After Tonight Read online

  “Cars, I really don’t need to hear this right now.”

  “Yes, you do,” she says. “And since you aren’t cleared to drive yet, you really have no choice but to sit here and listen to me.”

  I close my eyes. “Look, Brent hurt me. Badly. He gave up on us long before I realized it was even happening. When he left for med school, I was sure he’d change his mind—that he was just branching out and that he’d realize we were right for each other eventually. Instead, I found out he was hooking up with some chick from Delaware or some shit. That he never had any intention of thinking things through or taking time. He just didn’t want to be with me. Our relationship wasn’t important to him—I wasn’t important to him.”

  I pause and take a breath.

  “And now—now I find out that one more guy has completely misled me in every way? Yeah, no. No fucking way. Not again.”

  I let my head fall back against the couch cushion, and Carson sighs.

  “I don’t want to make you feel bad. I’m not saying that what Smith did isn’t sort of fucked up. But he was undercover—he was working with the school and the police department. It was his job. It’s not like he chose to seek you out and seduce you.”

  I crack one eye open. “I know all of this.”

  “Yeah, maybe, but you aren’t accepting it. You think he’s done something to hurt you when, in fact, he was trying to protect you.”

  I lift a brow. “Sounds like he’s got you convinced.”

  She shrugs. “He’s called here every day. I wasn’t going to ignore the poor guy forever.”

  I close my eyes again. It’s been two weeks exactly since I got out of the hospital, which makes it three weeks since I’ve seen Smith. According to Officer Rains, he stayed with me in the hospital the night of the accident until he had to report back to the station. He even called my dad to let him know what happened. I was still unconscious, so I don’t remember that part—all I remember is the look on his face just as J. D. plowed into my body with his car.

  “I’m only asking you to think about it,” Carson says.

  I want to laugh. Like I can do anything but think about it.

  “By the way, what time are we going to Holly Fields?”

  “Five.” I roll my eyes. “They eat early. It’s an old people thing.”

  She nods. “That’s cool. And you’re sure you want me to come to dinner? I really don’t mind dropping you off and picking you up.”

  I shake my head.

  “No, I want you to come. You didn’t get a chance to talk to Wyatt at the hospital, and I promised him I’d hook you all up for the tutoring thing.”

  Carson clears her throat. “We actually did talk a little at the hospital—he was sort of a dick, Cyn.”

  I blink at her.

  “For real? Wyatt’s, like, the nicest guy ever. Maybe you just read him wrong.”

  “I don’t think so.” She shrugs. “I mentioned tutoring him and he snapped at me. Said something about not needing help. It was weird.”

  “Huh. That is weird.” I think back to my conversation with him about finishing his college credits. “Well, I’ll talk to him about it tonight. And, yes, you’re still coming to dinner. If I get to experience the Holly Fields turkey sandwich tonight, I want you to be doing it with me.”

  “Fantastic,” she mutters as she walks into the kitchen.

  I chuckle, then groan, putting a hand against my left ribs. They’re really tender, especially when I laugh.

  Or move.

  Or breathe.

  My right wrist is still in a brace, too, but the doctor said I’ll probably be able to take it off next week. Most of the bruises and cuts have healed, save a persistent purplish mark on my right cheek. Aside from the wrist brace and a really gnarly case of bedhead, I look pretty normal. Not like someone who got hit by a car. Not like someone who just had her heart broken.

  In the end, I do actually shower and change my clothes before leaving with Carson for dinner with Dad. I figure it’s the least I can do. Well, actually, it’s literally the least I can do. I certainly don’t bother with makeup or a blow-dryer.

  “So, did you hear?” Rocky asks me once we’ve settled down at the cafeteria table.

  “Hear what?”

  “About the charges—there was a big press conference on the news this afternoon.”

  I blink over at him. “What charges?

  Dad and Carson share a look.

  “J. D. Fenton was charged today, princess,” Dad says, reaching over to pat my hand.

  “Apparently he and a few other Franklin students were selling drugs at the school for a larger kingpin based in the city. There are about eight or nine people they’re trying to take down, I think. It was all over the news this morning.”

  “Oh.” I stare down at my sandwich and pick up my apple instead. “So, was it just drug charges?”

  Dad nods. “The hit-and-run will be a separate trial, so you won’t have to worry about testifying at this one.”

  I nod, still staring at my apple. Wyatt, who’s sitting on my right side, pats my arm.

  “Eat, Cyn. The apple isn’t going to hurt you. And you look like you’ve lost about ten pounds since the accident.”

  I shrug, but take a bite anyway. Across the table, Dad is grilling Carson about what her parents are up to and how her brother’s doing. I clear my throat and glance over at Wyatt.

  “So—Carson said she talked to you at the hospital about the whole tutoring thing,” I say quietly.

  In an instant, Wyatt’s eyes sort of shutter themselves closed. He shrugs and takes a sip of his water.

  “She did. It—uh—isn’t going to work out.”

  I frown at him. “I don’t get it—you were so gung ho before.”

  He swallows hard. “I know her brother.”

  “Huh?”

  He glances across the table at Carson, who is laughing at something Rocky is saying, then back at me.

  “Her brother, Lennon. I know him.”

  “Uh . . . so?”

  Wyatt scrubs a hand over his face.

  “So . . . I sort of punched his fucking lights out the last time I saw him. It was before the accident, but there’s some bad blood between us. I’d seen Carson with him before, but they don’t look anything alike and I thought she was his girlfriend or something. I had no clue she was his sister.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Lennon’s a pretty big dude—what’d you punch him for?”

  He looks down at his tray and fiddles with his fork.

  “For sleeping with my wife.”

  My mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. Wyatt looks up at me and gives me a rueful smile.

  “Wow.” I don’t know what else to say. “You’re married?”

  “She’s my ex-wife now.” Now it’s his turn to raise his eyebrows. “Why can’t you believe I was married? Am I repulsive or something?”

  “No, of course not!” I punch his arm lightly. “I just never pictured you in a serious relationship like that. You always hear that musicians aren’t exactly big on monogamy.”

  He shrugs. “Not all musicians.”

  “Hmm. Clearly.”

  Wyatt takes a bite of his salad, then glances back across at Carson. She’s watching us now and I give her a little thumbs-up that’s hidden from Wyatt’s view.

  “You really just need to give her a chance. She’ll help you out. You don’t even need to say anything about her brother.”

  He sniffs. “Maybe.”

  “Good.” I take another bite of my apple and swallow, even though it still pretty much tastes like nothing. “I think you’re making the right choice.”

  “I guess we’ll see,” he sighs, then looks at me with a sad expression. “I think I’m just used to people hiding their shit—I didn’t want to become that kind of person.”

  I huff out a little laugh.

  “If I’ve learned anything in the last month, it’s that everyone hides their shit. You can think you know someone
and then find out they’re someone completely different.”

  ***

  I don’t really intend to follow the trial. I just do.

  It’s big in the Baltimore news. Eight men—one of whom is J. D.—are charged with drug trafficking and transporting narcotics over seven different state lines and on school property. The news touches on the fact that J. D. was a senior at the Franklin School and that police were able to establish contact with him through his time there. It’s a pretty vague way of saying they had someone on the inside, but I guess the semantics matter with something like a drug trial.

  Most of the time, I make it through the day without watching the updates—it’s when Carson’s out tutoring and Rainey’s still at the YMCA in the late afternoons that I find myself glued to channel 13, waiting for even a glimpse of Smith in the courtroom and cursing myself for it the whole time.

  It’s been almost a month since the accident.

  It’s been over a month since I saw him in person.

  I have so many things I want to ask him. But instead, I just watch the television and hope to get a glimpse of him, even for the briefest of moments.

  It’s a Wednesday, the day the defense delivers their opening statement, that I finally see Smith. It’s just not on television. It’s at Franklin High.

  While I was at the hospital, I’d written thank-you notes to Caroline and Mr. Weathersby, which I decide I should deliver to the school myself rather than send them. Despite having to end my student teaching two weeks early, they both gave me glowing recommendations to my thesis advisor, so I feel like a card and an in-person visit are the least I can do.

  I have to say, of all the things I missed, I think driving was at the top of the list. Being able to get behind the wheel and leave when I want to is a luxury I’ll never take for granted again. I don’t think my roommates will, either, considering that they’ve had to cart my ass around for six weeks.

  But when I pull up to Franklin High School, I sort of wish I hadn’t come here alone. This place reminds me of things that happened the past few months in a way that’s both haunting and painful.

  The main office is quiet when I slip inside, save a few voices coming from the conference room and the ever-present whirring of the copy machine. I walk to the wall of cubby-style mailboxes and find Caroline’s mailbox, then slide the card inside. I look for Mr. Weathersby’s name and find his mailbox stuffed to the gills with papers and folders. I can’t even fit the corner of the envelope into the space. Sighing, I glance back at his office. I could just slide past the conference room and slip it under his door. Assuming that I won’t be seen as I walk by the open conference room door.

  Which, of course, I am.

  “Miss Hendricks?”

  I freeze, then pivot slowly toward the voice. Mr. Weathersby is standing at the far end of the room, next to a whiteboard, and holding a dry-erase marker in one hand. Officer Rains is sitting at the head of the table with two other uniformed officers and a man in an expensive-looking suit.

  And at the other end of the table is Smith.

  His back is to me, but I know it’s him. His posture is ramrod straight—unnaturally straight. Like he’s trying to hold himself together.

  “What a nice surprise,” Mr. Weathersby is saying, smiling at me. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”

  Stepping into the room feels like breaching a battleground. I’m out here floundering, and hoping I can just give him the card and scurry back out before I get emotionally pummeled.

  “I have this for you, sir,” I say, handing him the envelope. I try to ignore the fact that my voice is wobbly. “I wanted to say thank you for all you’ve done for me this semester.”

  Mr. Weathersby gives a wave of his hand

  “Of course, my dear—as I said to your advisor, I believe you’ll make a fantastic teacher.”

  I smile nervously. “Thank you, sir.”

  The room falls silent and Mr. Weathersby clears his throat.

  “I never really got the chance to speak with you after the accident—of course, you’ll understand why we had to be discreet about Officer Asher’s presence here.”

  I let my eyes flicker over to Smith.

  Holy shit.

  He’s wearing a fucking uniform.

  Every fantasy I never realized I had about a police officer comes barreling through my brain all at once. His eyes meet mine and I force myself to school my expression. He looks so mature and sophisticated, and I want to smack myself for not realizing he wasn’t actually a student.

  “Of course,” I say to Mr. Weathersby, but my words sound sort of hollow and far away. I need to get out of here.

  “Well, anyway,” I say, backing out toward the door, “have a wonderful summer. I wish you the best.”

  I’m pretty sure no one says anything to me after that, but I can’t be 100 percent positive because I literally dash out of the conference room, through the office, and back down the hallway. I bypass my old classroom, the library, the cafeteria. I just keep moving, pretending that I don’t see Smith’s face everywhere I turn. If I can just get out of here without bursting into tears, I promise myself that I will never have to see him again.

  I didn’t realize having him face-to-face would feel like being set on fire from the inside out.

  I’m ten feet from the door, ten feet from making my escape, when I hear him call my name.

  “Hyacinth!”

  I ignore him.

  “Come on, hold up a second!”

  I don’t want to. I want to keep running, but I know he’ll be faster than I am. Cops have to go through physical training, don’t they? And, besides, he’s in better shape than pretty much any man I’ve ever met, so I have no doubt my getaway attempt would be fruitless.

  Breathing hard, I slow to a stop. My chest sort of aches and I’m winded and exhausted. My ribs are throbbing, and I wince as I hold a hand to them.

  But I don’t turn around—I just wait for him to approach, which he does really slowly, like he’s afraid I’ll get spooked and run. It’s certainly tempting, but I manage to stand my ground, even after he’s next to me and I can feel his proximity like a physical force of nature.

  “Hi.”

  I close my eyes and nod tersely—my version of “hi” under the current circumstances.

  “I called you,” he says.

  “I know.”

  “You didn’t answer.”

  “I didn’t have anything to say.”

  In my periphery, I see him watching me. “Do you have anything to say now?”

  Yes.

  I want to say that I fucking hate you for putting me through what you’ve put me through.

  And I want to say that I fucking love you, and that makes me hate you, too.

  “No. I don’t have anything to say now.”

  “Will you just look at me, Cyn? Please?”

  I close my eyes. “I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  I turn to glare at him. “Because it hurts, Smith. Because it fucking hurts.”

  He rocks back on his heels and a smile peeks out beneath his solemn expression.

  “Well, you’re looking at me now.”

  I roll my eyes. “Fine, Officer, you win. Way to effectively dupe your witness.”

  Smith flinches at that, then takes a step back from me.

  “Look, I just want to talk to you.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Cyn . . .”

  “No,” I snap. I begin to back away. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “You know what?”

  Smith sort of growls, then moves right into my personal space.

  “I don’t really care what you want to hear. I’ve called you a million goddamn times, and now I’ve got you standing in front of me, so you’re going to listen to what I have to say.”

  I blink at him, steeling my gaze.

  “Fine. You’ve got two minutes.”

  He sniffs hard, then g
lances down the hallway.

  “When I was at the academy, my brother was promoted to lead investigator for the BPD drug task force. They assigned him to the SRO position to help him weed out the drug deals in the high schools. When they realized that they couldn’t get very far with someone wearing a badge, they recruited me to join the undercover operation.

  “The thing is,” he continues, scrubbing a hand over his face, “you were an unexpected element—I didn’t anticipate meeting you at Cave, but I really didn’t expect to see you here. When I did, I almost called off the whole investigation, but Eric convinced me to stick with it.”

  I raise a brow. “So, he did know about us after all.”

  Smith shrugs. “Sort of. He knew we’d met at the bar. He knew I cared about you.”

  Cared. Past tense.

  I swallow hard on the lump in my throat.

  “So, you do have a high school diploma?”

  His mouth lifts on one side. “Yeah. I was valedictorian of my class.”

  I snort. “Of course you were.”

  “What else don’t I know, then—are you really thirty years old? Do you have a wife or kids or a mortgage or some other secret that I’m completely in the dark about?”

  He shifts to rest an arm on a nearby locker.

  “No, I’m not thirty. I’m twenty-five. I graduated from the police academy last fall. No wife. No kids. I live with my brother in Catonsville, although I’m hoping that’ll change soon since he’s a total slob and snores like a boar.”

  He smiles at me then and I look away.

  “What about your dad?”

  He sighs at that. “My dad is in jail, although it’s in Iowa, not here. I haven’t spoken to him in several years. Eric has basically been like my dad in most ways anyway. And my mom still struggles with drinking, but she’s working on it. It’s all I can really ask of her, I think.”

  I don’t know what to say to that, so I just nod.

  “Come on, Cyn,” he whispers. Slowly, he shuffles closer toward me until the only thing between us is breath. “I had to lie to you. I didn’t want to, but it was my job. And, in my own way, I was trying to keep you safe.”

  I cross my arms, wishing they were stronger—strong enough to protect my heart. He sighs then and turns to lean his back against the locker.