The Struggle (The Things We Can't Change Book 2) (5 page)

Her eyes immediately widen, and she looks from Chief Kelly, to my handcuffed hands, to my face, and then repeats the cycle. Her full lips part for just a moment, and then she’s tugging on her father, pulling on him so he leans down and she can whisper furiously in his ear.

Clearly, telling Cameron that I would tag anything that couldn’t move had been a mistake, a big, drunken mistake. He’d stormed in on Tessa and me just half an hour ago, ripped the blanket off of me and had his goons hustle me out to the car.

And where do I find myself a few minutes later? Spray paint can in hand, a bunch of fucking morons jeering at me that I don’t have the balls to tag big, bad Dr. Ian Parker’s house. And with my case of personal pride—and an insane hangover—I was just crazy enough to lift my hand, press the nozzle, and what comes out? Paint, of course, and a hell of a lot of police sirens.

I’m pretty sure that when Tessa mumbled for me to “Make good choices” as I got pulled out of bed, she’d had a premonition.

Fuck my life.

I’m just being squashed into the back of the cruiser when I hear Dr. Parker call out, “Excuse me, Chief Kelly! Rob, hold on a minute there, would you?”

The car door is slammed in my face, and Chief Kelly walks over and meets Dr. Parker halfway, thumbs tucked into his front belt loops underneath his gut. Dr. Parker talks earnestly with ‘Rob’ for several minutes, and then there seems to be a lot of hemming and hawing from both sides. My eyes move from the two men to where Evie is still standing on the front porch, her hands clasped together in front of her.

I notice then that she’s still dressed for the fundraiser, her neat black dress still on, as though she hasn’t gone to bed yet, even though it’s past four in the morning and she’s probably been home all night. Her hair is still neat, even if the circles under her eyes seem bigger. I don’t seem to be the only one suffering from a bout of insomnia the past month.

My attention returns to Dr. Parker and Chief Kelly as the two of them shake hands and then part ways, Dr. Parker back to his house, and Chief Kelly to the police cruiser where I’m situated.

“Someone’s looking out for you somewhere, kid,” Chief Kelly says as he starts up the car and backs out of the Parkers long driveway. He idles at the end, not pulling immediately out onto Riverside Drive, looking at me in the rearview mirror. “Which way to home?”

“Home?” My head jerks up as I stare at him. “Aren’t we going to the station?”

“Apparently, Dr. Parker has a soft spot for you, after all you’ve done for his daughter. He’s prepared to offer you a deal, if your dad agrees to it. Since it’s his house you tried to deface, it’s ultimately his decision. Now, which way?”

“Left,” I say automatically, and settle back into my seat, stunned. “I live off Haines and Grandview Avenue.”

As I sit there, I go over it all in my mind. Finally, my exhausted and slightly hung over mind gets it; Evie’s whispering to her dad, and the way Dr. Parker talked to Chief Kelly, even last night’s banquet. No doubt the clincher had been a reminder of how much money Dr. Parker had raised for the police department.

All of the sudden, I’m furious with both of them. I don’t want to owe the Parkers a damn thing, even though this is technically just a repayment of their debt to me. It doesn’t matter. I want nothing to do with either of them. I just want to forget all events of the past two months and continue on with my self-destructive path. I keep hoping that if I sink deep enough, I’ll be able to stop feeling completely.

The problem is, I seem to take a backward step at this every time I see Evie Parker. And somehow I know this deal is going to involve seeing her way more often than I would like.

When my dad opens the door to our house and sees me being escorted by Chief Kelly, his bleary eyes widen. Then they narrow as he looks over at me. They are the same eyes I see reflected back at me in the mirror. My eyes. Cindy’s eyes. Although, Cindy had never looked at me with such rage.

“Officer.” My dad sighs out the word. “What’s he done this time?”

“Well, Mr. Quain, that’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. May I come inside?”

“Of course, of course. Can I make you some coffee?”

As a few local politics are discussed and the coffee is brewed, I roll my eyes, though not so either of them could see. Finally, they get down to business.

I listen, temper rising, as Chief Kelly outlines the terms of Dr. Parkers deal. Apparently, Evie’s therapist has suggested she take on some kind of project, a sort of distraction. She and Dr. Parker have been discussing restoring and landscaping an old gazebo on the back of their property, but since Dr. Parker works such a long schedule, they are trying to decide how to get some of the heavier work done.

That’s right. I’ve just been volunteered—forced, really—to sign up for a bunch of free manual labor. All. Fucking. Summer.

“All summer?” I blurt out, before I can stop myself, interrupting Chief Kelly.

They both turn to look at me, and my dad’s eyes narrow again, a dangerous sign. I sink back in my seat, knowing this discussion will have to wait until we’re alone.

“It’s either a summer at the Parkers, or three to six months in a juvenile detention center,” Chief Kelly says, not unkindly, but not without steel in his voice either. I can tell he’s getting into the fatherly act and I wish I could bolt. “With your list of priors, a judge probably isn’t going to give you a lot of leeway, Ezekiel.”

“Completely understood,” my dad says quickly, as he and Chief Kelly stand up. “If Zeke isn’t working at the club, he’ll be at the Parkers. I’ll make sure of that. I can’t thank you enough for giving him another chance.”

They go to the door, still talking, and I sit at the table and make faces as I mimic their voices, and finally the door closes. I think about bolting, leaving the house to avoid this talk, but I know it’s inevitable and I may as well get it over with. I hear my dad’s footsteps heading my way, heavy and foreboding. Then he appears in the doorway of the kitchen, color high even in his dark cheeks.

“Of all the stupid, asinine-” and he’s off, pacing back and forth in front of me. He’s in full blown lecture mode, arms waving, yelling and whispering by turn. It’s the same old words: I’m irresponsible, stupid, care only about myself, am throwing away my life and mocking the only skill that God Himself was kind enough to bestow upon me.

I keep my face solemn, my eyes on him even though I’m not really listening or seeing. I’m thinking how much this sucks. How my whole summer has just been stolen from me, and how deep down, I know I’m really going to do it because I don’t want to be sent away. I don’t want to go to juvie, coward that I am, and I don’t want to be far away from Cindy. Or at least, what’s left of her that I have; a wooden box, a hole in the ground filled up, and a headstone as cold and solid as my heart feels these days.

“Are you even listening to me?” my dad demands suddenly, and my focus returns to him.

“Not really,” I admit, though with defeat, not defiance. If I make him even angrier by giving attitude back, my own feelings will surface and get out of control. “I already know your opinion of me, Dad. I’m a fuck up. I got it the first dozen times you screamed it at me.”

“If you would just
try
, give a shit about anyone aside from yourself, maybe I wouldn’t have to keep reminding you!” he shoots back. He points a finger at me and I tense at the hated gesture but force myself to stay calm and seated. “You will show up to the Parkers every day, all day, with a goddamned smile on your face. Do you understand me? Or so help me, I’ll turn you in to the police myself.”

“I understand,” I say, forcing myself not to mutter so he won’t make me repeat the words. I’ll choke if I have to say them again.

I’m mad, pissed off, but it’s under control because it’s mostly at Cameron, Evie, and Dr. Parker. I know, ultimately, it’s not my dad’s fault at all. My night is also starting to catch up with me and I just want to be done here so I can go and sleep.

As though the wind is suddenly sucked from his sails, my dad expels a long breath and collapses down in the chair across from me. We stare at each other for a long moment. Except for the fact that his skin is much darker than mine, I have the creepy feeling of looking at myself, aged almost thirty years. Black, short hair buzzed close to the head, streaked with gray, especially around the temples. Deep lines etched around the mouth and the tired green eyes. Broad, once-strong shoulders now stooped with age and overwork.

I don’t want to end up like him. Alone, tired and already so jaded and cheated by the world. A shell of my former self. The problem is that I know the haunted shadows he has in his eyes is the one thing we already have in common, regardless of age.

“I miss her too, Zeke.” He finally speaks, and I tense as I hear his topic. I don’t want to talk about this. I
don’t
want to
talk about this,
dammit.

“I lost her too,” he continues, even as I look pointedly away. “Lost both of them too.”

“Yeah, well, Mom wasn’t really much of a loss as it turns out, was she?” I bite out. I’m hoping I can make him mad again, because that’s much preferable to this heart to heart or whatever the hell he’s trying to do. It’s the first time we’ve talked about Cindy’s death. Probably the first time we’ve ever talked about Mom, too.

“No,” Dad agrees quietly. “But I know you’re acting out because of them. Both of them. And I know it’s not for attention. I also know Cindy wouldn’t have wanted you to be getting into trouble. She wouldn’t have wanted you to be sent away.”

I can feel myself beginning to tremble as grief and guilt, two things I’ve desperately been running from, figuratively and literally, slam into me. Hard and strong, with the force of a tidal wave. No longer kept at bay through physical stress and channeled out of me through a cheap aerosol can.

It’s all I can feel, consuming me. Emotions,
feeling
, torn between the two horrible urges of crying over the loss of my sister and pounding my fist into something over and over because I am so filled with rage at myself for what I did and didn’t do.

I have to settle for standing up violently, my chair falling down to the floor behind me. I’m barely keeping it together.

“Don’t pretend like you even care.” My voice is loud, not quite a shout, but too loud for normal conversation. “About me, about anyone. And don’t you dare talk about what Cindy would have wanted. You know what she probably wanted, Dad? To
live.
Not to fucking die in the first place.”

I turn and sprint away, taking the stairs two at a time. My dad doesn’t call after me, doesn’t follow me. We don’t comfort each other in the Quain family. Head down, move on, scream at one another occasionally when all the tension becomes too much to bear. And then it’s back to the silence, the suppression, and avoidance.

I wish desperately that I could leave, go paint something, but I know I’ll have to learn some control over myself. I have now officially crossed the line. One more toe over and I am toast.

Instead, I go and topple face first onto my bed, trapping my arms underneath my body so I can’t see them shaking. So they won’t be tempted to grab some paint and deface anything. I force myself to embrace my already overwhelming exhaustion. I paint a picture in my head, imagining all the feelings flowing out of me. It doesn’t help, not really, but finally I fall asleep and think no more.

When I jerk awake from the nightmare, the sun is setting and orangey-pink hued rays of light are bathing my room. I lay in the middle of my bed, panting as hard as if I’ve run my three miles. All my sheets and blankets are thrown off the bed but I’m still covered in a sheen of sweat.

Gradually, as I pick out one blade from my ceiling fan and watch it spin around and around, my breathing begins to return to normal. Always the same dream, those last moments with Cindy. It would have been so easy to prevent it. If I had just crossed the street to her instead. If I hadn’t even been there and she’d dawdled with her friend a few minutes longer. If I hadn’t been stupid and gotten caught that night, came home at that exact time. If I hadn’t told her to use the damn crosswalk and just had her jaywalk across Grandview Avenue, since there hadn’t even been any cars around at first.

If, if, if, if, if.

It’s a crazy game I always seem to end up playing, going through all the nitty-gritty details, imagining every way that day could have been different and Cindy could have lived. It’s torturous, heart-wrenching, but it keeps those mangled legs, that single dangling hand, out of my mind’s eye, because they are what I really can’t stand.

Even so, I feel my fingers tremble, my heart rate try to accelerate even though I’m lying completely still. I need to do
something
, something dangerous and reckless, to distract myself and expel the emotions from my brain. Something legal.

I know just the solution.

I vault off of my bed, one bare foot feeling the gauge in the floor. I almost choke as the emotions rise up inside me and I sprint out of my room and into the narrow hallway. I stop in front of Cindy’s bedroom door.

The adrenaline that courses through me is sudden and immediate, like a jolt to the heart. All my emotions are shoved to the side as my heart races, staring down the door handle as though it has eyes of its own and is meeting me eye for eye.