15. Zoey
15
Zoey
N eeding the school to be almost deserted, I stop by my locker and take extra long to collect my things, slinging my bag over my shoulder before closing the door. Glancing up and down the hallway, it occurs to me that Tarni didn’t even bother to hang around and say goodbye like usual, but the second the thought enters my mind, it’s already gone.
At least ten minutes after the bell sounds, I make my way outside. My hands shake violently as I shove them deep into my pockets. Then, without a soul in sight, I let out a nervous breath before finally making my break for it.
I slip out of the building and make a sharp right, taking the long way around to keep hidden from anyone still lingering outside the school. I hear the football team on the field getting started with their drills, and I realize this could be my only chance. I step out from behind the building and slip into the boys’ locker room, my face scrunching at the foul, lingering stench of stale boy sweat.
I can happily say that until this very moment, this is the only room in the whole school that I hadn’t been in—and for good reason. There’s nothing particularly exciting about it, apart from one tiny little thing—Noah’s keys to that fancy Camaro that’s sitting so lonely out in the student parking lot.
And now all I have to do is figure out which one of these lockers belongs to him.
Creeping deeper into the room, I glance around, hoping like hell there’s no one left in here. The lockers are dirty with the players’ things scattered from one end of the room to the other. Half of their lockers have been left open, while only a few of them have bothered to keep their things tidy.
Noah was always the neat and tidy type. He never liked people touching his things and made a point to always make sure everything had a spot. With that snippet of information, I look closer at the few tidy lockers, knowing one of these would be his. Red varsity jackets linger at most of the lockers, but there’s only one of the clean lockers without a jacket.
Bingo.
Noah’s only been here a week, and this school isn’t put together enough to have a spare varsity jacket on standby to give him. I’m sure that will come later, but for now, he’s the only football player without one.
Striding across the locker room, I grip the little combination lock and stare down at it, wondering what four-digit code he would use.
I start with his birthday, and when that doesn’t work, I mentally kick myself for not trying Linc’s birthday first. How stupid could I be? What other code would he possibly have? My heart pounds, and I try to get this done as quickly as possible, but when the lock still doesn’t open, my brows furrow. Maybe this isn’t his locker after all.
Glancing around, I try to figure out which of the others could be his, but none of them make sense to me. This is the only one that stands out. It just feels . . . right.
This has to be it, but what other code would he use? He’s not the type for coming up with random numbers and calling it a day. He’ll forget them. No, he’s always used something meaningful, something he’ll remember. He always used . . . crap. He always used my birthday, the same code I use now.
Curiosity pulls at my chest, and as I grab the combination lock again, I look down at it as though it might bite me. My heart races, and I don’t know why, but I push the building anxiety away before finally entering my birthday—0228.
The combination lock clicks open, and my jaw drops as I stare at the open lock. There’s no way that actually just happened. I know he used to use my birthday when we were kids. It was his code for everything, just as mine used to be his, but I assumed he would have changed that years ago. The fact that he’s still using it . . . I don’t know how to feel about that.
Is there a part of him still hanging on to me, or was he just too lazy to figure out another number combination to use? Probably option number two.
Not wanting to hang around and get caught in here, I hastily pull the locker open, and the second I do, I’m hit in the face with Noah’s cologne, and it’s everything. My eyes roll and my knees go weak, but I push it aside, searching through his things until I hear the familiar jingle of car keys.
I pull them out of the locker, but they feel heavier than I was expecting, and I glance down, sucking in a breath as I find my favorite Z keyring.
“That rat bastard,” I mutter under my breath, shaking my head and realizing that he must have stolen it.
My keyring went missing last year, way after Noah had stopped talking to me, and I know for a fact that it was put away safely in my jewelry box. And then one day— poof— it was gone. I accused Hazel of stealing it, and she screamed at me, telling me she was innocent, but I wouldn’t hear it. I owe her an apology. How the hell was I supposed to know that Noah freaking Ryan snuck into my room and stole it? As far as I was aware, he hadn’t set foot in my home since before Linc’s funeral. Hell, I wonder what else he’s stolen over the years.
That assface has got another thing coming.
Not having the time to get all worked up about it now, I shove the keys into my pocket and scram.
After sneaking out of the locker room, I backtrack to the main part of the school, just so I can walk straight out the normal doors and not cause any suspicion. Who am I kidding? It’s already suspicious that I’m walking out of here so much later than the rest of the students, but I could come up with a million excuses as to why I’m loitering on school property that would be more believable than the truth.
Just as I did every day last week, I walk to the student parking lot, keeping my gaze locked heavily on the ground in front of me, refusing to glance up at the football field, not wanting to see him. He’s bad for my health, and until I can get the image of him falling to his knees at the idea of me needing protection from him out of my head, I need to play it smart.
Making my way down to my Range Rover, I feel his laser-sharp stare on the side of my face, but I do what I can to ignore it as I put on a show of unlocking my car and opening the door. My hands shake. I’m going to have to time this just right. Noah is fast, and if I fumble even a second, I’ll be screwed. When I pulled up this morning, I was frustrated to find the only available spot right next to Noah’s Camaro, but now, having it so close is nothing but a gift from the Hemsworth gods.
I feel myself growing sweaty, and I know it has absolutely nothing to do with the blistering Arizona sun and everything to do with the fact that I’m about to steal Noah Ryan’s car.
Yep. I really have lost my mind.
Climbing into my Range Rover, I keep the door open as I spare a glance toward the football field, my face concealed by the tinted windows. Noah’s gaze lingers on me a moment, but when he’s scolded by Coach Martin, his stare falls away, and I watch as he jogs back down the field, catching the ball before immediately tossing it away.
Wanting to use every second of his distraction to my advantage, I quickly grab a few things from my car before scrambling out of it, keeping my body concealed by the Range Rover.
My heart hammers erratically in my chest, and I take a shaky breath before making a run for it. I scramble over to Noah’s car, hating how my head bobs over the top of the stupid thing. But damn, it looks nice up close and personal.
Hastily digging into my pocket, I pull out the keys and quickly dive into the driver’s seat. Then as I close the door behind me, I spare another glance at the field to find him still running drills with his teammates, none the wiser. But the second I turn the key in the ignition, he’s gonna know. The whole fucking team will, and when that inevitably happens, I’m gonna have to get my ass out of here quickly.
Under the cover of the dark tinted windows, I take a second to glance around the Camaro, making sure everything is where it’s supposed to be. I grab the seat belt and quickly fasten it into place before reaching under the seat and pulling the lever to drag it as far forward as it will go.
After fixing the mirrors, I let out a shaky breath before taking the key and inserting it into the ignition. My whole body sweats, my nerves running rampant and almost convincing me to bail. But I’ve come this far, and while this is definitely for my own benefit, it’s also for Noah’s. I need him to come back to me, to give me a chance to get close to him, and if grand theft auto is how I’m going to do that, then that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
A wave of determination comes over me, and as I grip the key tighter between my fingers, I glance up at the field, waiting until Noah is in prime position. After all, if I’m doing this, then I want to make sure I can see his face at the exact moment he realizes I’m stealing his car. I want to commit his rage to memory and spend the rest of my life reveling in it, and if I happen to see a little bit of shock and disbelief in his eyes, then I’ll add it to my list of growing bonuses.
Noah makes his way back up the field, and I watch as he raises his gaze to my Range Rover again. Realizing he hasn’t got the faintest clue what’s about to happen, I grin to myself. His brows furrow, probably wondering why the hell I’m still here. When he reaches the very top of the field and goes to turn back around, a wicked smile tears across my face, and with a quick twist of my wrist, the Camaro’s engine roars to life, rumbling through the school.
Fuck yeah. This is better than I could have ever dreamed.
Noah’s head whips up mere milliseconds before the rest of his team takes notice, and my grin only widens when I read the “OH FUCK NO,” on his lips. He breaks into a sprint toward the parking lot, jumping the chain link fence with ease, but I put the Camaro in reverse and hit the gas. The tires screech as I spin the wheel, and I’m thankful that the rest of the parking lot is mostly deserted apart from a few cars belonging to Noah’s teammates.
Hitting the automatic button for the passenger’s side window, I wait the few seconds it takes for it to lower all the way down while pressing my foot on the clutch and putting the car back into gear, never more grateful my father insisted I learn to drive a stick shift. Then as Noah barrels toward me, his ferocious gaze locked on mine, I hold my hand up, my middle finger flying high as I hit the gas again, peeling out of the parking lot.
The second all four tires are off school property, I hit him with the final blow and show him exactly what I can do. Bringing the Camaro to a stop, I watch Noah as I press the clutch. He shakes his head as if reading me perfectly, and with that, I hit the gas, the very same way Aunt Maya taught me, and I revel in the sweet sound of tires squealing against asphalt as I show him the most stunning burnout I’ve ever performed.
Noah’s mouth drops, and I don’t hang around to hear what he has to say about it before adjusting my hold over the pedal and shooting down the street. A giddy laugh tears from deep in my chest.
Checkmate, Noah Ryan. Check-fucking-mate.
With the engine purring so beautifully beneath me, I put the other window down before reaching over and silencing the angry calls coming from a number that hasn’t graced my phone in a long time. After all this time, it’s nice to see that my number is still programmed in his phone.
Then knowing damn well Noah doesn’t have any good music in his car, I grab the emergency CD I stole from my Range Rover and slide it into its new home before trying to figure out how to make it play. I could always connect my phone to Bluetooth, but then how the hell would I irritate the shit out of Noah when I finally take pity on him and allow him to have his car back?
Music blasts through the speakers as I cruise through the streets of East View, and it’s impossible to wipe the smile off my face. His car smells so much like him. It’s intoxicating.
I get halfway home before thinking better of it and turning around, heading back toward the park that Noah and I once called our spot. It’s going to be a long walk home—a walk I never considered to be long whenever I was walking it with Noah— but it’s worth every second of it. Though with my Range Rover stuck at school, I’ll have to bug Mom or Dad for a lift back there tomorrow. Maybe even Tarni, but then . . . maybe I won’t bother asking her because that’s only going to bring questions that I’m not ready to answer.
Reaching the park, I bring the Camaro to a stop right in the middle of the small parking lot, and I sit there staring out at the familiar terrain for far longer than I should. My mind takes me back to all the memories this place once held. So many amazing times filled with laughter and teasing. It was another world back then, back when Linc was still here, and we didn’t understand the true meaning of hurt.
Realizing Mom and Dad will be coming home from work soon, I initiate the second portion of my grand plan as I flip through the songs on the CD, trying to figure out which one would be most appropriate to burst his eardrums when he gets back in the car. I try to find something upbeat, something with plenty of bass and drums just to add an extra punch, but when I pass something completely different, something that holds a message within its lyrics, my finger pauses on the skip button, and I know this is the perfect song.
Nerves settle in my chest, the message in the song far too deep for me to be able to speak the words out loud, but I know he will understand. He’s always known that when I can’t find the words, I communicate through the music I listen to, something not many people have been able to pick up about me. But Noah did. He was always so observant.
Not wanting to linger on it or give myself a chance to change my mind, I go about screwing with his car, being as inconveniently irritating as humanly possible. I turn on the hazard lights, put the windshield wipers on full blast, and crank the volume to the max. Then just to be extra, I change the angles of the side mirrors and adjust the rearview one. Leaving the center console and glove box open, I start the song right from the beginning and cut the engine with a sigh. I wish there was some way to record his reaction when he finally gets back in his car.
I squeeze my way out of the car, leaving the seat as far forward as it can possibly go. Then before locking the doors behind me, my fingers trace the lines of my Z keyring as if holding on to something he coveted could somehow make me closer to him.
I begin my journey home with my head a mess of emotions, but what else should I have expected? Wild, unruly emotions seem to be my new normal at the moment. It’s almost been twenty minutes before I grace Hazel with my presence, and I barely even get a hello before she promptly ignores me and goes back to practicing her winged eyeliner in the bathroom mirror.
Trudging into my room, I drop Noah’s keys on my desk, and as I go to walk away, I think better of it. Scooping the keys up again, I steal my Z keyring back, grinning at the smug pride that swells in my chest.
Settling on the end of my bed, I get stuck into my homework until I hear Mom and Dad coming home from work. I make my way back downstairs to find Dad struggling with an armful of groceries. “What’s going on?” I ask, striding into the kitchen and eyeing Dad as he dumps the bags on the island counter, taken aback by the amount he managed to carry in one load. “What’s with all the groceries?”
“Aunt Maya is coming for dinner,” Mom tells me as she unloads the wine—because we all know that’s the most important part.
“Oh cool,” I say, a fond smile pulling at the corners of my lips as I help Dad with the groceries, still wondering why the hell we need so much when it’s just Aunt Maya.
Hazel strides in and drops her bony ass on one of the island stools, clearly not in the mood to lend a hand. “Did I hear you say that Aunt Maya was coming?” she asks, her gaze lingering on the groceries as if wondering what yummy snacks she can hide and steal.
“Sure did,” Mom says as a strange note appears in her tone. She swallows hard before sparing me a glance. “She said Noah was coming.”
My mouth drops at the same time the bag of carrots slips out of my hand, spilling out across the kitchen floor. “Ummmmm . . . what?” I say, my eyes wide as I gape at my mother, my heart racing a million miles an hour. Noah can’t be coming over here. Not after I just stole his car. I gave myself a mental pat on the back for my checkmate, but now he’s pulling a move like this? I thought I’d won this round, but it seems I wasn’t even in the running.
Crap. He’s going to be in my house again. Sitting across from me at the table. I’m going to have to pretend that his very presence isn’t making me want to fall to pieces, all while his car keys are burning a hole in my desk upstairs.
Shit.
What could possibly go wrong?
“Uh,” Dad says behind me, nervousness ringing in his tone. “Are you sure he’s actually coming?”
“Yes,” Mom says, eyeing Dad through a narrowed gaze. “Why do you look like you suddenly have the overwhelming urge to go get a rectal exam?”
My gaze sweeps to my father, and I narrow my stare the same way Mom does. She’s right. He doesn’t look entirely thrilled about the idea of Noah having dinner with us. “I . . . I. Ummm . . . ahhhhh.”
“Dad,” I prompt, crossing my arms over my chest, completely forgetting about the spilled carrots while noticing that Hazel is the only one who seems remotely excited about the idea of Noah coming over. “What did you do?”
“Nothing,” he says, eyeing me with the same suspicion. “Why are you acting so shady about it?”
“No reason,” I throw back, immediately averting my gaze. Only my curiosity gets the best of me, and I look back up to find him nervous again.
Dad meets my stare, his gaze tightening as if he’s about to burst from the seams. “Okay,” he finally says. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”
“What?” I screech. “No way. I’ll definitely get in trouble for this one.”
He shrugs and gets back to packing away the groceries, knowing damn well the curiosity is eating at me. “Fine,” he says as though he doesn’t have a care in the world. “Have it your way.”
I groan, my resolve quickly crumbling and burning to ashes at my feet, desperate to know what could possibly have Dad so on edge. “Ughhhhh. Okay. I need to know. Tell me everything.”
Excitement shoots through his gaze, and he whips back around to face me, holding his pinky finger out at me. “Promise you won’t get cranky at me, and I’ll promise you won’t be in trouble.”
“Cranky?” I ask, looping my pinky finger around his and shaking on the deal as my tone lowers, my gaze narrowing on my father. “What did you do?”
“Well,” he starts, having the nerve to look a little sheepish. “On Friday night, after he stalked you home from the party across town, I sort of gave him the come near my daughter again and your life won’t be worth living speech.”
“What?” I demand, gaping at my father, all but stuttering over my words, unable to string a proper sentence together. “I . . . What? Are you insane?”
“I was just looking out for you, Zo. You’re my little girl, and he’s trouble, but for what it’s worth, he straight up told me no, but it was a respectful no. It was like he was saying, I see your protective-father obligations, but I know what’s best for your daughter. ”
Mom sputters around the rim of her wine glass, choking on the liquid goodness while trying to act as though she’s not listening in on our conversation, but all I can do is continue to gape. I remember Dad standing out in the yard on Friday night talking to Noah. I was so focused on everything that happened; I didn’t give it a second thought. I figured they were just saying a quick hello, perhaps Dad was thanking him for making sure I had gotten home alright. But never in my wildest imagination did I think that my father would have warned him to stay away from me, let alone have Noah blatantly refuse.
What in the fresh hell was that about? I don’t know how to feel.
“Out with it,” my father says. “What did you do that’s got you so nervous about seeing He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named?”
Ah crap.
I wince, glancing up at Dad. “Promise you won’t get mad?”
He stares at me as if he’s never been more offended in his life. “I pinky promised,” he declares. “Does that not mean anything to you?”
Rolling my eyes, I let out a heavy sigh and hope like hell my parents can somehow look past this and see the funny side of it all. “I, uh . . . Well, I need to have a real conversation with Noah, away from . . . everything, and if I just asked him to come over here and lay everything out on the table, he would have said no. I have to work up to that, and to be able to get there, we need to be forced together, over and over again. And so . . . I may or may not have found a way to draw him out.”
Hazel laughs, a smirk pulling at her lips. “Well, whatever you did worked because he’s coming for dinner for the first time in over three years.”
“What did you do?” Mom pushes, no longer pretending that she’s not listening.
“Well, I umm . . .” I wince. “I sort of stole his car and did a burnout down the street in front of the whole football team.”
“YOU DID WHAT?” Mom sputters as Dad gapes at me, his eyes going wide with pride.
“In his Camaro? Wow. How was it, sweetheart?”
“Henry!” My mother scolds him before flicking her gaze back to mine. “Wait. I didn’t see his car in the driveway. Where is it?”
“I might have dumped it at the park and then walked home, but don’t worry,” I rush out. “The park is safe. It’s not like anything is going to happen to it. Plus, I still have the keys. I just . . . felt that after three years of radio silence, he deserved a little payback while on the road to redemption.”
Mom shakes her head. “I worry about you, Zoey.”
“What?” I say as a slow grin stretches across my face. “Try and tell me he didn’t deserve it. Besides, if I’m the one putting myself at risk trying to help him, then shouldn’t I get a little something for my troubles?”
Mom scoops up her wine again, taking a long, healthy sip. “As far as I’m aware,” she mutters to herself, “you two were made for one another. Now go set the table. They should be here in an hour.”
Scurrying out of the kitchen and into the dining room, I get ready to set the table when I hear mom turn on my father. “Now you,” she says. “Where do you get off butting into Zoey and Noah’s business?”
“What?” Dad responds. “She steals a car, and I’m the one getting in trouble? Where’s the sanity in that?”
“Oh God,” Mom says. “I knew I should have bought more wine.”