Fourteen by C.M. Smith (english novels to read .txt) 📗

I took off my shoes as well and checked to see if my socks were clean.

“We can work in the dining room,” he said.

“Okay.” I hitched my bag up higher on my shoulder as he walked ahead of me and into the living room.

“Evan? Is that you?”

“Yeah, Mom,” he called, nervously rubbing the back of his neck. “We’re here.”

“We?”

She popped out of some doorway, and I stuffed one hand in my pocket, hooking the other around the strap of my bag. Did she know what happened? Did she know anything about how her son had treated me all these years? Did she think it was justified?

“Oh, Anna,” she exclaimed, grinning and walking over to me, hugged me and kissed both of my cheeks before stepping back. “Are you staying for dinner?”

“My dad actually wants me home by six,” I lied, trying to offer her a smile. “He’s got to eat, too.”

“Oh,” she said, pouting and then smiling reassuringly. “Well, all right, then. Make yourself at home. If either of you need me for anything, I’ll be in my office.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

She walked by Evan and squeezed his shoulder. He offered her a pathetic smile, and I wished we’d never been paired up for this stupid science fair.

After she left, we both shifted awkwardly as we stood in a silence that seemed to drag on forever.

“Did you want something to drink?” he finally asked.

“Water, I guess,” I said, looking over in his general direction.

“Dining room is through there,” he pointed to an archway across the room, “I’ll be there in a second if you want to go sit down.”

I walked through the pristine living room and through the archway, looking around the equally elegant dining room and plopping down into one of the red and gold cushioned high-back chairs. Unzipping my bag, I pulled out the folders and notebooks and placed them on the table. I searched around in the front pocket for a pen, when I felt the envelope and pulled my hand out.

I reached back in and pulled it out, running my thumbs across my name as my heart pounded in my chest. I turned it over and flipped it open, greeted with the back of what looked to be photo paper. My hands shaking, I pulled it out and dropped the envelope to the table, seeing that there was more of his handwriting on the back.

This is what I did all night, Anna.

I licked my lips and held my breath as I turned it over to find a picture of him wearing a black t-shirt, and a pair of dark blue jeans and white sneakers. He sat in a corner with a beer bottle in his hands. He was staring off in the opposite direction and seemed completely oblivious to whoever was taking the picture. The orange date stamp in the bottom corner of the picture proudly declared last Friday’s date.

It didn’t make sense.

I dropped that one to the table and flipped over the other one, my breath whooshing out of my lungs when I saw a very impressive picture of Evan punching Steve in the jaw; Evan’s face was red and his lips were pressed into a tight line. Once again, the date stamp declared it was last Friday.

What the hell was going on?

I dropped that one to the table and flipped over the last one, my mouth dropping open when I saw him. He was standing in front of Brittany and Grace. He had one hand in the air and pointed at something with his mouth open in what I assumed was mid-yell. Stupid confusing date stamp was there, too.

I didn’t understand.

I dropped that one to the table as well, leaned forward, and cradled my head in my hands. I concentrated on breathing evenly as I tried to sort out the muddled thoughts in my head.

“Ashley wants to be a photographer.”

I looked up at him as he carefully set a glass of water on the table, avoiding my gaze as he eased into the chair next to me.

“She takes that damn camera with her everywhere she goes and always makes sure to document everything that happens.” He looked up at me, and I dropped my hands, letting them fall into my lap. “The video you saw was not from last Friday.”

I closed my eyes briefly and then opened them, snatching up the picture of him hitting Steve. I held it out to him, shaking it.

“Good shot, isn’t it?”

I tilted my head. He sighed and took the picture from me, looking down at it.

“He said some things”—he set the picture aside—“about you.”

I looked away, fidgeting.

“It pissed me off.”

I pushed the one of him with Brittany and Grace over to him. I watched him from the corner of my eye as he rubbed the back of his neck.

“I was telling them to go fuck themselves,” he said, craning his neck to look around and make sure that no one heard him, I assumed. “They agreed with what Steve said about you.”

“What’d he say?”

“It’s not—”

“Tell me,” I demanded.

He flicked the picture away from him, rested his arms on the table, and leaned down to rest his chin on his hands.

“He said that I must like being the prettier one in the relationship and having the upper hand with you. That he wasn’t sure how I was going to . . .”—he groaned—“. . . how I was going to sleep with you without getting sick or being crushed.”

My eyes immediately watered, and I looked away, wanting nothing more than to curl up into a ball and disappear. When my lips began to quiver, I pressed them together and closed my eyes.

“You hit him,” I whispered.

“Fractured his jaw.”

“You hit him for me.”

“Yes,” he said, his voice strained.

“Is he pressing charges?”

“He’d have to tell his parents about what happened while they were away. It’s amazing how many people kept his parties a secret from his parents.”

“How is he going to explain his jaw, then?”

“Baseball practice.”

“I don’t . . .”—I rubbed my