Falling for a Bentley Page 6

  I bury my face in my open hands.

  “Keira, then why did you make me kiss him?” I whine, hating what I’ve been reduced to. A whinny people pleaser.

  Her voice spikes in eagerness to make me understand. “I don’t know. I’d begged him to come to that stupid party, Tor. I was prepared to flaunt our friendship out in the open for everyone to see. For the first time I didn’t care what anyone else thought I just wanted to be with him. That’s major for me. And then when he showed up at Colton’s he didn’t even talk to me. He acted all grumpy because he was there. He’s never even tried to kiss me. All I think about is him. He’s got me doing irrational things. My mom says alcohol gives her courage and I wanted to be able to tell him how I feel, then I saw you watching him and I kind of freaked. I guess it was a test to see if you’d actually go through with it … so I’d know … you know … if I had anything to worry about.”

  “And I failed the test?”

  “I knew … I knew by the way your face looked whenever his name was brought up!” Tears well up in her eyes and she attempts to fan them away. She’s an emotional wreck and I’m partly to blame for it. She huffs, her sad eyes locking with mine. “Tori, what are we going to do? We both like the same guy? I don’t want us to not be friends anymore.”

  The moment of truth. Am I willing to risk my friendship with Keria for some guy I barely know? Okay, I’ve kissed him. So what? Yeah, there definitely was sparks there, at least for me, but those sparks were probably due to the excitement of something new, and most likely one sided.

  Taking a deep breath I steady my resolve. “We’re not going to do anything, you are. You’re going to tell him how you feel. I think there’s a very good possibility he feels the same way.”

  Her perfect brows arch. “But….”

  “You’ve turned this whole Jonah and me kissing into something it’s not. I’ve never kissed anyone other than Colton, and okay, I might have been a little curious to see what it would be like but you want to know what I found out?” She sighs already appearing relieved and I haven’t even said it yet. “I found out I don’t want to kiss anybody else.”

  Her entire face lights up, “Really?”

  “Really.” My heart skips a beat. I can’t use the word love. “I’m happy with my boyfriend.”

  Three hours later I crawl out of bed, go down on a knee, and dig out the black binder wedged in-between the mattress and the box spring. Carefully, I tiptoe over and slide through the narrow crack out into the hall, pulling the door slowly closed until it latches.

  I’d fought sleep waiting for Keria’s breathing to even out and the snoring to kick in.

  My fingers fumble for the light switch in the kitchen. The fluorescent light overhead hums as it heats up. I place the black binder on the granite counter top and flip through the pages filled with my girly handwriting, all my memories: grandma, my entries about Colton and Keria. Everything we’ve all been through, everything I’ve been through, page after page of memories. Some things are painful to remember. Some make me smile. Writing is therapeutic. It helps to put my thoughts down on paper. Maybe one day I will want to reread it all: the ups and downs, the heartbreak and love. Maybe I’ll laugh thinking how childish some of my thoughts were.

  Maybe not.

  I keep flipping through the pages until I come to the entries made since I started taking that stupid writing class. I’d needed one more elective before graduation. If it wasn’t for that class I’d still be blind and miserably happy with Colton.

  Okay, I wasn’t so happy with Colton even before the whole Jonah thing, but still, I wouldn’t have ever realized just how unhappy I was if it hadn’t been for Jonah.

  I take hold of the chunk of pages dedicated to my ‘secret crush’—not such a secret anymore—and rip them out crumbling them in a fist. A corner of one of the pages slices a fingertip. I flinch and suck the blood bubbling to the surface tasting salt. It stings. I should cry, but I don’t. My heart hurts, but I won’t cry. I open the cabinet where our garbage can is kept out of sight. Under broken egg shells, coffee grounds, and brown soaked, empty cartons of Chinese, “Yuk.” I bury the crumpled pages, bury them deep, beneath all the nastiness and then I go to bed, plotting out how I’m going to fix mine and Colton’s dying relationship and feeling more alone than I’ve ever felt in my entire life.

  The Creeps

  Victoria

  Sunday’s are always set aside for Church and brunch (my mother’s word) with the family afterwards. Around 10 a.m. every Sunday morning Keria finds some crafty excuse to tell my parents so she doesn’t have to go with us to church. She claims it freaks her out hearing our pastor talk about sin and how to ask for forgiveness.

  “I swear he stares right at me whenever he talks about sin.” Keira makes a show of getting a chill as if the thought of Pastor Michael’s eyes on her freaks her out. “It’s as if he sees all and knows all. It gives me the creeps.”

  She shivers again.

  “You are so full of crap,” I tell her pushing my hands through the sleeves of my dress shirt, pulling it over my head. “It’s your conscience that gives you the creeps. You need to be in church. You might learn something.”

  “Don’t get all preachy,” she sniffs. “Just because church is your thing doesn’t mean it’s mine. I like my life the way it is. Besides there is no way I could go a single day without sinning so why bother?”

  Standing in front of the long mirror on the back of my closet door, I comb my fingers through the loose curls at the tips of my hair and dot some lip gloss on my lips. “Everybody sins, Keria. Nobody expects you to be perfect.” I watch her reaction in the mirror. Indifference shows in her expression. I add, “That’s not what it’s about. It’s about trusting…. ”

  “Save it.” She rolls her eyes and grins as if she is clever. “Besides it’s way too early. My pillow is calling my name. A girl needs her beauty sleep.” She scoops up her keys from the dresser and cracks a blind to see out into the driveway. “Wonder if dipshit dropped my car off this morning like I asked him to?”

  She turns from the window.

  “Your boyfriend is such a good listener. If only I could train all guys that easily,” she exclaims on her way out the door.

  Cracking a blind I see Keria’s car parked in the driveway. I sink down on the foot of my bed. My boyfriend is wrapped around Keria’s little finger. I exhale a long breath. What am I going to do about it?

  Scripture Feeds the Spirit

  Victoria

  Every Sunday our pastor’s message seems to speak directly to me, like he prepared it with me in mind. Answering questions I have but don’t acknowledge out loud. This Sunday the message is about why storms come into our lives. The answer being: sometimes we have to be made vulnerable before we can see there is a need. Guilt settles in my stomach like a heavy stone when I realize I never pray unless I need something.

  “Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.” (James 1:2-4)

  “You need to bring that cousin of yours with you,” Pastor Michaels says after the service, shaking my hand, his other hand going to my shoulder. His eyes are thoughtful behind a pair of wire rimmed glass. He smiles, determined.

  I’m almost tempted to tell him Keria feels like he singles her out. Pastor Michaels would laugh and probably say God singles her out. Everyone can see Keria needs some guidance in her life. Convincing her of that is the challenge.

  Instead I sigh loudly. “I know. I know. I can’t seem to get her to commit.”

  His smile widens. “Well, don’t give up.”

  “I won’t.”

  I move on toward the open door, catching up with my parents.

  Trailing behind them across the sunlit parking lot I watch as my father slides an arm around my mother, pulling her close to his side. He’s the only pers
on I know that has a positive effect on her. She lays her head on his shoulder, both of them laughing softy. They bring out the best in each other.

  I want that someday.

  “Three,” My mother announces as we step into the restaurant after church. It’s amazing how she can make one word sound all snippety. The thin man hovering near the counter glances about the dimly lit dining room, checks his seating chart, and glances about some more. He seems kind of twitchy, like seating people isn’t his usual job; but then again, it could just be my mother. She is intimidating.

  “There is a fifteen minute wait, Ma’am,” he stutters not meeting her relentless gaze.

  “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding!”

  “No ma’am, I’m not.”

  “It was not a question,” my mother sneers. She turns from the man, a scowl present on her face. “What now, William?” She aims all her snarky attitude at my father, since he was the one who suggested we try the new Italian bistro that recently opened up downtown.

  My father diffuses the situation by burying his hands in the pockets of his dress slack as he leans against the counter in a lazy manner. He is one man who doesn’t mind waiting. “I heard the food here is excellent, Olivia. What’s fifteen minutes? Relax. Enjoy spending some time with your family.”

  Did I mention his innate ability to convince my mother of anything? All he has to do is flash his dimples and she is putty in his hands. I honestly think she married him, because of those dimples.

  “Oh, all right … Anderson,” my mother sighs out our last name for the man to pen into his book. “Can I at least order a glass of wine while we wait?” She ticks off names of French wines, frowning every time the man shyly shakes his head. Finally, she gets lucky by ordering one actually on the menu, and we’re off, meandering over towards the waiting area.

  “I hope the food is worth the trouble. So far I’m not impressed,” she says.

  My father wraps an arm around her pressing a kiss to her forehead. At that exact moment a gush of outside air blows my skirt as the door opens. The thin man smiles at the two entering and digs out two menus, motioning the pair immediately towards the dining area.

  Ugh oh.

  Big mistake.

  “Um excuse me, you can’t seat them before us,” my mother exclaims, taking a step towards the man, who is backing away with a frightened expression on his face.

  I hang my head. “Please, Dad, make her stop.”

  “They have a reservation, ma’am.” The man seems shorter than he was five minutes ago.

  “Psh, an establishment as poorly managed as this does not do reservations!” My mother starts. The man looks like a dog that has been kicked and I feel sorry for him. I feel sorry for dad. For me. My mother is insane, needing to control everything and everyone.

  “It’s fine, my son and I don’t mind waiting,” a woman offers. Her voice is light and has a warm welcoming feel. I glance up so I can attach the voice to a face. The woman is somewhere in her early thirties. She has brown hair with that blonde pinstripe appearance that says she’s visited a salon recently. She is a little on the bigger side, wide hips, but not overweight. She is wearing jeans and a simple T-shirt.

  My attention slides to the guy next to her. My eyes lock with familiar blue.

  Jonah Stevens.

  He stifles a laugh. “Hey, Victoria.”

  Could the ground, please, open and swallow me whole? There is no way I can pretend I haven’t seen him. Trust me, if I could, I would. I’m horrified. Mom’s being a bitch, cute guy I kissed walks up to witness it, even worse, with his mother.

  My father elbows my side. “Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend, sweetheart?” He doesn’t stop there. “I’m Tori’s father, Will, and this is my wife Olivia.” He offers Jonah and his mom a stern handshake.

  Oh, he knows how much his wife hates him shortening our names. ‘Will does not sound as professional as William,’ she always says. Not as pretentious is what she means to say. Speaking of my mother, she is eyeing Jonah and his mom as if they are lepers.

  “Jonah Stevens, sir. Victoria and I have a class together. This is my mom, Charlotte. Really, if you’re in a hurry we’re good to wait for the next table.”

  Jonah winks at me. I’m in hell and have a feeling it’s about to get worse.

  “The food here is amazing,” Charlotte tells my parents, offering me a genuine smile. “It’s well worth the wait.” Her cell goes off. She digs it out of her Wal-Mart brand pocketbook slung over her shoulder and grimaces. “Oh no, you know I have to take this,” she tells her son with a frown.

  “Of course,” he replies, not in a sarcastic way though, more a this-happens-all-the-time BUT I’m-okay-with-it way. Jonah leans a shoulder against the far wall and settles in. Problem is, he settles into staring at me. His grin is sneaky, as if he has a secret that no one else knows.

  Remembering the kiss, my cheeks grow warm.

  “Excuse me. I’m so sorry.” Charlotte gives us a parting glance, already immersed in conversation as she walks a few feet away. “Where are you? Stay there! I can be there in …” she checks her watch, “fifteen minutes. Does that work?”

  My mother’s gaze rakes the length of Jonah. Her nose crinkles as if she has smelled something offensive. “If you and your mother honestly don’t mind we are kind of in a hurry.”

  “Mom, we’re not taking their table.”

  “Honey,” my father says to my mother, laying a hand on the small of her back, “they should be calling our name any minute. Be patient.”

  He flashes those dimples. You go Dad!

  Charlotte is back. She exhales a long frustrated breath shaking her head at her son. “Looks like we’re going to have to skip lunch, kiddo.”

  Jonah moves toward the door. “It’s fine, mom.”

  “No it’s not. This always happens. If it wasn’t an emergency—”

  My parents and I shamelessly hang on every word, especially me, since I now know I won’t be suffering through them eating in the same restaurant as us. Mom has the nerve to take it a step further. Damn her.

  “An emergency? Oh no. I hope it isn’t Mr. Stevens?” She feigns sympathy. Please, she’s just being nosey, fishing for information.

  “There isn’t a Mr. Stevens. He took off right after Jonah was born.

  Red mingles with the tan in Jonah’s cheeks.

  “Anderson!” The man calls, holding three menus and appearing anxious to seat us. I like this thin frail man. I’m sure he’s going to need to go out back and have a cigarette once my mother is satisfied.

  “Finally,” my mother huffs. She turns to follow the man with me right on her heels.

  Dad lingers. Why is dad lingering?

  His deep voice stops me in my tracks. “You know … your son is welcome to join us for lunch. We’ll bring him home right after.”

  No, dad! I scream, although nothing comes out of my mouth. Nothing. All I can muster up is a scowl, which Jonah answers with a slow grin.

  Charlotte’s gaze skips over everyone involved ending on my mother who appears to be as displeased as I am. Charlotte speaks to my father, “If you’re sure you don’t mind. My son’s manners won’t allow him to admit it, but he’s starving. Poor kid is terribly neglected. I can’t remember the last time we’ve ate a meal without an interruption. It’s not very often my son gets the chance to sit down for a meal with an actual family. It’s nice of you to offer.”

  “You sound like you’re trying to talk them into adopting me,” Jonah moans.

  My mother exhales an impatient breath. “Can we get on with it? Are you staying or not, young man?”

  Jonah shoves his hands in his pockets. “I am kind of hungry.”

  “Well then, let’s go.” My mother sweeps her hands in the direction of the dining area.

  Ten minutes later I choke on a bite of garlic bread and have to take several swallows of Pepsi to get it to slide the rest of the way down. Jonah is sitting beside me, his thigh and arm occasiona
lly bumping against mine.

  “I’d like to be a full time writer,” Jonah replies to my mother’s question regarding what career he plans to pursue in the future.

  “You can’t be serious? Oh, it’s fine for a hobby, but only a Select few ever make any real money at writing.”

  “It’s not always about money!” I say.

  Jonah’s leg bumps mine under the table. He tells my mother, “Well then, hopefully, I’ll be one of the select few.” He pauses, his brown eyes glinting with honesty. “Tori’s right though, it’s not about the money for me.”

  “Surely you have something more dependable in mind?” My mother sneers.

  Jonah glances at me, the corner of his mouth pulling into a smile before he answers, “Of course. If the writing fails, then I’d like to be a full-time musician, maybe form a band.”

  He shrugs a shoulder.

  My mother chokes on her red wine. “You’re messing with me, aren’t you?” She coughs and sputters.

  “It’s always good to have a backup plan,” Jonah answers confidently, taking a swallow of his coke, his eyes never leaving my mothers.

  It’s a standoff to see who will bow out first.

  My father chuckles behind a fist, putting his other hand over my mother’s on the table top. It doesn’t help like it normally would. My mother takes a slow sip of wine and continues, “Victoria’s boyfriend Colton, now he has the right idea. He’s going into sports medicine. Very wise of him, doing something medical related.”

  Jonah seems to not be intimidated by my mother at all.

  “I’ve heard a lot of people have trouble finding jobs after they graduate from sports medicine,” he replies. “I’m guessing that means only a select few ever make any real money at it. I believe I’d have a better chance becoming a published author and plus I love it.”

  My cheeks ache from smiling.

  Goodbyes are Never Easy

  Victoria

  On Monday, Mr. Brooks, my writing instructor, gives orders for the entire class to form a line by the door. We all hesitate, exchanging looks of disbelief. I mean, most of us are Seniors. It’s been years since a teacher has ordered us to form a line over by the door.