#Kissing (Rock and Romance #1) (12 page)

Chapter 32

I get back in bed, stuffing my head under my pillow as if that will keep the comment that slipped out about how Niko broke my heart from repeating ceaselessly in my head.

My phone vibrates and buzzes, but I ignore it in favor of a mightier issue. I don't want to talk with myself right now and certainly not with parents, concerned friends, or the alleged heartbreaker.

Did he have my heart to break? Or was it already broken? This is of far greater concern to me than reminders of disappointment, rumors, and false promises.

I dive into days and nights Niko and I spent together, nights in each other's arms, so much gratuitous sex all over the place—cars, bathrooms, concert venues, restaurants. The lyrics for
Heartlight
come to mind.

Take my heart

And left it in a tangle.

Just left it there to dangle

On the edge of your mind.

A girl I could never forget

We were sewn together, one of a kind
.

I replace the gender pronouns. Girl for boy. I vanish down the hole of regret until I come to the last line of the song.

But no, no, no this heart is all mine, all mine
.

Yes, the physical heart, the organ in my chest is all mine, but a piece of it, a fraction of the non-blood pumping part, which makes up the intangible, center of emotion that somehow lives quietly inside my being aches. It's ached for a long time. I close my eyes, seeing stars behind my lids and then a pair of blue eyes.

It wasn't leaving Niko that hurt so much, but JQ. I've been walking around wounded all this time, trying to make Niko heal it.

The non-badass, analytical, and studious part of me needs to examine this. Images of JQ, our hands brushing, stolen moments after school, and then his final words to me, the ones I carelessly tossed away, drive the ache deeper.

Until the other day, I thought my heart was a cold, dark, knotted thing like the roots of an old tree, hidden under layers and layers of soil.

Those blue eyes were the ones I saw when I shared the most intimate parts of myself with Niko. They were in my dreams. They were in my thoughts, constantly.

The yearbooks and photo albums on my bookshelf are precisely where I left them, but recently dusted. Maybe they hold an explanation. I pull out my yearbook first.

There's the usual
You're the greatest. Don't ever change. So glad we were together for four years, best years ever
.

So many empty absolutes.

I was not the greatest, damn straight I was going to change and no, those weren't the best four years ever. They sucked.

When I get to the
Q
page, there he is. Jesse Quaid. Sandy blond hair. The wet sand color, not the dry. Eyebrows that express humor and concern equally well. Shoulders that would one day be broad.

My chest throbs and then evens out as though calmed by the photo. I pull out albums; pictures of the two of us before he got behind the lens and photography became his passion.

There we are, doing double cannon balls off the side of the pool, in front of the tree on Christmas eve; a Quaid-Speedwell tradition before the divorce. Another with our eyes lit up with laughter under a golden sun. Then there are moody teen shots, the camera mostly focusing on me, on up through the years at various school events. My mom got me an album with pages for annual highlights, moving chronologically through the years. The graduation page is empty.

I lean against the side of my bed. JQ tried to help me hold everything together, but I couldn't do it. I unraveled and not even he expressing his love for me, his desire for us to be together, after all those years of friendship, could stop me.
I love you, Josephine; please stay. Please be with me.
Those were his last words, a confession, him baring his heart. I'm the one who broke it, along with my own.

Symptoms of a broken heart include:

An ache in the chest, including discomfort and heaviness.

Palpitations.

Nausea

Sweating.

Headache, dizziness.

I rest my head against his color photo in the yearbook, my eyes swimming with salty liquid, and my head spinning. I draw a deep breath, imagining JQ's peppermint smell and his breath on my cheek when I fell from the tree.

The symptoms also fit neatly into the category of hyperglycemia, meaning I forgot to take my medicine, again. I'm pushing myself to the edge. I root through my bag, my hands shaking, and find my insulin.

Fifteen minutes later, stable and energized, I take a shower— where I do some of my best thinking.

I have to stay here, at least for a little while, which means appeasing my mother.

I need money, which means getting a job of some sort.

I can't bear the agony and humiliation of returning to this small town, which means I need to come up with an exit strategy and stat.

I have toast and jam, and call the first few nannying jobs on my list. Taken, filled, no longer necessary. I try a fourth, which didn't sound as promising.

"Hi, my name is Josephine, and I'm calling to inquire about the nanny job I saw posted online in the Cranville Chronicle."

"Please come at one-thirty." The accented voice gives me an address and hangs up. That was abrupt and weird. I charge my phone in case I need to call for rescue.

Chapter 33

The midmorning sun stamps patches of light across the dinette, and I follow it like a beacon to the yellow house next door. I doubt JQ's there, probably back in New York, attending school, and being an adult.

When we were really little, along with his siblings, we used to play Peter Pan; I was always Wendy, the sensible one. Really, I should have been Peter. He rotated through the cast, his favorite: Nana the dog, though he was more of a John Darling minus the glasses. He could probably pull off the jaunty hat if that's all he had on.

Pink sprints across my cheeks, heating them up at the thought. I shake my head, in shock and awe. I've never pictured him like that, naked, provocative, and why the top hat of all things? I double-check my glucose levels.

Normal. I sigh.

#LosingMyMind

More troublesome are the dozen variations on the conversation I've scripted to have with JQ should we meet again. They didn't involve my then-boyfriend, getting all kinds of gummy in public, ready to have sex on the subway, or me passing out and falling out of a tree. I've started to dial or text him countless times, rehearsed our reunion, my apology, and his understanding…

I sent him the picture of a sunrise after an alcohol fueled night, I think. I check my phone. Yep. Why did I reach out to him under the dawning sky at that precise moment? Because Niko wasn't there? Because stepping right to the edge before going over is what I do?

Why?

Because of that last dawn when JQ and I woke up together. Before we fell asleep, there hadn't been a moon and the sky was a shimmering, sparkling ceiling high above. When we woke up, we leaned closer and closer. We kissed. It was magical, like the stars and the sun and the moon were inside me. Then he professed his love.

My last words to him were…
It's not you. It's just that I can't give a fuck right now.

I was scared and stupid.

But this isn't the he-wanted-her and she-didn't-want-him, but when she-can-no-longer-have-him-she-wants-him scenario. #MajorDrama

That's crazy, too cliché, too soft. Too not me. Because I do give a fuck. I have all along. That's why I see his eyes when I close mine.

In my defense, his confession was poor timing because I was on the brink of rebellion. I had to sever ties, all of them, even the ones that tethered my heart. Now I'm left with a frayed knot. If my mother had had her way, she would have arranged our marriage from the moment she saw his chubby little cheeks at his first birthday party when we moved in next door. And if nothing else, I live my life in opposition. Mostly to her.

I pad across the yard to the Quaid's back porch. A pot filled with the dried stalks of dead flowers sits in the center of the outdoor furniture table. The hose is unraveled. A random sock and glove are on the step. As far as I know, none of the Quaids have a hand for a foot or vice versa. A few errant pool toys scatter from the end of the season. It's the well-lived-in chaos of a family of seven.

I stop. I'm more front door material these days. Walking right into their house like I used to probably isn't an option.

I ring the doorbell.

Mrs. Quaid, as jolly as ever, greats me with a hug.

I expect her to worry over me, express disappointment over the scandalous gossip, easily accessible online. What I remember most about Mrs. Quaid, what I love about her, is she meets you where you are. An excellent quality, or necessity, born out of having five hundred children. Having been an only child, five seemed like five hundred, but I loved every minute I spent with them. I wish my mother were more like Mrs. Quaid.

We exchange a few pleasantries, and she explains Mr. Quaid's father passed away recently.

I express my condolences, recalling how close JQ and his grandfather were—I certainly relate to that kind of loss.

"I suppose you're looking for JQ. He's been coming home on weekends to help clear out the old house. It won't be the same. Ronald wanted to move up there, but with the kids out of this house now, it would be too big. I could have used all that space five, ten years ago. Anyway, I expect to see JQ Friday night. Don't say anything, but I think he's a little homesick." She says the letters
JQ
like Jake-y. My heart flutters because that's what I called him too, before I told him I couldn't give any fucks.

I forgive her for being so polite. If someone like me so flagrantly crushed my son, I'd show her where to take it, and it would involve my shoe in her ass.

"Want to come in? Have some tea?"

I do want to. I want to steep in the Quaid's household even if it's just Mrs. Quaid catching up on housework and filling me in on the passage of time.

"I have an appointment. A nanny job over in Riverton. I wanted to say hi, but also thank JQ for, um, helping me the other night."

"Oh, he didn't mention seeing you. I'll tell him you stopped by."

The words
you don't have to
are on my lips, but I hold them there. "Thanks," I say instead. "Thank you for everything." I toss myself into her arms and squeeze tight, letting her mom-ness fill me up, and absorb a dash or two of Quaid-ness while I'm at it. They all smell like peppermint soap.

Chapter 34

My old car, a sensible Toyota—a hand-me-down from my mother—starts right up. She called it 'Ole Gennie. I call it not an Escalade. I resent the houses and stores I pass for not changing since the last time I was here or for the last 20 years for that matter. It's as loud and as uncomfortable as static.

Ah, I stand corrected, a new coffee shop sits on the corner a few blocks away from my old high school—probably a favorite spot for students after school. The diner across the street is full with the lunch crowd. New graduating class, same old story.

I pop in the coffee shop, in need of fortification to meet my possible employer. Behind the counter, Penny Johnson, hidden behind an abundance of dark hair, fusses with the espresso machine. I remember her as a mousy girl with a 90's era grunge thing going on. Either that or during senior year on laundry day she wore her brother's band T-shirts. I noticed only because I found those dark and angry anthems before the Halos, but they didn't quite provide the right combination of grit and glitter.

She glances over her shoulder at me with soulful eyes from the smooth brown-bronze skin of her face. When she turns, I see curves. Like whoa curves. Never mind the grunge thing going on, now she's just got it going on. She's sweet and innocent and totally doesn't know how hot she is.

When she turns to take my order, she actually gasps. It's soft, but a gasp nonetheless. "Josie?"

I brace myself for the
what happened to you?
scenario.

"Wow. I haven't seen you since—"

I resist rolling my eyes.

"Actually, I saw some pictures of you online and—"

I scan for snark—none detected, but I interrupt anyway. "If that's the case, let's bypass the chitchat and you can take my order." I present a smile to counteract my bitchiness; I don't want her to spit in my drink.

Her grin falters and her eye twitches.

"I need caffeine pronto." I'm also not interested in rehashing the details to someone who may as well be a stranger, but I remind myself I don't need to take out the villagers while I raze the castle—my mother being the resident queen who I'm currently overthrowing.

"What would you like?" she asks.

"To get out of here."

Her face falls.

I dial down the mega-bitch. Slightly. "Oh, you mean what beverage? How about a grande, quad, nonfat, two-pump, extra-whip, mocha."

She squeaks.

"I'm kidding. I'll just take a dirty chai."

She raises her eyebrows.

I go behind the counter, scanning for tools and ingredients. "You learn how to make this well and that tip jar will be full." I go about demonstrating the shot of espresso, chai, milk, and foam beverage. I pass it to her. "Take a sip."

Her eyes light up. "Whoa."

"I know. Now you can make me one."

While I wait, I'm already eager to leave. A few of my former classmates gather at a table in the back by the drink pick-up counter. Is this reunion day or did these chumps not get the memo: get the heck out of town, as fast as you can, there's the whole wide world out there for you to explore!

Their heavy eyes suggest they're stoned. I feign fascination with the bulletin board advertising dog walking services, snow plowing, and other ads until Penny calls my name. Of course, everyone turns. One of the guys, a twin—Kaden or Braden—, hops to his feet and wraps his arms around me. "Josie, where ya been?"

Not answering, I shuffle out from his hug and take my beverage.

"Party at my place tonight, well, mine and Jaden's apartment. You should come. 531 Highland. Penny, you should come too," he says as she holds out my drink.

Penny tosses me an appreciative smile as though her invitation has something to do with me. I was one of the lucky ones—relatively liked, and I escaped though I'm back, so hashtag fail and all that.

Whatever, I'll go. It's not like I have anything better to do.

"I can pick you up, if you want," I tell Penny. This is mostly so I don't have to be in the house battling my mother and insomnia.

Her face lights up like it's Christmas, New Year's, and the Fourth of July combined. "For real?"

We exchange numbers before I leave.