Collateral Damage Page 7

  "So how was today?" she asks.

  "Today? Today was fine."

  "Classes? Any tests I should be proud of you for passing?"

  "No. No tests. Classes are fine."

  "How about your big English project?"

  I don't know how to answer this—how much information to provide. Do I tell her Jaden and I worked on it this afternoon? That I went to her house? That I sat on her bed and ate Sun Chips? Does it even matter? "Um, fine. It's coming along."

  "Your partner hasn't driven you crazy, yet?" she teases.

  "Crazy? No. We met this afternoon, actually," I confess, sitting up. "It hasn't been as bad as I thought it would be. I mean, we're probably further along than the rest of the class."

  "See? I told you she'd practically do it for you."

  "She's not doing the project for me," I say. "We're both contributing. Today we were talking about relationships. You know how sometimes you get so used to other people they become convenient? The guy in our story has been married to this woman he practically loathes for years—not that he would admit it, because he's the kind of guy who just sucks it up, but..."

  "Did you get my message about my parents?" she interrupts.

  "Your message?"

  "I called this afternoon. I left a message."

  A message? I didn't have any messages this afternoon.

  "Anyway," she continues. "Mom and Dad want to throw us an engagement party next month."

  "An engagement party?" Apparently my conversation skills have been reduced to dumbly repeating whatever Callie says.

  "A little thing at the country club in honor of us. For family. Friends. You know, so people can congratulate us. And the first of what I hope will be many presents." She laughs.

  I prop my elbows on my knees, run fingers through my hair. "I didn't think we were doing anything like that, yet," I say. "Things are...they're hectic for me right now, Cal. I've got school, this assignment...."

  "It sounds to me like your project is covered," she points out.

  The project is covered? I'm not even.... Wait.

  "That's not the project I was.... No, Callie. My work assignment. In fact, I was going to tell you.... I can't make it to Hamilton this weekend."

  "What?" The surprise registers in her tone. "But you stayed last weekend."

  "I know. And I know I promised things would get back to normal soon, but I'm getting closer. I have a few leads to follow up on."

  "Two weekends in a row, Chris. Two. It's bad enough I don't see you during the week anymore, but now you're taking away our weekends?"

  "It's temporary, Cal," I remind her. "I have to stay on top of this. I'm running out of time."

  "What am I supposed to tell my parents? My dad?" she shrieks.

  Mr. Donovan.

  I'll never get out of this one.

  "Can you tell them to hold off on the engagement party for a few months? What's the difference between spring and summer?"

  "You want me to tell my parents no?"

  "Not no," I clarify. "Just not now."

  "Fine. Whatever." But I can tell by her voice it's not fine. Not fine at all.

  "I'm sorry, Callie. I know you're excited, and that this is important to you. It's important to me too," I assure her. "I want to do this. I want to be part of it. But I need to get this job behind me. I can't focus on anything until it's over."

  "No, I'm sorry. I understand. I really do," she replies, voice softening. "Your work is important, too. I don't want you to think I'm not supportive...."

  "You've been more than supportive. I'll finish things here soon, then I'll be back in Hamilton. You won't be able to get rid of me," I promise.

  This puts the smile back in her voice. "I'm counting on that."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Jaden is on time today.

  I wonder what happened to the children of Bangladesh—the ones she was saving every morning in the lobby, the ones who got us into this mess in the first place.

  Ms. Tugwell scribbles something on the board. The marker squeaks, fading as she writes. Literary terms. God. I hope we're not having a quiz.

  I flip back a few pages, skimming my notes, searching for the words.

  But something is off—not right. And it has nothing to do with Ms. Tugwell, who's returning to her desk, or the words she left on that board.

  It's her. Jaden. She's watching me. I can feel it.

  Don't look up. Don't look at her. She does not exist.

  I still can't find the words.

  I can't find....

  My pulse races. It's not working. She's watching. And I can't....

  They're new words. They have to be.

  And yes, maybe Jaden is pretty. She might even be beautiful—in one of those unassuming, hardly recognizes it kinds of ways. Girl next door.

  I flip to another page.

  There are no words.

  There's no way she'd put up with me.

  I cringe.

  Not that I want her to put up with me, because that would imply....

  Shit.

  I'm thinking about Jaden McEntyre. Jade. English Project Jade. I'm thinking about her like that.

  My spine stiffens.

  No. No. No. No. No. This is not good.

  Shit.

  This is not good.

  I tug at the sleeve of my jacket and shift positions. It's so freaking hot in here. It's like she's boring a hole right through me with her crazy, green, laser eyes. My skin is on fire.

  The rest of our classmates hurry to their seats as the late bell rings.

  A quick glance. That's it. A quick glance to see what she's doing. She's probably wrapped up in her own stuff. She probably doesn't even know I'm alive.

  I exhale a breath, and, when I look over at her, our eyes meet.

  Shit.

  I tear them away from her as quickly as they connect. But she saw me. I know she saw me. And God. Those eyes.

  I can't let her think I'm ignoring her. Even though I am. Even though I'm supposed to be.

  When I turn my head, I'm not surprised to find her still watching. But I am surprised to find her smirking at me—the slightest, tiniest turn of her lips. Lips that demand to be kissed.

  And my chest constricts. My heart stops beating. I can't feel it moving at all. And the blood in my veins stops flowing, and it's all I can do to lift my head and nod in reply.

  When I turn back to my notes, the blood rushes to my ears. My heart thunders. I inhale sharply, sucking in as much air as possible.

  This is not happening.

  * * *

  "I'm glad we were able to do this," my mom says. "I feel like I've barely seen the two of you in weeks."

  "I know," Callie agrees. "Chris has been so busy with work."

  I slide the wooden chair from beneath the table and sit down beside Callie. My dad takes a seat beside Mom. We're at a Cracker Barrel halfway between Bedford and Hamilton. Mom's idea. It's quaint and comfortable and a fire crackles, burning on the other side of the room.

  The waitress takes our drink orders as we settle.

  "Did Chris tell you we picked a date?" Callie asks, lowering her purse to the floor.

  Mom glares at me. "No. He didn't."

  "Yes I did," I remind her, skimming the breakfast menu. "We talked about it at the family dinner. I asked you about the first week in May of next year. You said there were no plans."

  "But you never confirmed that was the official date," she replies.

  "That's because I didn't think we were picking dates," I mutter.

  "We weren't," Callie agrees. "But Winnfield had an opening. It was a fluke, really. But we both love the venue, so we felt we should jump on it." She steals a quick glance in my direction. "Right?"

  "It's great," I agree.

  Pancakes. Eggs. Bacon. I shut the menu, toss it on the table.

  "The Plantation is beautiful. I'm so excited for you both!" my mom says. Then, turning to me: "I told Nora. Have you talked to her lately?" />
  Nora is my older sister—a grad student at Northwestern State. Nora is the good one. The great one, actually. Perfect student. Perfect daughter. She never partied. She was already in college when.... But she was there that weekend. I remember the look on her face when they brought me home—standing on the stairs in her bathrobe, arms folded across her chest, hair disheveled—just as disappointed as Mom and Dad.

  I clear my throat, reach for my glass of water. "We've texted a few times. She emailed me a congrats."

  "You didn't tell me that!" Callie accuses. "I need her number from you, anyway. I want her to be one of my bridesmaids."

  "Sure."

  "I've already asked my sister, and I told my brother he can be one of the groomsmen," she continues. "I hope that's okay."

  "Yeah. It's fine. I asked Erik to be best man." Not that I asked. More like he assumed. But, at this point, what's the difference?

  "Really?" The surprise in her voice is evident. "I thought you would ask Rusch."

  "Erik and I have been friends since junior high," I remind her.

  "But Rusch is like, your partner. You've been together since training." Her brows pull together, confused. "I was sure you'd ask him."

  "How is Rusch?" my dad asks.

  "Good. He's still working the 'burbs." I turn back to Callie. "You were hoping I'd ask him," I challenge.

  "I have nothing against Erik," she assures me. "You can have two best men if you want. A whole entourage." She laughs, but it's forced. Awkward.

  The waitress interrupts us, hovering as we order our meals. I'm the only one who opts for breakfast. Mom and Callie choose vegetarian dishes, and Dad gets the country ham plate—also known as "the saltiest item on the menu." Mom swears he's a heart attack waiting to happen, and the majority of our dinners out involve some kind of heated discussion about doctors and cholesterol levels. My dad isn't one to shy away from conflict, though. In fact, he welcomes it, because as soon as the menus are taken: "How's your assignment coming along?"

  I wipe my palms across my jeans. "It's coming. I have a few good leads I'm following up on."

  My dad is a retired sheriff. He feigns interest in the work I do, but asking "how it's going" almost always becomes a segue for how great it was being a sheriff, and how I'm making a huge mistake working for the city. And he definitely doesn't see the appeal of going undercover—it's more like a huge inconvenience. And it is, in some ways.

  I can't tell my parents where I live, for instance. They don't know where my apartment is located. I don't keep a landline tied to my name—any communication comes through my cell phone. They know I'm working a school, but they don't know which one.

  "Your last assignment went much faster," he points out.

  "That's because they were careless."

  I spent most of the second semester working a private school near the coast after enrolling as a senior transfer. It didn't take long to find the pusher there. Once I had a solid case built, I passed on the evidence, local agencies set up a sting, and I dropped out—disappeared a few weeks later. Just another student who slipped through the cracks.

  "The problems at this school...it's not pervasive. I'm still trying to find a solid link."

  "The year is winding down," he reminds me, reaching for his glass.

  "I know that. I'm on it."

  Thankfully my mom, who is not a fan of public displays of controversy, steps in. "Leave him alone, Frank. Let him do his job." She turns to Callie, changing the subject. "So what did your parents say when you told them Chris proposed?"

  I didn't exactly propose...I just didn't not propose.

  "They were really happy for us," she says, smiling. "I mean, they knew it was coming. We were actually thinking it would happen at Christmas. In fact, they want to throw us an engagement party this spring, but I don't think Chris is interested."

  "I didn't say I wasn't interested," I explain. "I said it was a bad time for me."

  Wait, did Callie say they were expecting a proposal at Christmas?

  "There will always be conflicts, Chris," Mom reminds me. "In your line of work..."

  "Let the boy do his job, Meg," Dad interrupts.

  "I'm sure he can get away for one night..."

  I reach for my drink, tuning them out. Between Callie and the wedding and Dad and my job....

  Frozen pizza in an empty apartment never sounded more appealing.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I don't want to risk running into Jaden or her boyfriend, so I ask for the pass in third period and move quickly down the hallway—past that long row of lockers. It's so easy for me to rationalize this away. We have a project to do. We have to work on it, right?

  Truth is, I want to see her.

  I scan the numbers.

  One hundred and fifty-seven.

  One hundred and fifty-seven.

  When I reach her locker I pull on the handle and there she is, gazing back at me, smiling.

  With Blake.

  I suppress the urge to blacken his face with my Sharpie.

  I set the card—Library: 3:00?—on the shelf and close the door quickly, before the devil on my shoulder prevails and I do something I might regret later.

  Might regret.

  I stop at my own locker just before lunch. I'm changing out books for the last periods of the day when I see her. I shut the door and merge into the crowd, moving closer, then break free, leaning against a wall between two classroom doors—far enough away to remain inconspicuous.

  When she opens her locker, she immediately breaks into a grin. Lifts the card. Reads the words. But then Blake is there, right behind her. She slams the door shut, spins on her heel, turning to face him.

  My jaw smarts, tightening.

  Pretentious asshole.

  Should've blackened his face, anyway. Sent them both a message.

  * * *

  I'm already waiting for her at our table in the library when she arrives. I don't immediately notice the frown she's wearing, only the brown boots that reach her knees, with a heel that leaves her towering over me.

  Sexy as hell.

  I greet her with a single word. "Winter."

  She tosses her bookbag to the floor, her jacket to the table and pulls out a chair and sits down, leaving only one empty space between us. "I hate winter," she grumbles. "What about it?"

  That's when I notice the tired eyes, cheeks that could use some sun, but I'm too proud of this discovery. This connection. The realization that everything bad that will happen to Ethan occurs on miserable, winter days.

  "It's crucial. Everything that happens takes place during the winter."

  A long stretch of sunless cold.

  "Winter sucks."

  "Exactly," I reply.

  She sighs deeply, removing her notebook from her bag. "I'm not following. Are you talking about now or the book?"

  Something about her tone—the frustration in it—is unsettling. This isn't normal Jaden behavior. I can deal with perky Jaden. I can even deal with the annoyed, argumentative Jaden. It's already proven I have no idea what to do with a sad one. And my first thought is that something happened between her and Blake. That he found the note I left her. That he said something to upset her. That they broke up.

  My next thought?

  Good.

  "What's up with you?" I ask, trying not to sound too concerned.

  "Nothing...it's just...one of those days." The response is so vague that I'm no better off than before. I don't know if it's Blake or Savannah or a teacher. But I follow her gaze to the dark, bleak sky, anyway—the clouds hanging low outside the window, to see what, exactly, one of "those days" looks like.

  "Anyway," she continues, "I have this thing against winter. It's like...after Christmas life stops or something. There's nothing to look forward to. The days are short and cold...it never snows here. It's just...my least favorite season, that's all. It depresses me."

  I lean back in my seat, arms folding, amused. "You mean to tell me that Jaden McEn
tyre gets depressed?"

  Her cheeks flush pink, the hint of an embarrassed smile playing at her lips. "Sometimes, believe it or not, yes. I get depressed."

  "No way. I never would've guessed. You've got that whole 'life is perfect come save the world with me' act down pat. Who'd have thought you could use some therapy?" I tease.

  Her brows furrow, drawing together, the smile vanishing. "Shut up. It's not an act. And I don't need therapy. It's important to think about things bigger than yourself—to try to make a difference. You only get one chance, you know? Why not do everything you can while you've got it?"

  "You say that like there's something bigger and better out there."

  She shrugs. "So what's your deal with winter? Are we talking about me or Ethan?"

  "Actually," I begin, "I was talking about Ethan...and winter."

  "What about it?"

  "Well, it's a central element to the novel. I mean, think about it. It's cold, business is bad, Zeena is sick. Everything is moving at a snail's pace. He's kind of like you in that sense. Who wouldn't be depressed?"

  Mattie is all the man has, and he can't even have her.

  I don't say this out loud, but she gets it.

  "Everything is so much worse because it's cold and dark and problems seem never-ending," she confirms.

  "And didn't Ethan say if his mother would've died in the spring he would have never married Zeena?" I remind her.

  She ponders this for a moment before a bright smile lights her face. "Parker, you're fairly brilliant," she says, writing in her notebook. She scribbles furiously at first, then slows, the smile all but disappearing. Her pen stops. She stares at her paper—not even at her paper, but past it. A million miles away. Lost. Thinking.

  She pales, color draining from her cheeks. I'm about to ask if she's okay when...

  "Oh my God."

  "What is it?"

  She gasps, covers her mouth with her hand. "Ohmigod." She pulls her hair away from her face and closes her eyes tightly. "Tell me today's not Thursday," she whispers.

  "Um, yeah. It's Thursday."

  "Oh my God!" she cries.

  The librarian shushes us from across the room. I glare at her, part of me wanting to jump over that desk and shove every last book she's checking in to the floor. But Jaden is already on her feet, grabbing her coat and her bag and her purse.