Chapter 22
CRUTCH
I really hated taking the phone from her. Despised it.
But when I hear her voice, late at night, after a long day of work and school, I think maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea.
“So how was the study group?”
She scoffs. “How do you think it was?”
“That much fun, huh?”
“I don’t see how anyone could think studying in groups is a productive way to spend time. Studying is a solo activity. Study groups are just a way to gossip and waste time while pretending to be effective.”
I hear her rustling around, the sounds of her body moving beneath the sheets of her bed causes my body to instantly react. Adjusting myself, I try to focus and have a somewhat civilized conversation. “Well, you study with me.”
“We don’t study with each other, Ry. We study next to each other.”
“And your classmate, Hudson, was there?” I try to sound as lighthearted as possible, but the question still comes out with a healthy dose of bitter sarcasm. There’s just something about that little douche that pisses me off. And I’ve never even met him.
“Yes. And of course, he had to ask all sorts of questions about my new boyfriend. I think he’s more obsessed with you than I am.” Her laugh makes the back of my throat tickle.
If she’s obsessed, then I’m fucking captivated. Imprisoned. Held hostage. Tortured.
I think last night proved that. I nearly went too far. She touched my chest, and I couldn’t even think straight. And then I couldn’t keep my damn hands off her. I wanted to rip that shirt right off her body, wanted nothing more than to roll my tongue across her breast.
But I stopped myself.
I refuse to do anything more than just kissing—and maybe a little heavy petting, you know, over the clothes, middle-school-style—until she’s legal in the eyes of the law. I guess, really, I’m just using her age as an excuse to force myself to slow down.
Because when I’m with her? I feel like a damn jet engine flying through the atmosphere at six-hundred miles per hour.
I don’t know when she will turn eighteen, but I don’t know how much longer I can wait before touching her. I thought she said her birthday was this month.
I make a mental note to ask her. But that’s not the question I called to ask tonight.
“So, I hear, there’s this little thing called Valentine’s Day tomorrow. Now, I’m not much on tradition, but I’m pretty sure the boyfriend is supposed to do something for the girlfriend. What do you say? Feel like doing something special?”
Now, I’ve just got to figure out what the hell to do to make it special. Since I’m an asshole, I haven’t planned anything yet.
“Oh Ry, that’s an amazing offer. I didn’t think you realized it was almost Valentine’s Day.”
“I do own a calendar, Lulu. It’s not like I built a sun dial and counted out the months.”
She giggles. “Well, I’d love to. But… I already have plans.”
Well, that knocks the wind right out of my lungs. Red anger and green jealousy color my eyes. My fist grips the phone so damn hard, my finger slips, bleeping the number four in our ears. “Excuse me?”
“Not like that, you idiot. I have plans with my parents.”
My brow furrows. “You have Valentine’s Day plans with your parents?”
She’s quiet for a moment. “Not Valentine’s Day plans. Ummm… birthday plans.”
Holy shit.
“Lulu, I swear on all that’s holy, if you turned eighteen and didn’t tell me, I’ll flip my shit.”
She ignores my question. “What time is it?”
Frustrated, I turn my wrist to check my watch. “Ten minutes after midnight.”
“Then, I turn eighteen now. Today’s my birthday, Ry. I was born on Valentine’s Day.”
Holy shit. She’s legal.
My mouth is as dry as cotton. My brain swirls with an emotional fog so thick, I can’t even think straight. I’m excited. And incredibly sad. She didn’t say anything. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She sighs. “I didn’t want you to feel obligated to buy me a present.”
I rub my hands over my face. And there you have it. The pitfalls of dating a poor, homeless man. Why doesn’t she leave me? Why doesn’t she find someone better? Someone like this Hudson guy. He can probably buy her what she deserves for her birthday. Some diamond earrings or some bullshit like that.
She needs to leave me.
Oh God, please don’t let her leave me.
“I was gonna tell you. Just not tomorrow—I mean, today. I was gonna wait until Saturday.”
Doesn’t she realize how bad I would feel if I missed her birthday. Doesn’t she realize that I may not be able to buy her the sun, but I’d at least like to be given the opportunity to capture it for her.
“Ry, say something.”
I lower my voice, speaking slowly and clearly. “Don’t do that again, Lulu. Don’t hide something from me and take away my choices. Buying something for you wouldn’t be an obligation. And who in the world said presents have to be bought. A true gift is given. Freely and willingly. Don’t take away my options and say it’s for my benefit.” I pace across the garage and grab a water from the fridge. “Do we understand each other?”
“Yes.”
I open it and drink half the bottle in one swallow. “So, what are your plans with your parents?”
“They always take me out to eat for my birthday and then shower me with an expensive, last-minute present that has absolutely no thought put into it whatsoever.”
“Last minute?”
“My parents usually forget my birthday, until at least midday when Carrie calls to remind them. And then Dad will have his assistant throw something together. You know, nothing says ‘Happy Birthday’ like asking your mistress to buy a present for your daughter. But I’m pretty sure he lets her get something for herself too, so she’s probably been counting down the days, eagerly awaiting Dad slapping the credit card in her hand. Last time I saw her, she was wearing the exact same pair of white gold and emerald earrings they gave me for my fifteenth birthday.”
Talk about fucked up. “Your birthday is on Valentine’s Day, and they can’t remember that?”
“It’s okay. I’m used to it.”
Well, screw that. And screw them.
***
Me: How is dinner with the parents going?
Lulu: Really good. Thanks.
In the time we’ve known each other, I’ve heard Lulu describe her parents in many ways, and ‘really good’ has never been one of them.
Me: Where did they take you?
Lulu: I’ll call you in a while.
Lulu’s avoiding my questions and being evasive.
She’s not at dinner. If she was, she would tell me more about it. She wouldn’t leave me hanging like this. I sigh in frustration. Here we are. Two completely different sets of parents, and both of them shitheads.
Looks like Lulu is getting her present from me early.
***
“Lulu, if you make me knock on this door one more time, I’m gonna bust it down.”
She opens the door and my fucking heart breaks in two.
You can tell she’s been crying. Her expertly applied eye makeup is a little smudged, her caramel eyes are red, and her nose is pink and splotchy from blowing it. She’s dressed up tonight—high-heel ankle boots, tight black dress pants, and a beautiful red shirt. Red for Valentine’s Day, I guess. Her hair is in this weird braid thing, hanging over one side of her shoulder. It’s weird, but really pretty.
But what hurts the most is that Ella answers the door. Not Lulu.
Her back is stiff, her shoulders are square, and her head is tilted high in the air. She walks away, leaving me to close the door. Sitting on her couch, she crosses her legs, and turns down the volume on the TV. I look over my shoulder to see one of her crime shows playing.
“What happened with the birthday dinner?”
She takes a deep breath. For a moment she avoids eye contact, but then faces me, boring her blank stare into my eyes. I like it much better when Lulu stares at me. Fire and passion and anger and happiness gleam in Lulu’s eyes. Ella is nothing but politeness, resignation, and controlled defiance.
“I waited. They always walk over and get me when my father gets home from work. Tonight, they never came.” She purses her lips together. “My sister is missing. There was no phone call to remind them. So, they obviously forgot.”
“Why don’t we just walk across to the Big House, find them, and confront them? I’ll come with you.”
“They’re not home.”
“How do you know they’re not home? You already checked?”
She grabs her phone off the coffee table, clicks on something, and tosses it across to me. I catch it with one hand. “Didn’t have to. That’s the truly disgusting thing about social media. I know where they are and what they are doing without much effort.”
Glancing down at the phone, I see a smiling picture of Lulu’s parents, sitting at a dining table decorated with candles, shining crystal, and red roses. You can tell it’s a table for four, but you can’t see who the other couple is with them. The menu laying in front of them is embossed with the name of the most expensive and most exclusive restaurant in a four-county radius. The caption to the photo reads, “Valentine’s Day on a Friday night? Reservations are no problem when your husband (and love of your life) is a real-life superhero. Saving lives and still making my heart swoon, even after all these years.”
It’s even got a hashtag with it. #hothusbandsurgeon
I wanna throw up.
I toss the phone on the matching loveseat so I don’t have to look at the vile picture anymore.
Sitting right next to Lulu, she stiffens even more. Her body actually leans to the side, avoiding direct contact with me. I don’t even think she’s aware she’s doing it. It must be some sort of habit. A coping mechanism. Like her scar. Nearly the whole time I’ve been here, she’s been rubbing the scar on the back of her neck.
I can’t stand the thought of losing My Lulu.
I kick my leg out and push the coffee table away from us. Swinging down in front of her, on my knees, I haphazardly fling her one leg off the other, uncrossing them, and yank her forward so she’s gripping my waist with her thighs. Good thing I’m fast because I’m not giving her a chance to react. I pull her head down, crashing her mouth onto mine. I suck on her bottom lip and tease her with my tongue.
Now, I know for sure that she’s been crying; I taste the salt of her tears on her lips.
For a few seconds, it’s like kissing a zombie. I whisper against her, pouring my breath into her lungs. “They don’t matter, Lulu. It’s just me and you. Me and you.”
And she gives in. I know the exact moment she releases and becomes her true self again. She does that little moan that she always does when she’s ready for me to kiss her.
And I do. I kiss her to not only heal her heart, but mine as well.
Minutes pass before we pull away from each other. She stares at me, with her Lulu eyes, and quickly wipes an errant tear, trying to catch it before I see it.
I run my hands up her arms. “Tell me something. Something no one else knows.”
She bites her lip, hiding the sad smile of her soul. “When I was little, I would lie in bed at night and pray that I was adopted. I wished that Uncle Ray and Aunt Teresa were my parents. Or Janine. Or my teachers. Even the postal lady. She always had the kindest smile. Anyone but my parents. I wanted parents who would play with me, pay attention to me. In first grade, there was this girl who said that every night after dinner, she and her parents and her brother would play a game together. Old Maid. Or Crazy Eights. Or Uno. I wanted that, you know? A simple card game. Fifteen minutes. I wanted fifteen minutes of my parents’ time. I just wanted parents who loved me.” She swallows loudly, choking her sob back down to the pit of her stomach. “I want parents who love me.”
Fuck them. I don’t say these things to her but try to convey the feelings with my actions as I kiss her breathless.
I love you, Lulu.
It’s me. I’m the one who loves you.