Rebels Like Us. Liz Reinhardt

pool like a pro and bluff through many hands of poker. Lincoln, who stayed on the other end of the phone until 3:00 a.m. whenever I felt like talking about anything and everything under the sun, no matter that he had to be up at five for soccer practice. Lincoln, who taught me one of the hardest lessons of my life so far—that growing up sometimes means growing apart and losing someone you thought would be by your side forever. I press myself into Mom’s arms. She smells like vanilla and musk, scents that are netted around all my childhood memories.

      “He called me.” My voice is dull. I should cry, but I can’t. It feels unreal. “He called me, and I ignored it.”

      She smooths her hand over my damp hair. “This has nothing to do with you. From what I can gather, he’s been drinking more than he should. His parents have been worried, and they’re committed to getting him help. He’s going through a lot right now, I guess.”

      I stiffen against her. My mother knows Lincoln and I broke up, but she doesn’t know why. Before this winter she would have been the first person I told after Ollie. Now I’m choking on this acidic hatred because she doesn’t know, and even though it’s my own fault for not telling her, I can’t damn up my anger and redirect it.

      “He’s been drinking for months. His parents never took it seriously when I tried to talk to them about it.”

      It had gotten so bad, I’d had to lie to my mother so that I could stay at random houses where he’d passed out so completely I couldn’t shake him awake. I’d be huddled next to him, worried he was going to choke on his own vomit in his sleep or just never wake up. I’d keep my eyes screwed tight and pray no one messed with me while I shivered the night away under a thin throw blanket on someone’s couch or curled on the floor next to his sprawled body, my arm pillowed under my head. Of course, Lincoln usually apologized when he first opened his bloodshot eyes, confused about where he was and how he got there. Every single time that confusion scared him, but when I suggested he cut back, he morphed from sorry to nasty and said I should drink more—enough so I’d stop being such a nag.

      His parents always treated him like an adult, always let him do whatever he wanted. They thanked me a million times for taking such good care of him, but they never seemed to notice or care that I was scared at all the ways he was changing: drinking and drugging more, hanging out with random people I didn’t know, disappearing for hours or even days on end with no word. By the time I found out he cheated, I wasn’t very surprised...and I was almost even relieved.

      It proved that I wasn’t making things up in my head about how he acted, and it gave me the push I needed to finally walk away. I’m glad his parents have been scared into finally getting him the help he needs.

      “I know you two had problems—” my mom starts, but the doorbell interrupts her.

      “Coño.” I bang my head against the door frame.

      “Are you expecting someone?” Mom sounds surprised.

      “Yeah. A friend from school.” I have no reason to feel this hot grip of guilt, but I do.

      “Do you want me to...”

      “Can you tell him...tell him I need five minutes, okay?” I run to my bedroom and close the door. I don’t even want to know what she’ll think when she opens the door to six feet three inches of tan, muscled Southern gentleman with gorgeous cornflower blue eyes.

      I pull on whatever clothes I grab first and sling my backpack over my shoulder. When I skid into the foyer, Doyle’s eyebrows are pressed low over his eyes.

      “Nes.” His voice tiptoes around the tension in the air. “Your mom told me Lincoln was hurt.”

      Mom wrings her hands, and I resist flinging out some stupid retort she doesn’t deserve. It wasn’t her business to tell Doyle, but I don’t think there’s any normal way to react to all this grief and anger and ugly, painful regret. It’s not like there’s a “Someone You Loved Who Broke Your Heart Is Hurt” manual after all.

      “We don’t know too much yet.” My voice is as cold as the egomaniacal surgeon’s on One Hundred Thousand Beats as I concentrate on putting on my shoes.

      They watch as I shove my feet into my sneakers a tad too aggressively.

      “We can stay here,” Doyle offers. “Or you can, if you’d rather I take off. I’ll let ’em know you’re not gonna be in today at school. Whatever you need.”

      “I need breakfast.” Mom and Doyle trade looks of concern that make me feel irrationally pissed. And defensive. “There’s nothing I can do for him, okay? I’m here—he’s there. How the hell is my not eating going to help him?” Tears prick behind my eyelids, but I’m not about to let a single drop fall. Not even if I have to bite my tongue off to stop them.

      “I have late office hours after lecture tonight, but I’ll keep my phone on me, Aggie. Call me if you need...anything...” Mom’s words fade as I brush past her and march to Doyle’s truck.

      He jogs ahead of me and helps hoist me four feet up and into my seat before he gets in and drives his monster truck onto the road to the sound track of our awkward silence. When the tires finally crunch on gravel outside the Breakfast Shack, neither one of us makes a move to get out.

      “Did you call him?” His question punctures the heavy silence.

      I shake my head, the static buzz of my mounting panic leaving me tongue-tied.

      He runs his fingers over his jaw, prickly with golden stubble. “You only get one chance to call as soon as you hear ’bout something. Once that window closes, it’s closed for good.”

      “You think I should call?” My voice accuses Doyle of crimes he’s not remotely guilty of.

      “I think you should take your time and do what you need to do.” His lips attempt a smile. “I may not like it, but he was your boyfriend for a long time. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to know he’s all right.”

      “Is there anything wrong with feeling like he maybe got what was coming to him?” I croak. I put my face in my hands, the air choked in my lungs, and feel a telltale wetness against my palms. “Oh my God. I can’t believe I said that. I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I—”

      Doyle’s arms are around me. He drags me across the bench seat, and I breathe in the smell of his skin through the warm cotton of his T-shirt, shielded from all the crap life’s pelting at me right now.

      “It’s okay.” His lips press against my hair. “You can love people and hate them at the same time. Trust me, I know how that feels.”

      “My God. Oh my God, you must think I’m a monster.” I mean more than that. I mean, you must know I’m a monster because it doesn’t matter what Lincoln did to me. He didn’t deserve to fall off a damn fire escape.

      “I think you’re scared and hurt. I think you need to know what’s going on with him.” He unsuctions me from his chest and trains his gaze on mine. “I had a helluva breakup with someone I thought I loved too. I get it. I get how you can care for somebody...and then have a hard time thinking Christian thoughts ’bout ’em.” He swallows hard. “After I broke things off with Ansley, I said some things... I’m not proud of ’em. I was hurt, bad. And I wanted her to hurt too.”

      “It sucks,” I whisper. My imagination isn’t strong enough to conjure what Doyle—the most perfect gentleman I’ve ever met—could have said that would still be filling him with regret today. His confession does go a long way in justifying my seething contempt for Ansley Strickland though.

      “It does.” He blows out a long breath. “I don’t spend a lotta time focused on it, but it still stings. I nursed a serious crush on that girl forever... I’m talking since we were barely outta elementary school. When I finally got the guts up to ask her out, I was so pumped she agreed. Felt like Christmas morning and getting my new truck and winnin’ the lotto all rolled into one.”

      I attempt to hide my grimace over Doyle’s