"He was sort of my ride home," I trailed off. "Any chance I can bum a ride with you guys?"
Fitz's grin came back. "Sure thing. Hell, we can go over a few tutoring points at the red lights, huh? We haven't even covered the whole 'Catherine de Medici's coup' thing."
"You ask a steep price," I groaned and jumped in the back when Fitz held the door of the convertible open for me. I spent half the ride pretending not to know anything about French history, and the other half directing Burn to my house. Despite his languid personality, Burn drove the exact opposite of Wolf - dangerously, speeding through yellow lights and doing close passes. It was such a weird thing, to see such risky driving from what I thought was the most sensible brother of the three.
But the Blackthorn brothers had already unpleasantly surprised me once today. What was one more upset?
Burn and Fitz dropped me off at my duplex, Fitz waving goodbye as Burn tore off from the curb. I went inside only to find Dad in the kitchen, the smell of vanilla and dough wafting from it. But that couldn't be right - Dad hadn't baked since before he was sick. He used to do it all the time, but now? No way.
"There you are," Dad, his old cooking apron on and his front covered in flour, hugged me. "I'm glad you're back."
"Me too," I said. "What are you making?"
"Cinnamon rolls," He shrugged. "We had everything the fridge already, and I thought I'd give it a shot."
"They smell great!" I smiled. "Can I help?"
Dad ruffled my hair, and showed me how to roll the dough out. We worked together at the counter, our hands moving in the same rhythm as we transformed the lumpy dough into delicious-looking rolls.
"I wanted to apologize, Bee." Dad said, his hands busy mixing the cinnamon and sugar. I shrugged.
"There's nothing to be sorry for."
"There is," He said firmly. "I - I shouldn't have acted like I have these past few days. It wasn't very adult of me. I'm sorry."
I watched his face - a little sad, a little tired. Like always. Even if he apologized, it would probably happen again. It usually did. The only thing I could do was hope it didn't go on so long, next time. But it might. That was the kicker - depression came and went with no warning. If it returned just as bad, he'd do it again. And I'd just have to deal with it. No - that sounded shitty of me. I'd deal with it, no matter what.
"I'll forgive you on one condition," I announced.
"Anything," Dad said.
"I get to eat all of these rolls."
He laughed, his face lightening a bit. "Deal. But if you get a stomachache, you only have yourself to blame. I don't want to hear a word of whining."
I mimed zipping my lips shut. We finished the rolls and put them in.
"I gotta study," I said. "I need to catch up on all the stuff I -"
All the stuff I was too worried about you to do, is what I started to say.
" - forgot to do," I finished. Dad nodded.
"Alright. I'll let you know when the rolls are done."
There was a pause, and then I hugged him. Tight, like I used to. Tight, like before, when I was certain he wouldn't break beneath my arms. But still, he felt so light, so thin.
"Did you eat any of the soup?" I asked.
"Yeah. Don't you worry about me - go worry about your grades."
I tried to tell him it was the same thing - worrying about him and worrying about my grades. They meant just as much, to me. My grades were a ticket to his recovery, even if I did gamble getting one or two questions wrong. But that was for the greater good - for the scholarship. I wouldn't have to pretend at all if it wasn't for Wolf threatening it.
She's pathetic.
I scowled at my desk. My hand had unconsciously scribbled something dark and bright on my worksheet;
SCREW YOU WOLF BLACKTHORN
It felt good, seeing my thoughts on paper, even if I did have to erase them. I didn't have to carry them around, anymore. Maybe that's where I got the inkling I could start writing in you, pen-and-paper. Well, that was the first inkling. The second came when I realized I'd ruined everything and no one who would ever want to listen to me again.
But hold on. We're almost to that part.
Chapter 12
WOLF
I drive until the anger stops burning me alive. Until the roar of my bike becomes a slow, tired growl.
Still, Mark’s words follow me.
How long has it been? Almost three years? And I can still hear him calling me shitty names over and over again. I can still feel his every punch, my ribs and stomach aching.
And the worst part?
I still loved him. Even as it was happening.
I pull over onto the shoulder and park, throwing my helmet on the gravel. My hands itch to ruin something, to make it feel as much pain as I feel.
This isn’t right. Nothing about what I’m feeling is right.
I promised myself never again, and I meant it. I can’t love someone else. Not after the last time destroyed me. Seeing Bee in that dress, so beautiful and elegant and shy, sent waves of longing through me. I tried to open my mouth to say something, but my whole body was frozen. I was fucking terrified how suddenly the urge came to get up and kiss her, right there and then, in front of everyone. Regardless of everyone. Regardless of my past, or Mark, or my fear of touching other people.
She rips right through my defenses, and I’m powerless to stop it.
And my idiotic brothers think teasing me about her will help? No. It only makes it worse. So I lashed out at them, at her, at everyone.
I sink to the ground, leaning against my bike for support.
“If you were here, I’d ask you for advice,” I say, though the bike doesn’t respond. It never does. I know better than anyone it’s just a hunk of metal, but my memories of Mom taking me for rides when I was a child still follow me. It’ll always be her bike, not mine. It’ll always remind me of her, no matter how old I get or how much I forget her face, or her voice.