Crash - Williams Nicole (читаемые книги читать онлайн бесплатно полные TXT) 📗

“Not as long as I use the back window and don’t get caught,” he said, reaching for the handle.

“Jude?” I said, winding my fingers around the steering wheel, looking for the right words.

“Yeah?” He let go of the handle and turned to face me.

“Just because I want to really try to make this whole thing work--”

“So do I,” he added.

“I just want to lay everything out on the table now before we go any farther.” I was nervous, and when I got nervous, my voice got all high.

“What do you want to know?” he asked, guessing I wasn’t looking for a life story, but fishing for something specific. He was right.

Taking in a breath, I pressed on. “Is there anyone from your past that could potentially come between us?” I said, peering over at him. “Anyone in your life I need to know about?”

Jude tilted his head, looking puzzled. “Are you talking about a girl?”

“Not specifically because I don’t know or want to know the girls of your past—I just need to know if there’s one you still have any kind of ties to.” I’d tried to flush Holly’s name from my brain all week long, but I was a woman; we didn’t just forget the names of our man’s ex flames.

“Hey,” he said, lowering his head until his face was level with mine. “There’s you, Luce. Only you. And don’t let anyone, most of all yourself, convince you otherwise.”

Everything inside me sighed with relief. “Okay, thanks,” I said, unwinding my fingers from the wheel.

“Anything else you want me to lay out on the table?”

Staring over at him, I wet my lips. “Nothing other than me.”

His eyes widened in surprise before he could recover. Chuckling, he said, “Anytime, Luce. Name the time and place. I’ll supply the table.”

“Make sure you disinfect that sucker first,” I called after him as he swung the door open. “I don’t want to catch whatever’s been laid out on the table before me.”

Pausing with his hand on the door, he suddenly turned and threw himself back in the car. His mouth was on mine before my heart could react and then, once it was trilling at flying speed, his mouth left mine. “Just you, Luce. No one else. There never has been.”

“That sounds like a convenient case of selective memory,” I said, wishing he’d come back and finish what he’d started.

“I try to only keep the happy memories,” he said, exiting the car. “If that’s what you call selective memories, I’m good with that.”

“Me too,” I replied after he’d left, watching him disappear into the dark or into the boys’ home, I couldn’t be sure.

It was becoming a familiar sight. One light burning in a window late at night, my mom’s silhouette behind it. I was either in deep shit or deeper shit coming home this late at night on the second to last night of my week long grounding sentence. Grabbing my bag, I shoved out of the Mazda and marched up the stairs, not even attempting to mask my footsteps.

I wasn’t sure what to expect when I walked through that front door; knowing what to expect from mom was kind of like flipping a coin. In the morning she might be cold, removed, and act like I was the bane of humanity, and by evening she could be baking cookies and asking if I’d learned anything interesting in class that day.

For years I’d been able to predict her, I always knew what to expect, and could so accordingly tailor my life around that. Now, I couldn’t. For a teenager who, as a race, thrived on manipulating the routines and regimens of their parents so they could get away with all forms of hedonism, I should have been devastated beyond repair. But I wasn’t. Seeing the pieces of my mom, the one from my childhood, come back together, made me feel like maybe there was hope for our family after all. Maybe we could get back to what we were, never forgetting, but moving on.

It was a childish wish, but I held onto it.

Opening the door, I paused in the doorway, waiting for mom to spin on me, not sure if she was going to scold or smile at me. She did neither. Her attention was focused on her laptop and nothing else.

“Hey, mom,” I greeted, dropping my bag on a nearby chair. “I’m off to bed.”

“Lucy?” she said, sounding confused. Spinning in her desk chair, she glanced at me and then the clock on the wall behind me.  Her eyes bulged. “Are you just getting home?”

Great. She had just turned into my dad. Didn’t have a damn clue what was going on in her household, but was cordial enough not to raise her voice.

“Yeah,” I said, grabbing an apple from the counter. “I was at the dance studio practicing a new routine. Time totally got away from me. Sorry.” I was ashamed enough to hang my head. Lying was not something I wanted to list as a top skill on my resume one day.

“Oh, I see,” mom said, shoving her glasses on top of her head. “That’s all right, just call next time you’re going to be home so late, okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” I said, grabbing a couple cookies from the jar because I was, for the first time in a week, hungry. “Night, mom,” I said, charging up the stairs.

“Lucy, wait,” she said, grabbing something from her desk and crossing the room. “This came earlier today.” She was grinning, grinning. My mom had smiled before, but I couldn’t recall a time she’d grinned.

Glancing down at the stuffed manila folder she was holding, I understood why. My knees buckled right before I collapsed on the stairs.

“Juilliard,” she said, holding it out to me with both hands like it was an offering.

I’d been waiting for this for the past year. Well, I’d been waiting for this since the day I learned what Juilliard was all about. Here it was, waiting on the platter of my mom’s hands, deciding for me what future I would live.

Knowing one piece of mail had the final say in letting me live the dream I’d always wanted was crippling.

“This thing is pretty thick,” mom said, extending it closer, “and my psychic abilities are telling me this is a welcome packet. So tear this sucker open and let’s celebrate.”

Juilliard. Dance. Dreams. Future. It was all there, or not there, one envelope rip away. But I wasn’t ready for it.

“Thanks, mom,” I said, grabbing the packet and running up the stairs.

“You’re not going to open it?” she asked, looking at me like I’d caught a nasty case of crazy.

“Not now,” I said, yawning. “I’m exhausted and would probably fall asleep before I read the first paragraph. I’ll check it out tomorrow.”

“Lucy?” Her voice was tight, worried.

“I’m good, mom,” I said, looking down at her from the top stair. “I swear. I’m just beat. I promise you’ll be the first to know once I open this baby up.” I waved the packet at her.

“All right,” she said, followed up with a have it your way look. “Sometime I just can’t figure you out.”

“That makes two of us,” I mumbled, running all the way to my room.

The packet haunted me from my desk all weekend long. Mom didn’t push the issue and I just couldn’t find the balls to open some damn letter. I didn’t even mention it to Jude when he called first thing Saturday morning. I’d wanted to get together that night again, maybe dinner and a movie, or maybe picking up right where we’d left off in the ballet studio, but apparently, other than school-related functions, weekends at a boys’ home were synonymous with work.

So in between fighting an internal battle in my bedroom, I took a few walks and gritted my teeth and danced through the pain I’d inflicted Friday night. Monday morning couldn’t get here fast enough.

I parked the Mazda and was all clear through the metal detectors ten minutes before class began. The halls were empty save for a few zero hour students and tired eyed teachers. I knew better than to look for Jude this early before class, but it didn’t stop me from stopping by his locker to make sure. My frown was just forming in front of his empty locker when a strong hand grabbed mine and began leading me down the hallway.  I didn’t need to identify the grey thermal or the worn beanie to know whose hand held mine.