Carl...” I shook my head as his frown deepened, realizing he had no idea who Carl was. I focused, took a few moments and then tried again. “The doctors at Johns Hopkins. They...did skin grafts.”
“Skin grafts?”
I nodded. “I had...the best doctors. There’re...barely any scars.” Well, my backside, where they had grafted the skin, was also a different pink, but I doubted anyone would be seeing that anytime soon.
His thumb smoothed over the inside of my wrist in a slow swipe, sending a bolt of sensation up my arm. He didn’t say anything for a long moment as his gaze held mine. The golden flecks in his eyes were brighter now, making them more hazel than brown. “They said I couldn’t see you. I asked. I even went to the county hospital.”
My heart dropped. “You did?”
Rider nodded as the tension eased around his mouth. “You weren’t there. Or at least they didn’t tell me. One of the nurses called the police. I ended up...” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“You ended up...what?” I asked, because it did matter. Everything that had happened to Rider mattered, even when it had felt like the world couldn’t have cared less.
His thick lashes swept down for a moment. “The police and CPS thought I’d run away, which was dumb as shit. Why would I have run away to a hospital?”
Probably because Child Protective Services had a file on us the width of the Honda. And also probably because Rider and I had run away before. More than once. I’d been eight and he’d just turned nine when we’d decided that we would do better on our own.
We’d made it to the McDonald’s two blocks down the street before Mr. Henry found us.
Then there were the other times, too many to count.
Rider laughed then, and there was a tug in my chest, because when I looked up at him, there wasn’t a smile on his striking face. “That night...” He swallowed. “I’m sorry, Mouse.”
Flinching, I stepped back, but he kept ahold of my arm.
“I would’ve stopped him, but I didn’t.” His eyes were darker. “I shouldn’t have tried—”
“It wasn’t your fault,” I whispered, sickened by what he was saying. I stared up at him. He seriously believed what had happened was because of him?
His head tilted to the side. “Yeah, I made you a promise. I didn’t keep that promise, not when it counted.”
“No,” I stated, and when he started to reply, I pulled my arm free. Surprise scuttled across his face. “That...wasn’t a promise you should’ve ever had to make. Not to anyone.” He’d promised to be there for me forever, and he’d done everything possible not to break his word. There were things that couldn’t be controlled, especially by a kid.
His brows flew up and then his lips did a slow curl. “I don’t think you’ve ever told me no before.”
I opened my mouth to point out that I’d never had a reason to, but the thump of music intruded. It was a weird wake-up call, reminding us that we weren’t in our own little bubble. There was a world around us. As the music drew closer, the low bass rattling the windows of the truck beside us, Rider’s gaze flicked behind me. Then he stepped closer, so close that his worn sneakers brushed my sandals.
He dipped his chin as he reached around, pulling a cell phone out of his back pocket. “What’s your number, Mouse?”
It was obvious that he was leaving, and I didn’t want him to. I had so many questions, a million of them, but I gave him my number as I smoothed my damp palms down my jeans.
“Yo, Rider, you ready?” came the voice from the thumping car. I recognized it from speech class. Hector. “We’ve got to roll.”
Rider looked past me again and he sighed. Stepping back, he picked up his notebook and then grabbed my bag off the pavement. Moving forward, he draped it over my shoulder, his fingers agile as he scooped the strands of my hair out from under the strap.
A half grin appeared as his gaze moved over my face. “Mouse.”
“Someone is gonna kick your ass,” Hector called, and my heart jumped in my chest. But I relaxed when I realized his tone was light. He was teasing him.
Rider dropped his hand and stepped around me. As though he had some kind of gravitational pull, I turned. The car was idling behind mine, an older Ford Escort with blue racing stripes. Hector was in the driver’s seat, grinning widely with one arm out the window, dark hand tapping along the side of the door.
“Hey, mami,” Hector called out, his grin spreading as he bit down on his lower lip. “Que cuerpo tan brutal.”
I had no idea what he’d just said, but it seemed to be directed at me.
“Shut up,” Rider replied, planting his large hand in Hector’s face and shoving him back into the driver’s side of the car. “No la mires.”
I still had no idea what any of that meant, but there was something about the words he and Hector spoke that didn’t sound like the typical Spanish I heard from Rosa and Carl at home. Then again, it could’ve been Spanish and I wouldn’t know, since they had given up trying to teach me the language a long time ago.
A rumble of deep male laughter rose from inside the car, with Hector kicking his head back against the seat. A second later I saw a younger face I recognized.
Jayden.
He was leaning from the passenger seat, across Hector. “Hey,” he yelled. “I think I know you.”
“You don’t know her,” Rider replied as he yanked open the back door. Twisting into the seat, he looked at me one last time. Our gazes locked for a brief moment and then the door closed, tinted windows shielding him.
The Escort peeled off.
I stood there, vaguely aware of someone climbing into the truck parked beside my car. In a daze, I climbed in behind the wheel and placed my bag in the passenger seat.
“Holy crap,” I whispered as I stared out the windshield. “Holy crap.”
I couldn’t recall exactly how I made it home, which was probably not a good thing. The drive had been spent in a daze. By the time I walked into the house, seeing Rider no longer felt real. As if I’d dreamed him up.
I drew in a deep, calming breath.
Four years. Four years of peeling back the frayed and damaged layers. Four years of undoing ten years of crap, of doing what I could to forget everything. Everything except for Rider, because he’d deserved not to be forgotten. But he was the past—the good part of my past, but still a past I didn’t want to remember.
I barreled through the house, skidding into the kitchen. Rosa was there, wearing pale blue scrubs decorated with kitten paws and her hair pulled up in a ponytail. She had made it a point to be home early today. She raised her brows as she turned to me.
“Whoa, speed racer, where are you heading to?” she asked, setting her bowl on the counter. From where I stood, I could smell the Italian dressing.
So many words bubbled up in me, and the urge to tell her about Rider hit me hard, because I needed to make it feel real again, but my throat sealed off. If I told her about Rider, there was a ninety-nine-percent chance she would flip out.
Because Rosa had been there when every frayed and damaged layer had been peeled off me. Even though Dr. Taft had been Team Accept Your Past and they typically agreed with everything Dr. Taft said, she and Carl were Team The Past Is Your Past. They firmly believed that all facets of said past should stay where they belonged. And Rider was definitely the past.
So all I did was shrug as I veered over to the fridge, grabbing a Coke.