“Caitlin, I know it’s hard now that your mom’s gone—”
“No—” I interrupted her, “you don’t get to give me that talk. You don’t get to pretend like you knew anything about her.”
I knew I should stop, but after weeks of trying to choke it all down, I could feel it racing uncontrollably toward the surface.
“You weren’t there,” I said evenly, although my face was flushed red and it felt a billion degrees warmer than it had a second ago. “You didn’t sleep for weeks in a chair by her bed. You didn’t show up at the cemetery to pay your respects, you weren’t there to help Grandma with the funeral arrangements or the medical bills or the service, you didn’t even come to Mystic to help me pack up my stuff to move to your shitty town.” I heard footsteps pause on the stairs, but I didn’t care if Norah heard. “Just to be clear, I don’t want to be here. My mom didn’t want me to be here. So when I say that I don’t want anything for my birthday, I don’t fucking want anything for my birthday.”
She blinked, mouth trembling, then set her mug on the counter and walked out of the kitchen.
Adrian had great timing—I could hear the hum of the Harley coming down the driveway. Abandoning my coffee, I grabbed my backpack and ran out the door. The bike was still running as I grabbed the helmet from his hand and swung on behind him before he’d even had a chance to put the kickstand down.
He frowned. “Everything all right?”
“Just go,” I said, and crammed the helmet on.
He looked at me a moment, glanced at the house, then drove away. I spent the entire ride feeling stupid, feeling angry, feeling exhausted and drained and then angry again, and sad and desperate and hollow. I just wanted to sleep, but I had to go to school. Learn. Do homework. Bullshit, brain-dead work.
We arrived at school, and he parked the bike.
“I brought your dress,” he said, swinging off the Harley.
“Damn it!” I muttered, setting the helmet down forcefully against the seat.
“What?”
“I forgot to bring your clothes.”
“It’s fine. I don’t need them anytime soon.”
“I know; but they’re yours, and I forgot and I—” I couldn’t finish the sentence I was so angry at myself. I didn’t even know why I was angry, but I was, and it felt good.
“It’s not a big deal.” He smiled. “Hey, I heard it’s your birthday soon.”
I stared at him. “Are you kidding me?”
I grabbed the bag of clothes out of his hands and walked toward my homeroom. Before I’d gotten three steps, he grabbed my arm and spun me around, face set in a hard line.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’ll bring your clothes tomorrow.”
I wriggled out of his grip and walked to class, choking back tears.
By seventh period, I was composed. I managed to reach the library ahead of Adrian and went back to my little nook and moved the second chair to another table. A moment later, Adrian walked up to me, staring at the place where he usually sat.
“Are you angry at me?”
“No,” I said, shrugging, but I could feel another wave of rage coming on.
He arched a brow. “You sure about that?”
“Don’t mean to burst your bubble, dude, but not everything’s about you. Bring a chair over, don’t bring a chair over, I really don’t care.”
I flung open a book and leaned back. He looked at me and I felt something in the vicinity of shame crawling up the back of my throat, but I just stared right back and kept the cool look on my face until he nodded, backed away, and left.
I spent the rest of study hall trying not to cry.
When the bell rang, I walked outside and got on Adrian’s bike like nothing had happened. He came out of the library a second later and stopped when he saw me sitting there. Slowly, he walked over and got on in front, saying nothing. The only sound I heard on the way home was the angry hum of the bike and the mutinous beat of my own heart. He pulled to a stop in front of the ranch and took his helmet off, turning to me.
“You might want to hide the clothes in your backpack. Your aunt and uncle might wonder otherwise.”
I crammed the clothes in my backpack. Before I was done, he was already driving off.
6
SEVENTEEN ON THE 17TH