Читать книгу If I Fix You - Эбигейл Джонсон - Страница 8

CHAPTER 1

JULY

Falling was such an elastic word. It was basically horrible. People got hurt and died, falling. There was force and pain and fear, if the height was great enough. Even sometimes when it wasn’t. The terror of not finding something solid underfoot was just as real for half a second as it was for twenty.

Yet fall was the word most often coupled with love, falling in and falling out of. How was that even possible? They couldn’t be the same. One fall ushered in delirious, stupid happiness; the other fall expelled those euphoric emotions with blood and tears and scars. Bliss and agony. Fall and fall. It wasn’t the same. There should be a better word.

Above me, a falling star shot across the sky. Except it wasn’t a star. It was a piece of rock burning up as it entered Earth’s atmosphere. It was beautiful as it flared bright against the night and died.

But it was too hot to be thinking about anything burning up, even beautiful things.

And it was too quiet.

Five months should have been long enough to acclimate to the silence, to embrace the thing I’d sought for years. It was mine now. Silence so stark that it wriggled under my skin.

Stretched out on my roof, I was searching the sky for more stars when all-too-familiar sounds punctured the silence. For a moment I thought the fighting was coming from below me. I shot up like the shingles had shocked me, but the voices weren’t coming from my house.

It was so messed up that that realization disappointed me.

I drew my knees up and rested one heat-flushed cheek on them. A prickle of perspiration needled across my skin as I studied the nearly identical house beside mine. All the houses on our street looked the same. Ranch house after ranch house, with drab beige walls, barely pitched roofs and graveled yards. I hadn’t given much thought to the moving truck parked next door yesterday, but it was hard not to pay attention to the rising voices.

I’d gotten good at eavesdropping on fights. Not a skill I’d ever wanted to master, but I hadn’t wanted to still be an A-cup at almost seventeen either. The new neighbors were amateurs. They’d left their window open. A few more minutes and Mrs. Holcomb across the street would be calling the police. She’d probably still be up watching her “stories” from the previous day.

A tiny part of me died inside because I knew that. The highlight of my evening was watching an old woman watch TV.

We didn’t get nearly enough stars over my particular patch of Arizona, and I needed to watch something.

A tiny breeze puffed warm air over me, causing the loose strands from my bun to tickle my cheeks. I pushed them back, focusing on the open window next door. The blinds were lowered so I couldn’t see much, but I heard enough, and it was nothing I hadn’t heard before. She was miserable and angry. He was frustrated and angry. It was his fault; it was her fault. Rinse and repeat. It wasn’t an even fight. He got quieter as she got louder.

Things got more interesting when they moved and I saw their silhouettes through the window. She was much smaller than he was, and shaking with rage.

“Explain it to me then,” he said. “I don’t understand how you can blame—”

His head snapped to the side as she slapped him. He took his time turning back to her and when he did, I was almost positive she spit in his face.

“They should have arrested you.”

Whoa. And yep, spit. He wiped his face. “You don’t mean that. Mom, look at you!”

Mom? That was...interesting, except that wasn’t the right word. There wasn’t anything interesting about someone getting slapped and spit on. Still, if he was some kind of criminal and she was scared of him...but so far, she was the violent one. He hadn’t so much as lifted a hand to defend himself. Not that I had tons of experience, but that seemed decidedly uncriminal to me.

She screamed incoherently at him after that. They moved back out of view and I heard a crash, like a lamp breaking against a wall, followed by him grunting. And all the while she was shrieking, until more crashes drowned her out.

I was up on my knees at that point, eyes wide, ears straining. This was so much worse than anything I’d heard from my parents. They’d yelled, sure, but that was it—words. The fighting next door was bad, like someone-getting-hurt bad, and from the sound of it, not the petite woman with the wicked arm. Where the hell was nosy Mrs. Holcomb?

More silence, then another crash. “Throw anything you want,” he said. “I’m not leaving you—”

“You stay away from me.” Her voice quivered.

Surprise colored his words. “When have I ever hurt you?”

“You arrogant little...” Her voice lowered into a hiss I couldn’t make out. “If I had any choice, you think I’d be here?”

“You’d be dead if you had any choice. Just stop. It’s over. I’m not the one in jail.”

Which meant somebody was in jail—the wrong somebody, according to the mom. But she was the one hurting him, while he thought he was saving her life...? Either way, I couldn’t just sit there and hope her arm got tired before she hit something vital.

Half turning on my roof, I squinted in the darkness, looking for the unopened can of pop I’d brought up with me. I heard yet another crash seconds before my fingers brushed against the cool aluminum.

I crouched down as close to the edge of the roof as possible and hurled the can across the ten feet or so that separated our houses.

I figured the sound might distract them.

I hadn’t figured on how badly my aim might suck in the dark.

I’d been trying to hit the side of their house. Instead, the sound of shattering glass filled the night as the can broke right through the kitchen window.

I clapped a hand over my mouth and flattened myself to the roof just as the back door banged open and a guy who really didn’t look all that much older than me shot into the yard.

His hair was black in the faint light, and long enough that it fell over his eyes when he moved. Gravel crunched as he stalked around. It didn’t take him long to realize his postage-stamp-sized backyard was empty.

Don’t look up. Don’t look up. Don’t look up.

Leaving seemed like the best idea I’d ever had. I could turn away, slide off the edge of my roof and through my bedroom window. I could do it without a sound too. But I didn’t. Instead I stared. I watched.

It was totally stupid on my part. He could be dangerous, or at the very least angry that I’d broken his window—a fact he was sure to realize if he spotted me. But for some reason I wasn’t scared. Not really. I’d done what I wanted. I’d stopped the fight. His mom hadn’t followed him outside, and he didn’t seem to be in a hurry to go back in—not that I blamed him.

That was one seriously enraged woman. I was half-surprised he wasn’t limping, based on all the stuff it had sounded like she threw at him. Why hadn’t he left? And if he belonged behind bars like his mom said, why hadn’t he...stopped her? He was easily twice her size, and I could practically see the anger steaming off him. He was physically capable of stopping her, yet I’d heard him grunt with each impact and ask her to stop instead of making her.

He dropped his head and stretched out his hands to lean against the small wooden shed in the far corner of the yard beside mine. He bounced a palm off it once, twice, then straightened and slammed his fist into the door over and over again until the wood split with an audible crack.

I sat up, shivering in the hot air, and watched him back away. It was unnerving, but still—better a piece of wood than a person. My new neighbor had enough self-control to take hit after hit—and spit—and walk away. I doubted I could say as much.

When the clouds parted, I saw something dark drip down his knuckles a second before he bent down. The shard of glass he’d picked up glinted in his hand as his head tilted up.

The newly revealed moonlight cast a perfect spotlight on me.