back together
with Nash, not until I untangle all these mixed-up feelings I have
inside. Maybe I should go along with it—it feels awful to say
nothing, to let him think it might happen. But he’s on the road
to recovery. I don’t want to lie and I don’t want to set
him off. No matter which I choose, I risk messing up all the progress
he’s made.
“How about you, El?” Cyrus asks. “You got any good
stories about Troy?”
“Oh, gosh, let me think . . .” I take
another sip of beer. “All right, I got one. I remember how you
boys were all fighting over that stupid BMW M3 we had at the shop
when the client backed out of the deal at the last minute.”
“Oh, my god,” Jagger howls. “That fucking car. I
wanted it so fucking bad!”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure you all did. It was about to come
to blows.” I grin. “So Uncle D says fine, how about we
all race for it?”
Drazic laughs and crosses his arms. He remembers where this is going.
“So Cyrus, you go out and do a lap. Not bad. But then Nash, you
do the same lap in ten seconds less. Jagger, you totally skid out and
suck, sorry, honey, but it’s true.”
Jagger holds his hands out to his sides. “No, that’s
fair.”
“But Troy . . . he swaggers up to that fucking
Beemer and he schools you all. So much so that he slows down at the
end, knowing he’s got a few seconds to spare, then steps out of
the car like a rock star.” I grin. “But then Lennox is
all, ‘Sorry, boys, but I’ve been practicing with this car
all month.’”
What starts as warm laughter around me quickly dries out. Nash’s
expression goes hard. Shit. I shouldn’t have brought up a story
that involved Lennox. I just had to open my stupid mouth.
“Anyway,” I mumble, “even though Lennox won, he
ended up giving it to Troy. And Troy loved that goddamned M3. He
drove it until one of the wheels literally fell off.”
“That M3!” Drazic cries into the still-awkward silence,
clapping his hands together. “Oh, lordy, do you all remember
the time he entered it into the circuits, not realizing he hadn’t
refilled the nitrous?”
I know what he’s doing—he’s pulling everyone’s
thoughts away from Lennox. I flash him a grateful smile. The guys
continue swapping stories. As the beer keeps flowing, Nash gets
louder and sloppier. At least he’s happy—I can’t
begrudge him that—but I don’t like his hand that keeps
wandering along my back. I know we’re on a “break,”
which isn’t the same as strictly broken up—not that I
have any other boyfriends to judge this by—but it’s
really getting to me. When he gets up to use the restroom, I take the
opportunity to excuse myself from the group, and I wander off on my
own.
My parents’ plot isn’t that much farther up the trail
from Troy’s gravesite, though it’s more overgrown there,
shrouded with young trees. I scatter a few extra flowers at their
headstone and crouch down at the base of the nearest oak. I was only
eight years old the night it happened. They were headed home from
Uncle Drazic’s house, and a sleep-deprived soccer mom in her
giant SUV swiped them off the road. They were Croatian immigrants, my
mom and dad and dad’s brother. They’d survived the
breakup of Yugoslavia, and the Serbian and Bosnian wars, and
countless other atrocities besides, only to wind up crushed on the
side of the road. Their cheap old used car couldn’t stand up to
six tons of suburban safety features.
But it’s not like the woman who did it got off clean, either.
She went halfway through her windshield before her airbag deployed,
and ended up paralyzed from the neck down. She may not have died, but
she paid a heavy price. Is still paying it, as far as I know. Maybe
that’s why I don’t feel the same burning need for
vengeance that Nash feels. Hell, at this point, I can’t even
remember the woman’s name.
Lennox carries scars, too. Not just those ones on his right side—it’s
the kind of mental scar,
with Nash, not until I untangle all these mixed-up feelings I have
inside. Maybe I should go along with it—it feels awful to say
nothing, to let him think it might happen. But he’s on the road
to recovery. I don’t want to lie and I don’t want to set
him off. No matter which I choose, I risk messing up all the progress
he’s made.
“How about you, El?” Cyrus asks. “You got any good
stories about Troy?”
“Oh, gosh, let me think . . .” I take
another sip of beer. “All right, I got one. I remember how you
boys were all fighting over that stupid BMW M3 we had at the shop
when the client backed out of the deal at the last minute.”
“Oh, my god,” Jagger howls. “That fucking car. I
wanted it so fucking bad!”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure you all did. It was about to come
to blows.” I grin. “So Uncle D says fine, how about we
all race for it?”
Drazic laughs and crosses his arms. He remembers where this is going.
“So Cyrus, you go out and do a lap. Not bad. But then Nash, you
do the same lap in ten seconds less. Jagger, you totally skid out and
suck, sorry, honey, but it’s true.”
Jagger holds his hands out to his sides. “No, that’s
fair.”
“But Troy . . . he swaggers up to that fucking
Beemer and he schools you all. So much so that he slows down at the
end, knowing he’s got a few seconds to spare, then steps out of
the car like a rock star.” I grin. “But then Lennox is
all, ‘Sorry, boys, but I’ve been practicing with this car
all month.’”
What starts as warm laughter around me quickly dries out. Nash’s
expression goes hard. Shit. I shouldn’t have brought up a story
that involved Lennox. I just had to open my stupid mouth.
“Anyway,” I mumble, “even though Lennox won, he
ended up giving it to Troy. And Troy loved that goddamned M3. He
drove it until one of the wheels literally fell off.”
“That M3!” Drazic cries into the still-awkward silence,
clapping his hands together. “Oh, lordy, do you all remember
the time he entered it into the circuits, not realizing he hadn’t
refilled the nitrous?”
I know what he’s doing—he’s pulling everyone’s
thoughts away from Lennox. I flash him a grateful smile. The guys
continue swapping stories. As the beer keeps flowing, Nash gets
louder and sloppier. At least he’s happy—I can’t
begrudge him that—but I don’t like his hand that keeps
wandering along my back. I know we’re on a “break,”
which isn’t the same as strictly broken up—not that I
have any other boyfriends to judge this by—but it’s
really getting to me. When he gets up to use the restroom, I take the
opportunity to excuse myself from the group, and I wander off on my
own.
My parents’ plot isn’t that much farther up the trail
from Troy’s gravesite, though it’s more overgrown there,
shrouded with young trees. I scatter a few extra flowers at their
headstone and crouch down at the base of the nearest oak. I was only
eight years old the night it happened. They were headed home from
Uncle Drazic’s house, and a sleep-deprived soccer mom in her
giant SUV swiped them off the road. They were Croatian immigrants, my
mom and dad and dad’s brother. They’d survived the
breakup of Yugoslavia, and the Serbian and Bosnian wars, and
countless other atrocities besides, only to wind up crushed on the
side of the road. Their cheap old used car couldn’t stand up to
six tons of suburban safety features.
But it’s not like the woman who did it got off clean, either.
She went halfway through her windshield before her airbag deployed,
and ended up paralyzed from the neck down. She may not have died, but
she paid a heavy price. Is still paying it, as far as I know. Maybe
that’s why I don’t feel the same burning need for
vengeance that Nash feels. Hell, at this point, I can’t even
remember the woman’s name.
Lennox carries scars, too. Not just those ones on his right side—it’s
the kind of mental scar,
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