Twenty
True to his word, Asher picks me up in the town square exactly three hours after I shimmied down his drainpipe.
He rolls up to the curb in a sleek, black SUV, rolling down the window to push his sunglasses to the top of his head and wink. I roll my eyes and climb inside.
“You showed up,” he says, a hint of shock coating his words.
He’s got that big, dopey grin on his face again. The one that makes my heart pound a little too hard. I have to catch my breath before trying to formulate a response. “I said I would.”
He eyes me a minute longer, bottom lip trapped between his teeth, before he puts the car into drive and hits the gas. We drive in silence for a while. The radio plays quietly and Asher hums along, tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel. It’s… kind of peaceful. I sink back into the seat, absently watching the scenery pass us by. It’s only when I spot the signs for the freeway that I tear my gaze away from the window.
“Okay, you gotta tell me where we’re going now.”
He chuckles. “Impatient much?”
“Not impatient. More like… fearing for my safety. Should I be worried that you’re taking me somewhere to kill me?”
“Nah. If I was gonna do that, I’d have just done it last night when we were alone at my place. Much more convenient.” He turns to look at me, smirking, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. “Kidding. Just relax. We’ll be there soon.”
He turns the radio up, some cheesy pop song blaring through the speakers.
I cover my ears. “Seriously?”
“What? I can’t hear you!”
He tips his head back, laughing so loud I can hear it over the music. And then, he starts belting out the lyrics. He’s completely off-key, messing up the words more than he gets them right, but he doesn’t care. He’s having the time of his life. I try to hide my smile, which is impossible when he adds his terrible dancing to the mix. Before I know it, I’m singing and dancing and laughing like a fool right along with him. And you know what? It feels damn fucking good.
It’s been so long since I’ve felt this happy, this carefree. I soak it up, not even noticing that we’ve exited the freeway until Asher pulls into a parking lot and slows the car to a stop. He switches off the ignition, plunging us into silence. I blink, the smile slipping from my face as I scan our surroundings. At a first glance, the big, white building up ahead could pass as a hotel. It’s got a tropical vibe to it, the palm trees swaying in the breeze only adding to it. But then I notice the bars on the windows and the six-foot wire fence encircling the entire perimeter. Unease crawls down my spine, only getting stronger when I see the sign above the entrance. Clarke Rehabilitation Facility.
“What are we doing here?” I ask quietly.
He doesn’t answer, just stares unseeingly out of the windshield. Gone is that happiness he was displaying before. He looks… nervous. He’s worrying his bottom lip, fingers trembling as he opens his door. I follow him, brows furrowed as he leads us to the entrance, scanning a visitor’s pass that he pulls from his pocket. There’s a beep and he pushes open the door. The lady at the check-in desk’s face lights up when we enter.
“Well, hello there, Asher. I was wondering if we’d see you today.”
“Hey, Bernice,” Asher greets, leaning down to scrawl his name on the sign-in form on the counter. “How’re things?”
“Oh, you know. Same-old, same-old.”
Asher pushes the form my way and I follow his lead, writing my name and the time we got here. All the while, I’m frowning, confused as hell about why we’re here. Does he volunteer at this place? He’s clearly been here enough times to be friendly with the staff. Nearly everyone that passes us shoots him a smile.
Bernice beams at him. “You can go on through. She’s in her room.”
Asher thanks her and grabs my hand, taking us through another door and down a hallway, stopping at an open doorway right at the end. Inside, there’s a woman sitting in a wicker chair. She’s staring out the window, her long, golden hair cascading down her back. Asher’s frozen, one hand leaning against the doorjamb. As if sensing our presence, the woman turns and her solemn expression morphs into one of complete and utter joy. She smiles so hard that a dimple pops in her cheek.
Realization crashes into me like a Mack truck. This is the woman from the pictures. This is Asher’s mother.
“Hi, mom,” he murmurs, moving into the room.
“Hi, baby.” She stands and crosses to him, wrapping her arms around his middle. I can see from here just how much they both needed that embrace, how the tension each of them were carrying lessens immediately. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t been by all week. Things have been a little hectic.”
She pulls back, cupping his cheek with a gentle hand. “That’s okay. I know how busy you are, what with senior year and all.” Her gaze drifts away from her son and over to the doorway, where I’m still lingering, unsure of what to do. “Who’s this?”
Asher clears his throat, patches of red creeping up his neck. “Uh, mom, this is Oakley. He’s my… friend.”
I almost laugh, having had the exact same struggle with Mrs Sanderson this morning when trying to figure out what to refer to Asher as. His mom’s smile grows even wider, so wide that an inkling of suspicion has me cocking my head. Does she know?
Judging by the look she sends Asher’s way, I’d say yes.
“Your friend, huh?”
Asher sputters, trying to formulate a response. His mom chuckles.
“Can’t mess with a mother’s instinct, sweetheart,” she says.
Heart in my throat, I wait with bated breath as she makes her way over to me. Her green eyes, so similar to Asher’s, assess me from head to toe, but where I expect her expression to transform into one of obvious disapproval - like his father’s had - she only seems to get happier. I can’t imagine why. I saw my reflection earlier, and it’s not pretty. One of my eyes is almost swollen shut, the other is sporting a nasty-looking shiner. Not to mention the rest of the cuts and bruises and the hand prints around my throat. If I was her, I’d be telling Asher to steer clear of me.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Oakley. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Y-you have?” I choke out, gaze flicking to Asher.
His whole face is flushed now, even his ears. Seeing Asher Brooks embarrassed is not a sight I’m familiar with.
“I have indeed,” his mom says. “So much so that I feel like I know you already.”
It’s not until she takes my hands in hers that I register the bandages adorning both of her wrists. My mouth drops open, chest tightening to the point of pain. Jesus fucking Christ. I blink back the sudden onslaught of tears, trying to hide the emotions playing out on my face. She notices, anyway. Her smile falters for a second, before she gives my hands one final squeeze and turns to head back to her chair.
“Come in, have a seat,” she says. “I’ll ask Bernice to bring us some tea.”
Asher pulls two chairs over from the corner of the room, pausing to glance at me before he sits. I can’t describe the look on his face right now. He’s still nervous, that’s obvious. A little embarrassed too at his mom ratting him out. But, there’s more there. He seems like he’s holding his breath, like he’s scared about what my reaction will be to all of this. Honestly, I don’t know what to make of any of it. There’s a million different questions floating through my mind, but the only thing I really care about right now is reassuring him that I’m here. That he doesn’t have to hide anything about his life from me, not even the really shitty parts. Hypocritical, I know, considering the secrets I’m keeping from him. But, still.
I smile at him, saying everything I need to without words. His shoulders loosen, a rush of air leaving him. He grins back and takes the chair next to his mom, tugging me down into the one beside him. They spend a few minutes catching up, talking about school and gossiping about the other residents at the facility. I try to listen, keep nodding my head at all the right parts, but my gaze keeps traveling back to the opposite side of the room, where an easel is set up. There’s a half-finished canvas propped up on it and, holy shit, it’s the most incredible piece of art I’ve ever seen.
“I see you’ve got an eye for art,” Asher’s mom says.
“Yeah, sorry. I just… This is amazing.”
She waves me off. “Oh, please. If you’re gonna compliment me, then never apologize for it. Do you paint?”
“No. I, uh—”
“He sketches,” Asher supplies, pumping his brows when I glare at him.
I turn back to his mom, my cheeks heating. “I sketch, but it’s nothing like this. You’re seriously talented.”
Asher scoffs. “He’s being modest. His stuff is insane, mom. You should see it some time.”
“I’d love to,” she says. “Maybe next time you come, I could ask Bernice to bring in another canvas and we could create something together.”
Next time.
Just two simple words, but they’re enough to lodge a lump in my throat. Suddenly, I want that more than I want my next breath.
“I’d like that,” I whisper, voice hoarse.
She leans over, placing a hand on my knee. “Then, that’s what we’ll do.”