Chapter 3 #2
Violet was saved from answering. Our history teacher, Mr. Baskin, a heavyset guy with a graying beard and large glasses, took the podium at the front of the class. We all grew quiet as he called roll. He got to the W’s and frowned.
“Wentz? Wentz?” No answer. “Oh, that’s right. Suspended.”
He made a check in his roll book, then restarted the movie on the whiteboard that we’d begun last time: a documentary on the Russian Revolution.
When the room was dark and the movie rolling, I leaned to Violet. “Okay, Miss Friends-with-TMZ. Who is this new guy who keeps not showing up?”
“Ronan Wentz,” she whispered back. “Evelyn says he’s suspended for punching Frankie Dowd. Broke his nose.”
“My hero. That shithead had it coming.”
The heaviness in Violet’s eyes deepened. “He was giving Miller a hard time. Again.”
“Frankie’s psychotic. Gets it from his dad, I’m sure.” I gave her the rundown on Mitch Dowd from what Bibi had told me that morning. “If this guy Ronan broke Frankie’s nose, his dad is going to be out for blood.”
Mr. Baskin glanced up from his desk and shot us a warning look. Violet and I pretended to watch the film, though I could practically feel the angst wafting off her like perfume.
After a few minutes, she leaned back to me. “Did Miller mention to you about his mom having a new boyfriend?”
“No. He’s been pretty quiet lately. Why?”
“I think he’s not a good guy. Miller won’t tell me much, and I don’t think he’s coming over anymore. I think…”
“What?”
Violet started to speak, then changed her mind. She forced another smile. “Nothing. You’re so lucky, Shi. You know who you are and what you want. You’re going to open your own shop the minute we graduate, and you won’t let anything—or anyone—stand in your way.”
My brow furrowed. “You’re going to med school, Vi. To become a surgeon. No one works harder than you.”
“I know, but sometimes I feel like I’m missing something fundamental that’s putting me off-balance. But you’re so…whole.” She smiled faintly and waved a hand. “Never mind me. I’m just being silly. PMS, probably.”
Mr. Baskin cleared his throat, shooting us another look from his desk.
Violet took notes on the film while her words churned in my head.
I had no idea who my father was, and my mother’s love for me was like a dimmer switch, flickering on the lowest setting.
If I was whole, it was because I was holding myself together with a patchwork of glue—my art, Bibi, and my ambition to prove to my mother I wasn’t a mistake.
Not that I ever told any of that to Violet or confided my fears to her the way she did me.
Someday, she’s going to get tired of spilling her guts when I never give her anything in return.
I leaned over to Violet and touched her arm. “Hey. I’m here for you. Anytime. You know that, right?”
She smiled softly and clasped my hand. “Of course. Thanks, Shi.”
But her hand slipped off mine, and I couldn’t help but feel she was slipping further away from me too. By the time class was over, I’d decided to bite the bullet and take Bibi’s advice.
Ugh, this is going to suck, but Vi’s worth it.
“You still going to Chance’s party tomorrow night?” I asked as we headed back out into the sunshine.
Her face brightened instantly, and then Evelyn Gonzalez swooped in. She looked like Ariana Grande—perfect makeup, tight black clothes, and a ponytail that swept her shoulders.
“Of course she is,” Evelyn said. “And so is a certain quarterback. There will be alcohol and my infamous version of seven minutes in heaven. It’s going to be lit.”
Violet blushed up to her hairline. “That’s a yes,” she said to me. “Why? Are you?”
“Nah, just wanted to make sure you weren’t going to be there alone,” I said quickly.
Evelyn took Violet’s hand in hers and swung them as if they were in elementary school. “I’ll never let her out of my sight. Except when she and River Whitmore need their alone time in the closet.”
I smiled thinly. “Great.”
“You sure you won’t come, Shi?” Violet asked.
Evelyn was watching me, her smile not touching her eyes.
“I have too much work to do,” I said. “But go. Have fun. Be safe.”
“Yes, Mom,” Evelyn said with a laugh and pulled Violet away.
***
That afternoon, I came home from school to find Bibi in the kitchen squeezing lemons from our tree. Sprigs of mint and basil leaves, also from our garden, lay on the cutting board.
I hugged her from behind and rested my chin on her shoulder. “Your famous fancy lemonade. What’s the occasion?”
Bibi reached up and patted my cheek. “No occasion. The young man out back needs a break. He’s been weeding that mess for an hour.”
I groaned and retrieved a bottle of seltzer water from the fridge while Bibi added sugar to the lemon juice. “I told you not to let him in while you’re here by yourself.”
“No one wants to hurt a harmless little old lady like me.” She poured the seltzer and the lemonade over ice in two mason jars, then added the mint and basil leaves.
No, they just might rob you blind. Literally.
“Besides,” she continued, stirring the jars, turning the delicious concoction a pale green.
“I have good instincts about people. This boy is quiet. Respectful.” She handed me the glasses.
“One for you, one for him. See for yourself who’s building your shed, and then tell me he’s not a perfect gentleman. Shoo.”
I obeyed, mostly because I wanted to confirm she hadn’t invited a respectful serial killer into our home.
I strode to the back of the house and stopped short at the screen door that led to our large, overgrown backyard.
A tall guy—six feet, if not more—with short dark hair was bent over a rake, clearing weeds from a patch of land next to the patio.
He wore jeans with a black tank, revealing powerful arms and several tattoos.
The muscles of his back and shoulders slid and moved under smooth, if pale, sweat-slicked skin.
A hyperrealistic owl—inked in all black and white except for stark orange eyes—watched me watching him.
I stood like a dope while the guy paused in his work and arched his back, revealing a profile straight out of an artist’s manual—high cheekbones, thick brows, a long straight nose, and luscious mouth with full lips.
Okay, so he’s a beautiful serial killer.
I clutched the mason jars to my chest as I opened the screen door.
The guy turned at the sound and leveled intense gray eyes on me.
Eyes that—had I been that type of girl—would have knocked me on my ass.
Cold and flat like slate, they warmed instantly at the sight of me.
His mouth that had been a grim line fell open a little.
Then he shut it all down, his gaze turning hard and stony as he watched me cross the patio. Shields up.
Right back at you, pal.
“Hey,” I said, keeping my voice as steady as my eye contact. “From Bibi.”
“Thanks,” the guy said. His voice was deep and masculine. A man’s voice. He accepted the lemonade with relentless eye contact of his own, taking me in and not letting me go.
I tilted my chin, unwilling to break first. “I’m Shiloh.”
“Ronan.”
I blinked. Damn it.
“Ronan…Wentz?”
He nodded, taking a sip of the sparkling lemonade.
“You’re in my history class,” I said. “Your name’s in the roll book anyway.”
Another nod. A bead of sweat trickled down the axe blade of his cheekbone, down to his square jaw.
I cleared my throat. “Where have you been?”
“Work. And now suspension.”
He said it simply enough. Everything about him seemed simple: his clothes that had seen better days, his scuffed boots, and the way he moved—directly and deliberately. Except for his eyes. There was depth there.
The kind you’d get lost in if he let you.
I snorted at my own ridiculous thoughts.
Now that Ronan had his lemonade—and I’d confirmed in all likelihood he wasn’t a serial killer—I should’ve left him to it.
But he wasn’t the want-ad handyman I’d expected.
He was a high schooler, even if he didn’t look like that either.
His eyes were hooded, almost haunted. Whatever they’d seen had set him apart in some intangible way.
It gave him an aura of intense loneliness that hung over him like a shadow.
I didn’t like it.
And I didn’t like that I didn’t like it.
It won’t kill you to be friendly to him. New kid and all.
Only this guy was no kid. He was a man in every sense of the word. Something in his past had rushed him into adulthood, and a not-so-small part of me needed to prove I could be in his space and not melt into a puddle at his feet.
“Bibi said it’s break time.” I nodded at the small wrought-iron table with two chairs in the middle of the patio. “You want to have a sit for a minute?”
“Sure.” He sounded less than thrilled.
He lowered his tall frame of lean muscle into a chair at the table and went at the sparkling lemonade, downing huge gulps that made his Adam’s apple move under the sweat-glistened skin on his throat.
I brushed a cluster of braids off my shoulder. The afternoon suddenly seemed hotter.
“So you’re new to Santa Cruz?”
He nodded.
“Where did you move from?”
“Manitowoc, Wisconsin. Got here a few weeks ago.”
“How do you like it here so far?”
He shrugged. “It’s better than where I was.”
Holy shit, I felt the weight of the subtext in those six words as if he’d packed his body with muscles to carry it all.
And to fight back.
“I heard you’re suspended for punching Frankie Dowd.”
Another nod.
“My friend Violet said you were protecting Miller Stratton.”
“You could say that.”
“I didn’t realize you and Miller were friends.”
“We are now.”
I furrowed my brow. Talking to this guy was like walking a maze and hitting only dead ends. I had to keep turning to keep the convo going.
“Well, I’m not glad you’re suspended, but Frankie’s been a dick to Miller for years, and Miller can only fight back so much.”
Ronan’s gray eyes hardened. “Why? The diabetes?”