The Scars Keeper Page 6

  “We’ll pick her up on our way to visit,” Mom replies. Yikes, yet another reason I need to live two hours the opposite direction.

  Someone looking into my life might believe I should be grateful to have family who wishes to spend time with me, but when those visits come with a side dish of criticism, and a dessert of disappointment, it’s difficult to appreciate.

  Dad and Grandpa join us, and Mom leaves to finish dinner.

  “How’s my young girl?” Gramps asks.

  “I’m good.”

  “She’s busy as always between her advanced studies, tennis, student council … What else are you involved in?” Dad asks, his forehead wrinkled in concentration.

  “The French, poetry and math club, and the debate team, too. Thankfully, volleyball and cheerleading are over with. I don’t think I could handle much more.”

  Dad frowns. “You can do whatever you set your mind to.” Sitting next to me on the sofa, he slaps me on the back.

  “She still teaches Sunday school to the preschoolers at church, and I’m putting her through some extra conditioning, too. We have to keep her strong so she’ll be prepared for college tennis. She still has a 4.0.”

  Lie. I think I’m at a 3.8 as of this week, and he’s going to flip once he discovers it. We also only attend church on special occasions.

  “Dinner’s ready. You can head to the dining room,” Mom says, peeking her head around the corner. She’s holding pot holders and is a touch sweaty, so I guess I should help her.

  I stroll to the kitchen and find her breathing harshly. Her green eyes are darting around the kitchen, her hands moving twice as fast.

  I grab the skillet of small red potatoes and pour them into a china serving bowl that’s trimmed in gold.

  “Be sure to sprinkle that fresh parsley over those. Your grandmother will notice it’s missing if you don’t,” she says in almost a whisper, looking over her shoulder in the process.

  My mom, Beth Ann, has her blond hair up in a pretty French twist tonight and is in light tan slacks and a silky white blouse all while she slaves in the hot kitchen.

  She’s beautiful, and as she teeters on the verge of a panic attack, I’m stunned with the realization that she’s trying her hardest, too, to play her role in this perplexing, demanding world.

  The perfect daughter.

  The perfect wife.

  The perfect hostess.

  The perfect cook.

  The perfect mother.

  The most stunning woman.

  And the most recognized anesthesiologist.

  Tears flood my eyes, and Mom glances up at me.

  “Why aren’t you moving? Snap out of whatever this is, and sprinkle the parsley”–her hand waves toward me–“and make those potatoes look a little better in that dish.”

  I swallow back the tears I want to shed for my mother. If she feels even half as anxious as I do, then my heart aches for her.

  “Avery, what is wrong with you? I think we should get you to the gynecologist and change your birth control pills. You’re so emotional these days.”

  I’m not on them for sex. It’s strictly for my heavy monthly cycle, and Mom reminds me often that it’s all they’re to be used for.

  “I’m sorry,” I mumble. Grabbing the spoon, I rearrange the potatoes in the serving bowl and sprinkle the fresh parsley over them.

  I do pull it together and help her as much as possible, appreciating her a great deal more. I carry dish after dish to the dining room table, along with the iced teas I made for everyone.

  Once we’re seated, I watch Mom inhale deeply and exhale slowly. She swallows and wets her lips, and I bite mine to curb the tears again.

  I’m quiet throughout dinner, analyzing everything. It’s a curse and contributes to my daily anxiety. I know it, but I have no idea how to stop it.

  “Dear, this pork loin is a touch dry. Maybe next time cover the pan while it’s cooking. It will keep it juicier,” my grandma says.

  “I think it’s delicious, Mom,” I reply.

  “Hmph,” Grandma utters under her breath, and I can’t look at her, or she’ll receive a glare.

  Dad goes on and on about his practice, and he and Grandpa talk sports. My parents also brag about the ten day cruise to Alaska they’re taking this summer.

  It’s the trip they never asked me to attend with them, and it’s probably because Dad wants me to study and practice my sports.

  To escape my family’s attempts at one-uping each other, and to help my mom, I go to the kitchen and work on the dishes. I wash the pans and load the dishwasher.

  Returning to the dining room, I give my grandparents hugs goodbye and tell everyone I’m going to my room to study, which is the one thing my parents will always agree to.

  Once I’m upstairs, I strip out of my dressy clothes and jewelry. I put my hair into a ponytail and put on my pajama pants and a tank top.

  Lying on my bed, I keep thinking about my mom and the brief moment in the kitchen when she wasn’t happy with the person she must be.

  I’ve always thought my mother desired the luxurious home and car, prestigious job and image, but maybe it wasn’t what she wanted when she was my age.

  Maybe she was forced into it, too. I wonder that, but except for the panic she displayed this evening, she always seems content with her life and is hard on me, too.

  The urge to cut begins to grow as I think about the strictness they enforce on me. I don’t want to do it. I was ashamed when Hayden found me that way.

  He shook his head like he was disappointed and ashamed for me, too, and I don’t want anyone to see my weaknesses.

  I’ve involuntarily revealed some of them to Blake and my closest girlfriends, but they couldn’t imagine the magnitude of my feebleness.

  Feeling hot all over, I go to the back of my room and shove apart my black curtains. After opening the window that rests above my backyard, I sit on my black chair.

  I think of Hayden sitting in this very spot and wonder what he must’ve been thinking during that crazy ordeal.

  He probably thought my room was a mess since I still have a lot of stuff from the old house in boxes. I’m curious what his room looks like. Did he like my dark turquoise walls? I think they’re pretty cool and edgy.

  My phone vibrates on the floor next to me, and as soon as I see Blake’s name pop up, I feel a tinge of guilt for thinking about Hayden.

  “Hello,” I say.

  “Ave, baby, what’s happenin’?”

  I roll my eyes. “Tell me you’re not already drunk? It’s only eight o’clock.”

  “OK, I’m not drunk.” He laughs, and hearing a female voice behind him only annoys me further.

  “Sounds like there’s a lot of people at the party.”

  “Oh, it’s slammed here. Madison and your crew are sucking down jello shots in the kitchen. Can you hear them shouting? Damn, they’re gonna deafen me.”

  “Let me talk to her?” I hear a girl say. “Aveeerrryyy … we miss you!” Carrie shouts. I smile because I can so see her grinning with her eyes closed, but then I frown because she’s probably using Blake to lean on. She’s always thought he was hot.

  “I miss you, too. Wish I could be there. Now, go have a cherry jello shot for me, and put Blake back on the phone.”

  “OK. See you at school Monday.”

  “Hey, baby. Want me to go to one of the bedrooms. We could do some sexting.”

  “I’m not sexting with you while you’re trashed. I’m getting off the phone. Go have fun.”

  “So, you’d sext with me if I was sober?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Damn, Avery, you need to look the word fun up in the dictionary and memorize that shit.”

  “I’m hanging up before you have time to say something you’ll really regret.” I end the call before he can respond.

  Shoving my palms against my eyes, I rest my head back on the chair and sigh. With the room now quiet, I hear the faint sound of a guitar.

&n
bsp; “Yes.” I slouch down in the chair, like the way I found Hayden sitting, and close my eyes so I can enjoy the sound. Only seconds pass before I sit straight up, eyes wide.

  Hayden.

  Could he be the one playing the guitar? I have to know. I gnaw on my lip, constructing a way to find out. There is not an excuse in the book I could come up with for wanting to go back in the woods at this hour.

  I look out the window and discover I’m not that far up since my room is above the deck. I could jump, but my parents would probably hear when my feet land, so I decide to do what I’ve seen done in the movies.

  Digging through a moving box, I find my extra set of sheets and tie one end of the flat sheet to the wooden foot post of my bed.

  It sits straight across from my door, and the window is to the left if you’re looking at the bed.

  I yank on the sheet and pray my heavy bed is strong enough to hold my weight. Once I’ve found my slip-on Toms and a flashlight from my nightstand, I throw the sheet out the window.

  “I think I’m certifiably crazy now,” I mumble.

  As soon as I’ve got a leg and arm out the window, I feel the bed give a little. Oh, damn, please don’t go sliding across the floor. That noise will for sure have my parents on alert.

  I’m a fit girl, so I have little trouble hanging on and inching my way down the sheet. Once I’m a couple of feet from the deck, I reach a foot down and lower myself. The automatic porch light comes on, so I freeze.

  Worried my parents will come to the door, I panic and tear off across the deck and down the stairs. I don’t stop sprinting until I’m at the back of our yard.

  Planting my hands on my knees, I lean my head over and catch my breath. The guitar music is louder, and a male’s voice now distinct, but I’m too far away to tell if it’s Hayden’s.

  It’s almost black outside as I start down the path, and I’m rethinking this idea. What if it’s not Hayden? What if it’s a male who’d hurt me?

  I feel like I’m the heroine of a horror movie, but I press on, shining the flashlight before me. I’m too curious to turn back now, and isn’t that what causes the pretty girl to die in the movies? Curiosity.

  Chapter Nine

  Hayden

  To my left, I spot the light on the ground first. I drop the guitar to the bench and jump to my feet.

  “Who’s there?” I ask as I reach for my pocket knife.

  “It’s me, Avery,” her timid voice says. I force out a breath and run a hand through my hair. With every one of her steps, I get a glance at her curvy shape behind the flashlight.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Um, I heard the guitar. I wanted to see who was playing.”

  Once she’s fully inside the circle clearing, the moon casts a glow over her, allowing me to see her better. She shines the light near me but not in my face. Is she in her pajamas?

  “I thought it may be you playing.”

  “Yeah, and it was meant to be private.”

  “I can hear the melody all the way from my bedroom if I have my window open. I like listening to you. Why did you stop?”

  “Maybe because someone was creeping toward me in the dark woods.” Walking over until we’re toe to toe, she then gazes up at me.

  “Will you play again? I promise I won’t look at you. It’s dark, anyhow.”

  “I don’t play for others.”

  “Please. It relaxes me.”

  “How did I suddenly become your caretaker?”

  “I only came out here to listen to the guitar. I don’t need anything else from you.” Her voice reveals a hint of frustration.

  “I don’t want trouble, and something tells me that’s exactly what you’ll bring me if we keep running into each other. Go home.”

  “You told me I could hang out here.”

  “I meant when I’m not.”

  Groaning, she shines the flashlight straight at me, so I grab it from her hand and point it back at her. She covers her eyes and squints, but after a second, she stares straight at me with a glare.

  “Unlike the other males in my life who wish to control and change me, you want to banish me. I guess to the male species, my body is my only appealing quality.”

  “I don’t even know you enough to weigh in on that, but I am aware that you have a boyfriend. I do a lot of stupid, selfish shit, but making a move on another guy’s girl is not my style.”

  “So, in your head you’ve seen yourself making a move on me?” She drags her bottom lip beneath her teeth, so I lower the flashlight. She doesn’t need to see my face right now.

  “Any male other than a homosexual or blind one is going to picture themselves making a move on you. Well, hopefully not your dad.”

  “That’s based off my looks, so that doesn’t mean much.”

  “Well, it means almost everything to a dude.”

  “Yeah, I’m finding that out.”

  I don’t know what to say to that, so I’m silent, and as the seconds tick past, all I hear is our rapid breaths. Fuck, what am I supposed to do with her?

  “I only wanted to hear you play the guitar because you’re so amazing at it, but if you don’t want me around, I’ll leave.”

  I groan. “OK, I’ll play, but I’m not singing, and this stays between us.”

  “I wouldn’t tell anyone. I promise.”

  Shutting off her flashlight, I hand it back to her and sit down on the bench. As I pick up my guitar, she takes a seat on the bench to my left and tucks her legs up beside her.

  Now that my eyes have readjusted, I can see her better. She’s in only a tank top, so I balance my guitar on my lap and unzip my grey hoodie. Pulling it off my arms, I then lay it over her shoulder and chest.

  She smiles, and her large green eyes tilt up at me. Damn, she’s beautiful, so I need to keep two facts fresh in my mind at all times: she has a boyfriend, and she’s too fragile to be my play toy.

  I can’t believe I agreed to this, and if it was daylight, there’s no way in hell I’d do it. My better judgment is obviously impaired from the joint I smoked before she crashed my solo party.

  Trouble. She’s going to be trouble.

  Avery

  I’m trying not to giggle. He’s about to strum his guitar when I breathe in the scent on his jacket again, and this time I lose it and laugh.

  “I haven’t even started, and you’re already laughing. What’s funny?”

  I’m hunched down with my face barely peeking over his hoodie. “I’m afraid I’m going to get high from your jacket.”

  He doesn’t want to laugh. I can tell, but for the first time ever in my presence, here or at school, Hayden grins.

  I can see his white teeth in the moonlight, and I’m tempted to turn back on the flashlight to see him better, but I worry he won’t play for me if I do.

  “Have you ever been high, Ms. Avery?” He’s still smiling, and I like it. If the pot is responsible, then maybe I’m missing out.

  “No. My friends smoke at parties, but I try not to do things that could jeopardize my future.”

  “Yet you self-harm.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “That it is.” He’s nodding … thinking before he turns forward like he wants to get on with playing so we don’t talk about life.

  Leaning my head back against the bench, I pull his jacket over me snugly and close my eyes. Besides the aroma of pot, I smell another earthy scent on his jacket, like lumber, along with something citrusy.

  He begins plucking away with his fingers, and in an instant, I’m relaxed and feeling safer. I like his company.

  The song is mellow, something I’ve heard before from my window. It’s not as sad as some of the other songs he’s played.

  I wish I could see his face to gauge his emotions. I don’t believe I’m fitting the mold he made in his head for me, and I’m finding he’s not fitting the one I shaped for him, either.

  It’s getting cooler out, so I pull my legs even closer to my side to fit them u
nder his hoodie. He stops and reaches over to tuck the jacket around me again, and without a word, he goes right back to strumming.

  He’s sweet, and I’m finding I like it. I think he might be right; this is going to cause trouble.

  Hayden shares four different songs before we’re both quiet. Each one is sorrowful, and I yearn to know the lyrics that embellish the tunes, the words that would reveal his pain.

  After a minute of silence, I sit up and stretch.

  “I should probably go home. I snuck out since I’m grounded.”

  “Grounded.” He makes a sound close to a snicker.

  “Yep. For not doing well on my physics exam. My parents don’t play around.”

  “I’ll walk you home. You don’t need to be in the woods alone.”

  I go to hand him his jacket, but he pushes it back.

  “Put it on. It’s cold out.”

  He always says few words, but they say enough. I slip my arms into the hoodie and zip it up. I notice he leaves his guitar on the bench as I turn on the flashlight.

  We begin to walk, and he follows a little behind. In silence, it feels like the longest trip, so when we’re nearing my yard, I decide to speak up.

  “Thank you for playing for me. It was beautiful. Sad, too, and I wish I knew why. Anyway, it relaxed me, and for that I’m grateful.”

  He doesn’t reply, so when we reach the back of my lawn, I turn to him and start to remove his jacket.

  “Keep it.” Now that the trees are no longer sheltering us, I can see his serious face. “We can’t continue spending time together. You can come to the clearing, but if I see you there, I’m turning back,” he says.

  “Why?”

  “If you were my girlfriend, you wouldn’t be spending time with another guy, and I already told you I’m not gonna be that other guy.”

  It’s bold and heightens my nerves, but I can’t resist tucking a strand of his hair behind his ear like he so often does.

  “Maybe I need to be single then because I’m finding I like spending time with you.”

  He briefly closes his eyes, but in a beat, he’s wrapping a hand around my wrist to lower it, causing my fingers to slip from his hair.