Chapter 17
Justin
Hey, Justin,” Marcus says, pressing a controller and jumping in front of a flat screen. “What’s up? You want next game?”
I pause at the door of his dorm room, trying to decide if I can deal with the scene—dorks playing video games.
It has been twenty-four hours since I talked with Allie. She won’t answer my texts or her phone. My reaction about her son was fucked up, sure. But her not telling me was fucked up too. And her refusing to communicate with me pisses me off. Then I get pissed because I’m pissed. I don’t do this. I don’t “care” about girls.
The loud sound of the video game spills into the hall, and I realize Marcus is giving me a questioning look. The guy is in the college marching band, and is one of Riley’s best friends. He’s been in awe of me since he moved into the dorm in August. His awe pumps my ego. Selfishly, I like my ego pumped. And it seriously needs to be pumped right about now.
“Invite him in and you’ll be sitting out, bitch,” Marcus’s roommate, Don, says.
“Please. Here comes the boom!” Marcus yells as his quarterback throws a bomb across the screen. The receiver catches it.
“Oh, you are one lucky asshole,” Don says.
“Luck? It’s all pure talent.” Marcus glances over his shoulder. “You in?”
“Nah,” I say, shaking my head. “Just passing through.” Usually I find their freshman antics amusing. Not today. I’m finding them both beyond annoying. And other than at band practice, I rarely get annoyed. I push out of the doorway. “Catch you later.”
In my room, I drag my acoustic guitar out of the closet, sit on the bed, and strum the few tunes I know. I’m hoping that playing will distract me from thinking about Allie. I tried doing homework earlier but couldn’t concentrate. Yet hearing the chords of the guitar echo in the room reminds me of her. Frustrated, I put down the guitar next to me and pick up my phone. No missed calls. No new texts.
Something snaps inside me, and I lose it. Before I know it, I’m smashing my guitar on the ground. Once. Twice. Three times. Pieces of splintered wood fly all over. Some hit me. Others bounce off the walls and the desk. In seconds, they cover the floor.
Breathing heavy, I’m sitting there staring at the shards of wood strewn all over when a knock sounds. After about the fifth knock, I let out a deep breath, drop the broken guitar stem on my bed, and answer the door.
“Justin!” Riley says, confusion turning her lips down. “What are you doing here?”
“Ah, I live here.”
“Shut up. You know what I mean. You’re never here.”
“Right now I’m here.”
She still appears puzzled. “Romeo in?”
I shake my head.
“Huh,” she says, still looking confused. She twists her ponytail between her fingers. “He’s supposed to meet me here. Can I wait inside?”
“You don’t really want to come in,” I say from behind gritted teeth.
“Why?”
Reluctantly I let go of the door handle and head for the bed, sitting down with a sigh.
“What is that?” Riley asks, staring at the pieces all over the floor.
I shrug. “What’s left of my guitar.”
After shutting the door, she takes a couple steps into the room and picks up a piece of wood. “You smashed your guitar?”
“Apparently.”
“You and Romeo fighting again?” she asks, her voice low.
“Nope. This one was all me.”
She picks up some of the bigger pieces and tosses them into the trash. “Must be nice to be able to afford to smash things.”
“Please don’t remind me that I’m a rich prick.”
After staring at me for several seconds, she falls on the other bed across from me. “What’s going on, Justin?”
I rub my temples. “Nothing.”
“So you look all devastated like something awful happened and smashed your guitar for no reason?”
“Yeah.”
“No.”
She stares at me with a stubborn expression. Riley really is a decent person, even if she is madly in love with Romeo. But I don’t talk about feelings. Because usually, other than the occasional flash of anger at my bandmates, I don’t have them.
She crosses her legs. “So?”
I scowl at her.
“Why did you smash your guitar?” When I don’t answer, she persists. “Well?”
“Because I fucked up.”
“Big surprise there,” she mutters.
My eyes narrow.
“O-ka-ay,” she says, drawing out the word. “What did you mess up?”
When I’m silent, she gives me an expectant stare, drops her chin in her palm, and waits.
“I kind of lost it with this girl I’m seeing.”
Her eyes get big. “You’re seeing someone?”
“Kind of.”
“Do tell.”
“There’s not much to tell.”
Riley glances at the mess on the floor. She gives me a pointed look.
I run my hand through my hair. “She doesn’t want anything to do with me, and I’m not taking it well.”
Her expression conveys that’s obvious. “Why do you think she doesn’t want anything to do with you?”
“Who are you, fucking Dr. Phil?”
“What are you? A five-year-old who can’t talk about emotions? Just answer the question.”
The kid comment hits a nerve. I lean my elbows on my knees and sigh. “Probably my rep. And because I’m an ass,” I say, hissing out the words. “And most definitely because I freaked out when I found out that she has a son.”
Riley’s eyes widen.
“We met like a month ago. We went on a couple of dates.” There’s no way in hell I’m explaining to Riley that the first one was mostly fake. “We’ve talked. We’ve texted. She never said anything about a kid. I found out about her kid in a roundabout way earlier today.”
Her fingers tap the metal frame of the bed in a slow, rhythmic beat. “So she was never serious about you.”
I stare at her with amazement. There are so many unfamiliar emotions warping my thoughts that Riley understands the situation more clearly than I do.
“But were you serious about her?” she asks, her tone questioning.
“I…She’s different. There’s something about her, something in her eyes. They’re lonely or…”
Riley stares at me to the point her eyes almost pop out of her head. “I’m shocked,” she says. “I’d never expect—well, you use girls for one thing, you know?”
“Yeah, and now I know why.”
“Maybe you need a couple scars on that heart of yours.” She kneels on the floor and starts tossing more of the broken guitar pieces into the trash. “Other than her lonely eyes, what’s different about her?”
“Well, she has an ex-husband to go with the son.” I bend and toss in the pieces closest to me.
Her mouth turns down in distaste. “What the—? You hooking up with a cougar?”
A sad laugh escapes me. “Not exactly. She’s only twenty-two.”
“Well, that’s different, but how is she different?” Riley taps her fingers on a broken piece of wood, obviously waiting. “What else about her has you so hooked?”
“I don’t know. She—when we’re together, there’s no bullshit between us. She makes me feel real. I haven’t felt real in a long time.” I rub the back of my neck. “I know that sounds stupid.”
“No,” she says, and shakes head. “That makes it sound like you shouldn’t let this girl go.”
Suddenly, Romeo is standing in the doorway, looking between us. “What’s going on?”
Riley stands and brushes the knees of her jeans. “I’m waiting for you. Justin’s playing rock star and smashing guitars.”
Romeo glances at the mess on the floor. “What the fuck? What instrument you plan on playing next Saturday?”
“I’ll get a new one,” I mutter.
“Damn right you’ll get a new one.”
I scowl at his bossy ass.
“Come on.” Riley winds an arm around Romeo’s. “Let’s get something to eat.”
He smiles at her and she smiles back. For once, I’m truly jealous of their relationship.
“See you later,” Riley says over her shoulder as they leave.
Once they’re gone, I slam the broken stem against the mattress in frustration. I’m about to slam it again when a guitar riff comes out of my phone.
At the sight of the name on the screen, the stem falls from my hand.
After picking up my phone, I cautiously say, “Mom?”
“Hello, Justin,” she says in a formal tone. I swear the older she gets, the more uppity she sounds. “I’m calling you back.”
“I called you almost a month ago.”
“We returned this week.”
Not today. Or even yesterday. They got back days ago. “I’m pretty sure they have phones in Barbados.”
“We were getting away.”
“From your son?”
“Please quit the dramatics. What was the reason for your call?”
To talk to my mother, but the need is fading with each passing second. “Can’t remember.”
“Well, if your memory comes back, we’re home now, but please don’t call past ten.”
“What if it’s an emergency?”
“Then call the local authorities, that’s what taxes are for. Besides, what am I going to do across the state?”
“Give a shit?”
“How lovely. Drama paired with vulgarity. Good night, Justin.”
She hangs up, cutting off my response.
After tossing the phone on my bed, I forget about smashing my guitar stem against the bed and start beating it against the garbage can, trying to forget my mother’s icy, nasal voice. Even more than that, I want to forget the reason why my temper exploded in the first place.