Breaking the Rules: The Dating Playbook, Book: 2 Page 7

“Are you afraid?”

  I shake my head. “No. I’ve just been busy. Plus, I’m trying to give my mom a little break. I know she’ll be a wreck when I go out again.”

  Poppy nods, accepting my answer. “You know, I was talking to Michelle, that girl in my English Lit class, and she rents an apartment over on Fifth. She said the apartments are huge and quiet, and they have a gym and an indoor pool. I know we talked about waiting until next year, but what do you think about looking at them? Maybe we do it this year.”

  All along, we’d planned to move out during the summer. It was our plan since freshman year of high school. We knew we would go to Brighton together, knew we’d live together off-campus. We knew Poppy would grocery shop because I hate it, and I’d cook because she burns everything. But, then her mom started talking to us about how our schedules would change and, there would be new pressures and expectations we wouldn’t be prepared for and how we both had the advantage of living at home where we had zero expenses, food, and enough independence that much of the time it feels like we do live alone, specifically in my case, less so for Poppy who’s little brother, Dylan, is often around.

  “I think they were more worried about us staying out and partying and having boys over than they were about our feeling overwhelmed.”

  I chuckle. “You just now realized that?”

  “You have to admit, they made the idea of living at home make sense.”

  My laughter settles as I shrug. Most of the time, it feels like I live alone, anyways. Maggie being home had changed that, and my accident propelled it, but things have quickly slipped back into their normal ways, my parents working too much, and Dad escaping to the gym. “I’m game if you are.”

  “What do I say about Dylan?” she asks.

  I know it’s not her job to babysit Dylan or please her mom, Poppy knows it as well, but disappointing our parents is something we both work to avoid. “Maybe it would encourage her to work less?”

  “Maybe.” She looks wistful, and for a moment, I remember us when we were both eleven. By that age, Poppy made her own breakfast, caught the bus, and returned home, where she proactively did her homework and did a slew of chores including laundry, vacuuming, starting dinner, and a dozen other tasks, all of which Dylan has been shielded from. It’s a subject we don’t discuss because when broached, Poppy turns defensive.

  “Are we going to talk about Lincoln?” Poppy asks, her eyes turning sharp as she looks at me.

  “Only if we have to.”

  “He went to the marina because he knew you’d be there.”

  “He also confirmed we’re friends.”

  “Friends don’t make out with friends.”

  “I saw Derek today,” I tell her, switching chapters in this book I’d prefer to shelve for now.

  “What? What did he say? When? Where?” She shoots off the questions, leaning closer to me.

  “At school. He asked me out.”

  Poppy blinks in long, exaggerated movements. “He did not!”

  I shrug. “He was nice about it.”

  “You aren’t seriously considering it, are you?”

  My shoulders bob again. “I don’t know.”

  “Raegan, he nearly killed you.”

  “I nearly killed myself. He saved me.”

  “Paxton will lose his shit.”

  I sigh, knowing she’s right. “But, don’t you think it would make everything easier if I just tried to like someone else?”

  “You’ve been there. Done that. You left the date with Derek with Lincoln and then proceeded to make out with him. Twice.”

  I flinch. “That was before.”

  “Before what?”

  “Before I realized things would never work between us.”

  Poppy breathes out a long breath through her nose and sits back in her seat, crossing her legs. “I’m still team Lincoln.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “If you’re not going to pursue things with Lincoln—which I still think you should, for the record, but if you’re not—I think we should cross off Derek. It’s too messy. Too much baggage. Besides, he was a rebound. Let’s be honest.”

  It’s my turn to sigh as I close my textbook. “You’re probably right.”

  “I’m definitely right.”

  “What about you? How are things with Chase?”

  A smile smooths her brow. “He’s been blowing up my phone lately.”

  I try to hide my envy with a smile. “See? I knew he liked you.”

  “He still hasn’t asked me out, though.”

  “Tell him you won’t give away the cream unless he buys the cow.”

  “I hate that saying,”

  My grin widens. “I know. That’s why I said it.”

  “I think at the next party we attend, I might flirt with someone else. See if I can make him jealous.”

  “That’s a textbook bad idea,” I warn her.

  “Definitely. But this is just for fun.”

  “One day, I have a feeling we’re all going to be in a book you write: social experiments conducted by Poppy Anderson.”

  She grins. “I’ll give you all pseudonyms, don’t worry.”

  I pretend to wipe my brow as I stand, gathering my things into a pile as I hear her front door open, followed by the loud barks from their dog Cooper, confirming Poppy’s mom is home.

  “You can stay,” she says.

  I shake my head. “I need to go do some laundry.”

  Poppy stands. “You sure?”

  I nod, her concern and love for me makes me smile. “Yeah, but we can do breakfast in the morning. Your first class is at eleven, and I don’t have anything until one.”

  “Yes. I’m so in. Frank’s at eight?”

  “Nine,” I counter.

  “It’s always busy on Thursdays. I’ll be late for class.”

  “Fine. Eight-thirty,” I concede.

  She walks me downstairs, passing by her mom, who’s dressed in a khaki pantsuit with an orange top, her hair and makeup in clean lines. “Hi, girls.”

  We chime our hellos, Poppy stopping to pet Cooper as I slide on my coat. “See you tomorrow. Bye, Miss Anderson.”

  She smiles. It’s the only part of her that I can see in Poppy. Everything else about her is icy and intense, almost harsh.

  I walk down their long driveway to where I parked on the street, my muscles tightly bunched as the cold seeps in. I’m lost in thoughts of Lincoln and Derek, and the possibility of moving out and what my parents will say when the thoughts scatter upon the sight of a paper crane tucked into my windshield wiper.

  I swallow, my steps coming to a stop as I glance around, the small hairs on my arms standing erect as concern swirls with the chilly night. The high-end neighborhood Poppy lives in has immaculate yard after immaculate yard, each house shining bright with numerous porch lights, cars neatly tucked away in their garages. Nothing is amiss, and I don’t know if that is more assuring or concerning as I hastily grab the crane and climb into the driver’s seat, dropping it to my passenger seat. My car has turned freezing in the hours I stayed at Poppy’s, my steering wheel stinging my fingers. My impatience urges me to bear through it, but the cold makes my muscles ache, and the edges of my thoughts turn even darker than the night sky. I blast the heat and set it to defrost as my windows start to fog, rubbing my hands together in search of warmth.

  I stare at the crane for several seconds. It seems like a lifetime ago that Maggie opened them and revealed the ugly words that were masked within the intricate folds.

  I think of my conversation with Derek today, trying to recall the faces of those who passed by us. I can’t remember any of them, though.

  I carefully unfold the paper, catching glimpses of the angry letters.

  You jumped into an ocean, proving to be the martyr we all knew you were. It’s too bad you lived because your miserable existence plagues my days and destroys my nights. Why does he care for you the way he does? Why does he always put you first? You take, and y
ou take, and you take, and you don’t even recognize everything he gives up, all for you. Why couldn’t you just have died?

  I swallow, tracing over the same handwriting that slants down to the right hand corner of the sheet. The heater is finally blowing warm air, but I feel even colder as the words settle into my thoughts.

  The outside lights from Poppy’s house flip on, cueing it’s my time to leave before she comes out to see if I’m okay. I shove the note into my middle console and pull forward.

  My thoughts are on the opposite side of the world, in a tiny town in Nigeria with Maggie, as I silently move into the kitchen, wondering what she’d think of this letter. She’d say I needed to tell our parents and Paxton and be smart about this.

  I sigh, running through the plausible conversation in my head. How my dad would get his sister the police officer involved. How each of my actions would need to be accounted for again. It’s daunting and promises to accomplish the opposite of what I’ve been trying so damn hard to achieve, which is to provide some assurance to my family. I consider ways to mitigate their concerns as I set my bag down and flip on the lights.

  For the most part, I feel the same as I did before the accident, but my appetite still hasn’t returned. I’m sure it’s because I wasn’t able to eat for several days due to the tracheal tube, but since the hospital, I’ve craved hot chocolate. I fill the blue kettle that sets on our stovetop and set the burner to high.

  A noise catches my attention. The sound of voices, making me listen more carefully. I follow the sounds down the hall to Dad’s closed office door. This morning he’d told Mom he couldn’t attend a dinner she’s at because he had something at Brighton. I move to open the door, but it’s locked.

  My father’s voice ceases, and then footsteps and rushed words tickle my ears. I take a step back, working to gather the contents of the situation. Could it be a robber? Might someone have broken in and is looking for something? Was that my dad’s voice?

  I take several steps back, my heart pounding in my chest as I realize I might have leaped back into the arms of danger without even having realized it.

  The door creaks open before I finish organizing the facts, my dad’s face a shadow as a light behind him clicks off.

  A gust of air falls from my lips as I grip the wall for balance

  “Raegan?” His tone paints confusion, albeit a quiet and marginal amount of relief.

  “Dad?” I ask in the same shade of confusion. “What are you doing?”

  “I thought you were going to Poppy’s?” he counters, the scent of wine rolling off his breath, staining his teeth and lips.

  “I was. I did. I just got home.”

  “You said you were going to be home late?” The sound of something falling pulls his attention back into the room before I can answer him. He starts to close the door, but I move my foot first, my palm connecting with the door, pushing it wide. Dad’s reaction is too slow, and while I’d like to blame it entirely on the wine he’s consumed, I quickly realize another distraction held his attention.

  A woman—no, she’s a girl—is sitting at Dad’s desk, wearing a white dress shirt that I suspect is his, multiple buttons popped open. Her hair is dark, her lips bright pink. I can’t see if she’s wearing pants or even underwear, but at this point, I’m not sure it matters.

  “Raegan,” he orders, grabbing me by the elbow and shoving me back into the hallway with a roughness I’ve never associated with him. I stumble, my shock still working to decipher what I just saw.

  “What are you doing?” I demand as I jerk my arm free.

  “It’s not what you think.”

  Tears burn in my eyes, an army of traitors prepared to expose my sheltered life where things like this weren’t even fathomable. Traitors he trained and assembled by loving my mom and us so wholly and entirely that doubt never even entered the confines of our house. For repeatedly assuring us that we were happy. “You’re having an affair?”

  “Your mom and I—”

  “No. This is you. This is all you,” I tell him, pointing a finger in the direction of his desk chair.

  “It was a mistake,” he rushes to say the words, his eyes heavy with sadness, and what I hope is regret and guilt. “This…” he exhales slowly, his brows bunched with emotions that under any other circumstance I’d be rushing to ease—emotions I want to soothe out of habit and a love I’ve harbored for this man for my entire life. My stomach rolls with the reality of the situation, and I take a step back, so I don’t touch him.

  “It was a mistake,” he says.

  “A mistake is when you call me Maggie. A mistake is when you forget your coat when you go outside in the rain. That—” I point to the door. “She is way more than a mistake.”

  He shakes his head in rapid little bursts. “No. No. Rae, I can fix this.”

  “Fix this? How? With what?”

  He reaches for me, gripping one of my hands in his. His skin is sticky and slick, making me shudder before I pull free, trying to ignore the scent of cherries that stains my skin where he touched me. “Please. Don’t tell anyone. Let me make this right. I swear, I will.”

  I shake my head, hating the look of desperation in his eyes so much I can’t look at him. “That’s not fair. You’re asking me to lie to them.”

  “I’m begging you not to break our family up. Don’t hurt them when it’s unnecessary. I’ll fix this. I’ll be better. I’ll stop.”

  “More lies aren’t going to fix this.”

  His demeanor flips like a switch. Anger flattens his brow and curls his lip as he raises a hand like he’s going to slap me. Self-preservation and fear are what has me taking several steps back, while my pride wants to move closer and dare him to do it.

  His hand falls as fast as it had risen, another immediate change as he steps back as well, his eyes wide as he shakes his head. “I wasn’t going to hit you. Rae, I’d never hit you.” The two truths war in my head. He was ready to strike me—wanted to hit me, yet I’ve never feared my dad hitting me, even on the few occasions I probably did justify being spanked, he barely even raised his voice. No, Dad was never an aggressor or a yeller. Instead, his shoulders would drawback, and his whole face would turn several shades of red like an old cartoon character, except steam would pour from their ears, and his steam poured in the form of harsh words that were spoken in a tone that always made me listen.

  “Rae,” he says my name softer, gentler, his face still unrecognizable with flashes of guilt and a plea that are nothing like the proud and loving father I know. He takes another step closer to me, and I match it in distance with two backward.

  “Please. Talk to me.”

  “I can’t. I don’t believe you. Everything you’ve ever said to me feels like a lie.”

  A rush of emotions hits him again, requiring my full attention as I work to recognize them: anger, hurt, accusation, sadness, offense, and fear are the descriptions popping into my head.

  “You’ll destroy our family if you tell anyone. Let me fix this. It will never happen again, I swear.”

  I turn on my heel, unable to give him my word and refusing to grant him the knowledge of how terrified I was. I didn’t want to plead with him to be honest and face his infidelity because, at this point, the last thing he deserved was my own truth. I stop before reaching the kitchen where the tea kettle is whistling. He follows me, saying my name in another angry tone I don’t recognize. I twist to face him with the realization that while he doesn’t deserve it, Mom certainly does. “You can’t lie about this. You can’t pretend it didn’t happen. You had an affair. In our house. What were you thinking?”

  “She took advantage of me,” desperation rounds his eyes and rushes his words. “She knows I’ve been lonely.”

  “Lonely?” I spit the word.

  “You’re too young to understand. Just because two people are married, it doesn’t mean they can’t feel lonely and detached.”

  “Then you go to counseling. You talk. You go on a trip together
and work on things. You don’t get a girlfriend.”

  “Shhhhh!” His brows squeeze together, another flash of irritation marring his features. His graying beard and graying hair that’s thinning on top and along his tall forehead are only details that make him look his age. A few weeks ago, I thought it was unbelievable for a man who was six years my senior to flirt with me. A thirty-year age gap makes my stomach heave.

  “You owe Mom the truth.”

  He nods. “I will. I’ll tell her the truth. But let me do it. Let me explain it, so she understands.”

  I shake my head in tight little jerks. “She doesn’t owe you understanding.”

  “Why are you trying to ruin our family? Do you understand the backlash of this situation? I’d lose my job. You’d lose your acceptance to Brighton. Paxton would lose his scholarship. We wouldn’t be able to afford this house or things like your boating lessons and the ability to support you once you graduate with a degree you can’t use. I’m not asking you to save me, I’m asking you to save yourself. Save your mom who everyone will whisper and talk about behind her back, and Paxton who will be in the news because of his parents, and they’ll forget all about his football career. You’ll ruin it. You’ll ruin it all. After everything you caused in the past few weeks, this is the least you owe me. The least you owe them.”

  I always knew fear was the ugliest of emotions. I just never expected it would be my dad who confirmed this fact. I turn on my heel, flipping off the burner, and head upstairs. I pace the length of my room, thinking about things that don’t matter. I wonder about who she is and how old she is. If she knows who my dad is and if I’ve met her before. I question her intentions and motivation. Why she’d be interested in someone like my dad who has three kids, a wife, and a growing stomach and shrinking hairline.

  And if my dad, the seemingly smart, caring, doting husband isn’t capable of being faithful, is anyone?

  Tears blur my vision as my thoughts veer to Lincoln. Of the sentiment he’d shared, assuring me that things always end badly.

  My body feels worn and tired, my emotions the aftermath of a tsunami. I trade my clothes for a pair of pajamas and climb into bed, soaking my pillowcase with all the words I can’t say and don’t understand that come out in the form of a million tears.