Preston Brothers: Lucas Part 24

I sigh. "You not even going to ask what my name is?"

"I know your name. I just don't really care." Sandy is rad.

11:59, someone taps my shoulder and I look up to see Leo standing above us, phone in one hand, girl in the other. "It's Laney."

My apartment is too loud, too many people, too many drinks, and so I take the phone from him and I go out the front door, down the steps, and into the living room of the main house where it's dark and it's quiet and it's still 11:59 when I bring the phone to my ear and whisper, "Donatello?"

It's not as quiet where she is, but she still hears what I say and she laughs.

You get it, Lane. You're not pizza.

"That was random," she says.

"How's the houseboat going?"

"I'm in bed in a room on the lowest level, in the dark, and I've puked four times and haven't had a single thing to drink."

I lean back on the couch and stare up at the ceiling, waiting for my heart to settle while I hear the countdown begin. From my apartment and through the phone, people shout ten, nine, eight... we ignore the counting, my favorite pastime, and when the fireworks begin to explode somewhere in the distance, she says, "How's your night going?"

I ask, "Is Cooper there? Is he taking care of you?"

She sighs, and I wait, not giving her a response to her question because it matters as much as my name does for New Girl. "He's up on the deck," she says. "Is that what it's called? A deck? I don't know. He's with his friends... I don't know them. But they're there, and he's there, and..."

"And so you thought you'd call me because you're lonely and you want to at least be with someone when the clock strikes midnight?" I'm too drunk to even contemplate how that comes out, but I hear her s.h.i.+ft as if she's rolling around in bed, and she's sick, sea sick, and I told Cooper that, but it didn't matter to him because she doesn't matter to him like she matters to me.

"It's not like that, Luke."

It finally occurs to me that I'm holding on to two phones and she didn't call mine, so I ask, "Why did you call Leo's phone?"

She s.h.i.+fts again. "Cooper made me block your number."

"Made you?"

"It's not like that," she says again.

I should've been Raphael, the bad boy, the black sheep. Maybe then she would've forgiven me like she hands out forgiveness to that a.s.shole. "So what's it like then? Explain it to me."

"He just... he sees you as a threat. That's all. Have you been trying to get hold of me? Did you need me for something?"

"No." I sit up, look down at my phone. 12:02 and the b.a.s.t.a.r.d hasn't even checked in on her. "I just needed you, Laney, and you're drifting, far and deep into this guy's web."

"I feel sick," she murmurs, and my anger fades.

"Did you take any pills for it?"

"Yeah. They help some. But I'm here all night and-" It's suddenly silent on her end.

"Who are you talking to?" Cooper asks, his tone as dark as the room I'm sitting in.

I sit up, alert. But the call cuts off and I stare into the darkness, promise myself I won't call back because I don't want to make things worse-whatever that means-and so I sit and I stew over my feelings, my hurt, until I force myself to my feet. I don't go back to my apartment, to my party, to New Girl. Instead, I climb the stairs to Lachlan's room and I get into his bed. "Just one minute..." I whisper.

12:48 and a text comes through on Leo's phone: Raphael was a rebel. Some even called him a lost cause. But you're not lost, Lucas. In fact, most days I fear you're still the center of my universe.

Chapter Twenty-One.

LUCAS.

School starts again, new year, new semester, new hope.

Cooper's back at UNC, his penalty for fornicating with underage girls now over. Small price to pay for such huge f.u.c.k-ups but that's what money means to the Kennedys. A tool, a simple way to navigate through life in the hopes of sheltering members of their family from the harsh, bright lights of reality.

I watch from a distance as Laney steps out of her car in baggy sweatpants and an even baggier sweats.h.i.+rt, and I wonder if she hasn't managed to go home and find clothes that actually fit her or if her boyfriend has "made" her start dressing in his clothes to warn off any threats, aka me.

We hadn't spoken since her phone call New Year's Eve, and I didn't even think to try. I'm blocked, from her phone and from her life, and maybe it's like the night she came to visit me on her eighteenth birthday and we talked about our first Non-Date. I question whether we see things differently. If we always have. Last year, I dated a girl-Bethany-who made an off-handed joke about Laney being a loner because she spent her free period on her own just outside the library, knitting. I ended the relations.h.i.+p the next day, and when Laney asked about the breakup, I told her Bethany had bad breath and kissing her was like licking the inside of a trash can. I knew I could lie and be as cra.s.s as I wanted because I knew Laney would never repeat what I said to anyone. She's always been a key holder to all my secrets. But now she's dating a guy who treats me and our friends.h.i.+p like s.h.i.+t, and she makes excuses for him. "It's not like that, Luke." And when I asked her to convince me otherwise, she couldn't even come up with a decent lie. And then she texted me, almost an entire hour later, with the most cryptic f.u.c.king lie of all. Bulls.h.i.+t, I'm the center of her f.u.c.king universe. And bulls.h.i.+t she put me on a pedestal, because if that's f.u.c.king true then to her, Cooper is up in the clouds.

She doesn't even look up at me when she walks past, her head lowered, books held close to her chest. She looks different. Her gla.s.ses, I realize. Hers are black, and these are bright purple and three years old. Her script's changed twice since she wore those and they look odd on her now, because just like her eyesight, she's changed, too.

And to think I was actually nervous about seeing her today. I stood in front of my mirror and planned out what I would say to her. It started off with the standard stuff. "Hi, how are you?"..."Did you have a good break?" Even though I knew how she spent her Christmas (at her house with Cooper while her dad was in Savannah with Misty's family), I'd ask her about that, too. "How did you hold up after New Year's Eve?" was another one. And then I'd be done with the bulls.h.i.+t banter and ask, "What the f.u.c.k is wrong with you?" Then I'd go on a tirade about Cooper f.u.c.king Kennedy and how I don't think he's good enough for her and "Why the h.e.l.l are you even with him, Laney?"

But no.

She didn't see me standing here, waiting for her, wanting to expose her bulls.h.i.+t relations.h.i.+p.

She didn't see me at all.

And when she enters the school, the door closing behind her, blocking me from her presence, it all becomes clear-maybe she never truly saw me at all.

It's been three days and eight hours since she didn't see me, but she's seeing me now, stepping out of my truck and looking up at my apartment stairs where she sits, waiting for me to come home from school. How she managed to get here before me, I have no idea. Maybe she wasn't at school. I didn't see her, but then again, I stopped looking for her. Didn't you hear? I'm blocked.

My phone alerts me to a text, and I pause, make her wait, and read the message.

It's Sandy from your NYE party. My friend gave me your number. I wanted to see if you wanted to get together sometime. Maybe grab a bite to eat?

I reply: Tonight? What are you craving?

I hope it's c.o.c.k because it's been a long time since I've been with Laney, and I haven't been with anyone since. It would feel like eating a frozen meal after a gourmet steak.

She writes back: Pizza.

f.u.c.k irony in the a.s.s.

"Lucas?" Laney's standing now, watching me from above, her eyes squinted because her stupid purple gla.s.ses are too weak to make her see clearly. Or maybe she's too weak. Maybe Cooper's f.u.c.ked with her head so much she can't even see straight.

I ask, "What are you doing here?"

"I was waiting for you," she says. She shuffles on her feet, and I get it because I felt the same way in her room. She doesn't know if she belongs here and the truth is, maybe she doesn't. I don't want her on my steps, near my house, near me. I'm blocked, remember? But by the time I make my way up each step (twelve), she's looking at me with those eyes, and swear it, those eyes hold a secret power that can bring me to my knees. "Are you busy tonight?" she asks, and she's looking at my phone like she knows all my secrets. She does.

I want to tell her that I have a date with a girl I f.u.c.ked on New Year's Eve, but I can't lie to her. Not when she has those eyes. "I can cancel."

"Feel like hanging out?" she asks. "Like old times."

Old times is a phrase that shouldn't exist in an eighteen year old's vocabulary because we haven't lived enough to have "old times." I tell her that as I open the door, and she laughs. Her laugh to my ears is what money is to the Kennedys-a tool used to manipulate reality. I know this. I feel this. But I'm as weak as her vision, and I concede, keep the door open for her to enter.

I shoot off a text to Sandy: Something came up. Sorry.

Lane's already in my kitchen was.h.i.+ng the dishes piled high in the sink, like old times.

Small talk shouldn't seem like small talk when you're with a friend. It should just be conversation, but my mind is buzzing, trying to come up with "small talk" and there are birds outside and they're loud, too loud, and I can't think. She finishes the dishes, turns to me. She's wearing clothes that actually fit her, a little too well, skinny jeans and a loose (but not baggy) sweater, and I ask, "What happened to your other gla.s.ses?"

She shrugs. "It was time for a new pair."

Why is she lying to me? "They look like the same pair you had a few years ago."

Her eyes widen, her cheeks redden. Deer meet headlights. "They are. I mean, the same frames, not the lenses, though."

I press my lips tight and make a show of looking anywhere but at her because it's awkward as f.u.c.k and seriously, small talk can blow me.

She's going through the kitchen cabinets, and I don't know what she's looking for. If it's the good old days, she can forget it. She won't find them here. She pulls out a bag of Doritos and salsa and goes to the fridge for the cheese. She's making nachos because she's desperate to find the old times, and I'm desperate to know what the h.e.l.l she's doing here. "How are things, like, with your brothers and stuff?" Lane asks. "How's it all going?"

I don't respond.

"My dad said that Logan got a slap on the wrist...?"

"Yeah. We're lucky, your dad's girlfriend vouched for him."

She faces me, her lips curved. "Misty's good like that," she says.

Okay, so maybe her being here isn't so much awkward as it is terrifying. She wants to go back to the way things were, and yeah, I want that, too. A little too much. But she has the power to take it away, to block me, and then what? What happens to me, Laney?

It takes two minutes for her to make the nachos and bring the bowl over to the couch along with two gla.s.ses of water. We sit on the couch, share the nachos (f.u.c.k yeah, nachos!), and she says, "I was thinking about the twins."

"Oh yeah?"

"It's because people are jealous. That's why they bully them the way they do."

"You think?"

She nods. "Think about it. I can't ever recall them picking up a sport or an activity and not being great at it. And they're great because they always have someone to practice with or compete against. Kids can be bitter and vindictive little a.s.sholes." There's a hint of anger in her tone, and it makes me smile. "You like this batch?" she asks, pointing to the bowl of nachos.

"They're good."

"Good is the enemy of great, Lucas," she sings.

I give her a cheesy grin. "They're great!"

She laughs, and my reality s.h.i.+fts, just an inch. And just like that, small talk turns to conversation. We finish the nachos, and she sets the bowl on the coffee table and sits sideways on the couch, her legs up, knees bent, toes poking my leg. "So, I have some news."

I take her feet, settle them on my lap and turn to her, my arm resting on the top of the couch. Old times is good times. Great times. "What's your news?"

"There's a slight chance I'll still be able to go to UNC."

My heart races. "How? Did your mom-"

"No!" She shakes her head and scoffs. "f.u.c.k that b.i.t.c.h." I'll give Cooper this-he's boosted Lane's confidence because before him, she'd never say anything like that. She'd make bulls.h.i.+t excuses for her mom until one day she started to believe them.

"So what happened?" I ask.

She sits higher, shoulders straight. Then she goes on to tell me about Cooper's mom's friend who's the dean of admission at UNC and how they had a meeting over winter break and now she's looking into a bunch of scholars.h.i.+ps. "It probably won't happen this year. I might have to take a year off or go to community college for the first year, but she thinks it's very doable," Lane says, her eyes bright.

"But if you skip a year, that means that you're going to miss Cooper's senior year."

She looks at me like I'm stupid. "I'm no Felicity and Cooper is definitely no Ben Covington."

I blink.

She giggles. "Never mind. The point is that Sue-"

"The dean of admissions?"

"Yeah. She says that to heighten my chances I need to add more school activities-show school spirit and all that, and I've literally done nothing so I'm trying to cram it all into one semester and so I signed up for the spring play."

"You?" I ask, incredulous. "On stage?"

"G.o.d no." She nudges my leg with her heel. "I'm designing and making the costumes."

"That's good," I tell her.

"Good or great?"

"Great, Lane. It's great."

"And we have someone to design the sets but..."

Uh oh. "But what?"

Her words are rushed as if she already knows my answer. "We don't have anyone to build them, and I know you can do it, Luke, it-"