One Small Thing
- -
- 100%
- +
A flash of movement catches my attention, and I turn to find a very good-looking guy stopping and leaning in the kitchen doorway. He has the darkest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re incredible. Over the left one, his eyebrow has a gap. It looks like a scar from this distance. Or a bad plucking accident, but he doesn’t look like the type to manscape.
His jaw is covered with dark blond stubble, making him look older than all the other guys here. The boys in the kitchen, Harley included, don’t have any facial hair. And they aren’t nearly as tall as Blue Eyes or as built or as attractive.
Him. That’s what I need. A very bad boy to take me down a very bad path.
A sense of power sweeps through me. This would make my parents angrier than anything. All kids drink, but hooking up with some random stranger? It would drive my proper mother nuts.
Internally, I rub my hands together with glee and start plotting. He’s not making eye contact with me, but he’s not staring at someone else, either—guy or girl. He’s not exactly aloof, but there’s space between him and the others. As if they’re afraid to approach him. He’s got an aura of someone cool and together.
The very things that I’m not.
I glance down at my ripped skinny jeans and skimpy yellow halter top and confirm that my zipper’s zipped and my boobs are sufficiently covered. I’m not the hottest girl here, but he’s alone and so am I.
Besides, if he says no, who cares? I won’t see him again. And the whole point of coming out tonight was to do things that I wouldn’t ever do. To get a taste of real life.
“Who’s your friend?”
I jolt at the sound of Harley’s voice. He’s finally noticed me. “Hey,” I say, tearing my gaze off Blue Eyes to smile at Harley. “I’m Beth.”
“Harley.” He releases Ashleigh and wanders over to hug me. Harley’s a hugger, it seems. “Nice to meet you. Wanna get high?”
“Um, maybe later?” I say coolly, hoping he doesn’t notice the flush on my cheeks and realize I’ve never smoked weed before.
“Yeah, let’s save that for later,” Ash agrees, much to my relief. “Let’s dance.” She moves to my other side and links her arm through mine.
Dance? I sneak a peek at the doorway, only to find that Blue Eyes is gone. Disappointment washes over me. I wonder where he went. Maybe he’s also heading to the dance floor—um, no. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who would “shake his ass” to a techno beat. Way too intense for that. Most guys won’t dance anyway. They think they’re too cool for it.
“Come on,” Ash says, tugging on my arm.
I place Blue Eyes on the shelf. I’ll dance with Ashleigh and then pursue him. I let my new friend drag me into the living room, where the music is louder and the air is hotter. I start sweating, but it’s okay because everyone else is, too. Ash bops her butt against my hip and the two of us laugh and whip our hair around and dance until we’re breathless.
This is what I wanted tonight. To have fun and feel young and not think about the fact that my life is a joke. I don’t have a life. I’m not allowed to go to parties, only to my friends’ houses, and only if their parents are home. Driving around with Scarlett tonight was a huge no-no. Scar’s folks knew it, too—my parents have been embarrassingly vocal to all my friends’ families about the rules. I think Scar’s mom feels sorry for me. When Scar and I were leaving, Mrs. Holmes pretended not to notice and I love her for it.
And I love this. The music and the noise and this room full of strangers who don’t know who I am. Nobody knows about Rachel. Nobody feels sorry for me. Nobody cares.
I toss my hair back and bump hips with Ash again. Then I stumble midstep when I catch another glimpse of Blue Eyes.
It’s fate. We’re supposed to meet tonight.
He walks over to the L-shaped couch and leans down to say something to a stocky boy in a red T-shirt. His hair is longer than I realized, curling under his ears and falling onto his forehead. The dirty-blond color is almost the same shade as my own.
I grab Ash’s arm. “Who is that?”
“What?” she shouts over the beat.
I bring my lips close to her ear. “Who is that?” I repeat, louder. “The guy by the couch.”
She frowns. “Which one?”
I look back and tamp down a groan. He’s gone again! What the hell. This guy appears and disappears like a ninja. This time, I’m not letting him get away.
“I have to pee,” I tell Ashleigh.
She nods and turns to dance with someone else. I make my way out of the crowd. Blue Eyes is back, leaning against the kitchen doorway.
I take a deep breath and force myself forward. I’ve never, ever hit on a guy before. This is going to be disastrous.
I spy a row of shot glasses on a table. I grab one and throw it back. The foul liquid burns on the way down. I slap a hand up to my mouth to cover a cough. Over my fingers, I meet Blue Eyes’s gaze.
With courage I didn’t know I had, I pick up two more shot glasses and carry them over.
“You look like you need a drink,” I say, offering him one.
He takes it. “You look like that was the first shot you ever drank.”
I’m so glad it’s dark in here so no one can see me blushing. “Nah, I’ve drunk a few in my time,” I lie.
“Mmm-hmm,” he says before lifting the shot glass to his lips. He downs it cleanly and then tucks the empty in his front jeans pocket. My eyes wander downward and then flip back up to see him staring at me in bemusement.
“Do you know who I am?” he asks.
I run my tongue across my lower lip, wondering what I should say. Is he famous? I don’t want to seem uncool. “Of course.” I shrug as carelessly as possible. “Doesn’t everyone here?”
Something dark passes over his face. “Yeah, probably. But you’re still here talking to me. Bringing me drinks.” He taps my shot glass.
“Like I said, you looked like you needed one.”
He scrubs a hand down his face. The dark shadow is gone, only to be replaced by a weary expression. “I guess that’s true. So why are you here? Want to take a walk on the wild side?”
His last sentence is said with great scorn. Intuitively, I know that the truth is not my friend, because if I admit I came here to piss off my parents, Blue Eyes is going to disappear, and I desperately do not want that to happen.
Not because I think this is the perfect way to get back at my parents, but because there’s something interesting about him. Because I want to get to know him. Because I want him to want to get to know me.
I can’t tell him the real reason, but I can be honest, as embarrassing as it is. “Can’t a girl bring a hot guy a drink? I tried to get your attention before, but you disappeared. You were standing here by yourself and I took a chance. If that’s wild behavior in your book, then you must not get out much.”
He cocks his head. “Is that a joke?”
“Yes. But not a good one because you’re not laughing.” I stare at the shot in my hand. This has gone more terribly than I imagined.
He exhales heavily. “Because my people skills suck. Joke or not, we both know I haven’t gotten out much in the past three years.”
I have no idea what that means, but since I already pretended to know all about him, I can’t ask for an explanation. “Does that mean I should go?”
“No. You should stay.” The corner of his mouth curves up. “Not gonna lie. This is all very good for my ego.”
“It hasn’t been good for mine,” I admit, a bit testy.
The half smile turns into a full one and my breath catches at how gorgeous he is.
“I’ve never had a girl as pretty as you say so much as hello to me.”
My heart flips over and I’m so dumbstruck I can’t summon a witty reply.
He ducks his head in embarrassment. “Too corny?”
I find my voice. “Too amazing. My head is so big right now I don’t think this house can contain me.”
“Then let’s get out of here.”
“Really?” My eyes grow wide. “Where?”
“Just outside. I like it outside.”
“Me, too.”
He holds out his hand. Mine slips easily into his. His long fingers curl around the back of my hand. Against my palm, there are hard calluses. We leave the shot glasses on the kitchen counter we pass. I don’t need the alcohol now. I’m holding hands with the hottest guy on the planet, and I feel like I’m floating on air.
We maneuver through the crowd. Some people stare. I lift my head. Yeah, I’m with this hottie.
Outside, the noise thins out and so do the people. He leads me down the deck and toward a small shed.
“Do you keep the bodies in there?” I joke.
He halts suddenly. “You have a dark humor, don’t you?”
The remark makes me think of the hysterical laughter that burbled in my throat during Rachel’s funeral. How I covered my face to keep it from spilling out and everyone thought I was sobbing. It wasn’t so much dark humor as a defense mechanism.
“I’d rather laugh than cry,” I admit. “I cry too easily. It’s one thing I hate about myself.”
He lowers himself onto the grass. “That’s not a bad philosophy—the laughing over crying thing.”
“I wish I had more control over my tears. It’s frustrating when I’m mad but everyone thinks I’m sad.” I drop to the ground beside him, wondering why I’m spilling these things to him. I shut up then, and listen to the crickets sing as the faint music in the house plays in the background.
“You have a name?” he teases.
“I’m Beth.”
He rakes a hand through his messy hair. My gaze doesn’t miss the way his biceps flex from that action. He’s got incredible arms. Sculpted.
“I’m Chase.” He tilts his head toward me. “And I still feel like you’re too good to be sitting out here with me.”
“You aren’t holding me down,” I point out. “Are you telling me to leave?”
“No. I don’t want that.” He exhales again and his perfect body is momentarily framed by the thin cotton of his T-shirt.
Gosh, he’s gorgeous.
“It’s beautiful out here, isn’t it?”
I glance up at the night sky and then at Chase’s upturned face. It’s so cloudy you can barely make out the moon, let alone the stars. “I guess?” He’s beautiful. The sky? Not so much.
He chuckles to himself. “It could be raining buckets and I’d be happy.”
“Me, too.” Because I’m with you, I think. I haven’t felt this at peace with myself for weeks, maybe months. The fight with my mom seems like a long-ago bad memory.
His hand is pressed against the ground between us. I edge mine closer to his until our pinkies touch.
“Your fingers are long.”
He turns his head away from the sky to peer at our fingers. “Maybe yours are really short.”
“I have normal-sized hands.”
“Let’s see.” He slides his hand over mine and my fingers disappear under his.
My heart begins to beat wildly and my mouth goes dry. Body parts start tingling in places I didn’t know could tingle.
“Are you going to kiss me?” I blurt out.
His lips curve into that gorgeous smile of his. “Yeah. I think so. You okay with that?”
I nod.
“It’s been a long time for me,” he admits.
His honesty catches me off guard. “Me, too.”
“Good.” He tucks my hair behind my ear. He moves closer. “Then we can mess up together. Tell me if I do something wrong.”
He palms my cheek, strokes it gently. Ever so slowly, his lips meet mine.
3
Chase rolls onto his side. He reaches for something on the nightstand of the bedroom we wound up in. I hear the hiss of a lighter. The scent of smoke soon fills my nostrils as I lie there, staring at the ceiling. Taking a deep drag, he shifts onto his back and does the same. The crisp cotton sheet covers his lower body. His chest is bare.
Me, I threw my clothes on the moment it was over. Second thoughts are chased by third thoughts chased by so many thoughts that I’m paralyzed. What do I do now?
What have I done, period? My entire body is hot with embarrassment and my heart is pounding harder than the bass line that’s still shaking the house.
Chase takes another drag on his cigarette. He’s acting like what we just did was no big deal. But maybe it’s not to him. It probably isn’t. He probably has sex with hundreds of girls at parties.
I didn’t tell him I was a virgin.
I—
“I have to go,” I blurt out, shooting to my feet.
He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t meet my gaze. I’m glad, because I don’t particularly want him to see the shame swimming in my eyes.
It’s not until I’m about to turn the doorknob that he speaks.
“Where’s your phone?”
My head swivels toward him, and, finally, our gazes collide. His expression reveals nothing. His chest still has a slight sheen of sweat on it from... I tear my eyes away.
“It’s in my purse,” I mumble. “Why?”
“Take it out.”
I’m helpless to say no when it comes to this guy. Face burning, I fish my phone out of my bag and wait.
He rattles off a number.
I stare at him, still feeling dazed. And my body, despite being sore, is responding to the sight of his abs.
“Put that number in your phone.” His voice is rough. “Text me when you get back to your friend’s place so I know you made it back okay.”
I keep staring.
“Beth,” he prompts, and I finally manage to find my voice.
“Give me the number again,” I whisper.
He repeats the digits and I dutifully type them into my phone.
“And, yeah, call me if you ever need me,” he says gruffly.
I nod, but I think we both know that aside from the one text I’ll send from Scarlett’s, I will never, ever, ever use his number again.
4
Tuesday is the first day of school. The first day of my last year, and I should be rejoicing. One year is all I have left under this roof. One year until I’m in college, the college I want to attend, free from my parents’ constant, watchful control.
Their eyes are pinned on me right now. They have questions. I can feel a heaviness in the air. Mom’s disappointment mixed with Dad’s frustration and resentment have formed a black thundercloud that clings to the ceiling and walls like smoke after a pan fire.
I try to act normally, as if I didn’t do things last night I sorely regret. Things I’ve lied about to Scarlett, to my parents, to myself. Since I opened my eyes this morning, I’ve been forcing myself not to think about Chase. But it’s so hard not to. And when the thoughts of him do surface, I feel like sobbing.
I had sex for the first time yesterday. I wanted to, and I enjoyed it. I really did—at the time. But it didn’t take very long for the glow to fade. For the thrill of doing something new and exciting and rebellious to be replaced with bone-deep shame.
My first time was with a stranger. It was a one-night stand.
What the hell do I do with that? I can’t even begin to process it, and I wish my parents would stop staring at me. I’m afraid if they stare long enough, they’ll be able to read my thoughts.
“Did you have a nice time at Scarlett’s?” Mom asks, breaking the silence.
The sound of her voice brings a phantom pain to my cheek. She hit me yesterday. She’s acting like she doesn’t remember. Or maybe she’s just trying to forget. Or hoping I’ll forget. Fat chance.
“Lizzie?” she prompts. “Did you have a nice time?”
“Uh-huh.” I push the sautéed zucchini to the edge of my plate. Scarlett had been sleeping when I crawled into her bed. When morning came, I barely spoke a word to her. She kept pumping me for details about the party, but I could only manage vague answers. I don’t want Scarlett to know that I gave it up to some hot stranger at some random party. It’s way too embarrassing.
“What did you do?”
My fork halts its trek to the side, a pale green half-moon stuck on one of the tines. This type of question is asked only when your parents are suspicious and want to catch you in a lie. The less said in times like these, the better. “Stuff.”
I force my hand to move, to pretend like my heart rate hasn’t picked up and my body isn’t tense with fear.
“Like what?” Mom’s tone is light, but probing.
“Same stuff we always do.”
There are several beats of silence during which I realize that they know something and are waiting for a confession. I keep my eyes pinned to my plate.
Next up for separation are the mushrooms. I hate those. I always have and yet Mom continues to cook with them.
Mushrooms were Rachel’s favorite.
There’s a shuffling of papers. White appears at the corner of my eye. I don’t want to look but I can’t help it.
“Do you know what this is?” It’s Dad’s turn to question me now.
This is a good cop/bad cop routine that they do. Mom pretends concern and when I don’t show any remorse, Dad steps in with his stern voice and even sterner commands.
“No.” That’s honest, at least.
“It’s a printout of your text messages.”
“What?” Jaw dropping, I grab the sheaf of papers. My eyes skim down the page in total disbelief. Either I’m hallucinating, or I’m actually reading a transcript of the texts I exchanged with Scar when I was leaving the party last night.
217-555-2956: How’s the party? U OK?
217-555-5298: I’m fine. Party’s lit. omw back now. cabbing it.
217-555-5298: Prnts call?
217-555-2956: No
217-555-5298: kk cover 4 me if they do
217-555-5298: Made it back, safe and sound.
My stomach sinks. That last one was the message I sent Chase. I almost cry with gratitude that I didn’t say anything more damning.
I flip backward and see more messages.
217-555-2956: party 2nite?
217-555-5298: yessss
217-555-2956: what abt prnts?
217-555-5298: Ill tell them have 2 wrk
Fear, anger and frustration spin around in my head. I don’t even know what to say. And in the back of my mind, all I can think is Thank God. Thank God I didn’t text Scarlett about Chase and confess to having sex for the first time. Thank God I didn’t message Chase about what happened between us. The mere thought of my parents finding out about it, reading it firsthand on some text message, makes me nauseous.
“I can’t believe you’re spying on me!” I shout, slamming the papers onto the table. Unwelcome tears prick the corners of my eyes. “You don’t have any right to read my text messages!”
“I pay for that phone of yours,” Dad thunders.
“Then I’ll pay for it myself!” I jump out of my chair and push away from the table.
Dad grabs my wrist. “Sit down. We aren’t done.”
The look in his eye says that I better sit or he’ll make me. He never used to be this hard, this strict. Before Rachel died, he was the fun dad. He told the cheesiest jokes because he liked hearing us groan and cringe at them. Now I don’t think he even remembers how to smile.
I gulp, try to find my bravado, but come up empty. I sit.
“It’s not your actions that disappoint us,” Mom says, “but your lying. We simply can’t trust you.”
“Which is why your car is being taken away,” Dad adds.
“My car?” I gape at them. My car is one of the single instances of freedom I have. They gave me Mom’s old hatchback the second I got my learner’s permit. I would’ve been fine taking the bus or walking, but my parents felt I’d be safer behind the wheel of a car than on foot at crosswalks or bus stops.
Rachel was on foot when she was killed after all. Apparently that means I can’t walk within five steps of a motor vehicle ever again.
God, I sound bitter. I hate feeling this way, especially when deep down I know my parents aren’t bad people. They just haven’t recovered from Rachel’s death. I doubt they ever will, not without years and years of therapy—which they refuse to go to. The one time I suggested it, Mom stiffly informed me that everyone grieves differently, and then she got up and walked out of the room.
But they’re hurting me as a result of their unending grief, and I am bitter. And now they’re taking away my car?
In my car, I can blast my music, scream profanities and give voice to all my inner frustrations. Losing it would be awful.
I grapple for reasons that’ll convince them that this is wrong. “How am I supposed to get to work? Or the animal shelter?” For the past year, I’ve volunteered at a local animal shelter twice a month. Rachel’s allergy made it impossible for us to have pets at home and even now that she’s gone, the no-pets rule is still strictly enforced. So volunteering is the only way I get to be around dogs, who are way better than people, in my opinion.
Mom doesn’t meet my eyes. Dad clears his throat. “You won’t be doing, either. We’ve informed your boss at the Ice Cream Shoppe and Sandy at the clinic that you’ll be too busy with school to be able to work or volunteer.”
“You...” I take a breath. “You quit my jobs for me?”
“Yes.”
I’m so stunned I don’t have a response. All I can see are the doors slamming closed in my already-constrained life. No car. Slam. No part-time job. Slam. No volunteer work. Slam. Slam. Slam.
“You’re saying I go to school and come home. That’s it?” The knot in my chest threatens to choke me. It’s my senior year. I should be looking forward to my world getting bigger, not smaller.
“Until you can prove to us that you’re worthy of our trust, yes.”
I turn toward Mom. “You can’t agree with this. I know you know that this is wrong.”
She refuses to meet my eyes. “If we were stricter before...” She trails off but I know what before means. Our lives are strictly bisected into BR and AR.
“Marnie, let’s not talk about that.” Dad likes to pretend that BR never happened.
“Right, of course, but it’s because we love you that we’re doing this. We don’t want a repeat of the past. Your father and I discussed—”
“This is bullshit!” I erupt. I spring to my feet and out of my dad’s reach.
“Don’t use that tone with us.” Dad shakes his finger at me.
This time I don’t cower. I’m too angry to be afraid. “This is bullshit,” I repeat recklessly. Tears are dropping—which I hate—but I can’t stop. I can’t stop my words, my anger or my tears. “This is punishment because I’m the one alive and Rachel is the one who’s dead. I can’t fucking wait until I leave here. I’m not coming back. I’m not!”
Mom bursts into tears. Dad yells. I spin on my heel and race to my bedroom. Behind me, I hear my parents shouting. I climb the stairs two at a time and slam my bedroom door shut. I don’t have a lock but I do have a desk. I break three nails and knock the wood against my shin twice, but I finally drag it in front of the door.
Just in time, too, because Dad’s at the door, trying to shove it open.
“You open this door right now,” he demands.
“Or what?” I cry. I’ve never felt more helpless. “Or what? You’ll ground me? You’ve taken away my job, my car, my privacy. I can’t make a call or write a text without you knowing. I can’t even breathe without having to report to you. You don’t have anything left to punish me with.”
“We’re doing this for your sake.” That’s Mom, pleading for me to be reasonable. “We’re not punishing you because of your sister—” she can’t even say Rachel’s name “—we’re trying to help you. We love you so much, Lizzie. We...” Her voice cracks. “We don’t want to lose you.”
I lie down on the bed and pull the pillow over my head. I don’t care what they have to say. There’s no justification for what they’re doing. I wouldn’t be sneaking out if they let me have some freedom. Scarlett’s parents don’t hold her down and she never sneaks out. If she goes to a party, she tells them. If she gets drunk, she can call them and they’ll come pick her up. And the truth is she rarely gets drunk, because they’ll let her have the occasional beer or glass of wine. It’s my parents’ fault I’m this way. They’ve made me into this girl—the one who doesn’t listen, the one who sneaks and lies and breaks promises, loses her virginity to some stranger.