Slow Burn (36 page)

I summon the courage to look at him.  He seems to have turned to stone, but his eyes are
blue fire, the only color in his expressionless face.

“Who?”
Johnny asks, and his tone is deadly.

“No one you know,” I manage to say evenly.  Tears continue to leak from the corners of my eyes, but I
make myself breathe evenly.  He doesn’t say anything, so I continue.  “It was a big mistake, and I regret it.  But it happened
after
we broke up.”

“
How long after?”

I debate whether I should tell him, then figure it doesn’t matter at this point.  “Saturday,” I reply quietly.
  I don’t have to say, “after I saw you with Dani.”  He acknowledges the implication with a slight shake of his head and a bitter chuckle.

I wait for Johnny
to get pissed, yell—say something, anything.  But he doesn’t.  He abruptly pulls back, slides over to his seat.  He won’t look at me, staring straight ahead, out the windshield.  He’s utterly rigid, his features set in stone.

There is a painful heaviness in my chest.  I am suddenly so tired, and I wish I was an
yplace but here, hurting, and being hurt.

“I’m sorry,” I say into the silence.  Because I am.  I don’t say anything else, because there’s nothing else to say.

Johnny doesn’t even glance my way.  “Just go,” he says after a long pause.  “Please.  Get out of my truck.”

I react like he slapped my face, sitting up with wide eyes. 
“This isn’t—”

“Juliet,” he growls through clenched teeth.  “Fucking leave.”

I bite my lip, afraid.  Not of him, but for him.  But what can I do?  I grasp the door handle, yanking it open.  I jump out and slam the door, then I walk away with my head down.  Moments later, I hear the truck’s engine roar to life, and the squealing of tires as Johnny peels out of the parking lot.

I run to my own car, throw myself in, and hold my tears in until I’
m finally home, and can give in to the waves of sorrow threatening to pull me under.

******

Chapter 27

I’m shocked
I have the presence of mind to dress myself, let alone text Nick to let him know what I told Johnny.  He calls me back, sounding miserably guilty.  He wants to tell Johnny, and take the blame for everything.  I point out that it would make things that much worse if Johnny found out who I had slept with.  I don’t know if Nick’s fully convinced, but at the moment, I don’t have the energy to care.  I think about calling in to work today, but it’s Monday, and not only would Kathy have to cover my shift, I’d also miss out on dance practice with the Jubilee kids.  No one else should have to suffer because I’m an idiot.

I try to smile my way through the day, but i
t doesn’t work very well.  Eileen and Kathy constantly ask me if I’m okay.  They both have daughters close to my age, so I’m sure they know teen angst when they see it. 

I’m not okay.  I can’t help but replay all the wrong choices I’ve made in recent weeks.  Logically, I realize that getting back together with
Johnny would have been bad for both of us.  My indecisiveness was driving me crazy, and a small part of me is relieved the will we or won’t we issue has finally been settled.  The rest of me is barely operational.  I’m disgusted that my first time happened that way.  I should have just given in to Johnny’s repeated requests to have sex with him.  At least then I would have known what it was like to be with him.

To cheer myself up, I have
Darren Frazer mentally berate me as I pack up the props from the dance routine.  I don’t know why I thought it was so funny as a kid.  Why did I ever say anything to Johnny about it?  He must’ve though I—

“Aaaugh!” I scream, jumping at least half a foot in the air.
  I glare at Dean.  “Quit sneaking up on me like that!”

“Sorry,” he
says, towering over me.  “How am I suppose to sneak up on you?”

That would be snarky coming from anyone else, but Dean says it with a straight face.  As always, he looks too handsome to be real in a soft-looking beige shirt and worn jeans.
  I absently note that his his dark hair is slightly damp, and wonder if it’s raining outside.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, unable to keep the grumpiness out of my voice.

He doesn’t answer, just standing there with his hands shoved into the front pocket of his jeans.  Finally he nods to the box in front of me.  “What’s all that?”

I glance down
at the neon tennis balls, hula hoops, and packs of glow sticks.  “These are props for a dance the kids are doing for the talent at Town Center mall in December.  We’ve been practicing forever—we have these glow sticks, and the kids have this whole routine where they dance around with the hula hoops and tennis balls.  It’s gonna be epic.”

Smiling,
I bend down to pick up the huge box, but Dean tugs it out of my hands.  He gives me an annoyed look when I try to hold on to it.  With a shrug, I let go, and he easily hoists it up into his arms.  He raises an eyebrow in silent inquiry, and I point to the area behind the counter.  I don’t want to be one of those girls that has to have a big strong guy do everything for her, but I can totally see the appeal.

My smile fades as I regard Dean with narrowed eyes.  “He told you, didn’t he?”

He levels his blue/green/gray gaze on me.  He nods once, then glances up at the flower clock hanging up on the wall.  “You done here?”

“Yeah, I just have to get my stuff, and say goodbye to Kathy.”

After I grab my jacket and little backpack from the desk drawer, I jog over to Kathy’s office to tell her I’m leaving.  She’s on the phone as usual, but blows me a kiss and waves at Dean, who is suddenly standing behind me.

I make sure the doors are locked before we leave.
But instead of heading towards my bike chained up against the side of the building, I walk over to the swings.  I settle myself into one of them, and Dean surprises me by taking the swing next to mine.  The chains creak a little at our weight, making pleasant noises in the cool night.  I belatedly realize that the seat is wet—hopefully because it rained.  Oh, well, it’s not like I’m made of sugar.

“How is he?” I venture hesitantly.
“Is he okay?”

“He was passed out cold on
his bathroom floor when I left.”

“He’s drunk?”
I groan, dismayed.

“Yeah,” Dean says like that’s the biggest understatement in the world.  He shifts uncomfortably, his broad shoulders not quite fitting in the space between the chains.
  “He’s alright—his mom’s with him.”

Oh, no.  He’s going to wake up to all kinds of trouble.  I bury my face in my hands.  “Does he hate me?”
I ask pathetically.  My voice  is low and probably muffled beyond comprehension.

Dean doesn’t reply right away, so I peek up at him.  He glances down at me with
his unreadable cop face.  “He hates himself,” he finally says.

My heart gives one heavy thump before taking the express elevator down to the bottom level.
  I hate this.  I hate what we’ve done to each other, and I hate that I have to fight the urge to run to Johnny and start the cycle all over again.  It’s sick, sick, sick.

Feeling sorry for the both
of us, I push off with my foot to make the swing sway back and forth, while surreptitiously searching Dean’s perfect features for signs of condemnation or reproof.  I see neither, but that doesn’t mean he’s not thinking it.  I suddenly, desperately want to know his opinion.

“I hurt him,” I blurt out.  “Badly.”

“You hurt each other.”

“I was ready to get back together with him, Dean.  Before I…did something really stupid.  Do you think we—no, I guess it doesn’t matter since we can’t ever recover from this.”

I stare at his face like the answer will appear in neon there.  But Dean’s shaking his head, looking down at his hands.  “It’s not my business,” he says in a preemptive attempt to discourage my solicitations for advice.

I wasn’t gonna go into detail about the break up—he is Johnny’s stepbrother after all.  Instead I say, “
God, I wish I could press a rewind button, and take back everything hurtful I’ve ever done to anyone.”

“Why worry about what happened in the past?” he
replies with a shrug.  “You can’t fix it; you can only try to make up for it.”

I
let that sink in for a while.  Sometimes I feel like my relationship with Johnny is a fragile glass bowl that’s been broken and glued back together one too many times.  If there a way for either of us to make up what we’ve done to each other…

A soft sigh escapes me as I tilt my head back to stare at the unusually cloudy night sky.  “
How many times do you get cut by the same thing before you decide it’s time to throw it away?” I wonder.

Dean’s response is maddeningly practical: 
“When you start to bleed.”

******

Chapter 28

I wake up sometime during the night, feverish and with a roil
ing tummy.  Yeah, that’s right—I’ve got the stomach flu!  I can’t go to school today!  Never have I been so happy to be bent over the toilet, puking my guts out.  My poor throat, though, has been through a lot these past few days.  I’ve developed a slight rasp that I’m starting to think might be permanent.  Mom zips into my room just long enough to take my temperature, and stick a pitcher of cool water on my nightstand.  She doesn’t want to risk catching my germs, and passing them onto her patients—which I absolutely understand.  Besides, I’m definitely past the age where I need her to hold my hair back while I puke.  But when Heather comes by after school to do it for me, I’m so grateful I cry.  She also brings some of her mother’s chicken soup with her—and even though the smell of it makes me dry heave, I still appreciate the thought.

Today is Halloween, and I’m still feeling weak and kind of float-y.  I can keep small amounts of food and liquid down, wh
ich is a huge step up from last night.  I lie in bed feeling sorry for myself.  I love Halloween, and I’m going to miss the awesome haunted house at the rec.  Heather is going to take my place as the creepy ghost in white who jumps out at people in the hallway.  I love her for doing it, but she’ll never be able to do the terrifying job I could have done.  Halloween’s the one time of the year where the size of my head works to my advantage.  Wish I was joking.

I creep
outside to refill the giant bowl of candy Mom left on the porch for the trick-or-treaters, and when I come back in, I hear my phone making noises.  I shuffle back to the couch, keeping my blanket securely wrapped around my shoulders.  Plopping down on the cushions, I grab my phone from the armrest to check it.

Hm, it’s from Tanya.

Tanya
: 
OMG!  Just heard from my friend Chelsea, she goes to Canon, that her sis went to a party at her bf’s cuzin house and Johnny’s there with this girl named Angelina who’s cuzins with Chelsea’s sis bff and she told Chelsea’s sis that Johnny and Angelina hooked up last night!  OMG!  Do you want the address??  According to the sis, Angelina is super pretty!

I read the text again, more slowly this time, and as the words sink in, so does the nausea.  What.  The.  Hell.  Well…he got over me pretty fast, didn’t he?   What happened to thinking about me all the time, Johnny?  Were you thinking about me when you were doing it with super pretty Angelina?!

I seesaw between devastation and an unholy fury, back and forth, until I end up in a cold empty place
full of regret and former child stars.  I desperately want to be unaffected by this, but I’m not, and I can’t  pretend to be.  It hurts, and it sucks.  A part of me wants to dismiss it as a stupid rumor, but I can’t.  Tanya’s information—though never a firsthand account—always turns out to be fairly accurate.  So I’m pretty sure there’s an Angelina, and she’s super pretty, and Johnny had a freaking great time with her.

Silly pride has me answering Tanya’s text with a casual calm I wish I felt.  I type that since we’re not together anymore, Johnny is free to do what he wants.  Then I turn my
phone off, and turn my attention to the television, where a bunch of teenagers are getting hacked to death by killer clowns.

Happy Halloween.

After a two day respite, I’m back at school.  At first, I’m paranoid that everyone’s looking at me and whispering
—then I decide I don’t care.  Some people say hi to me, some don’t.  Britney looks right through me when we pass each other in the hallway.  I guess my near death experience is old news.

On my way to Government, I bump into Mr. Rigby, the school psychologist.  He’s a short guy in an expensive-looking suit with a likeable open face that says “I’m here for you; tell me all your problems.”

“Hello, Jennifer!” he greets me like we’re old friends.  “You haven’t yet made that second appointment to see me.”  He lowers his voice, and leans toward me.  “We really need to discuss your options.  I have brochures.”