ECSTASY

by KV Rose

  42

  Zara

  “We need more orange juice,” Alex informs me as I sit in the passenger seat of his Jeep. It’s Wednesday, and I begged him to take me outside.

  A week and a half until Halloween and the weather feels like fall. His windows are cracked as we sit in the parking lot of the empty grocery store—apparently, no one comes for a shop at nine in the morning on hump day.

  “Uh huh,” I tell him, glancing down at my fresh pink polish, wiggling my toes in my sandals. I refused to get a pedicure mostly because I wanted to refuse anything Alex wanted to do.

  The past few days I’ve downed a few pots of coffee with half-and-half, and not much else, and I’m still a raging bitch. But I finally did let Alex paint my nails in bed last night, and he didn’t do a horrible job at it, either.

  It was almost amusing to watch him use a cotton ball to dab at my skin when he went off track.

  He sighs, turning to look at me, his phone in his hands as he makes a list of shit we need. “You said the orange juice was helping.”

  I pat my stomach beneath the tight black t-shirt I’m wearing over my fitted black sweats. “My waistline doesn’t like the sugar.”

  His eyes nearly bug out of his head. “You’re fucking with me, right?” He flicks his gaze over my body and despite my general irritation with fucking life, I feel my core tighten.

  The past few nights he’s slept on the couch.

  I considered making a run for it, but decided against it. Mainly because I just don’t have the energy. I’m fucking exhausted, even though I’ve done fuck-all.

  “No, I am not fucking with you.”

  “You’re a stick.”

  My mouth falls open. “That’s… Wow, that’s probably the rudest fucking thing you’ve said about me.” Then I tilt my head to the side, tap my finger against my chin, pretending to think. “Oh, wait. No. That must’ve been when you called me a fucking cunt.”

  He rolls his eyes and shoves his phone into the pocket of his sweats.

  “Let’s go,” he says, ignoring my comment. He reaches for the door handle but turns to stare at me when he realizes I’m not moving.

  “What now, Zara?” he asks, irritation in his words.

  I just stare at him for a long moment, looking at the amber in his dark eyes. “Why are you doing this?”

  He frowns. “You need help.”

  “You’re not doing this for me.”

  He flinches, but just keeps staring at me. I can practically feel the tension in the Jeep, despite the fact the windows are down, and I can hear traffic from the main road behind us. It feels like we’re in a warpath in here beside each other, and every little misstep is like detonating a fucking bomb.

  “You’re doing this for her. And I’m not her, Alex.”

  He keeps staring at me, and I feel that irritation pricking again, just under my skin. I want to get out and slam the door and call my mom myself and tell her to pick me up. But I have no doubt Alex would be on her ass in a minute if I did that.

  Finally, he just gets out without a word, slamming his door nearly as hard as I slam mine.

  43

  Zara

  Things get less tense that night.

  We play Uno. I win. Three times in a row. Alex gets pissed, but he laughs too, and it just—shit, I don’t know.

  It feels good to see him laugh. To not be fighting with him.

  And as it gets later and the exhaustion wears on me, I invite him into my room. My bed.

  And he comes.

  “Why did you start?” he asks me after he’s curled up around me, my back to his chest in the dark. There’s an empty glass of orange juice on my nightstand, and I’m still feeling edgy and tired all at once, but I’m sober.

  And Alex is here.

  For the first time since he’s been here, I’m kind of happy about it. My favorite times with him were when we weren’t fighting. When we could just be together without the drama and the bullshit. That’s what this feels like. Peaceful. I don’t think I realized how much I craved that until now.

  But at his question, I just close my eyes, tucking my hands under my pillow. I know what he’s asking. “Because I was weird.” That is, truly, the simplest explanation. The more in-depth one? I don’t have the energy for that.

  But his lips find my neck, just above the t-shirt of his that I’m wearing, and it sends chills down my spine, the good kind. And yeah, it makes my thighs clench together, and yeah, I want to turn around and kiss him, too, but more than that…more than that, that gentle touch makes me feel safe.

  Just like he’s always made me feel. Safe. Loved.

  “You’re not weird, princess,” Alex says against my skin.

  There’s a pain in my chest, and I feel almost paralyzed. By guilt, maybe. Or grief for things that haven’t even happened yet. All of this all might end. Because I’m not coming out of this clean.

  “I am,” I tell him, even though I know this kind of argument never works out well, so I quickly add, “It doesn’t matter, anyway. Why I started.”

  His arms are locked around my torso and he squeezes me tightly. It feels so damn good, and I don’t deserve it.

  “You don’t have to talk about it,” he tells me, his breath on my skin. “But if you want to, I’m here.”

  God, I don’t deserve you.

  “It’s just…” I trail off, trying to think about the reason for the first time. I mean, it’s simple enough, really, but it’s also so complicated. I snorted a hydrocodone through a dollar bill one night at my best friend’s house, when I was fifteen. I’d only ever drank before that moment. I’d never even smoked pot.

  My friend was older than me. Seventeen, but she was nice, and her mom was always gone, and boys loved her, and I wanted that.

  So, when we had a sleepover, and she invited some guys over and they were all snorting shit and smoking pot and drinking, I did too.

  Everything just kind of spiraled after that. My home life wasn’t bad. Mom was a huge flirt and not very faithful, and I didn’t talk to my dad, but I was taken care of. No one beat me. No one molested me. No one raped me. Even the older guys my friend had over, they were nice and respectful for the most part. I slept with one, eventually, when I was high, and it was good, and he treated me well.

  “It’s just I’ve always thought something was wrong with my brain. I was always awkward and shy, and people always said how quiet I was. Pretty, but quiet. I heard that so many times and it was annoying.”

  I know that probably doesn’t make sense. I know Alex was probably waiting for some huge traumatic moment, but it wasn’t like that.

  “I wasn’t comfortable in my own skin. I tried downers first.” The hydrocodone became a little bit of a habit. “But then I discovered uppers.” Adderall, specifically, which didn’t seem so bad because it was legal, even if it wasn’t legal for me. “And I was an entirely new person. I was shiny and loud and giddy and happy, and I wasn’t anxious, and I could party and socialize like a normal fucking person, and boys liked me better for it.”

  And I wanted boys to like me. I wanted them to like me for the attention, because while Mom wasn’t neglectful, she was gone a lot and my dad…well, he ended up leaving. Obviously, I have daddy issues, but I didn’t recognize that then, and even if I had, I was a teenage girl. I was left alone a lot and I wanted attention. My stepfathers were decent human beings, but they were enamored with my mother and not so into the idea of being fathers at all.

  “I went to the doctor, trying to get my own prescription for Adderall, but I didn’t prepare for that visit well enough because they didn’t diagnose me with ADHD. They diagnosed me with anxiety.” I laugh a little, and Alex squeezes me tighter. I open my eyes, staring into the darkness of my room. “They prescribed me Xanax, which I found to be a great comedown for the Addie.”

  “Anyway, it all kind of got fucked up in spring.” My throat tightens as I realize I never really talked about this with him. I made a joke about rehab, a
nd that was all I ever said about it. I clear my throat, swallow down my nerves. “I overdosed at a party on fucking Vicodin. I wanted something different and the end of the semester, working toward my stupid philosophy degree had become stressful because I wasn’t going to class and shit.”

  Alex kisses my neck again and I keep talking. “I probably didn’t need the Narcan but one of my friends called 911 anyway, and they administered it and my friend called my mom and…well, here I am.”

  Alex’s lips are warm and soft against my skin and I let my eyes flutter closed, falling into his warmth. Into his goodness.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” he finally says. “It sucks it happened that way, but I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Me too.” The words come out without thought. I don’t think about them at all. They’re just true.

  “You mean that?” Alex asks, hope in his words.

  “Yeah. I mean it.”

  “What comes after this?” he asks next, and there’s hope there, too, but something else in the way his words are so quiet. Lower than a whisper. Almost as if he’s asking himself and not me, which might be the smarter thing to do because fuck if I know what comes next.

  I turn in his arms so I’m facing him. From the moon shining through my curtains, I can make out his dark eyes, his beautiful mouth. The worry on his brow.

  I trail one hand over his bicep, and his hand finds my waist, clamping down on it as if he can keep me forever. As if this week isn’t just a fantasy. As if it’s something real.

  Is it real?

  I don’t know.

  I don’t have any idea what this shit is between us anymore.

  “What do you think?” I ask him instead of saying any of those things.

  He slides his hand under my shirt and it’s so warm against my skin. I keep trailing my finger up the veins of his arm, the hard muscle beneath his soft skin.

  “I think I want to keep you,” he says with a faint trace of a smile. “I think I want to keep you and I think I don’t ever want to let you go, Zara Rose.”

  There are so many things I could say. What about this? What about that? What about everything?

  But I don’t say any of them, because then he’d ask me questions, too, and I don’t want to think about the answers. For one of the first times in my life, I just want this moment.

  He moves his hand from under my shirt and cups my cheek instead. His hands are so big, it nearly covers my entire face which makes me smile. He brushes his thumb over my bottom lip.

  “What do you think about that?” he asks me, and I stop skimming his arm with my fingers and instead rest my hand on his back, scooting closer to him in my bed.

  “I think I like that idea a lot,” I admit.

  “Really?” He sounds surprised, and I guess I can’t blame him.

  “You really want me?” I counter. “After everything I did? Everything you know about me?”

  He still has his thumb over my mouth, and he doesn’t move away from me. He doesn’t run, even though bringing up all the ways I’ve wronged him gives him every reason to.

  He’s not like Eli. He admitted as much to me before. He doesn’t like to watch me with other guys. He doesn’t want to share me. But he’s seen all of that, seen me at my worst, and he still wants me? It’s almost hard to fathom.

  “Yeah,” he says, his voice kind of hoarse. “I do.” I hear him swallow, and he pushes his hand back, through my hair.

  “Why are you so good to me after all the shit I’ve done?”

  I hear him swallow. “I could ask the same of you.” This time, he clears this throat. “I’m sorry too, you know. For how I always get so angry, and not sticking up for you with my dad. But fuck him, Zara.” His eyes are shining in the dark. “I mean it. Fuck him, and fuck me, too. I promise I’m going to work on my own shit, too. I promise you, princess. I’m sorry for all of it.” He takes a deep breath. “We’ve all made mistakes, Zara. It’s called being human.”

  I laugh, shaking my head as he strokes my hair. “I think I’ve done a little more than make mistakes.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” He smiles at me, his white teeth visible even in the dark. “But I see everything you could be. Everything you already are, even if you don’t know it yet. I see more than what you want people to see, Zara. I see past your bullshit, and that’s what I want. What you really are.”

  “What if you’re wrong?” My mouth is dry, my stomach fluttering as I meet his gaze. “What if I’m not any of the good things you think you see? What if I’m just as wrong as I look?”

  He smiles. “You don’t look wrong. In fact,” he bites his lip, eyes dipping down to my chest even though he can barely see me in the dark, under the covers, “you look really fucking right.”

  I roll my eyes, smiling despite myself. “You know what I mean. What if I’m just a druggie whore? What if I’m not going anywhere with my life? You know I’m a philosophy major. Like, what the—”

  “Yeah,” he interrupts me, “I never fucking asked. What is it you intended to do with that degree?” There’s a teasing edge to his voice that makes me laugh.

  The fact we never talked about these things, it’s almost funny. Almost, but it’s just how we are. Or were.

  I shrug, and his hand goes from my hair to my back and he pulls me closer, rolling onto his back so my head is against his chest. I curl up around him, arm stretched over his torso as he keeps stroking my hair, gripping my arm with one hand.

  “I just liked the idea of Stoicism,” I admit. “A teacher touched on it in history class, back in high school. I liked the idea of focusing only on what we can control. Mainly, how we react to shit. And how life is short, how we can’t count on a long one or even a good one.” I shrug against him. “Obviously, I suck at applying any tenets of Stoicism to my own life, but I like the concept.”

  Alex laughs, his chest rumbling against me. “Okay, so, if you could do anything in the world, what would you do?”

  “Drugs,” I deadpan.

  He tenses beneath me, his hand on my arm tightening.

  I laugh, flicking his chest playfully. “I’m joking.”

  He exhales, like a lover putting up with my bullshit solely because he loves me.

  “I’d like to help people, I guess. When I’m done helping myself. I’d like to help people who feel uncomfortable in their own skin feel a little better. Without drugs,” I add quickly, in case he has any ideas on exactly what it is I want to do. I do not want to be a dealer like Jax. “I’d like to write a book about Stoicism one day, maybe even how addicts could apply the teachings to their own life. Obviously, I’ve got no idea how to do that because here I am with you right now but…” I trail off, drumming my fingers against his skin. “I don’t know. I never gave much thought to my future, beyond the next party.” It feels cathartic, like a release, having this conversation with him, like I did with Jax.

  It feels good confiding in Alex, I realize.

  He plays with my hair and breathes evenly beneath my arm. I wonder if he’s going to fall asleep, or if he just doesn’t know what to say. I start to wonder if I’ve shared too much. If this bonding we’ve done today is more than we should have. If I’ve fucked this up all the more.

  “What do you want to do?” I ask him softly, not quite wanting to be alone yet. “I mean, I know you want to go to law school. But what is it you really want?” If he falls asleep and I don’t, it’ll feel that way. Like I’m alone. And as exhausted as my body feels, my mind is still wired.

  “Yeah, well. I never told you but I don’t actually want to go to law school.”

  I should be surprised, I guess, but I’m not. Alex flies off the handle too easily. He’d make a horrible lawyer.

  “I want to open up a gym,” he admits, his voice a whisper. “I’ve never told anyone that, but I want to open up a gym and I wouldn’t mind running a camp too. For kids. Or maybe teenagers. Not something pretentious, like the shit I went to. Something for kids who might not be able to afford it.
Kids with special needs, maybe, or shitty home lives. I don’t know. Maybe that’s just a pipe dream considering I’m not exactly an upstanding citizen.” He laughs, but it’s definitely lacking in humor. “Anyway, I just know that working out gives me an outlet, and I want kids to have that, too.”

  We’re both quiet a moment. I could picture Alex doing that. He knows he has anger issues, knows he needs to work on them, and if he could help other people do the same, I think he’d be good at that. If he gets his shit under control like he said he will.

  “Maybe we could open up a business together,” he tells me, and my stomach drops. “We could have the gym, and you could counsel people in the wisdom of Stoicism, and I could run a camp in our backyard, because it’ll be fucking huge. I like the outdoors far better than anything inside, and you’d learn to like it, too, if you don’t already.” He kisses me again, apparently unaware that I’m having a mini heart attack.

  My limbs are all tingly and I kind of feel like I’m floating. The idea of him being with me past college, past this week even, is unfathomable. And I don’t like it. People always leave.

  “Too soon?” he asks me. His tone is light, but I hear the worry in it, too.

  “No, it’s just…” It’s just you’re going to leave me. No one ever stays. Good marriages and never-ending romance don’t exist. “I don’t think you mean it.”

  He pauses his gentle strokes of my hair, just for a beat. “Why?”

  People always leave. My dad. My mom, to all of her husbands. I can’t recall a single friendship I’ve had that’s lasted the test of time, or a move, or a major life event. Usually, it’s my fault. I don’t keep in touch. I’m not a victim in that regard, but still, that’s life. That’s how it happens for me.

  “Your parents are not doing well,” I point out. “Mine are divorced. My mom is on her fourth marriage.”

  His hand trails down over the nape of my neck, and again, he turns over, unsettling my comfortable position against his chest. Then we’re lying on our sides, facing one another again, and he grabs my hand between us, his fingers threading through mine.