Going Too Far(23)
Author: Jennifer Echols

"It’s not a scholarship for good grades," I assured him. "It’s a scholarship for having two loser parents who can hardly keep a diner out of bankruptcy."

"For a needs-based scholarship, you still have to make good grades." He sat back and stared at me like he’d never seen a blue-haired girl before. "Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone."

"Ha."

"Rut how are you going to pay for the rest of it? Room and board?"

"I’ll find a job. Rent a cheap apartment on the Southside with a roommate or two."

He nodded. "Tiffany."

"I hadn’t thought about it," I said. "That would involve planning and commitment."

"Right." He continued to look at me very seriously. "What are you going to major in?"

"Management, so I can run hotels and restaurants."

He laughed.

"What the hell’s so funny? I enjoy doing this. I just don’t want to do it here."

He laughed harder. "I’m sorry. I just can’t imagine you managing anything." He kept laughing until he looked up and saw my face. "What."

“I’ve been keeping the books for this place since I was eleven years old." With a few months off when I was thirteen.

"Well, how was I supposed to know—"

"I just sat here and told you I got a scholarship to the university, and you act like I’m At Risk."

"If you would just tell me this stuff in the first place—"

"Why should I? I never intended to wow you with my credentials. You’re the one who set out on this quest to save the children."

He drew himself up in his seat to look more threatening. "You would think someone in your position, in as much trouble as you’re in, would try to make a better impression on the police."

"You would think." I couldn’t remember why I’d had a crush on this ass. "In fact, I managed just fine until you showed up at that bridge."

He gaped at me in disbelief. I felt myself cringe under that dark, hard gaze. "Meg, you were drunk, stoned, letting Eric Wexler feel you up, and five minutes from getting hit by a train."

I rolled my eyes. "I suppose I should point out to you yet again that I did not get hit by a train. I made a mistake. If I turn in my proposal to the Powers That Be, everything will work out fine. I think you’re scared to live life, and you’re putting that on me."

"Just the opposite. You feel guilty for planning to leave town. You’re trying to turn it around and make me feel like an idiot for staying."

"You’re wrong," I said, because he was wrong. But now that he mentioned it, I could make him feel like an idiot for staying. "I looked you up in last year’s yearbook, and I saw you were the ACT high scorer. I’m sure you were offered scholarships for that."

His steak suddenly needed his attention.

"Rig-ass scholarships," T said. "You were captain of the state championship track team."

His vegetables also needed to be cut into small bites.

"It’s pretty common for people to put off college for a year," I said. "You could still go to UAB and join the track team with your friends, and the university would give you your scholarship back. Hell, with your police academy training, you could get a high-paying job as a security guard or a rent-a-cop while the rest of us are slaving away, waiting tables for rent."

"I have a job to do here," he muttered.

"What job? Your weird compulsion to protect and serve? You could do that anywhere. Why does it have to be here?"

"This is my home."

"I thought you lived by yourself in an apartment. Is your family in town?"

He looked up. "You mean my wife, and my children who read manga?"

I felt myself blush. Good one. "I mean your parents."

He shook his head. "They got divorced when I was nine. My mom stayed in town for a few years after that, but finally she couldn’t stand it anymore, and she split. She lives in Virginia. My dad wanted me to finish school where I started, so he stayed with me until I graduated. Then he split. He lives in Colorado."

"This diner is the closest thing you have to a home." I mused. "You’re like a bachelor homesteader on the prairie who eats all his meals in town."

"If I were a bachelor homesteader on the prairie, I’d know my way around a cast-iron skillet and some fatback." He was looking down at his plate, but his dimples showed as he smiled at himself.

"Your friends are gone, your family’s gone, and you’re not living in the house where you grew up. What makes this town your home? What do you have left here? Just the bridge?"

His dimples faded.

"Let’s just say, hypothetically, that you went to UAB," I suggested. "Would you major in criminal justice?" "No. What a waste."

This surprised me, considering how into this cop life he was. Then I thought I’d hit on it. Aim higher. "Pre-law?"

"No. Getting people on that end doesn’t help. You major in criminal justice or law to learn to send them to jail as cost-effectively as possible and keep them from killing each other while they’re there. But they spend their time in jail learning how to commit bigger and better crimes. Why bother?"

"What would you major in, then?"

"I’m not going to college, so it doesn’t matter."

"Hypothetically, hello."

Between bites he said, "Art."

My jaw dropped. "Art!"

"That’s what everybody says to me. And that’s another reason not to go to college. You can’t make a living if you major in art."

"Some people do, if they try hard enough. It was just the farthest thing from my mind for you." For a few moments, I watched him eat. Officer After in the dark blue uniform—I couldn’t see him as an art major. He would think art was for sissies. But Johnafter jogging in the park? Maybe. Johnafter from Spanish class? Definitely.

I said, "You could at least work as a cop and do art on the side, and feel more fulfilled because you’d studied what you wanted to study. If you don’t, you’ll always be bitter toward your wife and your children who read manga. You’ll always wish you’d gotten out and lived life when you had the chance." I lowered my head, trying to catch his eyes, which were still focused on his food. He wouldn’t look at me. "Why art?”

He attacked his steak with his knife again. "That’s the way to move people, to change people, and prevent them from hurting each other and themselves. Art is the most effective form of communication. You can use it to lift the human spirit, and make people realize there’s more to life than their next meth high." He took a bite, chewed slowly, looked up at me, swallowed. "What’s the matter?"