Istare over at Eveline, a thousand different questions on the tip of my tongue, but not knowing how to ask any of them. I can tell she’s upset, and I’d like to assume it’s because I was flirting with her sister, but more than likely it’s because she’s just a miserable person who can’t stand to be around me.
She’s made it more than clear where we stand, and as much fun as it is to rile her up, keeping our distance is for the best. For both my sanity and my job. I can pretend I’m using her for information all I want, the truth is there’s something about her that drives me fucking crazy.
Her sister is easy and will be all too willing to share any secrets she knows.
But none of it changes the fact that I’m still stuck as Eveline’s shadow for the foreseeable future.
I glance over at her again when we stop at a red light.
“What’s really in the notebook?” I ask, partly out of curiosity and partly because I’m trying to gauge if it’s something important I should try to get my hands on.
She sighs, running a hand through her hair. “Poetry.”
Surprise swims through me, my brows skyrocketing. “Who’s your favorite?”
“I like the classics.”
“Hmm.” I nod. “She dwells with Beauty. Beauty that must die; and joy, whose hand is ever at his lips. Bidding adieu; and aching pleasure nigh, turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips.”
She blinks, her mouth parting.
“What?” I grin, turning left onto a side street that leads into Kinland Heights; one of the roughest neighborhoods in the city. “You don’t know it?”
“No, I…” She shakes her head. “I do. Keats is my favorite, I just… how do you know it?”
“I know lots of things, sweetheart.” I wink.
Her lips purse. “Well, pretty words don’t impress me. And neither does your poor attempt at avoiding actual conversation.”
My grip tightens on the steering wheel, and a sharp pain swirls through me. “My mom liked poetry.”
The hole in my chest aches when I say the words, and I don’t even know why I’m saying them. I don’t talk about my mom. Ever. And especially not with someone who’s the living embodiment of why I don’t have her anymore.
“Oh,” she whispers. “She’s dead, right?”
“Who fucking knows,” I bite out.
She tilts her head, her lips thinning. Eventually she says, “You’re mad at her.”
My stomach twists. “No, I… I don’t know what I am. I don’t feel much of anything anymore, to be honest. It was a long time ago.”
She lifts a shoulder. “My mom left a long time ago too, and I’d still be the first person in line to spit on her grave.”
My lips twitch. “My mom had issues. She wasn’t around much, and when she was, she was sick.”
Dope sick usually, but I don’t add in that bit.
Eveline rests her head against the car window, and I don’t know if that means she’s listening or she doesn’t care, but now that I’ve started talking, I don’t really want to stop. The memory surges through my insides and plays like a movie; so potent and visceral it’s like it’s happening in front of my face.
“She had this collection of old books. They were small, red, and warped around the edges. I don’t even know where the hell she got them, but when I was little, she’d sneak to my room in the middle of the night and read them to help me sleep.”
I park the car on the side street lined with small, worn-down houses wrapped in broken chain-link fences. “When I got older, and she stopped coming around as much, I don’t know… I guess they helped me feel close to her or something. It’s stupid.”
She reaches across the console, locking our fingers together, the metal from her rings cool against my palm. “It’s not stupid.”
My chest throbs with stuttered beats as I stare at her small hand and the way it fits so perfectly in mine.
“They comforted you,” she states.
She’s comforting me. I swallow around the knot in my throat. “Words were my calm in a life filled with chaos.”
A beautiful grin spreads across her face and the sight of it knocks the breath from my lungs. “Mine too.”
My hand shoots out before I can think twice, and I cup her jaw, my thumb rubbing across her pouty lip, sparks flying through my fingers. “Jesus, pretty girl. You could ruin lives with a smile like that.”
Her grin drops as she stares at me, and my heart slams against my rib cage so hard I swear it’s trying to break free and fall to her feet.
I grit my teeth, annoyed at the unwelcome feeling.
“Anyway.” I snap my hand back. “I don’t really like to talk about it.”
My words are harsh, but it has the desired effect, her face molding back into the sharp angles of a grumpy girl with a short temper. “Good, because I’m not your fucking therapist.”
“Thank god for that.” I laugh.
She crosses her arms.
“You know, you’re a real piece of work,” I bark, anger dripping through my system like lava burning through rock.
She grips her hair and then slaps her thighs with her hands. “I’m not even doing anything. Holy shit, and people say I have mood swings?”
“Oh, well at least you know you’re psychotic.”
The air thins.
She grins maniacally. “Okay.”
I frown. “What do you mean ‘okay’?”
She doesn’t answer, just swipes her palms down that flowy skirt she always wears and hops out of the car, marching toward the small house at the end of the street.
Closing my eyes, I exhale heavily and pound my fist against the wheel. “Fuck!”
Jumping out, I jog after her, not wanting her to walk into a situation she might not be able to get out of. But I shouldn’t have worried, because when I finally catch up, she’s already inside the house, a guy on his knees in the center of the room, her giant gun pressed against his head.
And maybe if she didn’t drive me so crazy, I would realize that I’ve made a mistake.
Because while it’s true that I don’t know if my mom is alive, Brayden Walsh’s mom died of cancer.
