CHAPTER 11
CASSIE
A few weeks pass. I'm up and dressed by the time Jon comes looking for me every morning. I have no intention of doing anything with him, but he is hot and I don't want to look like a slob when he's around. Besides, there's no way he's 'the one.' Jonathan has dipped his stick into too many places and the thought is utterly unappealing. Okay, maybe not utterly, and maybe not late at night when my mind wanders, but I want the guy to be my first and vice versa. Jonathan's the opposite of what I'm looking for, but he helps me kill time and I find myself smiling more and more. I know it has something to do with him, but I'd rather not think about it.
Either way, I'm grateful for the time away from home. I grew up in North Babylon, right off of Deer Park Avenue. I'm used to nonstop noise at all hours and an endless array of things to do, so many things that I never had time to think about what I really like. Life has a faster pace up there. In some ways that's awesome. Getting lunch at a drive through in less than a minute is spectacular. And missed. No one is in a hurry down here. It's like they have all the time in the world. Slowing down and not strangling the McDonald's lady has become one of my missions. I can be patient. Maybe. Okay, I suck at it, but I'm trying. If Jon can do it, I can. He's had the same hurried life, always moving forward, frantically so at times.
I'm just glad for the change in pace and to have some space from my mom. Think of the most uptight, critical woman you can imagine—now combine that chick with a saintly church going woman and that's my mother. Everyone thinks she's great and she is wonderful to everyone, except me. They all get this pristine version of mom that doesn't exist behind closed doors.
I get the over-critical edition, who's constantly putting me down, correcting me, and making so many passive aggressive jabs that I seriously think she hates me. It's gotten to the point that I can barely tolerate being in the same room as Mom. Everything I do is wrong or not good enough. Every accomplishment that puts a smile on my lips only makes her frown, like I could have done so much better. Academically, I'm at the top of my class. Only one person beat me, so now she treats me like I'm dumb too—as if being salutatorian is the equivalent of being the class idiot. For her, that's what it meant—failure. I'm not number one, I'm number two and she treats me like the piece of shit she thinks I am.
My friends don't see it. She hides that part of herself and saves it just for me. They think the slope of my shoulders and my downturned face is from some teenage crap, but it's not. It's from her. The woman ruthlessly picks at me like a vulture—from dawn 'til dusk—criticizing everything from my clothes to my mind to my lack of a flat belly. I'm not fat, but my stomach isn't ever going to be perfectly hard and smooth no matter how many crunches I do—and that's not good enough. Not for my dear mother who wants the perfect daughter at all cost. My life is filled with verbal lashings and it's just so good to be around someone who likes me the way I am.
Jonathan seems to enjoy my company just as much as I'm enjoying his. Although there's this easy way about him, I know there's a wall between us. Secrets, failures, and insecurities erected it, and it towers over us. I don't know what his story is, but it seems like his ego is as fragile as mine. He overcompensates in the same ways, throwing barbed words out when I say something that hits too close to home—just like I do. I know that play and have done the same thing too many times to count. I wonder what he's hiding behind those beautiful blue eyes and the fake smile that's always plastered across his face.
And that's when things take an unexpected turn. We're in a middle state, where we are sort of friends, but still cautious of one another. We eat breakfast and then find something to do until Robyn gets off work. The three of us make dinner and hang out until Aunt Paula comes home. It's easy and feels normal even though it's totally weird if you stop and think about it. I mean, there's a billionaire hanging out in a trailer because he wants to.
We're sitting at Aunt Paula's little table eating breakfast. The house is completely quiet, which makes my chewing sound horsey-loud. It's very sexy. I try to quiet my chomping, but it's no use.
Jonathan looks up at me and smiles. "I don't care how loud you chew. You're parents really messed you up, you know that?"
I avert my eyes, chomp quickly, and swallow my food. We know each other a little better now. Months of breakfast together will do that. It's impossible not to talk about my neurotic thoughts when half of them were inflicted by my mother. "Me? What about you? What'd you do that they banished you down here, anyway?"
Jonathan's smile fades slightly, before it resumes at full blast. If I hadn't been watching him, I wouldn't have noticed. Whatever he did to get himself sent down here was major. I looked through the papers to try and figure out what he could have possibly done, but there was nothing. His mother must have taken care of it before it hit the press.
"So," Jonathan shoves the last of his egg sandwich in his mouth, and says, "this art exhibit is opening soon, and I have an in with the curator. We can look at the exhibition before everyone else, while they finish setting it up. You want to go?"
"Nice dodge. Very subtle." I watch him for a second, wondering if he ever drops that damn mask he's wearing. It's always there—a perfect smile on a perfect face—guarding his thoughts like a German Shepard.
I lean back in my chair and ask, "So, you like art?" I'm surprised. I probably shouldn't be, but I am. Picturing Jonathan playing football and liking things that are fast and fun is easier. Art isn't like that. It's pensive and pure.
Nodding, he leans back in his chair. "Yeah, and you shouldn't sound surprised. Rich people like art, remember?"
I have trouble imagining him in a mansion, especially since I keep seeing him in an old mobile home. Smiling, I reply, "Okay, so where is this show and whose is it?"
"Ah, that's a surprise, but we do have to haul ass and look sort of presentable." He glances at my cut-offs and my tank top.
"I get it. You want me to change."
"It's an art show, babe, not a barbeque."
"Ha ha. Give me a few minutes. I'll be right back." Before I forget, I turn abruptly and lightly smack the back of his head. "And stop calling me babe."
He chuckles as I run down the dark, narrow hall to my room and dig through my clothes looking for a dress. I brought a church dress, in case Aunt Paula wanted to go, and a clubbing dress in case Robyn wanted to be adventurous one night. Neither is quite right. It's possible that I can make do and tone down the clubbing dress. The neckline is a little low and the fabric is clingy, but the skirt flares out just above the knee and makes my legs look nice. The problem is the neckline, it's a cleavagefest. I need a wrap or something to tone it down.
I holler to Jonathan that I'm almost ready and duck into Aunt Paula's room. We're about the same size, so I dig through her closet looking for something that will work. A fuzzy black sweater catches my eye. It's perfect, at least I think it is until I pull it on. It's cut short and ends at my waist with little cap sleeves, however the fuzz makes it look like a Muppet was slaughtered and laid across my shoulders.
Jonathan's voice comes from the doorway. "I think emo Elmo has seen better days."
When I turn to look at him, the corners of his lips twitch, like he's trying not to laugh. I stare at my reflection and hear every nasty word my mother's ever said to me about my figure. They crash into me like a tidal wave. Even though I'm looking at my reflection, I no longer see myself, and the smile fades from my lips.
Jonathan's voice is suddenly right behind me, very close to my ear. "You don't need this. It's too hot and you look perfect without it." His fingers touch my shoulders lightly, making me jump. I can't help it. It feels like I've fallen off the top of the staircase and landed flat on my back. There's no air and my lungs won't work. What the hell is wrong with me?
Jonathan raises his hands and steps back. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"
Smiling too brightly, I spin on my heel. "No, it's fine. You just startled me, that's all." My eyes drift up to his and our gazes hold like that for a moment. I look away and pick at the sweater. It takes way too much effort to take it off, but I manage. Without the damn thing, I feel naked. It doesn't hide any of my body flaws, and the way this dress bodice clings all the way down to my hips shows off every imperfection I have. Before the sweater is dropped on Aunt Paula's bed, I stare down at it. I need it. Every piece of me is screaming to put it back on.
Then Jonathan's fingers are around mine, preventing me from putting the sweater back on. He's a step away from me, but I can still feel his breath on the side of my face when he speaks. "You look beautiful without it."
I don't believe him. I need it. A half grin covers my face when I feel a retort die in my throat. Jonathan places his finger under my chin and lifts my eyes to meet his. "You have no idea how gorgeous you are, do you?"
I laugh like he's joking, but that just makes Jonathan's brows pinch together, like he can't fathom that I don't know what I look like—but I do know. I see myself every morning. I see my out of control hair, my over-sized hips, my unfashionably pale skin, and normal-sized breasts. I'm nothing to look at, and I'm okay with that. I know what I am, but the way he looks at me almost makes me believe him.
"You're pretty enough for both of us." I turn away from him, severing the contact. My heart races faster, like I'm being chased by a flock of rabid bunnies.
Somehow he took hold of the sweater and doesn't offer it back. My arms don't know where to go, so they fold across my chest. Jonathan says softly, "I'm serious, Cassie. What happened to you? Can you really not see it? When we walk around together, all the guys check you out. You're hot. You have to know—"
I swat my hand at him, meaning to dismiss his words that are bringing me close to tears for no explicable reason. "Everyone is looking at you. You're a Ferro, Jonathan. I'm not. They're looking at you and if a few eyes fall my way, it's curiosity and nothing more."
My arms are tightly nestled against my chest when Jonathan slips his finger over my hands and works them into the center of my palm. He slips one hand away and then the other, uncrossing my arms. He smiles at me sadly, like he knows how damaged I am—like he's never met expectation either. "Come on, Hale." His voice is kind, encouraging. He turns and keeps a hold on my hand for a second too long, pulling me towards the doorway before he lets go.
I glance back at the sweater on the bed, and leave it behind.