Beth Andrews - A Not-So-Perfect Past

He slowed enough to make sure there was no other traffic and then coasted through a Stop sign. No other foster parents had given him anything except a hard time. But Joe and Karen had bought him things just so they could take them away again.

What kind of sick head game was that? They were getting off on their power, that’s what they’re doing.

Jeez, it was just a little pot. It wasn’t like he was cooking up meth or something really bad. Pot never hurt anyone. Besides, they shouldn’t have been snooping around his room. They were the ones who were wrong and yet they thought they could ground him?

Who the hell gets grounded anymore?

None of his other foster parents had ever cared if he got in trouble. Okay, so maybe they cared—but only how it affected them and their check. Oh, once in a while he’d have someone bitch him out, maybe slap him around a bit but nobody lectured him like the holier-than-thou Joe and Karen.

On a straight stretch by the high school, he accelerated and flipped the bird to the empty building. He wasn’t going back there, that’s for sure. The SUV fish-tailed on the slippery, snow-covered road, but he easily kept it under control.

He remembered Karen’s disappointment, Joe’s anger, as they’d sat him down earlier this evening. He’d felt almost sick when Joe tossed the baggie of weed onto the coffee table in front of him. And when they’d both said how disappointed they were in him, he hadn’t been able to breathe.

Karen claimed she found it when she was cleaning up his room. She was always doing stuff like that—cleaning his room, putting away his clothes. Acting all nice and sweet, as if she enjoyed having him around. But he knew the truth would come out eventually. She and Joe were just messing with him. Acting as if they liked him, cared about him.

His hands tightened on the wheel. What bullshit.

He reached into his coat pocket and took out a pack of smokes. He’d just forget how nice Karen pretended to be, how she smiled at him and laughed at his jokes. How she asked him what he wanted at the grocery store and never complained that he ate too much. How she’d made him a cake for his birthday.

No one had ever made him a cake. No one had even remembered his birthday before. But Joe and Karen took him to a restaurant and when they got back home, they had the cake with candles and everything. They’d even sung to him.

It was freaking embarrassing. He was fifteen, not five.

The worst part was, when Joe had hugged him and Karen kissed his cheek, he’d thought maybe, just maybe, this time would be different.

His eyes burned. And it was different. But it was also worse. Because he’d thought they were cool. But the way they flipped out over a little bit of pot was whacked.

He had wheels, a full tank of gas and, thanks to his helping himself to the extra cash around the house and in Karen’s purse, he had money. Almost two hundred dollars. That would last him until he was far enough away to ditch the car. He’d get a job and start fresh. Make his own way.

And to hell with everyone who’d ever held him back. To hell with anyone who tried to stop him.

With his cigarette in his mouth, he lifted his hips and dug in his front pocket for his disposable lighter. Steering with his left hand, he lit the cigarette with his right and blew out smoke. He glanced at the speedometer. He was going fifty down Main Street. He should probably slow down but nobody in this hick town was up anyway.

Not even the cops.

He pushed a button to roll the window down a crack. He took his eyes off the road for a second to flick the ash off his cigarette but when he looked through the windshield again, he was heading straight for the sidewalk. Swearing, he dropped his cigarette and jerked the wheel to the right at the same time he slammed on the brakes. His tires locked up. The SUV spun out of control, jumped the curb and crashed through the front of Sweet Suggestions.

NINA WAS SURE it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. It couldn’t be.

Because it seemed really, really bad.

Two of the three large, glass display cases were smashed. Tables and chairs were in pieces across the room. Donuts, pastries and loaves of bread covered the floor, along with rubble and glass. Both large windows were demolished. The outside wall was gone.

And a banged-up SUV sat in the middle of the room, halfway through the wall separating the kitchen from the front.

The frigid air cut through her sweatpants. She shivered and flipped the hood of her heavy down coat over her snarled hair. When Police Chief Jack Martin had called and woke her, she’d tried to take off in her sweats and the ratty Hello Kitty T-shirt she slept in. Luckily, her mother—whom she’d called to watch the kids—had shoved Nina’s arms into the coat. She just wished she’d had the good sense to pull on wool socks instead of slipping her bare feet into these ancient canvas sneakers. She could no longer feel her toes.

Outside, the lights from two police cars were flashing while bright orange flares burned at the intersection. Her father was talking to one of the policemen while the tow truck driver hooked his winch to the SUV. Nina’s teeth chattered and she blew on her hands in an effort to warm them.

Jack had asked Nina to wait inside. From the look on his face as he spoke to Dora Wilkins—the editor-in-chief of the Serenity Springs Gazette —out on the sidewalk, he wouldn’t get to Nina for a while.

“You all right?”

“I’m fine,” she answered automatically, then realized how foolish a lie it was. She exhaled heavily and glanced at Dillon. His hair was mussed, his green T-shirt wrinkled, his work boots untied. “On second thought, I’m not fine. This is a disaster.”

He turned over an unbroken chair and used the sweatshirt crumpled in his hand to brush it off. “Could’ve been worse.”

“Worse?” she asked as she sank into the chair. She gestured wildly. “There’s an SUV in my bakery. There’s a huge hole in one wall and the other wall’s completely gone. Gone. How can it be much worse?”

“A few feet to the left—” he crossed his arms; she noticed his skin was covered in goose bumps “—and he would’ve taken out your gas meter. That would’ve been worse. As it is, you’ll have to shore up the supporting wall, get new windows and a door, a couple of tables—”

“Tables and chairs and new display cases. Maybe even new flooring. Not to mention priming and painting those new walls.” Her throat tightened painfully with unshed tears. She dropped her head into her hands. “Everything’s ruined. What am I supposed to do now?”

“You’re supposed to handle this,” he said simply. “Does it suck? Yes. But sitting around whining—”

“I am not whining.” She stood and flipped her hood back. When he raised an eyebrow, she sighed. “Okay, maybe I am whining. Just a little bit. I’m entitled.”

“Look,” he said hesitantly, “I realize we don’t…know each other very well, but since I’ve lived here I’ve seen you handle your kids, late deliveries and rude customers. Believe me, you can handle this.”

Her mouth popped open. “That’s…that’s the nicest compliment I’ve had in a long time.” And what did that say about the sad situation of her life that it came from the man she’d recently evicted? She skimmed her fingers over his cold hand, just the briefest of touches, but it left her fingertips tingling. She rubbed her hand down the side of her leg. “Thank you.”

He stepped back, looking so uncomfortable she almost smiled. “It’s no big deal. Just calling it like I see it.”

She cleared her throat. “You know, that sweatshirt might do you more good if you actually put it on.”

“It might,” he agreed as he unwound the cloth to show her the dark blood staining it, “but I’d rather not.”