Just Don't Mention It, Page 2

  I reach over and pluck a new bottle of beer from the pack, and as soon as it’s in my hand, Jake is lifting his head and asking, “What’s wrong with the beer you already have?” The asshole smirks at me as he raises an eyebrow, and again I think how this whole “let’s pretend to be friends for the sake of everyone else” thing is nothing but bullshit. I just want to knock the guy out.

  I sharpen my glare, fixing him with a hard look that’s threatening. More often than not, I don’t need words to warn someone not to fuck with me, but with Jake, he’s used to it by now, so instead of backing off, he only snickers and passes me the bottle opener. Seriously, I think he just pisses me off because he’s hoping I’ll snap eventually. It’s like he lives to test my patience.

  “What the hell are Dean and Megs doing upstairs?” he asks as casual as ever, glancing down at the watch on his wrist. When he looks back up, he motions to the drink he was working on five minutes ago. “I’ve created an exotic signature cocktail and I need Dean to be the guinea pig who drinks it first.”

  I lean over and steal a glance into the cup, and the only exotic thing about it is that it’s a deep green. “I’ll go get them,” I say.

  Releasing my hold on Tiffani, I crack open my beer and take a swig as I head for the stairs. My steps are slow, my beer held loosely by the tips of my fingers, my other hand in my hair. It pisses me off that I’m not drunk yet. We’ve still got a few hours to fill before we head over to the party, so I’ve got time to change that. I can’t do parties sober. I never have.

  The door to Tiffani’s room is open a few inches, and I can see Meghan having a breakdown as she paces across the carpet, both her hands pressed to her face while she lets out a long groan. Dean only watches her and scratches at the back of his neck.

  “You guys are taking your time up here, ain’t you?” I say, pushing open the door wider and stepping into Tiffani’s room. They both look at me, although Meghan looks more exasperated than anything else, and she seems to scream under her breath through gritted teeth as she throws herself down onto Tiffani’s bed. That’s when I notice that her dress is open and her back exposed. I lift an eyebrow at Dean. “Have you guys been hooking up?”

  “Funny,” Dean says, heaving a sigh. He shakes his head and nods back to Meghan. “The zipper is stuck.”

  Meghan dramatically sits up and sniffs, telling me, “I’m going to have to borrow something of Tiffani’s,” as though it’s the worst thing in the world. I know she’ll kill me if I roll my eyes right now, but it’s hard not to when she’s up here having a breakdown over a damn dress. After being with Tiffani for three years, I’m somewhat used to outfit dilemmas.

  “Come here,” I say. Setting my beer down on Tiffani’s dresser, I move over to the bed and reach for Meghan’s hands, pulling her up to her feet. I step behind her and run my eyes over her pale skin, down to the zipper that’s jammed just above her waist. It’s caught in the blue material, and with a firm tug downward, it comes undone. With ease, I smoothly zip it up fully to the top, and Meghan breathes a sigh of relief while spinning back around, claiming that I’m a lifesaver.

  My gaze moves to Dean as Meghan skips across the bedroom to fetch her shoes. He’s pulling a face while he takes a sip of his beer, his eyes rolling to the back of his head, and it’s evident by his expression that he’s waiting for me to taunt him. It’s hard not to.

  “C’mon, man,” I start. “You seriously struggled with that?” My lips curve into a grin and as I step toward him, I thump his bicep twice as though there’s nothing there. Dean’s a nice guy, though he could do with some toughening up, because sometimes he can be too nice.

  “I thought I’d leave it to the expert. You know, given the number of dresses you’ve unzipped in your lifetime,” he fires back. It’s an exaggeration, but we share a laugh anyway, and he hands me my own beer. We clink bottles and take a swig.

  As I swallow, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and glance back over at Meghan. She’s perched back on the corner of Tiffani’s bed, sliding her heels onto her feet. “Where’s Rachael anyway?” I ask. In the past few hours that we’ve all been here, I haven’t even noticed that Rachael is missing until right now. She’s usually here too, and she would usually be drunk by now, and Dean would usually be helping her stay upright, and Jake would usually be continuing to pass her shots. Rachael thinks I’m a dick, so I don’t particularly care that she’s not here tonight.

  “Her mom needed her to go do something,” Meghan tells me, “so she’s just gonna meet us at the party. Does anyone remember the name of the girl whose party it is anyway? Was it Lucy?”

  I don’t remember either, so I look at Dean. He knows everyone and anyone, whether they graduated three years ago or if they’re a freshman. I don’t know how he can even be bothered to remember their names. “Yeah. Lucy,” he says. “A junior, I think.”

  “No idea,” I mutter. Whoever the hell she is, it’s no surprise we’re invited to this party she’s throwing. We get invited to a lot of parties by people we don’t know.

  Someone clears their throat from the door. All three of us look over, and Tiffani is there, leaning back against the doorframe. Her smile is tight and closed as she curls a strand of her hair around her index finger, her gaze on Dean and Meghan but not on me. “Jake has made you guys some drinks,” she says slowly, and then, with a firmer edge to her voice, she adds, “You should head down and try them.” Her smile grows wider, revealing her teeth.

  “In other words: Get out of your room?” Dean jokes, but he’s right. That’s exactly what she’s asking, and in reply to his words, Tiffani only bats those crazy eyelashes of hers. “C’mon, Megs,” he says. “Better leave these kids to it.”

  He takes Meghan by the hand and pulls her up from the bed, steadying her as she topples slightly on her heels. As he leads her out of the room, he throws me a knowing look over his shoulder, and I find myself smirking. Tiffani isn’t the best when it comes to keeping her intentions subtle. They’re usually completely obvious, like right now, as she watches Dean and Meghan head downstairs before she shuts her bedroom door and turns back around. Now we’re alone.

  “You couldn’t wait until later?” I tease, pressing my beer to my lips and finishing it in one gulp. I abandon the bottle on her dresser and roll the sleeves of my flannel shirt up to just below my elbows as I close the distance between us. It’s all so familiar, so part of the routine that my hands are already gripping her hips of their own accord, my mouth on the edge of her jaw. I almost choke on the overbearing taste of her perfume.

  For some reason, she isn’t reciprocating, and after a few seconds, her hand is against my chest and she’s pushing me a step back. I stare at her, my lips parted and my eyebrows raised, dumbfounded. Tiffani never shuts me down. Her expression is suddenly a lot more twisted than it was a minute ago. “You left your phone downstairs,” she says sharply, holding it up.

  Even though I know it’s my phone, I still pat the back pocket of my jeans, and sure enough, it’s empty. I shrug and raise my hand to take it from her, but she quickly moves her arm away. She shakes her head very slowly but very firmly, and I sigh and scratch my temple. I know she’s pissed about something, and I know I’m going to have to suffer for the rest of the night unless I can find a way to make her happy again.

  “I read your messages with Declan,” she states after a moment. And I think: That’s it?

  “So?” I don’t get what her problem is. Sure, I’m expecting him to hook me up with some joints later tonight, but that’s nothing new. Tiffani is used to that, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise to her, and especially with Declan Portwood. Everyone knows him. Those on the good stuff are his best friends. Those who aren’t tend to hate him.

  Tiffani steps closer, her head tilted back a little to glare up at me. “I read all of your messages with Declan,” she rephrases. And this time, it only takes a split second for me to realize what it is exactly that she’s talking about. I freeze in front of her, racking
my brain for something to say that can possibly justify the messages she’s read, but I come up empty-handed, and I’m left standing in front of her like a fucking deer caught in headlights.

  “You’re not serious, are you?” she asks, her voice much softer now. Her narrow shoulders sink a little. “You can’t be. You already do enough stupid shit that I put up with, but I swear to God, Tyler, I’m not going to put up with this. You’re taking it too far. I don’t want to be that girl whose boyfriend ends up in jail. Do you even know how that will look?”

  I press my lips together, still unsure how to handle the sudden confrontation. Over the years, I’ve learned that it’s better not to argue back with Tiffani, and to admit to being wrong as quickly as I can in order to shut her up. I’ve also learned that she doesn’t ever really give a shit about what I do; she only gives a shit about how it affects her.

  “I haven’t done anything yet,” I mutter. I still don’t think it’s even that big of a deal. “We were only talking.”

  “But why?” she presses, throwing a hand up in frustration at my apparent lack of good decision-making. “Why would you even consider doing it in the first place? It’s not like you need the money, so what could possess you to do something so fucking stupid?”

  I can do nothing but shrug, because I don’t actually know the answer myself. “What is there to lose?”

  Tiffani looks at me as though I’m seriously deranged. “Uh. Everything?” she says. “If you think dealing drugs is a good choice in life, then you’re an even bigger idiot than I already think you are.”

  I close my eyes and exhale, trying to keep my cool. She’s blowing this way out of proportion, but I’m more inclined to defend myself tonight for once rather than apologize. “It’s just pot.”

  “Yeah, and that’s exactly what you said when you first started smoking it, and look at where we are now.” She reaches for my hand and slams my phone down against my palm. “You’re gonna start selling pot to freshmen, then you’re gonna end up selling coke to losers just like yourself.” She shakes her head again, this time in aggravation, then she holds her hand up and turns her face to the side. “Don’t talk to me tonight. You’re disgusting, and if I see Declan he’s gonna get slapped.”

  I grind my teeth together, but still manage to keep my mouth shut. Saying anything more will make this worse, I know that. I’m pissed off, but I have to remain calm before I seriously flip out on her. The trace of alcohol in my system isn’t helping, either. It only makes it harder, but I focus all of my concentration on steadying my breath as Tiffani turns her back on me and heads for the door.

  And this whole conversation should be over now, at least for a while, where I take a few hours to calm down before I start kissing her ass again, but she does the most remarkable thing. She stops, and she turns around, and she opens that pouty little mouth of hers one more time.

  “You know, Tyler,” she says, her lips forming a smug, cruel smile, “sometimes I think you want to end up in jail just like your dad.”

  The tiny, tiny amount of self-control that I’ve been clinging to snaps. She did not just say that. My fists clench and I need a way to release the fury that erupts in my chest and the rage that spreads through me like a wildfire. I snatch the closest thing to me: My empty bottle of beer on the dresser. I don’t even realize I’ve hurled it across the room until it smashes against the far wall, shattering into pieces that cascade to the floor. I’m breathing too heavily and my eyes are wide and wild, and when I force myself to look back at Tiffani, her mouth is agape with shock.

  “I’m leaving,” I growl through gritted teeth. I shove my phone back into my pocket and grab my car keys from the other, pushing past her.

  “Good!” Tiffani yells back, pointing to the shards of glass on her carpet. “You’re a complete douchebag.”

  I could say so much more and so much worse about her, but I know I need to get out of here before my temper flares up even more than it already has. I wish I was better at keeping my anger under control, but I just can’t. I was raised this way.

  As soon as I throw open Tiffani’s bedroom door, I can already hear the music from the kitchen. I can hear Meghan laughing too, but I’m in no mood to join them tonight. I storm down the stairs, desperate to get the hell out of this house and as far away from Tiffani as I can. I keep my eyes locked on the front door, and even though Dean calls my name, I don’t glance up. I keep walking, straight on past them all and over the threshold, slamming the door behind me.

  My car is parked up against the sidewalk directly outside the house, and although I’ve had several beers, my desperation to get away from here overpowers my will to stay on the right side of the law. Right now, I couldn’t care less.

  I unlock my car and slide in behind the wheel, pulling the door shut at the same time as I’m aggressively tugging my seatbelt on. The engine roars to life and I slam my foot down on the gas, accelerating so harshly that my tires screech against the road. There’s a stop sign just ahead, but I don’t slow down. I never do.

  3

  FIVE YEARS EARLIER

  The bruise on the back of my shoulder seems to have worsened during the night. It’s grown bigger in size and doubled in pain, and even now, sitting at the kitchen table forcing cereal down my throat, I’m trying not to think about how badly it hurts.

  It’s almost seven thirty. I’ll be leaving for school in ten minutes, but I don’t want to go. I have track and field today, and the last thing I want is for anyone in the locker room to see the mess my back is in. The very thought of it makes me feel sick, so I know I’ll have to skip it even though I can’t afford to get into any more trouble this week.

  “Are you still asleep?” Mom teases, her voice alone enough to snap my attention back to reality. I blink and look up at her, my hand hovering my spoon midair, slightly dazed. Mom’s setting more plates down on the table, but she’s smiling gently at me, her eyebrow raised. She’s already wearing her suit for work, heels and all. The jacket is hung over the door.

  “Uh-huh,” I lie. I rub at my eyes with my free hand then return to my cereal, scooping up spoonful after spoonful, sitting at the table alone in silence. I prefer it like this in the mornings, just Mom and me, but it never lasts long. Jamie and Chase will be down soon once Mom yells at them to hurry up. So will Dad, once he’s finished shaving and once he’s found his tie from somewhere in the laundry room.

  “Good schedule for today?” Mom asks. She always puts in too much effort in the morning with me, because she thinks I’m an introvert until noon, but really, I’m only quiet because I’m thinking of reasons to keep breathing.

  I shake my head. “Science, math, gym.”

  “Hmm,” Mom says, and she stops moving around the kitchen and stands still opposite me at the other end of the table. “Speaking of gym class, I got a letter from your teacher yesterday.” My eyes fly up to meet her sudden stern gaze, and she looks at me like she’s expecting an explanation, but I don’t know what to tell her. I sit still, fumbling with my hands in my lap as she turns around to retrieve a sheet of folded paper from the drawer. She opens it up and clears her throat. “I’m growing concerned over the increasing number of times Tyler has been absent from my class this past month. I’ve overlooked the issue too many times already, and if this behavior continues I’ll be sending a formal report to Principal Castillo,” she reads, then studies me intensely over the top of the paper. “What’s the deal? I thought you liked gym class.”

  “I do,” I say quickly, but I know I’m about to lie to her, so I have to look away. “It’s really weird, but I always feel sick before gym class. Like, really, really sick. That’s why I keep skipping. I keep going outside to get some air.”

  Mom doesn’t seem to believe me, but it’s the only excuse I can think of that makes sense. It’s not like I can tell her the truth; that I keep skipping class because I don’t want to change in the locker rooms, that there’s too many bruises to hide, that taking part in anything physical hurt
s too much.

  “Maybe I should take you to see Dr. Coleman if you’re feeling so sick all the time,” she says, pressing a hand to her hip with concern evident across her features.

  “No,” I protest immediately, shooting upright in my chair. My pulse quickens and my throat feels dry, so I have to swallow hard a couple times before I can speak again. “I won’t skip class again. I swear.” I’m pleading with her now, but the conversation is cut short by the sudden sound of Jamie and Chase thundering down the stairs.

  My brothers come flying into the kitchen a few seconds later, pushing each other out of the way as they fight to be the first through the door. Jamie shoves Chase into the wall before he scrambles into the seat next to me, looking pleased with himself. Chase isn’t so happy.

  “Mooooom!” he whines, rubbing his shoulder. He pulls a face and sends a glare in Jamie’s direction, right before he marches over to Mom, sulking.

  “I wish the two of you would settle down a little,” she murmurs, but as always, she pulls Chase into her arms and squeezes him, ruffling his hair. “Oh, Chase,” she says, “your shirt’s on backward.”

  As she laughs and starts tugging his shirt off, Jamie turns to me, eyes wide and alert as though it’s the middle of the afternoon. His constant energy drives me insane. “I knew he was wearing it backward,” he confesses, “but I didn’t tell him.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s funny when he looks dumb,” he says. Sitting up on his knees, he leans across me and grabs the box of cereal, sticking his hand inside.

  “Jay,” Mom snaps in disapproval. “Bowl.” She wags her finger at him as she helps Chase up into the chair opposite us, then she pushes a bowl across the table. I don’t think she likes mornings. She always gets a little stressed out with us all, especially Jamie. All she can do is sigh when he spills half the cereal across the table as he’s pouring it.

  “Oops,” he says. He flicks some toward Chase.