I blow out a long breath. I’m used to overprotection, and I usually accept it in stride. But not here, and not from David. There’s a reason I left home for college, and I’m done being the depressed girl that everyone has to keep an extra eye on. How will I ever assert my independence with David watching over me like some kind of misguided security detail?
And now Brian is here.
Here, of all places. But why?
Certainly he hasn’t sought me out, or I’m sure he would have just called or texted at the very least. But he had to know I’m here, right?
Three years ago the thought would have thrilled me. Now it’s just confusing and disconcerting. And actually kind of annoying.
I make my way along the walkway that bisects the courtyard at the center of Standman that passes for a quad. The five red brick buildings set in a U sit quietly in the lamplight. I don’t pass a single soul on my way to the door.
But I’m wrong, and I startle when I spot someone in the shadows of one of the narrow alleyways that separate each building. Well, I spot the glowing cherry of his cigarette hanging in his hand by his side anyway, and it’s only when I’m reaching in my purse for my security key fob that he takes a pull, the small light source illuminating his features just enough to make out the face of that glarey stranger from my abnormal psych class.
Why is he lurking in alleyways like a freaking serial killer? And why is he still glaring at me? A shiver of unease rolls through me, and suddenly I wonder if he’s more than just strange—if he’s actually dangerous.
I rush through the door and make sure it closes securely behind me. At least he can’t get in here—dorm security and all. I’ll never admit it to David but, for the first time, I consider that maybe having a bodyguard on campus isn’t the end of the world, after all.
Chapter Four
Beth
Age twelve
I hurry down the steps of our synagogue, rushing around the corner, and behind the nook where the kids who think they’re too cool for Hebrew school smoke cigarettes during the one break we get during class. I kick the few littered snack bags and cigarette butts out of the way, clearing myself a spot before sliding down along the brick façade and hugging my knees to my chest.
I choke back a sob. I’ve been coming here almost every Sunday since kindergarten, but the class is half empty now, kids dropping like flies as soon as their bar or bat mitzvah passes. We’re all supposed to be here for the Jewish education, but it’s the worst kept secret in Port Woodmere that nine times out of ten, our parents only send us because Temple Chaverim requires it to hold the coming-of-age ceremony here.
Most of the girls have already stopped showing up, having had their bat mitzvahs at twelve, as per tradition. But I stopped coming for a while after my dad left, leaving me with well over a year to make up before the rabbi would agree to schedule my official foray into womanhood. It was my father, after all, who’d pushed our religious education, considering my mother was raised calling herself Protestant but practicing nothing. Which happens to be the exact reason I just ran out of our Hebrew lesson nearly half an hour early: if my mother had been born Jewish, Ira Traeger wouldn’t have just called me a shiksa, and told the whole class that, as a non-Jew, I shouldn’t be allowed to be bat mitzvahed at all.
I swipe at my flushed cheeks with my knuckles, resenting my tears as much as the words that caused them. I wish I was tougher. The kind of girl immune to the sting of words. My best friend, Darcy, who stopped coming last May after her mildly inappropriate Game of Thrones themed bat mitzvah—the one that had half the town calling her parents’ judgment into question—would have simply laughed it off if Ira Traeger had insulted her, or perhaps rolled her eyes and slung a far wittier insult right back. Under no circumstances would she have fled the classroom, slamming her knee on the doorframe on her way thanks to her tear-blurred sight.
I rub my palm just under the hem of my denim shorts, where the bright red, vertical ellipse promises a telltale bruise by morning. It really hurts, but it’s not the physical pain that crushes me.
I sniffle. I wouldn’t even be in that class with that jerk if it weren’t for my father’s choice to run away rather than face his mistakes.
I’m so lost in my own self-pity that I don’t recognize the waft of cigarette smoke until it’s too close to run or hide, and I sit here, frozen, as the figure too tall to be another thirteen-year-old emerges from around the corner.
My stomach flips as he comes into view, his cocky swagger viscerally familiar. Even backlit and hidden in shadow, I recognize David.
“B?”
I should get up. I should dry my cheeks. I should, I should, I should…I don’t. “Hi,” I croak.
David’s brow furrows, and he drops his cigarette and stubs it beneath his sneaker. I expect him to help me up, but he crouches down instead, bringing himself to my level. “Who do I have to kill?” he asks, only half kidding, and magically, a small laugh bubbles its way up from my chest. That’s where David lives. Right inside my chest, bouncing around the four chambers of my heart, where he made himself at home the very first time I laid eyes on him at one of Sammy’s soccer games.
I avert my gaze and shake my head, not wanting him to see my vulnerability, even if rationally I realize it’s too late for that. Another rogue tear slides down my nose, but he gets to it before I do. “You could tell me why you’re upset, kid. Or I can go in there”—he nods to the building—“and interrogate your little classmates until someone talks.”
I crack a smile, but I keep my eyes trained on my Uggs.
David nudges my chin so that I meet his gaze. He raises his brows. “I’m not above enhanced interrogation techniques. Or flat-out fucking torture, for that matter.”
I shrug. “I’m just being stupid,” I admit.
His mouth twists into a lopsided smirk, but it’s a sad smirk—a skeptical one. “I find that hard to believe.”
I finally really look at him, taking in his sweat-damp T-shirt and loose basketball shorts. “What are you doing here?” I don’t think I’ve seen him at temple since his own bar mitzvah, save the rare high holiday he might be guilted into escorting his mother to.
“Picking you up, kid,” he says like it should be obvious. “I was playing ball with Cap and your mom was giving us a ride back to your house. We told her we’d wait here until you’re done so she didn’t have to make two trips. I just told her I needed to take a piss so I could sneak in a smoke.” He nods to the forgotten cigarette on the ground. “So, now that I am here, are you going to tell me what has you in tears at fucking Hebrew school?”
