Not the End (Not Alone Novellas Book 1) Read online

  I swear, I almost believe him. “Why do you care all of a sudden?” Might as well put it out there, since that’s really what I’m thinking.

  He takes in a deep breath and blows it out. “Because what they’re doing isn’t right. What you let them do isn’t right…”

  “What I let them do to me?” I spit back. “Do you think I let them take all my clothes so I have to figure out what to wear to go home? Do you think I wanted that?” The nerve of him to believe that this is my choice, that I’ve ever wanted any of this!

  “Yes,” he says with absolute certainty. When I scoff, he presses on. “You let them because you don’t stand up for yourself to stop it.”

  “I can’t do this right now. I won’t.” I turn away and walk out the door.

  Aron jogs after me. “You shouldn’t be out here like this.”

  “I don’t exactly have much of a choice,” I tell him.

  “Just go back to the locker room. Look, I have a shirt and some pants I can give you.”

  I want to say no—to reject his offer—but walking around the school in just a towel is not the best option. “Thanks,” I mutter, turning to walk back into the locker room.

  A minute later, Aron comes in with sweatpants and a jersey—his jersey. He hands them over to me. “Here. I’ll wait outside,” he says, letting himself out.

  I don’t give myself an opportunity to question his motives. Instead, I walk into the changing rooms and throw on his sweatpants, rolling the waist over a few times so they don’t slide off my hips. It’s crazy that they make me feel so small. Then I take hold of the jersey—with number twenty-one displayed on the back, just below his last name. Lincoln.

  Most girls in this school would die to wear a guy’s jersey, but not me. I’m just glad I don’t have to walk around nude.

  My shoes are gone too—of course. I guess when they do something, they do it right. I’m surprised they left my book bag; I guess books probably aren’t as important to them. They’re important to me, though.

  I hang my towel inside my locker. Locking it this time, I throw my bag over my shoulder and walk out. Aron’s sitting on the bleachers, looking down at his phone. I cough to get his attention. I still find it odd that he would wait to make sure I was okay—but while I’m definitely skeptical, I’m also grateful for his help.

  “Sorry,” he says, putting his phone in his pocket. “I didn’t notice you were out.”

  I wiggle my toes. “No shoes, no noise.”

  “They’re rotten people,” he says, exasperated.

  “I guess.”

  “They’re bullies. I can’t believe the shit they get away with.”

  He says this like he doesn’t get away with much. “Like you don’t get away with a lot because you’re a football player? Cheerleaders are pretty much cut from the exact same cloth.” Well, maybe not the same, but similar.

  “I wouldn’t dare do something so cruel.”

  “You’re saying you never played a joke on a friend by hiding his clothes?”

  “They aren’t playing a prank on you and they aren’t your friends,” he replies, and I wonder how much he knows. How much people have told him—and how much of it is the actual truth.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” I state, ignoring the painful truth in his comments—I already know they aren’t my friends and this isn’t a prank. There’s no point in preaching to the choir.

  “Maybe one time,” he says with a carefree smile. “But we made sure he had clothes by the time he left.”

  “Thanks again for these,” I tell him, pulling at his shirt.

  “Any time. It looks good on you, Emerson,” he says, and I can’t help but chuckle.

  “Yeah, right. Anyway, I should go.”

  “You ride a bike,” he tells me.

  I watch him, trying to figure out what point he’s trying to make. He’s already told me he knows I ride a bike. He’s seen me ride it before, and I apparently park next to him every day. “Yes,” I reply.

  “I mean, you can’t ride your bike without shoes.”

  Crap. That’s probably not the safest idea, but what other choice is there? “I’ll deal.”

  “You don’t have to. I can give you a ride home,” he says, following me toward the exit.

  “I’m okay, really. You’ve done enough.” I don’t know where all this kindness is coming from, but I don’t trust it.

  “I don’t mind.”

  “I can ride barefoot.”

  “That’s not the safest thing to do,” he chastises gently. “Let me give you a ride. I promise I won’t try anything,” he says, followed by a small laugh. I know he’s joking, but I can’t get myself to laugh back. Not at this.

  “I’m good.” We finally reach the doors and exit the school. The parking lot is deserted—with the exceptions of a few cars in the teacher’s parking lot, his car, and my bike. There aren’t any after school programs on Thursdays. No club meetings, no practices.

  “I’m sorry if that came off weird,” he says suddenly. “I don’t mean to creep you out. I just don’t think it’s safe for you to go barefoot. Please, let me give you a ride. If it makes you feel safer, you can drive.”

  I can see in his eyes that he’s being genuine—but then again, I stopped trusting in my ability to perceive things accurately a long time ago. “You’re going to let me drive?” I ask. He doesn’t even know me, not well anyway. Yet here he is, waiting for me to tell him whether I can drive myself home in his car. Part of me wishes I could just accept his kindness and take it just as that, but another part of me knows better.

  “If that makes you feel more at ease, yes, you can drive. I can even sit in the back and you can pretend to be my driver,” he says with an easy-going smile.

  We reach our parking spots. “Okay,” I finally give in.

  “Okay,” he says, handing me the keys to his Wrangler.

  “You must be really trusting to let me drive your car. How do you even know I can drive?”

  “You ride a bike. I’m praying you learned to drive a car, too. Still, I’m willing to take the risk,” he says, opening the door to the driver’s side. It makes me sad to realize that the gesture doesn’t have the same effect on me as it used to. I take hold of the door and let myself in, closing it immediately after. He runs over to the passenger side.

  “So, you want me to sit in the back or the front?”

  “You were serious about that whole thing?”

  “Yep, whatever makes you most comfortable.”

  “Front is okay,” I say. I’m driving, so technically, I’m still in control.

  “You sure?”

  “Yup,” I reply. He gets in and puts on his seatbelt. I start the car, put it in reverse, and begin backing out of the parking spot.

  We drive in silence for a few minutes before Aron speaks again. “So, do you smoke often?”

  I can’t believe this is the question he decides to ask now. I give him a side-long look. “Not really. Just that day.”

  “A one-time thing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Bad day?” he asks. I can hear the concern in his voice—a concern I don’t quite comprehend.

  “Something like that,” I tell him. Actually, it’s more like my mother expected me to be at homecoming and I showed up thinking I could do it, thinking that the past was the past and I could let it go. But the moment I walked into the room, the wolves found their prey and came after me. The whispers continued, and I was once again the laughingstock of the room. Just like before—just like always. I couldn’t stand there. I couldn’t be there anymore.

  “You use drugs as a way to cope?”

  “I guess so.”

  “That’s not a good idea. That’s how addictions start, and they don’t really help.”

  “You sound like someone with first-hand experience.”

  “Something like that,” he says, echoing my earlier words.

  “I thought you said you don’t smoke.”

  “I don
’t. Not anymore. You shouldn’t either.”

  “No need to worry. It’s not like I’m going to ever do it again.” No way in hell. It made me feel disoriented and lost, like I had no control of myself. Dizzy and desperate, and I actually felt all the pressure and anxiety I usually push down so deeply. I never want to experience that again.

  “Good,” he says, watching me.

  “Are you always this nice to people?” I ask, eager to know if there are still good people out there.

  “Only to those that deserve it.” For some reason, I feel like there’s something hidden deep within him, a thread that wants to connect us; it doesn’t matter, because I refuse to let it. “Can I play some music?” he asks sheepishly.

  “It’s your car,” I remind him.

  “Right,” he says, messing with the radio.

  I take another turn, getting closer and closer to home—to my safe haven. Suddenly, Taylor Swift starts playing loudly. I burst out laughing.

  “I thought you’d enjoy that,” he says with a chuckle.

  “Wasn’t expecting it to be on your instant playlist.”

  “I told you I could hear it playing from your headphones. I was intrigued.”

  “So intrigued that you downloaded the songs and kept them on your queue?”

  “What can I say? When something intrigues me, I get invested.”

  We’ve heard most of the songs from Taylor’s latest album by the time I pull onto my street and park in front of my house. “Thank you again. For everything.”

  “You don’t have to thank me. Just…” He pauses, then sighs, “Just think about finally standing up for yourself,” he finishes.

  “I’ll think about it,” I respond, unbuckling my seatbelt and opening the door. I walk around the front of the car and Aron meets me there.

  “I just realized something,” he says.

  A deeply-rooted fear springs to the surface of my mind. “What?”

  “You left your bike at the school.”

  “Yes,” I state slowly.

  “It means you don’t have a way to get to school tomorrow.”

  Shit. That’s true. “I’ll take the bus,” I tell him. I haven’t done that in a while—because taking the bus is subjecting myself to further harassment—but I can suck it up for one day.

  “Nonsense. I’ll pick you up.”

  “I’m sure you have better things to do,” I tell him.

  “At 7:30 in the morning? Nope. Nothing better. I don’t live too far from here either, actually. I can be outside your door at 7:35.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I know. I don’t have to do anything. But I will. So I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early,” he says with a smile as he walks the rest of the way to the door of his car.

  I step onto the sidewalk; he gets in and waves goodbye. As I watch the car retreat, I try to figure out what to make of this—what to make of him.

  6

  But for you, losing me was like drinking tea without honey.

  At 7am sharp, my alarm rings. I toss and turn in the bed, unwilling to get up. Last night, I barely got any sleep; I spent the night with my thoughts lost somewhere between the past and the present. I thought about what I’ve been through—and what’s changed. I also spent more time than I’d care to admit thinking about Aron Lincoln.

  I can’t figure him out—or the game he’s playing. The alarm rings again, reminding me it’s time to face the music once more. Getting up, I push myself through my normal routine, getting ready for class, before running downstairs to pull Aron’s sweatpants and jersey out of the dryer.

  I head to the kitchen to find my mom sitting at the breakfast table. “Hi, dear,” she says with a tired smile.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Here, sit down and have some breakfast,” she says, getting up from her chair to hand me a glass of orange juice, simultaneously setting a plate of pancakes in front of me.

  “Thank you. Have you gotten any sleep yet?” I ask just to keep the conversation going; I already know what the answer is.

  “I haven’t yet, but I will in a few minutes. I just wanted to see you. I feel like I don’t see you as often anymore,” she tells me, her hands cradling my face.

  She’s right. We don’t see each other much since she works such crazy shifts. It’s fitting though, since I feel like I don’t see myself as often either—just glimpses of me every now and then. I take a bite of pancake. “I’ve missed you too, Mom.”

  “I love you, Dimah.”

  “I know. I love you, too.”

  I finish my breakfast, placing her plate and mine together in the dishwasher. The moment I close the dishwasher door, I hear a horn honking outside. “Oh, that’s me,” I say, a little too eagerly.

  “Someone’s picking you up?” my mom asks, intrigued. She may not know exactly what happened to me last year, but she definitely knows something changed. She probably thinks it’s just normal teenage crap though; I’ve seen books on her nightstand about the nightmare years of raising teens. Maybe she thinks I’m just going through the process and that it’s all normal. I bet she’s hoping it’ll end soon. She’s never questioned my newfound obsession with the color black, my lack of friends, or my sudden lack of enthusiasm for school. Still, she understands me enough not to push or pry.

  Mom didn’t even blink when I came back from grandma Elle’s looking like a completely different person–didn’t bat an eyelid when I asked her to get me a motorcycle instead of the car she’d planned on buying me. But just because she allowed it doesn’t mean she didn’t tell me about all the dangers of riding one. She even had me spend time taking lessons.

  “Yeah, I had to leave my bike at the school yesterday.”

  “How come?” she asks.

  “I ran out of gas,” I lie. That’s a much better, much faster explanation than telling her someone stole my clothes and shoes.

  “Is this a new friend?” she asks, obviously curious to see if I’ve allowed more people into my life.

  “Just someone from school being helpful,” I tell her. “Anyway, I’ve gotta go,” I add before she has a chance to ask me anything else. I run out the door to find the same Wrangler I got the chance to drive yesterday waiting for me outside. As I close the distance, Aron steps from the driver’s side and walks around to the passenger door.

  “Good morning,” he says, with a too-bright smile.

  “Morning,” I mumble. He begins to open the passenger door, but as I start walking toward it, he gets in and shuts the door. I stop, staring at him. What the hell is going on?

  He rolls down the window. “We’re going to be late for school. Are you driving or what?”

  I smile and walk to the driver’s side; when I get in, Taylor Swift is already playing. Laughing at how odd this feels, I shift the car to drive, easing into the strange yet comforting peace Aron seems to bring.

  “See, this is nice,” he says after the second song on the album ends.

  I keep my eyes on the road. “What’s nice?”

  “This. I feel like I have a personal chauffeur.”

  “Don’t get used to it. I’m back on my bike today. Two wheels are better than four.”

  “Not when it rains.”

  “That, I cannot argue with.”

  “Also, not when you’re barefoot,” he adds.

  “Thank you for the reminder.”

  “Maybe next time, you give me a ride to school. I’m dying to see how you handle that bike.”

  “Maybe.” I say the word out loud, but it takes a second for me to realize it.

  He smiles and nods as the third song begins to play, and all it takes is a few more songs before we reach the parking lot. I park the Jeep right where it usually goes—next to my bike. I open the door, letting myself out of the car, and when I look up, I realize all eyes are on us.

  I guess I should’ve seen that coming. I wait for the other shoe to drop, for someone to laugh at me and tell me how pathetic I am once again. When they
do, will Aron give me the same disgusted look everyone else does as he walks away?

  I’m waiting for Janice. But nothing happens.

  “I’ll see you later?” Aron asks, a little unsure.

  “Maybe,” I respond, retreating from the searching eyes—eyes that are wondering why a pathetic gothic chick like me is driving the quarterback’s car. I head inside as quickly as I can, my gaze locked on the floor as if it holds the secrets to all the world’s greatest mysteries.

  I make it all the way to my locker to exchange some of the books before I realize Aron’s jersey and sweatpants are still in my bag. I guess I can return them at the end of gym class, considering he’s now one of our permanent students.

  Walking to class, I hear the usual name-calling.

  And I feel the usual way. Like I’m the dirt under their shoes.

  “What the fuck is she doing with him?” Janice says loudly as I enter homeroom.

  The Monday After

  It was Monday. I hadn’t heard anything from Jacob the entire weekend. I got a cab home on Friday, but I didn’t leave the hotel room right away. Part of me was hoping he’d come back, that he’d change his mind and realize he didn’t want to leave me by myself. I was hoping he’d go back to the sweet guy he was years ago.

  That wasn’t the case.

  He didn’t return.

  And after two hours of crying, I decided it was time to go home. I didn’t want my mom worrying about me.

  I stayed home all weekend, the volume on my phone’s ringer set as loud as it would go. I waited for him to reach out to me, to call me, check up on me. Saturday passed by with no contact.

  Why did he leave so quickly after? Maybe an emergency? Maybe he felt enclosed and claustrophobic in the room. Maybe there was a reason he couldn’t stay.

  That’s what I told myself for the entire weekend.

  On Sunday, my mom asked me if I had any photos of the two of us; I told her no.

  She asked me if I had fun at prom; I told her yes.

  As the day went on without a word, I looked him up on social media and found that he’d spent the weekend partying with friends; there were photos of some girls from school surrounding him–girls from the popular crowd.