Varsity series box set, p.61
Varsity: Series Box Set, page 61
“What do you want, Tory?”
Ouch. She doesn’t want to know all the things I want. They aren’t mine to have. And while I thought, for a while there, that maybe there was some reciprocation in her feelings, I’m pretty sure it was all on my side.
“Sorry,” I say, going with my lie to June. Seems I do need to apologize to her after all. “I just . . . I wanted to call and apologize. I made you uncomfortable, maybe more than once, and I’m just . . . I’m sorry.”
“How’s your eye?” She doesn’t miss a beat in responding.
I breathe out a laugh and roll to my back again, touching the tender skin with my free hand.
“Hurts like a motherfucker.” I laugh out.
Quiet takes over again, and my smile falls back to the flat line that’s taking up permanent residence on my face.
“I told Hayden it was just an innocent thing. I don’t think it had anything to do with you; I think he’s just having a hard time lately.” She’s giving my brother an excuse. One, my sweatshirt being at her house was not innocent. I was a breath away from kissing her that day. And two, she’s wrong about Hayden. His issues with me are deeply personal.
“Right,” I say, letting it rest there. She doesn’t need my baggage. And when it comes to my brother, I’m going to be the bigger man for as long as I can. My anger will come out when it’s good and ready.
“He’s taking me out tonight,” she says. My stomach rolls with a sick envy. I forgot that I told him to play her that song. I never got around to teaching him how.
“Oh, that’s right. Happy birthday.” I feel like an asshole.
“You told me last night,” she says right back.
I did. I also told her she’s beautiful. No matter what she is to me, or to my brother, I don’t take that bit back. She deserved to hear it, and I had a right to tell her. Admiration is not a breach of loyalty. It is, however, a poisoned knife that cuts deep into my chest. It hurts to admire her so much.
“So, hey, how’s the script coming?” I put on my best light and happy voice.
“It’s . . . coming,” she says, hesitantly. I was supposed to practice with her a lot more than I have. It’s my fault we haven’t.
“I bet it’s better than you think. Why don’t you give me some lines,” I say.
“What, like . . . now?” Her tone is so offended it makes me laugh.
“No, like maybe later, after you film. Like an encore,” I joke.
“Ha ha, Tory D’Angelo.”
I catch myself grinning, a happiness taking over my body that I haven’t felt in eons. I like the way she says my name. She’s always done that when we spar. I think it’s her way of showing she’s my superior, yelling at me like a parent or teacher would.
“How about we read a little now,” I suggest.
“What, on the phone?”
I pause with my mouth open, about to make another smart-ass remark, but I pivot.
“Yeah, why not. Maybe shoot me a few pics of the scene and I’ll put you on speaker and we can read. I’ll even lock the door so nobody will hear how awful I am and how great you are.” I sit up, hopeful she’s game.
“I don’t think I’m allowed to send pictures of it,” she hedges.
“I’ll delete them as soon as we’re done. Cross my heart.” I wait while she mulls it over, and I can tell she wants to.
“You trust me?” I add.
Her pause is brief.
“Yes,” she whispers.
I feel that one small word in my chest, and I’m grinning. There’s something special about her trusting me, even about something like this. June was right to warn me—this is gonna hurt.
“Okay, send it my way. I’m locking the door now.” I don’t pretend but actually do it, mostly because I don’t want my mom coming in unexpectedly just because she’s nosy.
My phone dings with her delivery and I put her on speaker so I can open my images and expand enough to read.
“Got it,” I say. “So, you want me to be Jordan Shotcraft?”
“Tory . . . nobody can be Jordan Shotcraft except Jordan Shotcraft.” She has a point.
“Okay, smartass. I mean, isn’t that his character, this Max guy?” I thumb through a few of the lines, getting the sense that most of the work will be on her. This should be easy.
“Yeah, this is the one section I’m struggling with.” She sounds stressed. I’m glad she’s letting me help.
“Okay, then. Let’s go. Ready?” I have the first line, but I don’t want to start reading until she’s ready for it.
She draws in a sharp breath before whimpering a tentative, “Yes.”
I sit on my bed with the phone cradled in my lap, my legs folded and my hands suddenly sweaty. I can’t imagine doing this in front of an audience. No wonder my acting career peaked with junior high and community theater.
“Look . . . kid . . .” The script says pause for dramatic effect, so I am . . . I think. “I’m not really good at this father thing. I think you’d agree, so how about this. Give me a number.”
“A number.” Abby bites out the line, a near growl to her words.
“Yeah, you know . . . an amount. I’ll set you up with whatever you think you need. I can give you money. You’ll be good. You don’t need me—”
“Money!” Her anger is thicker this time. “Ha! Yeah, sure, fine. Go ahead and cut me a check. Cut me out of your life. That’s how things work for Max Stewart. Buy your way out of responsibility.”
“Christine, you know this is for the best.” I feel like such an amateur reading with her. I’m barely finished with a line when she begins hers. The conversation feels so real, so raw. It also feels vaguely personal.
“Yeah.”
There’s a long pause, and I wait through it. It’s meant to be there, but the longer it drags on, the more on edge I get. Something’s off.
“Maybe it is. For the best, I mean,” she croaks. It’s not quite the line as written, but it’s close enough.
“It is,” I hum.
“And maybe, maybe you’ll regret it one day. Maybe I’ll be so famous that you’ll wish you took the job of dad when it was yours to have. But it won’t be there anymore. That job is closed, no more applications being accepted. Eliminated.”
She’s definitely veering now.
“Abby, do you want—”
“And then you can swoop in and play hero just so you can get your foot in the door, earn off of your investment. Those are your words, not mine! Your fucking investment. That’s all I am to you!”
I can hear the tears through her words, and I get why this section has been so hard for her to get through. I’ve read ahead, and while it’s nothing like the words she just spilled out from her soul, it does ring very familiar. This story has a happy ending, though. I know it does because I looked ahead when we read the first time. Abby’s relationship with her father, however, is just one big loop.
“I’m on my way,” I say, not giving her a chance to tell me no.
I grab my keys and wallet, and stuff my phone in my back pocket, jetting down the stairs, out the door and by my mom without a word. I fire up my shitty squad car and test out the engine, getting to Abby’s house in less than three minutes by blowing one stop sign and rolling through three others.
At her curb, I slam the car in park and dash through the lawn and up her steps, pounding my fist on her front door. She opens it after only seconds, and I step inside and take her into my arms, and let her cry big, fat, ugly tears into my chest.
“I know,” I say, running my hand over her head and through her hair, rocking her softly while we embrace in the doorway.
“I can’t do this,” she fights. I assume she means the movie, and that’s just crazy talk. She’s too good to let this emotional hump stop her.
“Yes, you can. Don’t give him that much power over you. Your choices, your decisions,” I say.
She goes quiet, breathing hard, her mouth open on my cotton shirt. She’s making a wet circle in the middle of my chest with her spit and tears. In all my years of knowing Abby Cortez, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her truly cry.
“Someone took nude pictures of me, and he paid them off. I owe him,” she says, her voice raw and embarrassed. She hides her face against me, turning inward even more. I’m glad because I’m sure the expression on my face is violent and frightening. I feel hot, and it’s a struggle for me to keep my touch so gentle while my muscles are flexing, ready to rip someone’s head off.
“You don’t owe him jack shit, Abby. Taking care of you is his job.” I’m probably a little more forceful than she needs to hear in her fragile state of mind.
“He’s moving here. To fucking Allensville. He’s moving his whole Miami life, his whole Miami girlfriend, to the town he called a shithole and pledged to never step foot in again.” She pushes off from my chest just enough so she can form fists with her hands and level them against my chest. I can take it. I hold her elbows while she beats against me, letting out her rage. “He’s coming here so he can get a better handle on my business. He thinks my mom doesn’t do enough. I should be earning more! He’s coming to milk me dry, not to be a dad!”
I bend down enough to look her square in the eyes, my palms cradling her face. I swipe away the tears collecting on her cheeks and wait for her breathing to slow while she sniffles and focuses through her blurred vision. She nervously steps side-to-side in my hold.
“Abby, listen to me. You . . . deserve better. You hear me?”
She shakes her head. It’s going to take more to make her get it. I tighten my lips and shake my own head.
“No, you need to listen, to hear! You are worth a thousand suns. Your dad screwed up, and not like a business man, but like a human. He screwed up the day he wrote you and your mom off, and he doesn’t get a second shot at that. He’s not the man for the job. Hell, you and your mom—you don’t need a man. Look at what you two strong women have done! You . . . you’re going to be in a fucking Jordan Shotcraft film! Like, in theaters, where I’ll have to buy some twenty-dollar ticket or some shit.”
She laughs through lighter tears and sniffles.
“That’s right. Smile, Abby Cortez. Let him try to steal your spotlight, take dollars out of your pocket. He’s just using you to fill his empty void. And he did it to himself. He gave up the chance to have a real heart, a real life, the day he took off for Miami. He can move here and fight you in court so he can get paid and it will never be enough because he won’t have you. Not having you . . . it is fucking torture, Abby Cortez.”
Her eyes blink away tears and open on mine, and I swallow hard. That last part, that’s about me. There’s no way she doesn’t know it. She has to know.
“Abby . . .”
My attempt to get back on track is cut short when she steps up on her toes, clutching my now damp shirt in her hands, and presses her lips to mine. I’m frozen from the touch, my hands falling away from her face but never going far, hovering in shock somewhere around her shoulders until I regain control over them. I move them to her neck, burying them in her hair, my fingers curling at the sensation of her silky hair between them. I’ve dreamt this exact feeling.
Her mouth is salty from tears and her lips are soft and quivering, but they don’t back down. I coax her head to the side to deepen our kiss, and our tongues connect when she opens to me. A sweet hum escapes her throat, and it makes my lungs crash in disbelief that this is happening. Her hands have moved up my body to my neck, gripping at my shoulders to lift herself higher, to bring us closer, and then without warning, she falls several steps away and covers her mouth with the back of her hand.
Her chest is heaving with labored breaths. Mine is too. That kiss, it was forbidden. We crossed the line that took us from good people to the selfish kind. She was weak, and I took advantage. I should have told her no; I should have stopped her. But I wanted it, too. I wanted to kiss her even if that kiss was only about making her feel better right then, for a moment. I wanted to be her medicine, to be the thing that made her smile and made her believe she really is all of those things I said she was.
She is. But now, she’s not going to believe it. One kiss took it all away. She’ll think I said it solely for the outcome, which, while I’d kiss her back time and time again, my intent was only to give her back her fire.
“I’m sorry. Abby . . . I’m . . .” I hold out my open palm, the sting of my bruised eye burning more than before. Her lips are puffy and smeared with the same pink that’s probably on mine. I run my wrist across my mouth to erase it, so she doesn’t have to see what we’ve done. Still, she turns away.
“I’ll let you go. I hope you have a happy birthday.” My gravelly voice betrays me, and there’s no way to hide the hurt.
June was right, and I get my phone out to call her on my way back to my car. I can’t do it, though, and while I drive away, I toss my phone into the passenger seat and stew in my own shame. I’m no better than Hayden. He took something from me, and I just took something from him.
SIXTEEN
ABBY
I’m such a fake.
Hayden is standing in my doorway, dressed so nice—in a suit! He told me to wear something fancy, so I put on my last awards show dress. It’s black and plain, and feels kind of simple now that I see him downstairs, clutching the rest of the roses meant for my birthday.
I kissed his brother.
I suck in my bottom lip at the memory; the tingle hasn’t left for hours. It was wrong to kiss him like that. Things were so raw and he was saying all those words that just made me feel.
I’m going to break his brother’s heart.
I can’t hide up here all night, and maybe I’ll go downstairs and feel differently. Maybe my heart will swell, Hayden’s kiss suddenly feeling different—feeling like Tory’s.
Nothing has ever felt like Tory’s kiss.
My mom left Hayden in the doorway while she got back to her work, and he’s fidgeting. My dad’s news about moving back to Allensville really threw things into a frenzy for her. It’s easier to have hope when the problem is several hundred miles south of you.
My father will hate it here. He’ll leave, eventually. This is the best plan I have come up with so far—wait him out. Some plan.
Unable to avoid my fate much longer, I make my way down the stairs, catching Hayden’s gaze about halfway down. He looks at me like I’m something special. Why can’t it light me up inside?
“Wow,” he mouths. I tighten my smile.
“You sure this is okay? You’re in a suit, and this thing was on double clearance at Boutique Bin,” I say, fanning out the skirt to one side.
“You could make a paper bag look good,” he teases, tipping my chin up with light pressure from his thumb. His lips hover over mine for a beat, and he smiles just before kissing me. It’s sweet. It isn’t Tory’s kiss. I need to stop comparing.
I need to stop thinking.
“Everything all right here?” He motions toward my mom after handing me my flowers. I hug them close to smell them and glance over to my mom, who is making piles out of the piles.
“My dad’s moving here,” I say with a shrug. It’s an inevitable obstacle that I’m going to have to accept.
“Your mom is letting him in?”
I scrunch my brow and flash my gaze back to him, taking a second to realize he’s confused.
“Oh, no,” I laugh out. “Not for a million bucks. No. Besides, his girlfriend is coming too. It’s part of his plan to be ‘more involved.’”
“I’d let him have the floor for a million dollars,” my mom hollers from a room away.
My lips bunch in skepticism and I shake my head silently at Hayden, because as tempting as money might be, my mom knows the trade-off would be letting the devil inside. You don’t invite them in. You wear garlic and shit.
“Let me put these in water,” I say, handing him the small purse I packed for the night with my phone, wallet, and keys.
I slip past my mom and move toward the cabinet to find a vase. I flip through a few, the noise annoying her, and she finally joins me, digging one out from beneath the sink. It’s a tall, slender, blue glass cylinder, a gift that came with flowers from June a couple of years ago when my mom got home from the hospital after a car crash resulted in a broken wrist. She’s basically ambidextrous now because she refused to stop working. She booked me two national ad campaigns in that cast.
When the vase is full of water, I dump in the flowers and move it to the center of our dining table. My mom quirks a brow at my choice of placement.
“Just trying to liven up all of this,” I say, waving my hand around the mess.
“Ah, yes . . . it’s much lovelier now. Thank you,” she jokes. “Now, go on. Go enjoy your birthday.”
“Birthday weekend,” I correct as she moves around the table and places her palms on my cheeks. She squeezes them enough to force my lips to pout and she plants a big mother-has-the-right-to kiss on my lips.
“Weekend. Correct,” she says, giving Hayden a sideways look to make sure he’s on board.
She moves her gaze back to me, and before she lets her hands fall away from my face, she stares at my eyes with a questioning look, her eyes pulling in to the center and her lips pinched, on the verge of speaking.
“What?” I ask.
Her eyes flit to Hayden and back to me quickly, a silent clue that hits my stomach hard. I’m not sure what she’s insinuating, but my mom and I are very close. There’s every possibility that she can read my thoughts. At the very least, she can tell that my body language with the twin I am dating is very different from the one I’m not.
“Be good to yourself, baby girl. Be selfish.” She pats my cheek lightly.
My gut rolls with the weight of guilt because I was selfish. Very selfish.
“Can I take your jacket?” I quickly switch the topic, never reacting to her advice, but she can tell I heard it, knows it sunk in. She’s always been able to read me like that.
“Sure,” she says, backing away and moving toward the mudroom where she keeps most of her winter things.
