Shift by Ginger Scott
14
All the cold showers in the world couldn’t cure me last night. One of the curses of living in the desert means getting your shower cold enough can sometimes be impossible, especially in the warmer months. Last night? I needed ice cold water. I settled for lukewarm. I settled for struggling not to finish myself off in the Judge’s downstairs shower while I thought of Hannah’s body lying in bed one floor up.
The pent-up frustration led to zero sleep for the rest of the night. My restless mind took advantage of the time, dreaming up all the scenarios that could happen the minute Hannah and Tommy’s parents learn that I’m with their daughter.
With.
That’s the next thing I obsessed over. That word. The phrase. Which one is right? What are we? We’re Hannah and Dustin, same as always yet nothing like we were. It seems too light to call what we have “dating,” and we’re not “seeing each other” or any of those other bullshit terms people use to describe high school relationships. That’s not what this is. I won’t belittle Hannah’s and my connection with something so fleeting. We’re an evolution. An inevitable result. Fated, I guess.
All that time to find a better way to break the news to her parents, yet all I came up with is what I’m about to do right now. My knee bobs nervously under the lip of the counter as I sit on the stool picking at the blueberry muffin her mom put on a small plate for me. I guzzled the glass of orange juice so fast she quirked a brow at me and automatically refilled the glass, then felt my forehead.
Shit. This woman takes care of me like a mom and I’m about to tell her I’ve fallen for her daughter, whom I sleep near every night.
Shit.
I dismiss her offer of coffee because fuck if coffee won’t give me a heart attack right now. My palm is sweating so hard that the minute I see Hannah’s face come around the corner from the stairs I feverishly wipe it along my jeans in an attempt to dry it off.
“Morning, sweetheart,” her dad says, leaning forward to kiss her cheek as she puffs it out with air toward him.
He’s going to hit me. Right in the face. I’ve been hit in the face. I can do this.
Her next move is to sit in the stool next to me, as I hoped, and maybe a little as I dreaded. I’m really going to do this.
Before I have a chance to change my mind—to chicken out—I slap my hand on top of hers where it rests on her knee and twine my fingers between hers so we make a joined fist. I lift both of our hands up and rest them on the counter on full display for every pair of eyes that isn’t ours. It takes about four seconds for everyone to take note, and about five for Mr. Judge to spit a full mouth of coffee all over the kitchen.
“Oh.” That’s the only word uttered and it’s from Mrs. Judge’s lips. She slides the coffee pot back into its place and leans against the counter before fidgeting with the crystal hanging from a chain around her neck. That thing is only decorative but right now, I think she might be praying to it.
Tommy’s laugh is the first thing to break the thick silence.
“Yeah, this is how I thought it would go down,” he says, making a point to meet my eyes and point at me. His smirk isn’t just smug, it’s full of doubt and warning.
You won’t make it out of this house intact. That’s what he’s saying with that look.
“You knew about this . . . this . . .” Mr. Judge waggles his finger in Hannah’s and my direction, struggling to label us. Welcome to the club, Mr. Judge.
“Hey, I told them it was a bad idea,” Tommy says, popping an apple in his mouth and gripping it with his teeth while holding both palms up as if he’s totally innocent.
If they only knew how many times I dragged your drunk ass home.
Tommy hits me with one last glare as he pushes through the door with his back. I hold him hostage with my return stare and unlike the smile on his lips, my jaw has grown rigid and my mouth a tight, soured line. I look at the door he shuts behind him and replay the last minute, wondering if it could have gone any other way. It’s hard not to be hurt by their reaction, even if I expected it. I’m good enough to be family, but not good enough to have the feelings I do for their daughter.
Mrs. Judge runs a paper towel across the counter in front of me, luring me back to the unpleasant scene in the kitchen. She’s already turned all of her focus to cleaning up the coffee spray mess, and her husband—the man who is more father to me than anyone I’ve ever known—is leaning over the counter with both palms flattened on the surface with so much force I think he may be trying to sink into the granite.
“Dad—” Hannah starts, but her words are quickly cut off by her dad.
“Don’t,” he grunts, holding up one hand while keeping his stare on the counter between us. His rigid hand, fingers splayed, sits in the air like a stop sign for several seconds while he shakes his head before coming back down to the counter with a heavy slap that jolts both Hannah and me back in our seats.
My grip on her hand tightens and though I feel her squeezing me back, it doesn’t do much to slow the rage building in my chest. My upper lip sneers as my mouth waters. Mr. Judge finally raises his head, his red, furious eyes meeting mine that aren’t that far behind, though our anger has different motivating factors.
“She’s my daughter, Dustin!” He grits the words through his teeth.
Somehow, I keep my words inside. I tighten my lips as my nostrils flair, and I shake my head to show my disappointment. My other hand comes up to the counter, curling into a fist that I fight not to pound in the same alpha-style Mr. Judge used. I’m huffing, my breath hitting my ears and sounding like a bull waiting for an opportunity.
“I love him, Daddy!”
Hannah breaks free of my grasp and stands from her stool, her body now closer to me but both of her hands flat on the surface as she leans in to stare her father down. His fuming eyes widen and gloss over in a wild look that I recognize as fear. I made that same face the first time I found my mom unresponsive on the floor.
“No!” her father yells in return.
Hannah’s mom sobs where she sits on the floor, no more coffee droplets to clean. She covers her face in her hands, and my stomach rolls with a feeling of betrayal I never thought I could feel.
“Am I really that awful?” I utter. My voice is half the volume of Hannah’s and her father’s, and seems to take everyone by surprise. My eyes wait to meet Mrs. Judge’s, and she winces when our gazes tangle. There’s a shift in her eyes, from wide orbs fueled by worry to an instant droop of sympathy. Her lips part, and I sense she’s about to say my name, but I don’t want pity. I got my answer. They won’t be able to back away from this truth.
I’m not good enough.
A sad, breathy laugh quakes my chest as I stand, shifting to meet Mr. Judge’s still hardened gaze. His jaw works back and forth and I can see the physical pain he’s being caused by the conflict in his chest. He wants to love me like a son, but he just . . . doesn’t.
“Yeah. I am,” I say with a slow nod.
“Dustin,” Hannah utters my name. She reaches for my arm, but I pull it away and turn my back to all of them before they see the tears welling in my eyes.
“I’ll have my stuff out this afternoon. I’ll leave the key in the pot by the garage,” I announce on my way to the door. My steps are purposeful and quick. I open the door and slam it closed behind me, regretting that I did the moment it makes a cracking noise behind me. I shouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me so angry and upset. It only makes them right.
I fumble for my keys in my pocket and ignore Hannah’s voice calling behind me. I get in my car and start the engine, peeling out backward with enough speed that I fishtail on my turn down their street, leaving more evidence of all the reasons Hannah shouldn’t be with me.
I speed to the stop sign and slam on the brakes, burnt rubber leaving a billow of smoke outside my back window. I’m panting and my chest hurts, it squeezes so hard. My eyes catch movement in the rearview mirror and I tilt it enough to see Hannah’s car speeding toward me.
“Fuck!” I shout, fist pounding the steering wheel. I shift gears and turn the opposite direction from school, to the Straights where I can go for miles as fast as I want, until the world catches up with my racing heart.
My eyes shift to the mirror as I pull away, and though I see Hannah turn to follow me, in a minute she’ll be completely lost.
The speedometer reads one-ten by the time I hit the outskirts of town. It’s flat enough around here to see the cops coming, so I give it more gas and get the Supra up to one-thirty, flying through the few stop signs out on the desert roads that nobody drives on. I downshift as I approach the empty two-lane highway and rumble to a stop at the junction, the vibration of my engine like a salve to my broken heart and soul.
I’m not good enough.
I want one thing in this world, and I’m not good enough for her.
The tears threaten to come again, so I run my thumb knuckle under my eyes and push everything that feels to the depths of my body. No heartbeat. No breathing. Nothing but me and the tread of my tires. I shift fast, peeling out again with a hard left and I straddle the dotted yellow line down the center of the only place left I have to feel at home.
My eyes lock on the flat rocks of the mountains miles and miles ahead. My right hand works with my legs, every new gear upping my speed until I’m cruising as fast as I was the night I beat the Vegas guys with Hannah sitting next to me.
I love him.
My eyes flutter but I keep roaring forward. I heard the words she said, and for the tiniest of milliseconds, my heart swelled with such a foreign drug—I was high from hearing her use that word about me.
“Fuck!” I scream again, pushing the Supra to its max extremes. The ride isn’t smooth, but I like it. It reminds me how fragile this balance is, how close to a dangerous line I can get and how much power there is to be gained in inches.
In seconds.
I love him.
A weight suddenly falls from my heart to the pit of my stomach and I let off the gas completely, gliding on the asphalt while my eyes blink at the road ahead.
I love him.
Nobody has ever said that to me before. My mom never told me she loved me. The only thing Colt loves is beating me and stealing anything I value. I’ve never had grandparents, or aunts or uncles. Even the Judges, through all these years, have never said they loved me.
Hannah Judge did. She announced it in defiance. She said it proudly. She uttered words right to her father’s forbidding face. And I fucking left.
My eyes flicker to the mirror—nothing. I’ve gone too far to see whether Hannah is still behind me, chasing me. I pound the brake and flip around once I slow enough to turn the other way and race back to the intersection where I tried to leave it all behind. I pound the wheel with the butt of my palm while I will myself to somehow go faster, my eyes scanning and waiting for the heat waves to clear from the place where the road meets the air so I can see the horizon more clearly.
A figure forms. It’s her. Her car is there. She’s there.
I let up on the pedal and glide along the roadway again, this time dropping my hands to the bottom of the steering wheel while I sit back in my seat and let out a quaking breath.
Someone thinks I’m good enough.
Once I’m maybe a hundred yards away, I roll to the edge of the road and kick open my door. Hannah hugs herself at the side of her car, her eyes visibly red. My strides aren’t fast enough so I run, my legs pushing me faster when I see the tears still running down her cheeks. She shakes her head as I near, but I don’t give her time to speak.
“I’m so sorry,” I plead, moving my hands into her hair and walking her backward until she falls against the side of her car. My lips are on hers before she can respond, and I lean into her body, kissing her so hard that she gasps for air in the only break I give us. Her chin lifts to meet my height and she clutches at the sides of my T-shirt, wadding it into her fists while our lips tangle between the whimpers of her cry and repeated whispers of apology from my mouth.
Her hands claw their way up to my face and she tangles her fingers into my hair, holding on as if I might run away again. I can’t promise I won’t. But I will never doubt her.
She loves me. She said she loves me. The only person who ever has.
We kiss in the middle of the desert under the scorching morning sun, not a cloud for miles. I’m breathless and so is she, but neither of us wants to break. Our kiss is hungry, and I hope mine tells her the things I can’t yet say, things I don’t know how to say. I love her, too. I want to scream that I’ve always loved her. That she is the one person I can confide in, the person I run to, and the only thing that keeps me from following in Colt’s dark footsteps. But saying that—laying all of my baggage and bullshit on her heart like that when I’m nothing—isn’t enough. I need to be worthy, to be the man she sees in me.
So instead I say I’m sorry again, and again.
It seems to be enough, or she seems to understand the deeper meaning, the truth beneath the surface, because she accepts me.
“It’s okay. We can do this,” she utters, her lips clinging to mine even through words.
I don’t have the heart to tell her I don’t think it is and I’m not sure we can. The way her parents reacted, her brother’s warnings? Those aren’t without reason. They love her, just as she loves me. Just as I love her. They see the risk that comes with my future. If it were only my dream, my need to push myself to the edge of danger for a taste of victory, they’d learn to live with it. But that’s not what made her father pound his hand on the counter. It’s because of who I am and what I’m made of; or rather, who made me. I come from nothing and know little about affection. I’ve never had it, other than the small strands the Judges have given me. I’m the son of a drug addict and a drug dealer. The offspring of a man so vile that people around our town know him simply by his first name. Businesses tell him to leave before he speaks. Criminals point at him and shoot invisible pistols at his head with threats to do it for real. One day, they might. They’ve tried.
My genetic code is written with so many flaws, it’s a miracle Hannah sees anything in me worth loving at all. But she does. And for that, I’ll try.
“I’m gonna need a tux for prom.”
She breaks away, her head rolling against mine, and I feel the stretch of her smile along with her breathy laugh.
“You sure?” Her lashes flutter against my skin and I can tell she’s glancing up at me. I pull away enough to lock our gazes.
Her hair is a mess from my hands twisting it into knots and the slight, warm breeze blowing in from the south. I sweep the wild strands from her face with both of my thumbs, then rest my palms on her cheeks. My eyes study her pink skin, the raw puffiness of her lips. I move my thumb to her mouth and brush it against her pout. Her lips quiver against my touch.
“I’m sure,” I say, lifting my gaze back to hers. I don’t have to look at her lips again to see her smile. This one reaches her eyes. And as pointless as I thought something like a formal dance was a few days ago, now something has never seemed so important.
I love you, too. Mean it.
One day, I’ll tell you all the reasons why.