’s subtle at first. Something falls and thuds to the floor next door. A couple minutes later, the wall vibrates as something or someone bangs up against it.
 

I move on to shredding.

The movement next door becomes frantic. The groans seep through the cracks in the walls and fill this small room, the echo growing until it’s all I hear. I shred the last paper and then slide to the floor. All I can do is wait, my hands over my ears.

I sit like this for minutes? Hours? I wait until the noises stop, until the door closes, until my dad gathers his belongings and their laughter dies as they leave the building. Then my whole body sags as if I was holding my breath the entire time. Silently, I gather my stuff, lock up, and leave.

Chad texts, inviting me to The Salty Dog. He wants to talk. I drive over on automatic. Why not? We both deserve a little closure.
 

The time passes in the car, my mind blank, the scenery flashing by but I barely acknowledge it. I park and walk in on stilted legs. The smell of beer and sweat crash into me and I push ahead to the normal table. I nod to Jimmy but make sure I focus on Chad.
 

“Hey baby,” he whispers and passes me a beer.

“Hey,” I say. “Thanks.”
 

I sit there, waiting for his talk, to listen to his words sweet-talking me into a relationship. He does all the right things. He rubs my back. He smiles and makes sure to connect with me. He laughs at Jimmy’s jokes and even tells a few of his own. The whole time passes like a dream as I remember back to first meeting Chad.
 

His rebellious nature sucked me in, his dark looks, the pain in his eyes that reflected mine. I knew he understood and there’d be no pretending. But I was wrong. That’s what our relationship turned into—me pretending, going through the motions, not thinking, barely feeling anything.
 

It’s in this moment, sitting still, replaying my history with Chad and trying to forget the echoes in my head of my dad’s indiscretion that my heart wrenches. Knowledge dawns in my soul as sure as the sun is setting outside and the shadows are growing longer. I tense with what seems so obvious. I need to walk away. Now. I broke up with him! And here I am acting like it never happened, letting him suck me back in.
 

Chad pulls me into his lap, his arm curling protectively around me. I used to like that. I used to need that to feel protected. I wobble on his lap, balancing on his knees. Why? Why can’t I just spit it out? Tell him the truth that’s lighting up my insides. The itch to leave returns, a bright ball growing bigger, burning and spluttering with the desire to live. For myself.
 

I take a deep breath and pull away from Chad. “I’m sorry. I have to leave, have to go.”
 

His dark eyes study me, questioning, paranoid. He nods to his friends. “I’ll be right back.” He leads me outside.

My nerves go haywire. The fresh air outside feels weightless compared to the atmosphere inside The Salty Dog. I wipe my hands against my jeans. “I meant what I said the other day.”

Chad drags me to the side of the building. He turns, his eyes flashing. He takes a few deep breaths as if he’s promised himself not to get mad at me anymore, but some part of me sets him off like a firework.

“I think we can make it work.” He searches me, looking for some hint that I’ll accept him back.

I sigh. “Do you ever wonder if maybe we’re not good for each other?” I ask, my words carrying the truth.

“No way, baby.” He tries to pull me close. “Sure we have our ups and downs but that’s normal.”

I jerk away. “I’m serious. Almost every week I do something that sets you off. No matter how truthful or how careful I hide the truth—”

“What do you mean, hide the truth?” he spits out. No longer trying to hold me.

“I don’t always feel like I can be honest with you.”

“Like you’re screwing around with someone else?” he sneers.

“God, no.” I raise my voice. “Will you just listen to how paranoid you are? And this is all the time. I can’t breathe without you getting suspicious.”
 

“So this is all my fault?” He crosses his arms, his eyes turning stormy.

I hesitate. Is it? “No. It’s not yours. It’s not mine. I think we rub each other the wrong way.”
 

The shadows fall across his face. I can’t tell if he’s listening and contemplating that I might be right or if he’s furious.
 

“How many times have I pissed you off?” I push him to really think about our past together. All the times, all the small moments and the big moments that he’s pissed me off or I set him off. There are too many to count. “How many times have we blown up at each other? How many times, Chad? Answer me that.”

He’s silent, brooding. I tense to run because this is the kind of honesty that could set him off in a big way.

“Sure we’ve had our problems,” he says, slowly at first. “But I’m happy with you. You make me happy.”

“Really? I doubt it. I think we’ve tried to convince ourselves of that but if we strip away all that and look at the facts, the hurtful words and actions…we’re just not good for each other.”

With each word I speak, the more I realize that what I’m saying is the truth, it’s my truth and it’s his truth.
 

I reach for his hand. “I think with the right girl, you’d be magnificent. You’d be the kind of boyfriend that every girl dreams of standing by her side. You’d be some girl’s hero.” My voice falls. “Just not mine.”

He stiffens, his back straightening, his arms unnaturally hanging by his side. I want to reach inside Chad and convince him of this truth, that’s he’s worthy of some nice girl he can sweep off her feet, who doesn’t piss him off and set his rage flying. But he doesn’t or won’t accept this truth. He brushes past me and walks back inside.

I deflate. I am right, right? I’m so tired of feeling like shit, of believing that I’m not worth it. I’m tired of falling into relationships that don’t work, where I’m not really feeling anything.
 

I’m sick of it.

I pull out my phone and call a cab. I wish I could text Noah, but he might not want this or me after I’ve rejected his efforts so many times. If he wants a clean break from our secret friendship on the edge of something more then I’ll walk away.

I’ll be crushed but I’ll walk away.

Noah

It’s evening. I used to love this time of day but with my current status of attending the nearby college and living with my parents, it’s just a reminder of everything I’ve lost. I enter the kitchen in my workout clothes and guzzle water.

Tonight, just for the night, my parents are gone to some bed and breakfast. I have free reign. I can eat when I want. I can eat watching television. I don’t have to eat at all if I don’t want to.
 

I’m going to run, pound the pavement, and forget. Forget what an ass I made of myself with Carly. Forget the twinge of sadness that our friendship seems too complicated to work. I try and shake off the thoughts and hit the road.

The sky is clear and it will be a beautiful night. The air is crisp and cool. Perfect for running. The road flies under my feet, the first couple miles passing effortlessly. I push harder. Sweat stings my eyes and soaks my shirt.
 

This pace feels good. If I push hard enough I can’t think of anything else but my lungs screaming for air and the muscles burning for relief. I head toward my own personal heartbreak hill, a steep road that eventually leads back to my house. I’ve been training on this hill, this same route since my freshman year in high school. The sameness of this road is like an old friend, it’s been with me through everything. The pavement knows my feet and the troubles I’ve let fall away during my workouts.