by Scott, Eliot
That question is the only thing that exists in the room for several long minutes, as I’m sure she’s replaying it all, too.
“Alex. You were there. You were always there.” She’s trying to soothe me—still trying to shelter me and prove that I’m a hero instead of a villain.
I watch her other hand move up to her head. Her fingers dance across her wounded and now bruised temple, fingertips examining the small scratches on the side of her face while I gingerly take my hand out of hers and dip one of the towels into the warm water and begin to wash off the dried blood.
“I must look like hell, huh?” She pulls the covers up to her chin, shivering some as I go over the worst part of where she was clocked with the gun.
When I can’t answer because she’s so damn fragile to me right now, I pause and get the tumbler of scotch to my lips and take a huge swig.
She reaches over and pulls it away from me and sips it. We pass it back and forth like that, until it’s gone, then she stares down at the empty tumbler, rattling the ice cubes like she needs something to do.
I realize I’ve never seen Jojo drink before. We were too young, and she was too good.
When she left here, she was a kid. A complete straight-edge kid who wouldn’t even sip off of a beer because she didn’t like the taste and because she never wanted to disappoint the memories of her mom and dad who would not have wanted her drinking underage.
I can’t squelch a surge of anger.
I wanted to be the one who took her out partying on her twenty-first birthday. Me. What the fuck else have I missed?
Like she, too, feels like we were robbed, the weight of six years we will never get back crackling in the air between us, she holds up the glass and says, “Got any more of this stuff?”
“I don’t think you should drink too much with the pills I gave you.”
“The pain is already going away. I feel…good. Relaxed.” She smiles, looking around. I hold my breath waiting for her to notice things. “It’s the world’s most comfortable bed. What is this place? Is it yours?”
Her eyes are going around the room. She’s a little dazed. No…she’s buzzed and she has no clue where I’ve driven her.
“My house.”
I don’t say more, and instead only glance nervously at the now darkened windows. The sun has long set, so she can’t see outside. I wonder if it would hurt or make her happy to know where this house sits.
“Is this your bedroom? And…thanks for giving me your shirt. I’m assuming this is yours?” Her questions are tumbling out, and suddenly she’s slurring a bit. Her smile goes crooked in a cute, pain killer induced, drunken happy kind of way.
“Yes. And yes.” I feel raw, trying to answer her. “And please don’t thank me…for any of it.”
“You always hated that.” She puts her arm next to her nose and sniffs deeply into my shirt. “I can smell you on the sheets and your shirt is like you, too. All fresh…and good.” Her brows shoot up. “Wait. I know this smell. It’s that green striped soap bar we used to laugh about, isn’t it?”
“Irish Spring. Yes.” I bite back a small smile. “And it was only you laughing about my soap obsession. I still take that soap very seriously. Manly fresh is a constant for me.”
She laughs, peals of it then, and so it doesn’t bring me to my knees, I busy myself by washing out the scotch glass back in the bathroom. I don’t deserve to make jokes and laugh with her. I don’t deserve to swim in good memories.
“Remember? Oh God, how we used to laugh.” She giggles more.
“Yes. I remember,” I say, my voice serious to push away the joy.
I have to get away from her smelling my shirt and smiling as she remembers us. Just the sight of her wearing my clothes that I should have taken the time to button better is torture. I need to get my thoughts off of how she’s just right here, lying on my bed, surrounded by her glorious tousled, curling sexy hair—hair that also smells exactly how she used to smell. Damn her lavender oils and whatever she stole from the moon to make it glow and stream across my pillow like it’s as alive as she is.
I return from the bathroom, clutching the crystal scotch glass like it’s a fucking shield in front of me. My eyes skim over her face until I’m staring at the way her upper lip is just a little bit fuller than her lower lip, and I remember how I used to love to…
“If you’re okay now,” I grit out and start to step backwards. “If nothing hurts anymore then I think you should…sleep.”
My breath is no longer working, and my voice is sandpaper and my body has transformed into pure wanting.
Just like before, I already know what she’s going to do to me next. Instead of doing what she should, and letting me go, she says, ”Alex. Maybe this it too much to ask, but could you please stay. Like really stay.” She pats the bed. “I’d sleep so much better if you did. I can’t get the images out of my head from what happened…and…I know it’s too much, but…could you, until I fall asleep? Like old times?”
My defenses fall.
It's something she used to ask of me back in high school.
She’d say it when things got really bad because my father and my brother would deliberately try to hurt her—she said it after homecoming. After Grady and his teammates had torn up her dress, scared her. Scared me even worse. And of course, back then, I said yes. I held her until she fell asleep, and then I cried my fucking eyes out.
The next night, after homecoming—after I knew the deal, after my father and Grady had brought me in and I learned there was no way out for me—I’d held her again. I cried my eyes out again. But that second time was all for me.
Father and Grady, as the months passed by, would plan out this endless taunting and torture of Jojo. They’d time this shit to the minute. Grady would make sure I was away from her, but nearby enough to run in and rescue her. It was always last minute, like five minutes before the school bell, or he’d track me going into the bathroom and then pounce on Jojo, scaring her again, and again. Sometimes, he would create freak accidents where she actually did get hurt.
Then they’d let me swoop in and be the hero. They always let me pick up Jojo’s pieces. I’d hold her, put her back together, and try to make her forget, try to thwart the next time. But eventually, I’d fail at that.
The memories are too much. Suddenly, I’m fourteen again, and I’m grinning about the gift of the lake. I’m fifteen asking my father for money to get the lures engraved. It’s sophomore year, and I’m telling Mr. Wallace that I’ll never, ever hurt his daughter—not ever—and believing it. I’m staring into Mrs. Wallace’s eyes and seeing the contract my father and she made. That letter she wrote, Jojo’s mom and my fucking father, how they brought me into the room to oversee the signatures. How I was tasked to get the document recorded in the city and county offices.
As much as Jojo’s life was fucked, this was a whole lifetime of me being set up by my own father. Fucked over by my own mother who sat there and smiled and said nothing. Year after year of my own brother never giving me the heads up that another bullshit accident was about to go down, never once having my back.
Me being tricked, me being played by them all time after time—this was my destiny.
Always the end result was Jojo got hurt. That endless feeling that I needed to be better, faster—smarter than my damn Father—so I could stop it washes over me. That pressure to try harder to beat Father at his own game ate me alive. I felt that if I could just be man enough, or tough enough, surely Jojo wouldn’t get hurt anymore.
I was never fucking able to do it. I know I was just a kid back then, that what I’d wanted inside my heart was impossible. My father had backup, money and minions. So many fucking minions! From the police to the damn school principal who didn’t intervene that first time Jojo was attacked by Grady. He was just there—watching. Watching!
Worse, any interventions or arguments on my part about what had gone down became a lesson learned the hard way. Any resistance on my part would only
result in more and bigger pain for Jojo.
That Wallace girl.
That’s what he always called Jojo. Never used her name.
The night Father brought me into the family plan was the day after sophomore homecoming. The night my before turned into a horrible, horrible after. How it went down, how he sent Grady in to do his dirty work, how he messed up my head permanently, is something I’ll never forget. Something I try every day to shake, to undo or unmake.
But I can’t do it. I am who I am, and it went down exactly as he planned it. His plan was perfection—despicably perfect.
That night, sophomore homecoming night, I grew up. Father welcomed me into the family, and explained exactly what my new role in the household was to be.
When I fought him on it, because I did try, Father made sure I paid for it. He made sure Jojo paid for it, and made sure I could never get out of being a Sinclair ever again. He destroyed my soul.
I’m stuck here. A devil. A monster. My father’s son. After what I’ve done, what I couldn’t stop from happening, I’m a good Sinclair.
Through and through.
22.
Jojo, Sophomore Year, Homecoming.
“You look nice in that dress. Like a hot little thing…”
I jump at Grady’s voice and turn, conscious of how my A-line dress sways at my knees. I sip at my punch, bad at taking complements, even from Grady, who just nearly made me ruin my dress by sneaking up behind me and whispering all awkwardly into my ear.
“Thanks,” I say, pulling my lips away from the plastic cup just enough to smile politely and step away from him.
Grady nods and shoves his hands in his suit jacket pockets. “You also look nice,” I say, paying back his complement, but I can’t help but step away from him again. He’s got on so much cologne it’s sucking away the real air in the room. I want to trust him. He and I have gotten along lately. A nice change from last year when he was just a smirking jerk or bully to me most of the time.
Maybe it’s because I’ve been telling Alex he should try to get along with his brother more—maybe they finally are getting along. I bet Grady sees how hard I’m working on their relationship, so he’s trying to turn over a new leaf.
“You come here with a date?” I ask, noticing that every other girl in the gym so far seems to be linked up with another guy.
Grady shrugs. “Why commit? These dances always seem to work out for me better if I don’t bring a date. Then I can be with everyone.” He winks, and it makes me giggle.
“Care to dance?” He’s holding his arm out like a knight in shining armor, and I make him wait a few seconds so I can scan the room for Alex first, because this is a slow dance finally, and I’ve been waiting to slow dance with Alex.
I don’t think he will like me dancing with Grady. But it’s just a friendly dance between friends. Besides, if I turn Grady down, he’ll get all irritated like he does and might flip back to the old Grady. And maybe…just maybe…Alex will appear, and see that Grady isn’t so bad, and that maybe we are all capable of being mature adults now that we’re growing up.
“Come on.” His smile deepens.
“Sure.” I take Grady’s arm, leaving my empty cup on the table edge as I follow him out into the middle of the dance floor. He holds his arms out in a way that forces distance between us, and I breathe out in relief, smiling at him. He’s being such a gentleman, and I know it’s because he wants to show Alex he respects me—and respects him.
We start to sway, and it becomes easier to hold his gaze with mine.
“You’re a good dancer, Grady.” I feel my cheeks redden with my awkward attempt at conversation. He quickly sets me at ease, though.
“Thanks. Our mom makes us take lessons. She makes us go to cotillion where we practice manners and shit. Junior League is her life. She expects us to go to some debutante ball when we’re eighteen and pick suitable wives.” He leans in, hands suddenly holding me too tight, his breath too hot and too close to my face, the cologne stifling. “Last I heard, you mom isn’t in the Junior League, is she?”
“Junior League? No. I don’t know what that is.” I try to pull back away from him but he’s holding on tight.
“Of course you don’t.”
I blink, filling with doubt because…is he laughing at me now? The way he’s looking at me is so smug, and what he’s said about there being some big ball planned out in the future where he and Alex would choose brides makes me feel small, stupid and really confused.
To avoid his penetrating gaze, I look down at our feet. I’m suddenly ashamed of my pearly white painted toes. Maybe mom and I shouldn’t have added the glitter on each one how we did. It feels too childish all of a sudden. I’d thought at first my toes looked like diamonds, but now, under all of these lights, they’re just messy.
“I’ll cut in now, if that’s cool.” My heart skips a few beats, and my feet stumble on hearing Alex’s voice. I’ve accidentally stepped on Grady’s foot. I look up to catch him wince, but he masks it quickly and steps away from me.
“Sure thing, Bro. We were just waiting on you. I didn’t want anyone else messing with your girl.” Grady winks at me oddly then holds my gaze intently as he hands me over to Alex. I bury my embarrassed face in my boyfriend’s neck.
“God. I missed you,” I say, muffling my words into his shoulder, not resisting as Alex dance-pulls me into the center of the other couples. “What’s the Junior League?”
“Nothing. Less than nothing, okay?” Alex frowns down at me when I look up. “Is that what Grady was talking to you about? He’s such an asshole. Forget anything he said, okay? He likes to make drama where there should be none.” He pulls me close, and I breathe in the soapy smell of him. “Let’s just dance.”
“And dance, and dance,” I agree.
He rocks me, and it’s such a relief to have his arms around me with Grady long gone that I follow his steps easily. We’ve been together so much. It’s always so warm and intimate inside of Alex’s arms when we dance. I could fall asleep in this small space where the collar of his shirt and jacket lapel end and his skin begins.
I think about kissing it lightly for several long seconds before finally opening my mouth just enough to take a small taste. And then another.
“Never dance with Grady again, okay? I don’t like him touching you.”
I stiffen at Alex’s terse words, a little hurt that instead of swooning and leaning into my kisses, or kissing me back, or whispering stuff we are going to do later while pressing his hardness against me—which is what my kisses usually bring about—he’s thinking about Grady.
Total mood killer.
“He wasn’t being a creep or anything,” I frown, but stop when I feel him pull away enough to look at me hard. “I’m serious. Grady, in his way—I think he was being nice for once.”
“Impossible. It’s not in him to be nice.”
His eyes penetrate mine, and they’re filled with such lonely sadness that I get sad, too. Alex often talks to me about his family being different, but it’s just so hard for me to understand.
Eventually his face softens, and the side of his mouth ticks up as he pulls me in close again. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I was being lame—jealousy is not a good thing.”
My lips pull in, puckering against the urge to smile, but I can’t hide it for long.
“You, Alex Sinclair, should never be jealous. No other boy could compare, especially not…” I shudder, and add in a little eye roll. “Grady.”
His chest quakes with a silent laugh and he presses his lips on my forehead, wrapping his arms around me tighter. He holds me like this for three songs in a row—even for the fast songs—until Grady taps him on his shoulder and whispers something in his ear.
“Okay…ummm…just stay here, Jojo. I’ve gotta help him with something, but I’ll be right back.”
Alex squeezes my arms firmly and rushes off through the crowded dance floor following Grady.
I’m left alone under th
e spinning disco ball and the blue and purple crepe-paper flowers the student council hung from the ceiling. Before long, I start to feel the stares of the couples looking at me lingering out here alone.
“Excuse me.” I cut through the crowd, making my way back to the chairs that line the room. I look for a new cup to get another drink of punch, but can’t find any, so I move to the table of treats and pick at a few of the cookie wrappers, settling on the sugar one shaped like a heart.
A few of the popular girls move around me, looking me up and down and laughing. One of them holds her fingers to her lips while the other pours what looks like vodka into the punch. I smile like I’m in on the secret, but the moment they walk away I roll my eyes at how cliche they are. I’m also glad I had some of the punch before they ruined it.
I nibble on my cookie through an entire song and a half, and I begin to worry where Alex has gone when I spot Grady weaving back toward me through the crowd.
“Jojo, you gotta come.” He shouts to me. “Alex got in a fight with some guy who’s been talking shit about us. He’s hurt…hurt bad…”
My pulse begins to thump wildly. “Okay, where?” I’m already running after him when I ask.
He just motions with his hand and rushes through the hallway door that leads to the back of the school. My mind imagines Alex hurt, his face bruised and bloodied, red staining the crisp white of his nice shirt and the gray of his suit. I want to kill whoever ruined our night, and my hand instinctively forms a fist at my side as we bust through the doors to the maintenance area.
The stench of the dumpsters hits my nose first, but the very next thing I feel is the swift jerk on the bottom of my dress.
“It is some sort of freak polyester. No wonder it’s so shiny. So tacky! It’s not even satin…or silk.” A blonde girl I recognize as one of the cheerleaders holds the long shred of my dress she just tore off of me up to the yellow light. “We should donate this to science.”
“Hey! I can’t believe you just tore my dress!” I hear a round of laughter and realize there’s a whole crowd out here.