Punk 57 (21 page)

And then the car wash. How excited I felt when he stalked me like I was prey. How the smooth curve of the piercing felt when I slipped the tip of my tongue through the hoop. How he was so patient and not greedy or selfish, just letting me explore.

How his hand inched possessively up under my shirt, sending me reeling.

I bring my fingers up to my mouth, grazing the tip of one with my tongue. It tickles a little, but it’s teasing, too. Did he like it when I did that? I wanted to feel good to him, even if I only admit it to myself.

I trail my hand across my cheek and down my neck, wishing it was his hands. Wishing I could go back to last night and not cut him off, making him take me back to school, so I could get my car and run away.

But the truth is…I’m starting to think about him. A lot, and I don’t know why. Especially when he’s constantly in my face, telling me what I’m doing wrong.

I’ve never been in danger of losing my heart to guys like Trey, but with Masen, I find him consuming my attention. I’m always aware of him.

And the closer I get to him, the further away from Misha I feel. It almost feels like I’m betraying him. Not that we’re romantic, but he has my heart, and I don’t want to give it to anyone else. I feel like Masen threatens that.

I said I would give Misha a few days, but I need to know. Is he safe? Is he alive? Has he just moved on?

Pulling off the covers, I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I look at the clock and see that it’s after nine.

It’s Saturday. I have the whole day free. I could just drive by.

Not like an obsessive stalker girl who just can’t take a hint. No, I can just drive by. Make sure the house hasn’t burned down or isn’t empty, because his father committed some gruesome murder and left town, on the run, with Misha and his sister in the middle of the night.

Who knows? Maybe I’ll see a young guy pulling into the driveway and entering the house, and I’ll be able to tell that it’s him, and then I’ll know that he’s alive and well. I don’t have to have any more answers than that, do I?

Standing up, I throw on a pair of workout shorts, a T-shirt, and a fleece jacket. Pulling my hair up into a messy ponytail, I’m not going to worry about how I look. If I go shower and fix my hair and make-up, I’ll be tempted to knock on his door. If I look like shit, then I won’t leave my car.

After I brush my teeth, I jog down the stairs and swing around the bannister, heading into the kitchen.

“Morning,” my mom says.

I look up to see her and Carson sitting at the table, looking through a magazine together. Probably some home renovation thing, because Mom wants to expand the garage. I open the refrigerator and pull out a bottle of water. “Morning,” I reply.

“The principal called last night,” my sister’s voice rings out.

I falter, slowly closing the fridge door and not looking at her.
Shit
. That’s right.

Did she tell them about what I did to Masen’s truck? Or what I told her I did?

Dammit!

But no. My mom would’ve reamed me last night when I got home. She wouldn’t have waited until this morning.

Plus, I doubt the principal really believed me, but there was little she could do.

“She said you’re going to prom with Trey,” my mom says, walking over to me in her bathrobe and her hair up in a bun. She empties her coffee cup into the sink. “She wanted to know your favorite color for the corsage. Why didn’t you tell us he’d asked you?”

“I forgot.” I shrug, relaxing a little. “You were gone, and I’ve been busy.”

Actually, I didn’t feel it was worth mentioning. Popular girl is going to prom with popular guy. My place in the yearbook is secure.

But I care so little all of a sudden. I wonder how that happened.

She nods, her blue eyes smiling at me as she brushes a fly-away off my cheek. “You’re
too
busy. You leave for college soon. I want to see you.”

I kiss her on the cheek and grab an apple out of the bowl on the center island. “I’ll be home later.”

“Well, where are you going now?”

“To see a friend,” I tell her, turning and walking for the foyer. “I’ll be back.”

“Ryen?” my mom protests.

“Oh, just let her go,” my sister grumbles, standing up and carrying her plate to the sink. “Ryen is so busy and important now. We should be grateful when she graces us with her presence.”

I grab my wallet and keys off the entryway table, clenching my jaw. I don’t remember the last time my sister said anything nice to me. Or me to her, for that matter.

“Carson,” my mom warns.

“What?” my sister says. “I’m happy for her. At least it’s not grade school when she had no friends, and I had to take her everywhere with me so she wouldn’t be alone.”

I swallow the bitter taste in my mouth, not looking at her. She always knows what to say to make me feel small again. The smile I can usually force for my mother’s sake is pressed down deep in my stomach, contained under a pile of bricks, and the agreeable words I can always spit out don’t want to play this time. I’m tired.

I walk out the front door and hop in my Jeep before she says anything else. I don’t care if it’s just his town, just his house, or whatever. I need to see something that’s Misha.

I drive down the quiet, pristine lanes of Thunder Bay, the wind blowing through the open cab of my Jeep as loose strands of my hair fly wildly around me. The sun flickers through the leaves in the trees above, and the sea air wafts all around, filling my lungs with its fresh scent.

Avril Lavigne’s “
Sk8er Boi”
plays on the radio, but I don’t sing along like I usually do. And I barely notice the slight wheezing coming up from my chest as I gape at the homes and lawns on both sides of me.

Holy shit
. I’m way out of my league.

Two and three-story homes with gates and acres and circular driveways bigger than my house stand before me, and the cars that pass by probably cost just as much.

Jesus, Misha.

Not that my house is shabby, of course. It’s more than big enough, and my mother has done a beautiful job decorating it, but these houses are the high-life. For once, I’m really glad I’m driving a Jeep so I can blend in. It’s the only car on the market that doesn’t give away how much or how little you’re worth. There are rich and poor Jeep enthusiasts.

I continue driving, glancing at the map on my GPS and taking a right on Birch and then a left on Girard.

248 Girard
. I’ve known his address by heart since I was eleven. At first I thought, with us being only a half hour away from each other, of course we’d see each other eventually. When we got our licenses and had more freedom.

But by the time that day came, we had lives, friends, and obligations, and it seemed to be enough to know we
could
see each other anytime we wanted to.

If
we wanted to.

I pass the houses and read the numbers written on the columns, walls, and gates at their entrances. 212, 224, 236, and then…

I see it. On the left with a hedge of trees and two small rock columns featuring a walk-through gate and a drive-through gate, which is currently open. It’s a three-story, Tudor-style house, balancing the wood and rock beautifully, and I pull to a stop on the other side of the road to stare at it for a minute.

It’s quaint and picturesque but not as massive or pretentious as so many of the homes I saw on the way here.

But it does have a fountain in the front.

He grew up here. This is where my letters have been coming.

No wonder he complains so much
, I laugh to myself. It’s a great house, but it isn’t him at all. Misha, who got suspended for fighting twice, plays the guitar, and thinks that beef jerky and Monster energy drinks make for a healthy breakfast lives in a house that looks like it could have a butler.

I feel my lungs growing heavy and thick, and I take out the extra inhaler I keep in a secret compartment in the console. Spring is here, and my allergies are going haywire.

I take two puffs, slowly feeling my lungs start to open up again.

I check my phone, seeing the time is nearly ten. I can’t sit here all day, can I? I look up, noticing a couple of women jogging toward me on the sidewalk, and I hear a kid yelling from somewhere in the neighborhood. I tap my foot against the pedal, suddenly torn.

I said I wasn’t going to get out of the car, but... Being this close, possibly only feet away from him, I miss him so much. I need to know what’s going on.

If I go up to that door, our relationship is over as I know it. Maybe it will go on in some other way, when I find out what’s wrong with him, but it won’t be the same once I see his face. Things will change, and I will have broken what worked. It will be awkward, and he won’t have been prepared for me just to show up like this. What if we both just sit there, twiddling our thumbs and not saying anything, because I’m the crazy stalker who hunted him down, and now he feels weird?

“Screw it,” I snap, realizing I’m talking to myself, but I don’t care.

I rely on him. I have a right to. We’ve had that commitment for seven years. If he doesn’t want me to show up, then he damn-well should’ve written back and told me it was over. I have a right to know what’s going on.

Pushing open my door, I hop out of my Jeep and slam it shut. With weak legs and shallow breaths, I jog across the street, pushing my fear out of my head.

Don’t think. Just go.
He’s driving me crazy, and I need it to end. I just need to know.

Walking up the driveway, I dart my eyes around, looking at the windows to see if anyone sees me approaching. I smooth my hair back, readjusting my ponytail as I step up to the door.

I should’ve dressed right. I should be wearing make-up. What if he’s home and sees me and starts laughing? I’m a mess.

No, Misha knows me. He’s the only one who knows the real me. He won’t care what I look like.

I pull the collar of my shirt away from my body and dip my nose in, sniffing. I shower twice a day—at night because I usually get sweaty at cheer and swim and in the morning after my workouts—but I didn’t have one yet today.

Smells fine, I guess. Although my sister did say once that you can’t smell yourself.

I bring up my hand and rap on the door several times. Then I see a doorbell to the right. Dammit, I should’ve rung that.

It doesn’t matter. I fold my arms over my chest, hugging myself, and shift on my feet as I bow my head and close my eyes.

Misha, Misha, Misha, where are you?

I hear the door open, and my heart skips a beat.

“Yes?” someone says.

I blink up and immediately relax a little, taking in a little more air. It’s a man, much older than Misha would be, with graying dark hair and green eyes. His dad?

He’s wearing a dark blue robe, tied over a full set of pajamas, and embarrassment warms my cheeks. It’s a Saturday morning. Maybe he just woke up.

“Uh, hi,” I finally say, unfolding and then folding my arms again. “Is, uh…Misha here? By any chance?”

I see his back straighten a little, as if on guard. “No, I’m sorry, he isn’t,” he replies quietly.

He isn’t.
So he lives here. This is his house. I don’t know why having that confirmed fills me with dread and excitement at the same time.

And this guy must be his father.

“Do you know when he’ll be back?” I ask as politely as I can. “I’m a friend of his.”

His chest rises with a heavy breath and his gaze falls. I notice his cheeks look sunken, and he has bags under his eyes, as if he’s sick or tired or something.

“If you’re a friend, I’m sure you can call him and find out,” he says.

I falter. Yeah, if I were his friend, why wouldn’t I have his cell number?

Maybe he knows who Ryen is. Maybe I should tell him who I am.

“Would you like to leave a message?” he prompts, starting to inch back and preparing to close the door.

“No,” I rush out. “Thank you, sir.”

He nods and swings the door closed.