I Hate to Stand Alone

by Casey Winter

  I shiver, feeling like the lowest piece of dirt imaginable. I glance at the house, thinking about Hannah quietly checking on her mom. Because she’s kind. Because she’s caring. Because she’s a good person.

  Damn.

  Yet, when I watch Hannah emerge from the house, some of the tension in my body relaxes. It’s like I have temporary amnesia whenever we’re together. It becomes simple to forget that I’m a Nelson and she’s Hannah Coleman-Ortiz, the woman who ruined Noah.

  “Hey,” she says, climbing back into the car. “Sorry about that.”

  “How is she?” I ask.

  “Good. Sleeping on the couch. Alejandra is in her chair. I swear, it’s like they’re at a slumber party or something.”

  A long, excruciating pause. I find myself missing Lake Sugar already, how natural it was to just sink into our carnal lust. She brought the beast out in me. And I loved every aching second. But now, there’s a distance between us. A yawning chasm, and I can tell that not only do we not know how to close it, we’re not even sure we want to.

  Sighing, she turns to the night. “This would be nice to sketch,” she mutters. “The light, the way the moonlight is playing with the clouds …” She shrugs, giggling cutely. “It’s nice, anyway.”

  “You sketch?” I ask.

  I wish it was louder. But, in the deep silence of two AM, it’s so silent I’m sure I can hear our heartbeats. Both racing, I bet, both of us not knowing what the hell to do. “I used to,” she says. “But then I got addicted to skating. I dunno. Maybe I’ll start sketching again. Mom’s always getting on at me about it.”

  “You’re talented, Hannah,” I say seriously.

  She smiles slightly. “Thanks, Luke. That means a lot.”

  It’s like we’re strangers, the way we’re talking, like we’ve just run into each other in the grocery line. But that’s it … we are strangers. We were never supposed to cross that line. But if that’s the case, why do I want to cross it again, and again, and again? Over and over, I want to lose myself in her tempting curves, in her sweet-as-sin moans.

  “So,” she says eventually, her sigh shaky now. “This has been quite the day, huh? First you molest me at Family Roller, then you take advantage of me at Lake Sugar. What’s next, a sixty-nine in Memorial Park?”

  “Jesus, Hannah. Don’t put ideas in my head. The night’s young. I’ll drive us there right now.”

  She rolls her eyes, giggling. “Seriously, though. I mean, what are we going to …” She trails off, apparently expecting me to magically know how to finish that thought. But I’m at a loss. With a huff, she says, “Where do we go from here, Luke?”

  “I don’t know,” I say honestly.

  “Come on, frogman,” she laughs, but it sounds almost hollow. “Take the lead a little, yeah?”

  “It was fun,” I offer. “I don’t think we can deny that.”

  “Fun?” she mutters. “Is that how you’d categorize it?”

  “Yeah, why not?” I say gruffly. “I’m not about to sing you a goddamn song, twinkle toes.”

  Her mouth falls open. For a second, she just stares at me. Then she turns and stares out of the opposite window, so that I can only see the back of her head, her ponytail shifting around slightly. She does this for a long time. It’s weird.

  “Hannah, what are you doing?”

  “If I look at you right now,” she says slowly, “I’m afraid I might slap you. Seriously, why are you being such a jerk?”

  “What?” I snap.

  Fury flares in me. This is all too much. Especially since I want to grab her and kiss her again, want her to slap me, just so I can feel like I’m being punished. Noah, what have I done?

  “Because I didn’t sing you a love song?”

  She wheels on me. “Don’t do that, Luke. Don’t take a—a fricking beautiful night and pretend it’s just … ah.” She slaps the dashboard, the sound magnified in the relative quiet. “Hell, Luke. Fine, fine, have it that way. Let’s just say this: it was a fun night, we both had a good time, and now it’s out of our system and we can leave it in the past, yeah?”

  I swallow a way-too-big lump. I feel like a jerk. But I’m not about to tell her that. “Just take it easy, alright?” I sigh. “There’s no reason to get all excited.”

  She leans back, curling her lip, aiming an arched eyebrow at me. “Okay, so now you’re gonna play the volatile-female card, is that it?”

  “No, it’s just you’re getting all … goddamn, Hannah, this is hard for me, too, you know.”

  “Getting all what?”

  “What?”

  “You said I’m getting all … what? Finish the sentence, frogman. Don’t be scared.” Her night-black hair is wild in its hastily-applied ponytail, her full lips bent downward in a deep, furious frown. She looks beautiful when she’s angry. How messed up is that? “Well?” she hisses.

  I smile, not wanting to get into some melodramatic argument. “Whatever I’ve said, Hannah, I’m sorry from the bottom of my heart.”

  “Now you’re just being facetious,” she mutters. But she lets herself smile, too. Just for a second. “Maybe we should just draw a line under this, huh?”

  I nod, though there’s a pit in my belly.

  I think I do a good job at masking my feelings. I can’t feel too deeply, anyway. I can’t let myself. If I open one door inside myself, I don’t know what other doors will shatter open, blow right off the hinges, what dark hidden parts of myself will be revealed to blister and burn in the sun. I have to keep myself locked-tight, dead inside. Or at least on life support.

  I don’t feel anything, I tell myself. It was just a hookup. People hookup all the damn time.

  “Luke?”

  “Yeah,” I say after a moment. “Maybe drawing a line under it is for the best.”

  “Okay, then,” she says, nodding slowly. Her ponytail bobs. I want to grab it, guide our lips together, consume her, taste her, screw her and make love to her. “I think I can deal with that. Let’s just say have a nice life then. Okay?”

  She extends her hand.

  I smirk down at it. “What are you doing?”

  “Shaking your hand. Or are you planning on going back to being a jerk?” After a pause, she snaps, “Are we doing this or not?”

  We shake hands. She snatches hers away quickly, which is the only sign she’s just pretending to be fine with this arrangement. “And please try not to touch me up at Family Roller again,” she snaps. “Like the name implies, it’s kind of a family place. Kay?”

  “Maybe I’ll just keep watching you, instead,” I say. I can’t help myself. “It’s like a private show, Hannah, watching how skilled you are, how sexily your body movies, how athletic and—”

  “No, Luke,” she hisses. She lets some of her anger fly. I think she’s livid with me. I think she wants me to fight for us, but I can’t. Because there is no us. There can’t be. “You don’t get to basically tell me to go screw myself, tell me that tonight was barely one step up from a quick screw in a truck stop, and then still say stuff like that to me.”

  “I don’t think I’ve said or even implied any of that,” I growl. “But if you wanna twist my words, fine. We shouldn’t even have done this anyway. We both know it.”

  I lean forward, fists clenched. In the pitch-dark reflection of the window, I look way too much like my little brother. Way too much like the kid I betrayed. The Marine who died for his country, who I’m disrespecting.

  “I agree,” she yells, leaning forward as well.

  “Good,” I bark. “Then it looks like there’s nothing more to say.”

  That familiar energy sparks between us. I can smell her, perfume and just-Hannah and toothpaste. Did she brush her teeth when she went inside? Whatever it is, it’s good, and it draws me in.

  I grab her cheeks and kiss her. Her skin is smoldering. Her tongue is eager and wet and her lips are rough. She moans, grabbing fistfuls of my shirt, tugging on me like her life depends on it. I deepen the kiss, make it hard,
brutal. My manhood is already solid for her. I could screw her right here and now and die a happy man.

  But then she slaps me in the chest, pushing me away. “Have a nice life, jerkoff,” she snaps, pushing the car door. “What the heck? Why won’t this open?”

  “I lock it,” I mutter. “Every time somebody climbs in. Force of habit.”

  “Well, unlock it.”

  I click the button. “There you go, twinkle toes.”

  “And stop calling me that,” she snaps over her shoulder, climbing out. “No more frogman. No more twinkle toes. Now it’s just ticket, please and sure, here you go, miss. Okay? We’re fricking strangers now.”

  She storms away, a flaring pacing figure of passion and anger. I watch her go, slightly dumbfounded, wondering how that turned into an argument. I know I probably said the wrong thing. But, maybe, it’s the right thing. Because it made her hate me. It made her not want anything to do with me.

  I can still taste her, though, and my manhood is still annoyingly solid. I groan, closing my eyes, letting my head fall back. But I can’t keep my eyes closed for long. If it’s not bloody, screaming SEALs I’m seeing, or gun smoke I’m smelling, it’s Hannah.

  And if it’s not Hannah, it’s Noah.

  My imagination won’t ever let me rest. It’s gone two in the morning and I’m dog-tired, but I know if I went inside right now, I wouldn’t sleep. I’d just stare at the ceiling, hearing Hannah’s moans, hearing her angry reproaches. Hearing my own guilt, too: at how I betrayed Noah, yeah, but also at how I’ve upset Hannah.

  I take out my cellphone and call Morgan.

  “Problemer, bror?” he says.

  “Let’s go for a run,” I say.

  “Sure,” he mutters. “Meet me at my motel?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Alright then.”

  I hang up, starting the car. I know I’m far gone when even the familiar purr of the Chevy’s engine doesn’t do much to relax me.

  —

  The motel—The Luxury Inn, which everyone in Little Fall knows is more than a little optimistically named—is on the outskirts of town. It takes me about half an hour to get my running gear and drive out there, but ten minutes of that is spent sitting in my car watching in awe as Hannah puts on her skates and sets off into the dark, alone.

  I don’t know what the rules are these days about being overprotective, what with so many women seeming to have a problem with it. But when I see her skate off like that, I can’t help but be worried. So I text her, Be careful, okay? Don’t go down any side roads or anything.

  A moment later, she responds, I’ll skate where I want, kay?

  Goddamn, woman, you know how to hold a grudge, don’t you?

  Yes, I do. Especially when you describe mind-blowing, nerve-shattering sex as ‘fun’. Going to the movies is ‘fun’, jackass. Now can you do me a favor and leave me alone? I’m kinda busy. K thnx xoxo.

  Just text me if there’s trouble, I persist. It’s almost three in the goddamn morning.

  What trouble? Jeez, Luke. Little Fall’s about the safest place in the world. But if you really care that much (which is strange, because I didn’t think you did tbh) I’m only going for a quick one around the block to clear my head. Okay?

  Good, I text, relieved.

  I’m even more relieved when I pull up at Morgan’s motel and she texts me, Home now, jerkoff. Night-night.

  Sweet dreams, beautiful.

  My thumb hovers over the send button, but I’ve already gone too far, showing her how much I care. We’ve already agreed to chalk tonight up as a onetime thing. So I delete the message, and step from the car.

  Morgan is already waiting for me outside the motel, sitting on his haunches, whittling. He’s whittled for as long as I’ve known him, elegant pieces you wouldn’t expect a man with hams for hands to be able to produce. He tucks the knife into his leather pouch and wraps the carving in paper, tucking that away, too. “Are we taking any particular route?” he asks.

  “Thought we’d just do a few miles around town,” I say.

  “Need to clear your head?”

  I snort. “How can you tell?”

  “Because it’s almost three, Luke, and we’re about to go for a run.”

  I nod. “Fair enough. Shall we get going?”

  He hops up. “I don’t see why not.”

  We jog back the way I drove in, sticking to the main road into Little Fall, the streetlamps turned off this late at night to save money on electricity. But the sky is clear and starry, and visibility is good. We take an easy pace at first, but then I pick it up, wanting to feel the harsh burn in my thighs. Morgan acknowledges it with a grunt, and we run faster.

  Then I pick it up even more, basically sprinting, and it turns into a game. Morgan grimaces and hawks and spits, and we end up running full-tilt until we hit Main Street and then Memorial Park. Our footsteps and the slapping of our running sneakers is the only noise for miles around. Finally, we stop in Memorial Park, both of us propping our hands on our hips, slowing our breathing.

  “Feel better?” Morgan asks.

  “A little,” I mutter, dropping down on the bench.

  “You’re acting like a damn teenager,” Morgan says. “What’s wrong?”

  “Do you really want to know?” I ask.

  He nods. So I tell him: about Lake Sugar, about the sex (without any detail at all, because that’s just for me) and, finally, about the argument.

  “So buy her some flowers,” Morgan says, shrugging. “Isn’t that what people do?”

  “When they want to make things right, sure,” I say. “But I don’t want to make things right. I want to turn back time and make it so I never did that, man. Hell … What was I thinking? You know Noah’s turning in his grave right now.”

  “I don’t know,” Morgan says. “Seems to me Noah’s in the ground. Seems to me he doesn’t have an opinion about anything. But you do, and Hannah does. I think those are the opinions that matter.”

  I clench my fists, forearm veins bulging. “It’s not just that,” I say after a long pause. “It’s … hell, Morgan. I haven’t slept more than four hours in weeks. Some nights I’m lucky to get two. The other night, I wake up and I’m already on my feet, rushing for the window. I thought I was under attack. I was reaching for my gun … only my gun wasn’t there.” I stand up, pace, restless. “You know, brother, the only time I sleep properly is when I’m on a job.”

  “But that’s not sleeping. That’s just passing out from exhaustion.”

  “Same difference.”

  Morgan sighs, and then whispers, “I think you’re telling me you’re scared to get close to this girl because you’re screwed in the head, Luke. Is that about right?”

  I laugh, turning to him. His smile twitches slightly. “Yeah, brother, that’s about right.”

  He nods, running a hand through his ashen hair. “You’re talking to a man who watched his entire family burn to death in a house fire when he was ten years old, and then went onto join the Special Forces and see a lot of the same stuff you did, or similar stuff, anyway.”

  “And? How did you deal with it?”

  He looks at me, expression severe. “I made myself cold, ice-cold. I killed all soft feeling inside of myself. Perhaps it’s not the best tactic, but it lets me sleep, and I consider that a blessing. But it sounds like you don’t have to do that. It sounds like you’ve found a chance to have something real here. It sounds like it’s more than sex. I think you should drop all this bravado and just—”

  “Just what?” I ask, when he cuts short.

  “Attack.” For the first time in a long time, he smiles. “Two soldiers and a lifetime of warfare, Luke, and only now one of us finds something worth fighting for.”

  I sit down next to him, and both of us just stare at the statue of William Jackson Henry. “He was happily married, you know,” I say. “Had four children. He and his wife died within a month of each other. And he saw some stuff, Morgan. Had to pull shrapne
l out of a kid’s head, a fifteen year old kid they sent south to fight.”

  “Damn,” Morgan says. “If a man like that can find somebody, Luke, maybe there’s hope for you.”

  I laugh grimly. “Yeah, maybe.”

  —

  Almost a week passes and I try to stay strong.

  I keep myself busy with Nelson’s Nails, taking deliveries, dealing with suppliers, hiring a decent accountant from New York to have a look at Dad’s books. And I spend a lot of time at the rink, too, doing my best to drum up business. But going to the rink is pretty damn painful, truth be told, because it means seeing Hannah.

  She’s like my unpaid marketer. Skating isn’t the most popular thing in the world, and freestyle slalom is even more niche, but folks around here like a show and Hannah knows how to put one on. It’s even more fascinating because she’s not trying to put on a show. She’s just practicing. But her practicing is so graceful, so fluid, so skillful, it seems like a show.

  I try not to watch her from the top window, but it’s difficult. Time and time again, I find myself standing there, tracking her neon-lit wheels as they dart through the darkness, snatching a glimpse of her tight-as-damnation yoga pants. Or, just as often, the way she bites her bottom lip as she contemplates a new move, concentrating, captivating.

  Once, she glances up at me. We lock eyes. She keeps staring and so do I. I know it, right then, that I could go down there and smooth this over. But then I turn away and march to my desk. I think the same thing I always do when I sit at the desk now.

  Need to put a photo of Noah up someplace.

  But I don’t. I never do. Because I don’t want Hannah to feel uncomfortable if she comes in here.

  I talk with Morgan a couple of times on the phone, but only briefly, since he’s busy with the popstar. A couple of nights, me and the old man lift some weights together. He’s trying to get fitter after he fell last winter and almost slipped a disc, even if he’s incredibly strong for a man his age.

  I even take a long-ass hike through the forest on Sunday, right to the top of Woodpecker Ridge, but I don’t see any woodpeckers. I leave Family Roller to Alexis to handle for the day, since she’s a good kid and a hard worker. Up there, it’s peaceful, and as I do a bit of shadow boxing after lunch, I let my mind wander.