Trouble from the Start (15 page)

“When you would come to school, all scratched up and bruised, you would say, ‘You should see the other guy,'” I said quietly. I considered my next words. I knew he wouldn't want to hear them, but he couldn't keep holding everything in. “That was him tonight, wasn't it? The other guy? Your father.”

How do you explain to someone whose dad is one of the good guys that your dad isn't?

I was eight the first time my dad took his fists to me. He was drunk. It only happened when he was drunk. He could go months without drinking and then one night something would set him off and he'd hit the bottle—and after a few he'd decide he needed to hit me as well.

I hated him. And I loved him. It made me feel weak that I loved him. But I didn't want to think about all that so I concentrated instead on Avery: the gentle way she touched the damp washcloth to my busted lip, the way she smelled of fried seafood. The strands of her blond hair that had worked themselves loose from her ponytail and framed her face. The white T-shirt that hugged her like a second skin. Her shorts, her bare legs, so incredibly long, her bare
feet, the tiniest toes I'd ever seen.

I noticed all that out of the corner of my eye, because I didn't want her to know I was paying attention to her so I kept my gaze straight ahead, focused on the TV as though the most interesting thing in the world wasn't her but a tornado whipping sharks around.

“When did he first hit you?” she asked.

“I'm not going to talk about it.”

“It's not your fault.”

“You don't need to tend to me.”

“I want to.” She took a tube out of her little box, squeezed some clear gel onto the tip of her little finger, and dabbed it at the corner of my mouth, then above my eye, and finally on the bridge of my nose. After wiping her hand on the washcloth, she removed a bandage from the box, tore off the wrapper—

I snatched her wrist. “You are not putting Spider-Man on me.”

She smiled and the force of it shot straight to my gut.

“Come on,” she said. “It makes ouchies go away.”

“You really should leave,” I told her, before I did something we were both going to regret.

“I'm not going, not until you talk to me. You can't keep all this in.”

“Talking is not what I want to do, and if you don't go—”

“You don't scare me, Fletcher. And you can trust me.”

“That's the problem. You can't trust me.”

I slid my hand around the back of her head and brought her in for a kiss. I ignored the pain from my busted lip. I wanted to frighten her away. I wanted her to realize I wasn't good for her. I wanted her to know that I was dangerous, that I didn't care about her, that I only cared about me.

Instead, she crawled onto my lap, straddled my legs, took my head in both her hands, and kissed me back.

And I was a goner.

She tasted so good, like key lime pie. She combed her fingers through my hair, stroked her hands over my shoulders. I thought nothing in my life had ever felt so good.

I rolled her over until she was stretched out on the couch and we were pressed together. I loved how tall she was. She fit perfectly against me. I could never get enough of this, never get enough of her. There was comfort in her touch, gentleness, eagerness. She wanted the kiss, wanted it as much as I did.

She scared the hell out of me. The way she cared, the way she smiled, the way she made me laugh. I'd never wanted to kiss a girl as much as I wanted to kiss her. I hadn't liked seeing her sitting on the car with Marc. Jealousy had sliced through me. I'd never experienced jealousy before. I knew I had no right to be jealous now.

She belonged with someone like Marc. Someone who
didn't come with a lot of garbage. She wanted honesty and openness. I'd survived by keeping so much hidden for so long. Embarrassment over the way my old man was. Shame at the thought that maybe I deserved the words and fists he flung at me.

But Avery caring, touching me, wanting me—

It was almost too much, too overwhelming. Yet she was an anchor. So sure of herself.

Breaking the kiss, I lifted my head and gazed into her blue eyes. No pity, no sympathy. I wouldn't have been able to stomach either one. I'd always hated the way people who knew the source of my bruises looked at me as though I couldn't take care of myself.

“You don't have to hide from me,” she said.

I pressed my forehead to hers. “He only hits when he gets drunk.”

Her arms tightened around me. “Is that why you drink root beer?”

“I'm afraid I'll be like him.”

“You're not like him. You're nothing like him.”

Her voice held such conviction. I could almost believe her. Swallowing, I rose back up and met her gaze. “You don't know me.”

“But I want to.”

“I don't fit in your world.”

“How do you know? Have you ever tried?”

I shook my head. “I'll just hurt you. I can't be what you want.”

“Don't assume you know what I want.” She placed her palm against my cheek. “You don't really know me either, Fletcher. Maybe there's a lot we don't know about each other. But what I do know, I like.”

I tucked strands of her hair behind her ear. I swallowed hard. “I like you, too.”

“We can start with that.” She brushed my hair back from my brow. It felt so good to have her fingers going through my hair. “Right now, though, I need to go. Mom knows I came over. She's going to come check up on us at any moment.”

“See, I'm the kinda guy a mom checks up on.”

She laughed. “All guys are the kind a mom checks up on.”

I really liked her laugh. The ease of it.

Reluctantly, I rolled off her. Sitting up, she skimmed her fingers over my face. “I won't tell anyone about the other guy or who he is. Not even Kendall. It's our secret.”

She brushed her lips over mine before hopping off the couch and heading for the door.

“Avery.”

She stopped, turned. The word lodged in my throat. I'd been on my own for a long time.

“Thanks,” I forced out.

“Put on the bandage. I promise it'll make you feel better.”

She walked out, closing the door quietly behind her. I looked at Spider-Man, figured what the hell, lifted my T-shirt and placed the adhesive bandage over my heart.

Just so it could remind me that I didn't want to hurt hers.

I'd made it down three steps before I had to sit. My knees were weak, everywhere seemed weak. I pressed my fingertips to my swollen lips. Fletcher's kiss had been nothing at all like the one I'd experienced in band camp. His had started out hungry, rough, and then it had gentled, become slow and thorough as though he was savoring it, savoring me. I'd been so aware of him, but also aware of his pain, his anguish. That his father—

“Avery?”

I looked up to see Mom standing at the foot of the stairs. “You okay, honey?”

“Yeah,” I whispered, pushing myself to my feet and descending as quietly as possible the rest of the way.

“How's Fletcher?” Mom asked when I reached her.

I looked back over my shoulder at the door. “I think
he's okay, or as okay as he can be. Busted lip. He's going to have some more bruises tomorrow.”

“I should have taken that bat to his father.” She slipped her arm around my shoulders, and we began walking to the house. “How are you doing?”

“Still shaken, I think. I don't understand people hurting each other.”

She opened the gate. “I know. I don't know if anyone does.”

We went through the backyard and climbed the steps to the deck.

“He said his dad had a gun last time. Do you know what happened?”

She sighed. “Yeah. Let's have some tea. It'll help you sleep.”

Chamomile tea was my mom's answer to everything. Or maybe she just needed the time to get her thoughts together as she put on a kettle and brewed the tea. She poured the tea into delicate china cups with black roses on them that she had inherited from my grandmother. She arranged a few shortcakes on a plate and set it between us. For comfort.

“Over the years, your dad's been called out to a couple of disturbances at the Thomas place. The first time Fletcher was just twelve. His dad claimed they were just roughhousing. Fletcher wouldn't say.

“Then about a week ago, someone called in that they
heard shots fired. When the officers got there, Mr. Thomas said the gun had gone off accidentally when he was cleaning it. But the officers had heard shouting when they arrived. Fletcher had bruises forming. When the officer took him aside to speak with him, he said he'd only talk to your dad. So they called your dad out.”

She took a sip of tea, looked around the immaculate kitchen. “Fletcher was pretty shaken. His father had threatened him with the gun. Your dad talked him into filing charges, and convinced him to come stay with us. Thought he'd be safe here. Then tonight happened.”

“What happens now?” I asked, horrified that all this had gone down and I hadn't known. No one at school had known. But then if that were my life, I wouldn't tell people either.

“He'll probably get out on bail, but I'm sure your dad will have a talk with him before that happens.”

“Are you scared?”

“No. He's a mean bully. He's not going to hurt us. But you keep the doors locked and you stay alert.” She placed her hand over mine. “Police are a phone call away.”

I scraped my nail over the countertop. “I believed what people said about Fletcher. I believed it when he said he was bruised because he got into fights. Which I guess he did . . . got into fights. But I just thought he was the one starting them.”

“You can't blame yourself. I figured out pretty quickly that he doesn't reveal a whole lot, that he's the master of one-word answers. Your dad was like that when I met him.”

My eyes grew large. “Dad?” The same dad I met at the diner when I needed to talk?

Mom smiled. “I know, hard to believe. I think he sees a little of himself in Fletcher.”

Dad never knew his father. He'd taken off before Dad was born. He was raised by a single mom. “Like what?” I asked. “His dad didn't beat him. He wasn't around.”

“No, but your dad was angry. Didn't trust easily. So he can relate to Fletcher, knows what he needs. We'll help him get over this.”

I nodded. “Definitely.”

She got up, leaned over, and pressed a kiss to my forehead. “I need to get to sleep. It's going to be a long day tomorrow. Sweet dreams, and don't think about any of this.”

She headed to bed, and I sat there for a long time, sipping cooled tea and thinking about all of it. I understood so much more now, but had so many questions. Had Fletcher kissed me because he wanted me or had he just needed the comfort offered by warm lips?

He'd said he liked me. But this time the words seemed to carry more weight, his eyes had held more depth of
feeling. Still, I wasn't sure exactly where our relationship stood, but I knew I definitely wanted us to be more than just friends.

“Can we get ice cream?” Tyler asked.

It was a good thing that he was buckled in, because he was a bundle of energy. He loved going on field trips and this one was special. I'd taken Mom to work at the hospital that morning so I could borrow her car.

“If you behave,” I said in answer to Tyler's question.

“I always behave.”

“How about if you stay calm and don't break anything?”

“I can be calm.”

He sat still for a total of three seconds, but that was okay because we'd arrived. Tyler sat up straighter when I stopped the car. Then his brow furrowed.

“This isn't a field trip.”

“Sure it is. We're checking on Trooper.” And Fletcher. By the time I'd woken up that morning, he'd already left for work. As a matter of fact, his motorcycle revving up was what woke me. After last night, I wanted to make sure he was okay. That we were okay. “I bet Smiley will let you take a tour. You've never been to an auto shop before.” Everyone in town knew Smiley. He had huge teeth that made him look as though he might be related to a horse,
but he had the biggest, most genuine smile I'd ever seen. His name fit him.

“Are there giraffes here?”

“No.”

“Dinosaurs?”

“No.”

“I wanted to see dinosaurs.”

“The summer is young, my friend.”

His brow furrowed even more deeply until his eyebrows touched. “What?”

“Before the summer is over, we'll see giraffes and dinosaurs. Today we're looking at cars.”

We got out of the sedan and walked to one of the open bays. There were four, and on the far side was the office. Behind it was a waiting room.

I spotted my car up on a lift. Standing beneath it was Fletcher, wearing a gray jumpsuit with a red rag sticking out of the back pocket. His working uniform. I didn't know why my heart did a little skip. It seemed like he could wear anything and I'd think he looked good.

“Hey, it's Fletcher!” Tyler cried and started to run forward.

I snagged him by the waist and hauled him up into my arms before he'd taken two steps. “No running,” I commanded. “And no leaving my side.”

“Will a car drop on me?”

A yes would have him hugging my side, but I didn't want to terrorize him or lie to him. “No, but there's a lot of machinery around here so we just have to be careful.”

“'Kay.”

I put him down just as Fletcher sauntered over, wiping his hands on that red rag. Why did that little action have to look so sexy?

“Hey, munchkin,” he said before turning to me. “Checking on your car?”

Checking on you,
I thought. His old bruise was yellowing, faded, almost gone, but he had new bruises today and some scrapes. “That and Tyler's never been to an auto shop before.”

“I've almost finished fixing the problem from last night but if you could leave it here for a couple more days, I could take care of a few things after hours so you won't be charged for it. I okayed it with Smiley already.”

“That seems like a lot of trouble. You don't have to do that.”

“Hey, your family is giving me a free room. The least I can do is rotate a few tires.”

“Thanks, that would be great. I don't work again until Friday.”

“I should be able to have everything finished by then.”

“Great then, it's a date.” I felt the heat suffuse my face and decided I probably looked as though I was sunburned.
“I didn't mean a
date
date. I just meant a plan, you know, I agree.”

The corner of his mouth that I'd tended to last night hitched up slightly. “I know what you meant.”

If at all possible, I was probably blushing harder. “Can you give us a little tour?” I leaned in and whispered, “I told Tyler we were going on a field trip.”

“Sure.”

He took Tyler around, showing him various tools, explaining how the hydraulic lifts worked. My chest tightened with the thought that he'd probably never had anyone to show him around, to take him on little outings.

“Hey, Avery.”

Turning, I smiled at Smiley who was as usual grinning broadly. “Hi. I was just checking on my car.”

“Fletcher was here before I opened the shop, waiting on me, wanting to make sure he was the one who got to take a gander at it. Don't know where the kid learned his skills, but appears he knows what he's doing. And I like his eagerness and initiative.”

“He appreciates having the job.”

“Could be a good future for him.”

“Hey, Smiley, don't know if we ought to have that kid walking around.” A guy with red hair and a short beard interrupted us.

“He's fine. Fletcher's watching him. Avery, this is Don
Johnson. Not the actor.” His grin, if at all possible, grew wider. “But my manager. He handles the work area out here, I still handle the office.”

“Mr. Johnson,” I said, holding out my hand.

He held up oil-smudged hands. “Sorry.”

“That's okay.”

“It was nice to meet you, though. I'd better get back to work.” He walked away.

“Are you planning to retire?” I asked. I couldn't imagine the place without Smiley there.

“No, but I'm starting to take life a little easier, give more attention to the family. Was hoping one of my boys would take over the business, but they have no interest in it.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

He waved a hand like he was swatting at a fly. “Kids are supposed to have their own interests. That's the way we brought them up, to think for themselves.”

Fletcher led Tyler back over.

“Can we get ice cream now?” Tyler asked.

“Were you good?” I asked.

“Yes.”

I looked at Fletcher. He winked at Tyler, nodded at me. I thought there might be a conspiracy at work, but I said, “Okay, then, we'll go.”

“Can Fletcher come with us?” Tyler asked.

“I gotta work, buddy,” Fletcher said.

“Take a break,” Smiley said. “Life is short. Gotta eat ice cream when you can.” He patted my shoulder. “Tell your dad hey.”

“I will.” As he walked off, I glanced at Fletcher. “Do you want to join us? There's a place just a couple of blocks down.”

“Sure. Let me wash up.”

He was back in two minutes. When we stepped outside, he slid on his sunglasses and pulled a cap from his back pocket and settled it over his head. I didn't think it was so much to protect himself from the sun as it was to shield his bruises from prying eyes. I thought of all the times he'd swaggered through the hallways at school like those bruises were badges of honor. I'd have given anything for a fireman's hose that I could have directed at his dad last night. The force of it would have knocked him on his ass and brought me some satisfaction.

Tyler was between us, holding our hands. Every now and then he'd lift his feet up and cause us to sway.

“Hey, squirt,” I said. “Good behavior all the time on a field trip.”

“I want to swing. Can we go to the park?”

“After the ice cream.”

Inside the shop, I ordered a strawberry sundae with marshmallow topping, Tyler ordered a brownie sundae, and
Fletcher ordered a banana split with three scoops of vanilla doused in chocolate. At the register, he said, “I got it.”

I wanted to argue with him as he pulled out his wallet but I figured after last night, he needed to feel in charge. I found us a booth at the back, near the door that led to a little play area with a slide. I tried not to let it hurt my feelings that Tyler wanted to sit with Fletcher instead of me.

When Fletcher joined us, I said, “Really? They have like fifty flavors of ice cream and two dozen toppings and you go with vanilla and chocolate?”

“It's what I like.”

“That's so . . . pedestrian.”

“I've got bananas, nuts, whipped cream, and a cherry. You've got ice cream and a topping. Let's not compare boring.”

I snagged his cherry.

“Hey!” he groused.

With an innocent smile, I ate it.

“Avery always gets the cherries,” Tyler said, setting his on top of my ice cream.

I shrugged. “It's actually my favorite part of coming to the ice cream shop.”

“What if it was mine, too?”

“Is it?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Nah. Vanilla and chocolate.” He dug in.

I went a little slower. “So how are you liking work?”

“I like Smiley. He seems like a good guy. But the manager, Don Johnson, seems to think I'm a kid playing around or something. He keeps narrowing his eyes at me.”

“I think he just has narrow eyes.”

Fletcher grinned. “Maybe.”

“Smiley's impressed with your work.”

He dug his spoon into the ice cream a couple of times without scooping anything out. “Like I told you, I learned a lot about cars from my dad. The way he was last night . . . he's not always like that.”

“He should never be like that.”

“Like what?” Tyler asked.

How could I forget that little ears were listening? “Like nosey,” I said, reaching out and pinching his nose.