I settle for a Doors marathon on the classic rock station, consoling myself with the fact that Jim Morrison was a way bigger screwup than me.
I don’t understand what happened. Even putting aside my disappointment that Raychel is giving up, which means we definitely won’t be at neighboring schools, I’m still not seeing why I’m in the wrong. Raychel’s never wanted to stay here, and she’s spent years planning ways to leave. But now she’s staying, and she acts like it’s by choice, even though it’s clearly because her mom blew all her money. Yet she’s still defensive about her mom, even though that’s the one person she’s never wanted to be like.
I try to see it from Raychel’s point of view. I guess I’d be mad if she talked trash about my mom.
Kind of like I did at dinner.
Damn.
I’m dipshit.
Flashing blue lights in my rearview rudely inform me that local law enforcement agrees.
RAYCHEL
I stand in the hallway, debating whether to hide or go home. I don’t really want to face any other Richardsons right now, much less my mom, so I open the guest room door.
But Andrew’s lying on my bed.
His fingers are crossed behind his head, legs at the ankles. He sits up when I wave him off. “I called shotgun,” he says. I give him a weak smile and his fades. “Are you okay?” He moves over, patting the space beside him.
“Yeah,” I mumble, propping a pillow against the headboard.
He starts to stand up. “You want me to go kick Matt’s ass?”
“No!” I say, surprised at how loud it comes out. “Jesus, stop punching people and sit down.” I pull my knees up and hide my face.
His touch on my hair surprises me. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have punched Carson either.”
“Why did you?” I ask.
“He hit me first.”
I roll my eyes. “You know what I mean.”
Andrew looks around uncomfortably. “I don’t know. I was jealous, but … At the time, I could tell something wasn’t right, you know? I knew he was hurting you. But then once we left, you didn’t want to talk—”
“I was drunk,” I interrupt.
“I know,” he says. “I mean, I realize that now. But when you didn’t call or anything after … I dunno. I should have realized you were upset, but I started to doubt myself and whether you really liked me and it was just…” He sighs. “It was easier to be mad than it was to admit I had screwed up.”
We’re both silent for a moment. Then Matt’s door slams and his feet pound down the hall.
Andrew whistles. “He’s really pissed, huh?”
“I don’t care.”
He snorts and moves closer. “So. Tell me what happened.”
I look up. “With Matt?”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I mean everything. From the beginning.”
“Why?”
He exhales, insulted. “Because I want to know, genius.” He squeezes my knee. “Because I screwed up, and I want to make it right. I care about you, no matter what else happens with … you know”—his cheeks flush—“with us.”
I think for a minute. I hate that my brain immediately goes to Matt—what he’ll think, how he’ll feel, if Andrew and I get back together and make it official. He won’t understand. He’ll make fun of me.
But I’m tired of Matt always trying to tell me what’s best. “Us, huh?” I say. “Is that on the table?”
Andrew’s mouth twitches. “I won’t make the obvious joke about having you on a table, but I want you to admire my self-restraint.”
I laugh. “Oh yes, very admirable.” But the laughter is short, because I know that what’s coming isn’t pretty. “Are you sure you want to hear all this?”
Andrew nods, making a big show of settling in. “All of it. Let me have it.”
*
When I’m finished, Andrew stares at me. Finally he blinks. “He did what?”
“He … he made me…” I can’t say it again.
“That’s wrong,” Andrew says, reaching for my hand. “You know that’s wrong, right? Like, illegal wrong. Like you should press charges wrong.”
I half laugh, half cough. “Like anyone would believe me.”
“That’s rape, Raych. You can’t let him—”
“It’s not,” I interrupt. “I mean, it is, but even your mom admitted we’d never get a conviction. My word against his, and everyone thinks I’m a slut anyway.”
Mrs. R. never said that last part, but Andrew doesn’t argue. I kind of love him for not trying to lie. He pulls me into a hug and mumbles again that he’s sorry. I bury my face in his shoulder, take a heaving breath, and try not to cry. I’m really tired of crying. But he kisses the top of my head and I can’t help it. “Hey,” he says, patting my back. “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”
“It helps that you know,” I tell him. “Just hearing that another person thinks it’s messed up.”
“Of course it’s messed up!” he says. “You’re blaming yourself for that shit?”
I pull at a loose thread on the bedspread. I know Mrs. R. would want me to say no. “I mean … I said yes.”
“To sucking his dick?”
I grimace. “No!”
“Then what?”
“To going to his car. To getting in the car. And at the party, I—”
“None of those things say, ‘I want to go down on you,’” he scolds, shaking my shoulder. “I make out with lots of girls, but I don’t stick my dick in their mouths uninvited.”
Hearing it so bluntly from Andrew somehow makes it sink in. He’s not spouting stuff he learned in lawyer school, or offering vague platitudes like Matt did. He’s just agreeing without even having to think about it. It makes me tear up again, and he rushes to apologize. “Wait, I’m sorry, I should watch my mouth … I mean … shit.” He pulls me into another hug and I don’t know what else to do, so I wrap my arms around his back and squeeze.
“I want…” He runs a hand under my hair, making me shudder. I try again. “I want it all to go away. I want everything to be…” I cough-laugh again, rubbing my nose. “I don’t even know what I want.”
Andrew pulls back to look me in the eye. “Well, I do,” he says, and I’ve never seen him more serious. “I want you.”
I’m crying again. “I don’t see how you can.”
He touches my cheek. “Then let me show you.”
MATT
One two-hundred-dollar speeding ticket later, I’m on my way home. I drove a lot farther than I thought, and now I have to watch my speed on top of it, so the drive home takes forever.
Dad is waiting at the breakfast bar, his gin and tonic sweating a small ring on the counter. He flips the TV off when I come in. “Have a seat,” he says. It’s less threatening than I expected, but I still try to get out of it.
“I’m really tired.” I fake a stretch and give a real yawn.
His eyes follow my hand. “What’s that?”
Goddamnit. I brought the ticket in with me. “Nothing.”
He looks tired, not mad. “How fast?”
I sigh. “Seventy in a fifty-five.”
He takes a sip of his drink. He doesn’t ask where I went or what I was doing, at least. “Have a seat,” he says again, and this time I obey. “You want something to drink?”
“Are you offering one of those?”
He snorts. “I was thinking more like iced tea.”
“I’m good.”