27

 

 

Confronting Vaughn is easier said than done.

The guy has been avoiding me like the plague. If it weren't for the fact that I've physically seen him at soccer practices and games, I'd think he'd transferred schools. He's never at the Treehouse—out the door hours before the sun rises in the morning, sneaks back in long after I've hit the hay.

Dunno how he's getting any freakin' sleep with a schedule like that...

He's determined to steer clear of me and doing a damn good job of it.

But Thursday night, the game of cat and mouse finally comes to an end.

I'm hanging out in the living room, watching my old high school soccer film to get hyped for playoffs. It's a ritual I've been partaking in since I was a freshman, one that most of my teammates find superstitious as fuck, but you gotta do what you gotta do. This is how I get my mind prepared for post-season.

And yeah, I'm missing out on Thirsty Thursday, but there will be plenty of those next semester. Plenty. In fact, I think we'll be having a shit ton of Tipsy Tuesdays, Wasted Wednesdays, and Fucked-up Fridays, too. Last semester of college is sure to be a blur.

Tonight, however, the only thing I'm interested in is getting in the zone for our final run at the College Cup championship.

A close-up shot of me punting the ball comes on the TV and I grimace.

That damn hairstyle...not good.

I'm trying to remember who was cutting my hair at the time and what sketchy black market they must've gotten their cosmetology license from when the front door squeaks open.

"That you, Garbage Disposal?" I call over my shoulder. "Shiner's in the fridge."

Diego texted me a while ago—'coming to steal ur beer l8r. all of it.' I've been expecting his crazy ass to waltz through the door for the last half hour, his signature "cerveza, cerveza, me encanta cerveza!" jingle bouncing off the walls.

But the person who just entered is quiet, the soft shuffle of footsteps the only sound I hear.

"Mendoza?"

I turn around, greeted by a pair of angry cerulean eyes.

"Why the hell are you here?" Vaughn snaps out. His gray shirt is sweaty, a gym bag hanging off his right shoulder.

"Seriously?" A bitter laugh escapes me. "It's my house, too, bro."

With a scowl, he heads into the kitchen and opens the fridge.

"Weston told me you were downtown with him and some of the team."

"Weston's probably drunk off his ass," I say. "The guy doesn't know a telephone pole from a human being when he's wasted."

Vaughn grunts as he grabs a water bottle and slams the refrigerator door.

"I'll be in my room for the rest of the night. If you need something, don't fucking bother."

He heads for the staircase, and I know it's now or never.

"What the hell, man? You just gonna avoid me until graduation or what?" I hit pause on the remote and stand up from the couch. "It's getting old. For real. How much longer are you gonna keep this shit up?"

"Depends, dude," he deadpans. "How much longer are you gonna be fucking my little sister?"

"It's not like that."

"Yeah?" He cocks his head in challenge. "So you haven't had sex with her?"

There's really no acceptable way to answer that question, but my non-response is enough to piss him off.

"That's what I thought," he scoffs.

"V, you're completely off-base. You don't get it—"

"Save it, Collins. Just fucking save it, 'cause I don't wanna hear it. Nothing you say is going to change anything." He jogs a few steps up the stairs before pausing a moment. "Sydney can make her own decisions and mistakes, but she's so young, man. So inexperienced when it comes to this kind of stuff. I don't want her getting involved in some casual fling that's gonna end up breaking her heart. And by my best fucking friend, no less—"

"Vaughn."

His rant comes to a halt as he takes note of my serious tone.

"What?"

"I love her, man."

His eyebrows shoot to the ceiling. "You what?"

"I love Sydney. It's not casual. It's not temporary. I'm not using her or dragging her along or any of that shit." I shake my head, a smile breaking across my face as the truth pours out. "I'm fucking crazy about your sister, Blue. I'm in love with her."

I swear if he didn't have a hand on the railing he would've toppled backwards by now. He opens his mouth to respond, closes it, then opens it again, but nothing comes out. He's totally speechless and I don't blame him.

That was a bomb I just dropped. A nuclear one.

After a beat or two, he makes his way back into the living room.

"You love her," he repeats, still in a state of shock.

"Yeah. I really do."

"Well shit, dude." His gym bag hits the floor with a thud and he throws his hands in the air. "Why didn't you just tell me that in the first place?"

"Gee, I dunno," I say sarcastically. "You've been a little hard to chat with over the past few weeks."

"Touché," he agrees before a frown turns his lips. "But the whole sneaking behind my back thing doesn't sit right with me. You two lied for months. That's next-level bullshit and you know it."

"Yeah, I know." I give him a pointed look. "But what the hell were we supposed to do? You think you wouldn't have freaked the fuck out if we'd told you we were into one another? That you wouldn't have gone off the deep end if we said we were together? Be honest, man."

His sigh is one of concession. "You're right. I would've lost it. Big time."

"I didn't wanna lie to you, and neither did Sydney, but there wasn't much of a choice. We wanted to get to know one another without everyone else breathing down our backs, watching our every move," I explain. "We were gonna tell you eventually. It's not like we were gonna go elope and finally come clean five years down the road."

He looks contemplative for a moment. "This thing between you guys...it's really serious, huh?"

"It's the real deal." I nod and rub the back of my neck. "And I am sorry, Vaughn. You're my best friend; we've been tight since day one freshman year. Last thing I want is for anything to fuck up our friendship."

"I'm sorry, too. I know I'm kind of uptight about this stuff—"

"Kind of?"

"Okay, extremely uptight." He rolls his eyes. "But if I had to choose one of you dickheads to date my sis, and I mean if someone put a gun to my head and literally forced me to pick an asshole from the team, I guess it'd be you."

"Wow," I say with a chuckle. "Raving endorsement. Thanks."

He smirks. "You're welcome."

He comes over and we exchange a reconciliatory fist-bump, bro-hug type of thing. A massive weight lifts off my shoulders as we pull apart.

"So you're cool with it?" I raise a brow. "With me and Sydney?"

"Cool with it? Not exactly the phrasing I would use." His deep laughter echoes in the room. "But am I gonna bite your head off about it anymore? Nah. Just keep the PDA to a minimum around me."

"No promises, but we'll try."

"Try hard."

I take a seat on the armchair and glance up at him. "Will do, future brother-in-law."

"Don't push it, dude." Vaughn narrows his eyes. "Too soon."

"My bad." I grin and point to the television. "You gonna watch this shit with me or what?"

"Sure. Didn't really have anything else planned tonight." He plops down on the couch, legs propped up on the coffee table and hands crossed behind his head. "What is it?"

"Your favorite. Woodcreek High's winning season."

I hit play as he emits a knowing groan.

I've guilted him into watching this manyyy times before.

"Thank God we're seniors and this is the last time I have to suffer through this snooze fest. And damn, Collins. Every time I see this your haircut somehow looks worse." He squints at the screen in disgust. "It's like a mullet and a bowl cut all in one. Should be a crime to walk around in public with a mop like that on your head. Holy shit."

"Shut the fuck up." I laugh and kick him on the shin.

Things are definitely back to normal with us.

For the next couple hours, we watch my high school team's journey to a state championship. A few of the games are nail-biters. Most are admittedly lame.

The one we're currently watching—the semi-final match—is a freaking classic, and every year Vaughn stops scrolling through his phone to pay attention. It was the most entertaining game of the season, but not for the reasons you'd assume. There was no display of outstanding skill or Pelé-esque footwork. No jaw-dropping goals...none of that.

What there was was a fistfight of epic proportions. It started with a midfielder on the opposing team and the 60-year-old referee. The player apparently wasn't so thrilled with a foul called against him. Instead of brushing it off, he decided to ram his fist straight into the poor ref's face. With blood gushing from both nostrils, the referee sucker-punched the kid in the stomach and things just escalated from there. Pretty soon the entire field was full of spontaneous boxing matches, coaches and fans included.

Vaughn and I are cracking up at the hilarious spectacle when someone knocks on the front door.

"I'll get it," I say as I rise from the chair. "Must be Diego finally showing up to get the beer."

I open the door, bracing myself for some loud and out-of-tune singing, but it's not him.

I tilt my head at the unexpected visitor.

"Short Stuff?"

"Giant." Bev greets me with a timid wave. "Hi."

"What's up?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" I glance at the grandfather clock behind me and frown. "It's one in the morning. Does Erika know you're here?"

"Um. Not exactly." Guilt has her eyes darting towards the ground. "I snuck out."

"Dammit,Bev. You promised you wouldn't do that again." I heave out a frustrated breath and gaze behind her. "Did the police drop you off?"

"No. I wasn't hanging out with any bad kids." She scuffs her shoe against the wooden deck and mumbles, "I came straight here. I came to see you."

I'm about to ask why when she lifts her head up. Her eyes are red and watery, her chin trembling.

"What's going on?" I question. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah. Well, sort of. No." She shakes her head. "I just, I don't know, I need someone to talk to and you're the only one who might understand, so I—"

The next series of events happen so fast I dunno how to react.

The girl who struts around like she's incapable of emotion, the one with the impenetrable 'too-cool-for-school' attitude, suddenly cracks before me. In the blink of an eye, she's got her arms wrapped around my middle, bawling uncontrollably into my shirt.

"What's wrong, kid?" I gently pat her back, trying to calm her down. "Did something happen at school or what?"

"N-No." Her muffled answer is punctuated by even louder sobs.

She's seriously upset.

"Is it Diego?" Vaughn's voice carries into the front of the home. "Tell him if he's gonna keep stealing all our beer, he needs to chip in more than three bucks to the weekly booze fund. Wait...is someone crying?"

He walks into the foyer, coming to a halt as we meet eyes over the inconsolable child. One of his dark brows lifts in questioning, but all I can offer up is a shrug.

I'm just as lost as he is.

"Hey, Bev?" he calls out.

She loosens her grip and glances his direction. "Uh-huh?"

"I was just about to make some hot chocolate. You look like you could use some."

She sniffles as she bobs her head up and down.

"Cool. You like mini marshmallows, right?"

"I love them," she says quietly.

"Good answer. We have a jumbo-sized bag in the pantry and need some serious help eating it up. I'm giving you a double serving. Triple if I can find Parker's all-nighter coffee mug."

"Thanks."

She cracks a small smile and he returns the grin.

"No prob. Be right back."

I shoot him a grateful look as he heads into the kitchen. He definitely wasn't about to make hot cocoa, so I appreciate the helpful gesture.

Gazing down at Bev, I ask, "You wanna sit down and talk about it?"

She responds with a shy nod.

"Sounds good. But first we need to get you cleaned up." I swipe a finger over her cheek, showing her the dark makeup that's smeared all over her face. "You're giving off some serious Crimson vibes right now."

She quickly attempts to wipe away the mascara and eyeliner and God knows what else before grimacing at my white tee. "I got it all over your shirt. Sorry."

"Don't sweat it. I borrowed this from Weston. Let's go."

Spinning her around, I guide her towards the small powder room on the main floor. After rummaging around under the sink, I find a black wash cloth and toss it her direction.

"Meet me in the living room when you're finished."

Five minutes later, she joins me on the couch. Her face is scrubbed completely bare, her flaming red hair pulled up in a tidy bun instead of the wild, rock-n-roll style it's usually in.

"Here you go," Vaughn says as he hands each of us a warm drink. "Major mood booster. Guarantee you'll feel better in no time."

We thank him before he jogs upstairs with his own cup of cocoa.

"Okay," I say after taking a sip of the tasty beverage. "Spill your guts."

She chews on her lip, then stares into her ginormous mug.

Alrightttt.

Looks like I'm gonna have to pry it out of her.

"Is this about Carlos? Because if he's being a jerk, Weston and I can have a little chat with him."

"No!" Her cheeks burn red. "Carlos is great. Better than great."

Better than great? The hell does that mean?

Maybe I'm starting to understand Vaughn's perspective a bit more...

I make a mental note to address that topic later on.

"Then what is it?" I ask, veering back to the issue at hand. "What's the deal?"

"It's dumb," she mutters.

"I won't think so. I swear."

She sets her cup on the coffee table and finally meets my gaze.

"I miss my mom."

Her statement comes out barely above a whisper, words splintered with pain and sorrow.

And it's in this precise moment that it finally clicks for me.

Why Coach and Erika were so insistent on me helping out with her. Why it was imperative that I be her mentor over anybody else.

For this conversation right here.

"That's not dumb at all, Bev. I know you miss her. Of course you do," I say, empathy weaving its way through my tone. "And I know she misses you, too."

"You said your mom was like my mom."

I nod. "Yeah."

When I verify the claim, her eyes light up, a hopeful glint within them. "Did she get better?"

Damn.

As much as I want to sugarcoat things, give her a feel-good, happy-ending type of answer, I know I have to be real with her.

Omitting the details of my mom's numerous rehab stints and relapses, I just shake my head and give her the honest truth in one simple word.

"No."

"Oh. I'm sorry." Her mouth bows down. "Do you think my mom will get better?"

"She could." The possibility is always there, but based on the details the Hansons have given me about Bev's mom, I'm not so certain. "But she might not," I tell her realistically. "I'm sure she's trying to get better, though. I'm sure she's trying as hard as she can."

"No she's not!"

The sudden outburst echoes around the quiet living room. Bev slouches against the couch cushion, staring at the ceiling and hugging her torso, dejected and small.

"If she cared about me, she would just stop doing drugs," she says quietly. "If she loved me, she wouldn't have let them take me away from her."

Shit.

I study her for a moment. With no makeup, no angry scowl, no flashy statement outfits, she actually looks her age for once. When she's not putting up a front, she's just a vulnerable kid, confused and alone, trying to deal with the heavy reality that is addiction.

"Your mom does love you, Bev," I reassure her. "No matter what's happened in the past. No matter what happens in the future. She's sick, kid. She has a disease. You understand that, right?"

"Kind of." She swallows, eyes filling with water. "How do you..." The tears fall freely as she looks my way. "How do you not be sad all the time? How do you make it stop hurting?"

Although it feels like a lifetime ago, I reminisce on that first year I was put into foster care. The confusion, the feeling of betrayal, the all-consuming sadness that hung around me like a dark cloud.

All things Bev is experiencing right now.

"It takes time," I explain. "And it's okay to cry it out once in a while. Let all the emotions pour out."

"I'm doing good at that one." She emits a watery-laugh and rubs her eyes. "What else?"

I contemplate it for a second.

"Something that helped me is to remember the good times. Replay the happy memories I had with my mom. Keep those at the front of my mind."

"The good times..." she repeats with a slow nod. A tiny smile appears on her face. "We did have lots of those."

"Yeah? Tell me about them," I insist.

"I don't know." She looks unsure. "It'll probably be boring to you."

"Boring? Nah." I wave off the thought. "I wanna hear all about your mom. You said she liked hockey?"

"She did." Bev nods, a cheerful energy taking over as she starts to open up. "I remember this one time, we went to a game and bought five whole bags of cotton candy. I think I got a cavity that night, but it was worth it. And during the second period, they put us on the JumboTron because my mom was doing the chicken dance. Everyone was clapping and cheering for her; it was so funny! And then later on..."

For the next hour, I listen as she recalls stories from her childhood and share a few of my own. We drain the hot chocolate, and before I know it, it's pushing 2:30 in the morning.

"Thanks," Bev says as we put the mugs in the dishwasher. "For talking to me."

"Anytime. You know you can talk to me whenever about whatever." I shut the appliance and glance over at her. "Just think of me as your honorary big bro."

"I still hate you," she says casually.

I jut my head forward, a wtf-are-you-kidding? expression on my face.

"But," she continues as a bright smile appears. "I also like you at the same time. So I guess I already do think of you as an older brother."

I roll my eyes and laugh. "Yeah, that sounds like the typical dynamic."

"And Sydney's like an older sister to me. Like a role model," she says.

"Speaking of Sydney..." I frown as I think about the shitty soccer situation she's in.

Now that the Vaughn dilemma's all cleared up, it's time to fix the real predicament at hand.

"What about her?"

"She needs our help this weekend."

"Why?" Bev asks as she rubs her tired eyes. "What happened?"

I'm about to explain when she lets out a long, loud yawn.

"I'll fill you in on the drive back to the Hansons'." I grab my car keys and toss them in the air a few times. "Let's get you home."