Chapter XVI: Confrontations

I expected Saturday to be a continuation of the loathsome school week, but, strangely enough, it deterred from the week's course. It wasn't necessarily an improvement—just a change.

I did not see Ashton at all on Saturday. He wasn't in his room, and, judging by the absence of his motorcycle in the garage, I guessed he wasn't even in the vicinity of the house. That made my day a whole lot easier, so I was not complaining. After yesterday's occurrences, I was about done with the awkwardness that accompanied being with Ash.

And yet, despite his absence, I was plagued throughout the day by thoughts of him anyway. It was infuriating for more than one reason. Since when did he have such a power over me that he could slip into my head so easily? What had I done to let him do so?

One moment my mind was going over all that was wrong with him. In the next it was traveling back to the Ferris wheel—back to that look in Ashton's eyes when he'd held me in his arms. Then I would smack myself for even recalling such things, before falling right back into a relapse of it all over again.

Around and around, my mind spun inconclusively. Oh, what good were thoughts when they led nowhere? Despairingly, I bore the weight of every single ridiculous Ashton-inspired thought I could even think of as I forced myself through the motions of work. What was wrong with me?

This question led me nowhere either, so I instead tried to focus my energy on quelling all thought in general. I was sure that if I could just mindlessly go about my duties, then everything would be all right. Sadly, the word mindlessly had a mind of its own, and my brain just went on thinking—and thinking—and thinking.

On a side note, I supposed Ashton was at least somewhat worthy of my thoughts—what with the way he'd been acting as of late. It remained a gruesome mystery to me why he was so upset at me. Just what had I done to incense him so?

As my mind returned to the night before everything went south, I carefully began to analyze this past version of myself and of Ashton. What had we done?

Quite a lot, I realized now. We'd had the conflict with Rowlett at the archeology museum the day before. The more I thought about it, the vital part of the weekend had really been in that phone call Ashton had received from Wade. And he had actually told me about his birth mom.

So what was it that had set him off? Was it the fact that I knew now? Or was it something else entirely that I did not know?

Groaning in frustration at my lack of progress, I distracted myself for a minute by climbing on top of the kitchen counter to dust off the top of the cabinets. They were one part of the house I had forgotten to clean the previous weekends, and the dust came as an unpleasant surprise. Even as I brushed a towel across them and tried not to inhale any dust, I could not stop my mind from returning to its muse.

It was becoming increasingly apparent to me that my anger had diminished somewhat following yesterday's events. Why going to a carnival and trying to ignore Ashton all day had had that effect, I was not sure. All I knew was that my resolutions to maintain bitterness were in danger.

I had been so furious with him at school, but now that my initial anger was fading, a different emotion was rising from within. I think I would have preferred the anger, for this new emotion was something that I could not describe in words. It was as if—

"Maine?" Daphne's voice jolted me from my thoughts. Jerking in surprise, I spun around and nearly fell from the counter. After regaining my footing, I let out a self-conscious laugh and tentatively sneaked a glance at Daphne. The older woman appeared amused as she questioned, "You okay there?"

Embarrassed, I mumbled, "Yeah," before stooping down to slide off the counter.

Now that I was back down to floor level, I felt a bit more stable and was able to pull a smile on my face as I greeted Daphne. "Hey, Daphne. How are you?"

"I'm good; I'm good. And how are you, young lady?" she returned with a smile.

"I'm doing well," I answered without actually thinking about it. Was I actually doing well? Probably not.

"I'm glad to hear it," she replied, but her eyes seemed to see right through me. "So your parents weren't too upset with you?"

Rubbish! I had forgotten that Daphne was in on this whole protection program. Clearing my throat awkwardly, I tried my best to be both truthful and careful in my response. "Uh—they weren't the happiest about it, but I don't blame them. I mean, I did have it coming for me."

Daphne stared at me for a long moment before wondering aloud, "Why didn't you tell them the truth to begin with?"

Wincing at her question, I tentatively answered, "I guess because I was worried that they wouldn't let me work here when they found out about Ash."

"And why wouldn't they?"

I hated her question—mostly because I knew that she already knew the answer. Frowning, I forced myself to tell her anyway. "Because they wouldn't trust him not to—not to—you know."

Daphne smirked at me knowingly, and I considered banging my head against the wall. Why is she doing this? Of course, she did not heed my discomfort and went on to say, "They do have a point, Maine."

"I know that," I replied, looking down for a moment. Soon enough, I was lifting my head again to say defensively, "But it's not like that! Ash and I aren't even friends now!"

Appearing amused by my reaction, Daphne chuckled as she commented. "Perhaps your parents aren't taking the right approach. They should be pushing you two together, not further apart."

Nearly choking on my own spit, I responded incredulously, "What? Why?"

A slow smile on her lips, Daphne reminded me, "It's always been my goal to make sure that you and Ash are friends."

"Yeah," I murmured. "I guess you did tell me to give him a chance."

"Exactly." Wrinkles congregated at the corners of her eyes as she smiled at me. "Now we just need to figure out how to do that without getting in trouble with your parents."

I smiled back at her for a moment, before realizing something. The smile instantly dropped from my face. "Wait—but Ash and I are not—we're not—I mean—we hate each other!"

Daphne just shook her head at me in amusement. "Right now you do. But you seemed to be quite friendly last weekend."

Sighing, I tried to explain what even I did not understand. "Yeah, but…we can't just go back to the way things were. Ashton has been a jerk to me all week long! He obviously doesn't want to be friends, and I don't particularly want to either."

"Maybe," Daphne answered slowly, in her voice of undying wisdom, "you don't really know what you want."

You got that right, I felt like saying, but I refrained. There was no use giving in, especially when Ashton clearly had no intention of making things right. Why should I be the one to clean up his mess?

When I didn't say anything, Daphne added, "I'm not saying you have to, but I think it's really important that you and Ash are friends. He needs a friend like you."

Again, I felt like speaking, this time to disagree with her. Ash had made it quite apparent that he definitely did not need me. In fact, I was probably the last thing he needed. And he was the last thing I needed. I'd been nice to him. I'd helped him. And he had repaid me with contempt.

And yet, against my better judgment, I let the words slip from my mouth. "I'll think about it."

I did think about it. I thought about it quite a lot. Whether that thinking brought me to any conclusive answer or not was debatable. All I essentially knew was that, though my anger had diminished, I was not ready to forgive Ashton. And it was obvious that he had no intention of forgiving me either.

Thus I flippantly worked throughout the rest of the day, trying to ignore the fact that Ashton was nowhere to be found. The ungrateful punk was not my responsibility. It was nice to have Daphne around, but at the same time, I was happy when she left at two o'clock, because I did not want to feel guilty for my dismissive mentality.

As disgusting as it was, I could not seem to shake my guilt even after Daphne was long gone. Maybe it was the fact that I had nothing better to do than feel guilty. Or maybe I was just plain going crazy. Either way, I somehow made it until ten at night without completely losing my mind.

Then I went to bed and fell asleep—somewhat miraculously. Thus ended the first day in weeks that I did not see Ashton at all.

I was awakened early Sunday morning by the sound of my ringtone. Groggily lifting my phone to my ear, I didn't bother to check the caller ID. Thus, I was a bit startled by the excitement in Britt's voice as she practically screamed into my ear, "Maine!"

Yanking the phone away from my ear to prevent whatever damage it could potentially cause my ear drums, I waited for Britt to quiet down before tentatively returning my phone to my ear. As she began railing off at a thousand words per minute, I squinted at my alarm clock to see that it was six o'clock in the morning. My eyebrows lifted.

Under ordinary circumstances, Britt would be a dead log at six o'clock. Just what had happened to get her so excited at this hour in the morning?

She answered my internal question in a rather roundabout way, but she answered it nonetheless. After going on for fifteen minutes about this and that and the other thing—all of which was hardly understandable to me due to her garbled words—she finally arrived at the big reveal.

"I went to a party!" she exclaimed in giddy excitement.

She had gone to a party last night. Britt Owens, my best friend since sixth grade, had gone to an alcohol-filled, teenage-filled, hormone-filled party. She'd spent the entire night there, dancing to loud music, flirting with strange boys, and doing who knows what else. I just couldn't believe it.

Interrupting her straightaway, I nearly exploded, "You did what?"

"I went to a party." She said it so innocently, so easily. I still couldn't believe it.

Britt and I were the type of girls who steered clear of any kind of parties—even those work parties that your parents drag you along to so that they can show you off to their friends. We had always laughed at the kids who went out partying on weekends and showed up on Mondays with hangovers. To think that Britt had actually gone to one of these infamous high school parties was simply outlandish.

Perhaps that would explain why I could barely find the words to reply. "Uh, did you have—fun?"

She didn't seem to even notice the skepticism in my tone as she jubilantly answered, "Yes! It was so much fun! I can't believe I never went to one before."

Biting my lip to refrain from saying something I might regret, I paused for a moment to mull over a response. Just how was I supposed to respond to this? If I were being brutally honest, I would tell Britt that I wished she had stayed home last night and not gone anywhere near the party. I'd tell her that parties were trouble and the people at parties were bad influences.

But I couldn't bring myself to say such things. She sounded so excited—and I had already seen how she'd responded to my criticism of her crush on Josh. How would she feel if I called her out on this too? In a somewhat cowardly manner, I tentatively asked, "What did you do there?"

I wasn't sure I even wanted the answer, but she gave one anyway. "Oh, you know—usual party stuff. I literally danced all night long. It was awesome."

Dancing? I considered the word for a moment before taking a bolder step. "Did you drink any, umm, alcohol?" I held my breath as I awaited her response.

I felt the life return to me when she said, "I don't drink, Maine. You know that."

"Yeah," I said through an awkward laugh. "I know. I was just wondering. That's all."

There was a bit of a pause, before Britt abruptly changed the subject. "You'd never guess what happened there, though."

Relieved that she had not gotten upset, I jumped on the new topic. "What happened?"

I could practically envision the animation on her face as she began spilling out the dirty details of the biggest event of last night. "So it was all going fantastically until about three o'clock. Then I suddenly heard this loud yelling from the first floor. I was a bit worried so I looked around for Josh, but I couldn't find him. Then I saw Dave running down the stairs, so I decided to follow him and—"

"Britt!" I interjected in rebuke. "Why would you—"

"I know, I know." She shrugged off my concern, eager to return to her story. I was forced to just shake my head in resignation as she chattered on. "So anyway, I followed Dave to the first floor and we went through like five rooms before getting to the right one. And guess who we found in there, having the fist-fight of the century!"

Not feeling particularly engrossed at the moment, I wondered wryly, "Who?"

She paused before answering, as if to increase the suspense. I adjusted my covers, only somewhat more interested. Britt seemed to sense this, for she refused tell me who it was at first. Instead, she insisted that I guess. When I replied that I hated guessing, she became even more emphatic. "You have to guess!" she exclaimed.

Sighing, I began guessing aimlessly, "Jake Simpson, Josh Presley, Brad Penton, Tuna Fish—"

Before I could say any more, Britt interjected, "It's someone you know."

"But—Britt! I do know Josh," I protested.

"Well, it's not him!" she snapped defensively.

"It's not he," I muttered correctively, but she ignored me, insisting that I "guess again!"

Somewhat irritated that I had to guess, I finally burst out, "I don't know!" Honestly, why do I have to guess? It's not like I care who got in a fight at a stupid party! I don't even—oh.

I sat up abruptly, just as Britt relented.

"Fine then," she snapped. "It was—" Don't say it. "—Ashton." That butthead!

I was instantly on my feet, heading for the door. What had seemed trivial moments ago now meant the world. As I exited my room and raced down the steps, I began drilling Britt. "Who was he fighting? How long did it last? Who won?"

Now, of course, Britt took her sweet time in replying. "Well, I don't really know…"

"Britt!" I hissed, fast-walking toward the front door with my car keys. "What did he look like? The other guy?"

"Pretty bloody." She laughed at her own words, but I was not amused.

"Seriously, I am going to—"

"Okay, okay! I'll stop. The other guy looked—uh—he was big, tattooed, and he was most definitely not a teenager."

I stopped in my tracks, my hand landing on the door knob. A sick feeling settled in my gut as I confirmed what I had already been thinking. "That's Dane Rowlett."

"Dane who?"

"Rowlett." I said it hastily this time, turning the door knob and pushing my way out of the house. My stomach in my throat, I raced to my car and in seconds, found myself speeding down the road toward Ashton's house. "Who won?" I asked Britt again, my tone growing more and more impatient.

"I told you—I don't know!" she answered. Then, finally seeming to sense my urgency, she went on to say, "But I did see them carry the fight out to the alley behind the house. I don't know what happened after that because Dave told me to go back inside."

In a matter of minutes, I had pulled up the Savvonskis' driveway and jumped out of my car. I raced toward the garage, before throwing open the door and switching the lights on. To my chagrin, Ashton's motorcycle was nowhere to be seen. Rubbish!

Exiting the garage, I came to a full stop on the driveway. Then, after a moment of contemplation, I wondered aloud to Britt, "Dave—where is he right now?"

"I don't know," my friend said for what felt like the thousandth time, although it was really only the third. "He went outside after Ashton, and I haven't seen either of them since."

Kicking the ground in frustration, I racked my brain before thinking of someone else. "What about Josh? Where's he?"

"Uh—he just dropped me off."

"He did? How long ago?"

"Well, a little before I called you."

"Do you have his number?" I questioned, anxiously running a hand through my hair as I awaited her response.

"No."

Groaning, I ripped my hand from my hair, undoing a snarl in the process. Wincing at the sharp tug on my hair follicles, I spoke a bit more harshly than I intended, "Well, why not?"

"Maine, that's not fair," Britt pointed out in irritation.

Whacking myself on the head, I began pacing this way and that. "Sorry. Sorry."

My friend sighed loudly over the phone, before offering, "I have Dave's number, if that helps."

I stopped in my tracks, pleased to hear some good news at last. "What is it?"

There was a long pause, and then Britt read off a standard Michigan cell phone number. "You're the best, Britt!" I then exclaimed, before abruptly hanging up. I was well aware that I was being a bit of a jerk, but I was out of time to be courteous.

Dialing in Dave's number, I started towards my car again. After what seemed forever, I heard his familiar voice on the other end. "Hello?" He sounded all right, which I took as a good sign. Maybe Rowlett hadn't annihilated the boys after all.

"Dave?" I already knew he was on the other end, but I asked out of habit.

"Yeah?"

"Hey, it's Maine," I told him before abruptly getting to the point as I stopped beside my car. "Do you know where Ash is? Britt told me about the fight."

There was a long silence, and I wondered for a second if Dave had hung up, but then his voice came back in subtle confusion. "I thought—you mean he's not at home?"

Furrowing my brow, I tried to understand his meaning, before answering slowly, "No? Is he supposed to be?"

Again, there was a pause, only to be interrupted by a loud exhalation that sounded distinctively irritable in nature. "Well," Dave commented drily, "He was supposed to be at home by five o'clock, but we both know the punk has a mind of his own."

"Yeah," I replied with a scowl of my own. "But where could he have stupid gone?"

In answer to my question, the sound of a motorcycle suddenly met my ears. Hardly daring to believe it, I whirled around to stare at the motorcycle that was flying up the driveway at breakneck speed. Straddling that motorcycle was none other than Ashton Savvonski.

"The butthead." I barely breathed it into the phone, but Dave heard anyway.

"Did he just get there?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yeah," I muttered, before offering my farewells to Dave and hanging up the phone. Then I found myself walking as fast as I could toward the garage where Ash had just pulled in. Stupid idiot! What was the punk thinking?

I was about to throw open the garage door, but Ash beat me to it. We nearly collided with each other, but his hands flew out at the last second to land on my shoulders, stopping us both in our tracks. Then he stared at me for a moment, as if surprised by my presence.

I returned the stare, before suddenly throwing his hands from my shoulders and slamming my own palms against his chest, all the while yelling, "Are you crazy?"

So maybe I was overreacting, but now that I'd seen his face, I just couldn't hold myself back. He looked absolutely horrible—and that was saying something, considering that this was Ashton. The entire left side of his face was caked in blood, and his bottom lip was noticeably swollen. Now that his hands were no longer on me, I could see that they were both bruised and bloodied, along with his arms. A tear in his black T-shirt revealed what seemed to be a scar across his chest.

How could he have let this happen to himself? Again? I asked myself furiously. Then, with my hands still on his chest, I pushed him back another step before shouting, "You're so stupid, Ash! You know that? You're so stupid! What is wrong with you?"

Ashton was not in the mood for my behavior—which, I had to admit, was understandable.

In what seemed one motion, he clasped both my wrists in his hands and spun us around, pushing me against the garage door. Then, before I could wrench myself from his grasp, he took a step closer to me, forcing me to flatten myself against the door completely. My eyes staring straight into his dark irises in surprise, I felt a shiver run down my spine. Just what was he going to do?

A scowl on his disfigured face, Ashton leaned in even closer, until I could practically feel his breath falling on my face. In a frighteningly low voice, he muttered, "You're what's wrong, Charmaine."

My eyes widening in disbelief, I felt another shiver sweep through me. I simply couldn't believe my ears. I couldn't believe him. "Me? You think I'm—" I paused when it hit me. "How do you know that name?"

My heart was pounding so fast, I could practically hear the blood rushing in my ears, and when Ashton's own eyes widened in response to my question, I began to wonder if there were something wrong with the both of us. How in the world had Ashton discovered my full name?

No one ever used that name—not even my parents or teachers. As far as Britt was concerned, Charmaine was just a nickname my parents used to call me before she and I met. So how had Ashton Savvonski, of all people, figured it out?

When I posed the question for the second time, Ashton refused to answer. Instead, he let my wrists drop, along with his gaze. I stared at him incredulously, hardly believing what was before my eyes. I tried to think of something to say, but all that came out was a weak, "Ash?"

That word was enough to recapture his attention, for his head snapped up the moment I said it. In his eyes was a look unlike any I'd seen before, and when he opened his mouth to speak, I feared that I would not like it.

In that same low voice he'd used moments previous, Ashton challenged me unapologetically. "Does it matter? We hate each other anyway, Charmaine."

We do?

A sharp stab hit my heart as the words rolled around in my head. We hate each other? Charmaine? Every word that had come out of Ashton's mouth felt wrong to my ears. They had felt wrong since last Monday, getting worse and worse as the week progressed.

Ash had spited me time and time again, and I had returned the favor in any way I could. I had justified my actions and even anticipated sweet revenge. But it was all wrong. It all felt so wrong. And now that Ashton had said those words again, I knew that I was part of the problem.

Why did I have to go along with his game? No longer, Ashton. No longer.

With firm resolve, I forced myself to hold his steel gaze as I said the words I knew I had to say. "No, Ash. You hate me."