Before & After You

by Michelle Chamberland

  I was great at pretending. But I felt like I was going to burst.

  Did he like me, or didn’t he? No, strike that. I wasn’t an idiot. He liked me, at least a little bit. It was just that a little bit wasn’t enough for him to risk burning his bridges with Jaymes over. And for that, I was at a total loss. Because if he felt even a fraction of what I felt, it would be worth burning down that whole damn house.

  Yet here we were. Pretending.

  I knew exactly what would make pretending easier: whiskey.

  I lifted Sara’s legs from my lap and stood from the couch, making my way into Jaymes’ kitchen. He had a nice house. Nicer than any of our friends, anyway, and nicer than anything I’d ever grown up dwelling in. And his mom was never home, always either working or staying the night at her boyfriend’s house a few hours away—hence the parties Jaymes constantly threw.

  I reached into the back of his mom’s liquor cabinet for the good stuff when I felt a body press into the back of mine.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Jaymes said, his lips touching my ear for a brief second before pulling away.

  I fell back down onto my heels in defeat and spun around, forcing him a few steps back with two hands on his chest. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Jaymes. It was just that…sometimes I really didn’t like him.

  He was pushy. And pushy got old, quick.

  “You leave my bed empty for weeks and then come in here and try to sneak my top-shelf? Tsk, tsk,” he said, stepping back into my space.

  I scoffed, mildly amused. “If you think I’m going to feel sorry for you, you’re delusional. I’m sure you’ve had no trouble at all finding a new bedtime companion.”

  He smirked. “But you’re still my favorite.”

  “God, you’re such a douche,” I said through an unwitting smile.

  Honestly, I didn’t know why I liked him. Probably because he made me laugh with his stupid and blunt honesty. There weren’t enough wholly honest people in this world, so sometimes the rare ones who were came off as complete assholes. Prime example: Jaymes. Could I really fault him for that?

  Absolutely. I absolutely could. But I also respected him for it.

  He placed his hand on my shoulder, running it down the length of my arm before taking my hand in his and pulling me to the side. He reached up and grabbed the bottle I’d had my eye on and poured us each a shot. I held my glass up to him, and he clinked his against mine, his dark eyes boring into mine.

  Something I hadn’t mentioned about Jaymes before? He was far from unattractive. Tall, toned. Mischievous eyes and a dimpled smirk to match. Sometimes I didn’t understand why I couldn’t let myself like someone who made it so blatantly clear that he wanted me.

  “To getting you back into my bed, and hopefully under me, real soon,” he toasted, biting my chin before tossing back his shot.

  Ah, there it was. The understanding I was missing two seconds ago.

  I swallowed my shot in one gulp, wiped his slobber from my chin, and started making my way back to the living room.

  He pulled me back by my hand, forcing me to turn around and face him again. “In all seriousness, I miss you.” He wrapped his arms around me, pulling me in for an aggressive, arms-squished-to-my-sides hug before releasing me. “I miss our sleepovers. I miss the way you crazy-talk when you’re dreaming, and most of all,” he paused for dramatic effect, “I miss accidently copping a feel in my sleep.” He winked, and I shoved him away with a sarcastic laugh.

  “Always a pig. Tell me again—why are we friends?”

  He clutched his heart as if my words hurt him, mocking me. “That’s cold, Jess. It really is.”

  I shook my head at his stupidity, biting back a smile. Why did I like him? Why did I hate him? Once again, it wasn’t lost on me that Jaymes plus Jess equaled complicated.

  When I turned back around to leave the kitchen, Sara was standing there eyeing me suspiciously. I shrugged my shoulders and rolled my eyes, relaying a silent: Typical Jaymes, and left for the living room, plopping down onto the couch. Two seconds later, Jaymes followed, sitting down right next to me. He threw his arm around my shoulders, giving me zero space.

  I saw the way Greyson’s jaw clenched from clear across the room. His eyes were burning holes into the side of Jaymes’ unsuspecting face.

  And yeah, this whole scenario was not good for my case.

  “You know what,” I said, tossing Jaymes’ arm up and off of me. “I think it’s time for me to go. I’m tired.” I yawned.

  He quickly nudged my head towards his crotch. “Aww, babe. Right here, in front of everyone? Okay!”

  I smacked his hand out of my hair and sat back up. “In your dreams,” I groaned. Jaymes had the lovely habit of shoving my head towards his manhood every time I yawned, saying I was already halfway towards a blowjob, so I might as well make that last stretch.

  “Every night,” he responded, making a crude gesture with his fist.

  Yep. He never failed to remind me of the many reasons I also couldn’t stand him.

  Greyson stood suddenly. “I’m heading out, too. You need a ride home, Jess?” He was simply asking. At least that’s what it must have looked like to everyone else, but I felt the way his eyes reached into me, pleading, demanding. It made my stomach flip.

  “Um, sure. Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks,” I replied. I stood from the couch and gave everyone in the room a small wave before following Greyson outside; he hadn’t acknowledged any of them.

  We made it halfway to his car before he spun around on me. “Does he always talk to you like that?” he asked.

  It took me off guard. The anger behind his words more than anything. “Who, Jaymes? Have you met the guy?” I laughed. “Of course he does. It’s Jaymes.”

  “Doesn’t it bother you?”

  Yes. No. Of course. I shrugged. “Not really.”

  He bit his lip, slowly nodding, his obvious irritation betraying his silence. He opened Lady’s door for me but didn’t wait around long enough to close it. And then he started the engine, wordlessly pulling away from Jaymes’ house. He remained quiet, driving, even though he had no idea where I lived.

  So, it appeared he was giving me the silent treatment. Awesome.

  I let the silence linger, watching him. I didn’t know what thoughts were running through his mind, but I saw the way he rapidly jumped from one to another, each one making him grow more and more irritated.

  “Does it bother you?” I finally felt the need to ask him.

  He laughed under his breath, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel. It was a while before he finally answered—with only a half-assed shrug thrown my way.

  O-kay.

  How in the hell had we gone from two hours ago to now? From holding hands in the corner of a dark pub, and watching him perform for the first time ever, and him running straight to me and pulling me up and into his arms in his excitement…to this?

  I started quietly giving him directions even though he hadn’t asked for them. A right here, a left there, and so on and so on. My mood was shifting, too. Growing darker. Irritated.

  Because, really? What the hell was his problem? I hadn’t done anything to deserve his cold shoulder. I let that thought simmer, growing angrier.

  He must’ve caught on that we were heading towards his house, but he still didn’t say anything.

  He didn’t say anything the entire way there. Not even when we pulled up to the curb out front. Only his eyes gave away his surprise, widening just a fraction.

  My knee was bouncing, agitated. Did I just walk away without a word, or confront whatever…this was?

  I went with the latter. “So, you’re not going to say anything to me? This is how our day ends?” I asked him.

  He ran his hand through his bleached-blond hair, half of it falling back into his face, and sighed. “No,” he said quietly. “No. I’m sorry, Jess. I just…”

  I felt all of my irritation melt away with his words. At the amount of sincerity
and remorse I felt in them. “You just…?”

  He shrugged, refusing to say whatever words were on the tip of his tongue.

  The wave of frustration rolled its way back in. I bit back an irritated growl, blowing out an audible breath instead. “You just…maybe like me more than you’ll admit. And maybe, it does bother you. The way Jaymes is with me.”

  He finally looked over at me, his green eyes pinning mine. “I’d say that’s pretty obvious.”

  “But you won’t do anything about it?”

  He leaned his head back on his headrest, closing his eyes, taking in a deep breath. He was still facing me, but I would’ve missed the way he barely shook his head no if I hadn’t been watching him so intently.

  I nodded even though he couldn’t see it. “Honestly, I feel like I’m missing something. Because Jaymes doesn’t give two shits about anyone but himself, so I can’t, for the life of me, figure out why someone like you would be so loyal to someone like him.”

  He clenched his jaw. Once, twice. Before laughing. If you could even call it that. It was short, dark, unamused. “Jaymes is a prick,” he said, shrugging. “Doesn’t change the fact that he’s one of my only true friends. Or the fact that I owe him more than I can ever repay.”

  It wasn’t the first time he’d mentioned this. I couldn’t imagine why, or for what, he’d ever owe him for. But I could see the way that, for whatever reason, it weighed on him.

  “Will you ever tell me why?” I swallowed thickly.

  He shook his head again, shutting me out.

  I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted to punch something. I knew it wasn’t justified, but it felt like I was constantly losing something that was never even mine to begin with.

  Maybe the way I felt about him was a lost cause after all.

  I opened the car door, stepping out. “Goodnight, Greyson.”

  “It should bother you,” he quickly said, quiet, his voice rough.

  I knew he was talking about Jaymes, about the question he’d asked me earlier. But what did it matter?

  “Yeah, it should,” I simply said, shutting his car door. I walked away from him without another word, knowing we’d somehow move on from this and keep on pretending.

  Pretending Jaymes’ opinion meant anything to either one of us.

  Pretending we weren’t drawn to each other.

  Pretending that any time we were in a room together, it didn’t feel like all of the oxygen had been sucked out it.

  Pretending, pretending, pretending.

  We were so good at pretending.

  Nineteen Before

  IT WAS ONE of those mornings. The ones where I woke up and rolled over in bed and forgot where I was. Disoriented. Displaced.

  I felt outside of myself. Like my body was lying there in bed, but my consciousness was lurking in the corner, watching the lump of a human inhaling and exhaling under her covers, wondering why she bothered to get up at all sometimes.

  It didn’t have anything to do with Greyson. Not really.

  It’s true that he provided a distraction. Something to look forward to. Someone whose light seemed to wash out my darkness when I was with him.

  But the darkness catches up. It always does.

  It didn’t matter what I did, what false distractions I latched myself onto, it was always there. Waiting. So damn eager to pounce.

  And when it did, it came without warning. Like swimming in an ocean and being completely blindsided by a wave. The way it crashes down on you and pulls at you, dragging you under, shoving you so far beneath the surface that for a moment, you’re sure you won’t survive it. That you’ll drown and completely succumb. That was what my darkness felt like. No rhyme, no reason. It just came for me, over and over and over again. Trying desperately to take me out.

  I buried myself deeper into my bed and blankets. Shutting out the world. It would be there for me when I woke up again.

  That’s how it worked, right? It kept turning. Kept moving.

  There wasn’t a single human on this planet that could stop it. Life went on with or without you. And that morning, I didn’t care to be a part of it. I was weighted to my bed. At least a hundred pounds heavier. It would feel like carrying two people out of my sheets instead of just the one of me with the effort it would require. So I didn’t bother to try.

  I just laid there, unmoving, drifting in and out of sleep.

  It was late afternoon by the time my body refused to let me keep lingering in bed. My stomach churned with hunger; my mouth was dry. I had to get up soon…

  I reached over and opened my nightstand drawer, digging into the far back until I could feel the familiar worn edges of the picture.

  It was the only one I kept of her. Of my mom.

  I was in it, too. We were in a parking lot somewhere, her arms wrapped around me from behind. I was maybe three. Young enough to still think the world of her. My cheek was smudged with dirt. I was barefoot, drowning in one of her shirts that she’d rolled the sleeves up on. I looked so happy—in my oblivion.

  I don’t know why, but I’d always kept that picture with me. Maybe it was because it was the only proof I had, that at some point, in some way—in her way—my mom loved me.

  Twenty Before

  BY THE TIME I finally rolled out of bed, the sun was already starting to set. I stood up—too quick—and my vision went black before fading out and leaving me with the sight of my bare feet on the wooden floor of my room.

  I walked over to the pictures on my wall. There were twice as many now, and more of Greyson than I’d care to admit. But looking at them made me smile. Especially the one of Sara with bugged eyes and a mouthful of marshmallows. We’d been playing “Chubby Bunny,” a game where we stuffed ourselves full of marshmallows until we couldn’t say “Chubby Bunny” anymore, and I’d taken that picture of her just before she spit them all out into Jaymes’ sink.

  I ran my fingers over the other pictures, stopping on one of Greyson. The one of Greyson. My favorite one. There were two of them now. Because after he officially shut me down that night, I never gave it to him. That would have been exceptionally awkward. To hand over the physical proof that I was obsessed with him after he basically told me it was never going to happen. So, yeah, no. I didn’t give it to him. But maybe I’d have the guts to give it to him some other time.

  I walked back over to my bed, grabbed the picture of my mom and me that I’d shoved under my pillow, and added it to the collage on my wall. Right next to the one I took of some wildflowers growing through the rocks on the hills behind my school. They kind of reminded me of each other. Gave me the same feel. That it was possible for something beautiful to grow from such a dark and desolate place.

  My stomach growled, effectively pulling me away from the weight of that thought. I didn’t want to go downstairs, but I had to. I was starving. I looked down at my loose shirt and shorts and shrugged. It was decent enough. Not that they’d pay much attention to me anyway—my dad and his new family. I bet I could go down there and shatter every glass against the wall and they’d barely bat an eye.

  But oh, how wrong I was. As soon as I stepped foot in the kitchen, I could feel their eyes trailing my every move. Elizabeth—my dad’s wife—pulled the twins from their highchairs and gave my dad a kiss on the cheek, saying something too low for me to hear before leaving the room.

  After another awkward minute or so, my dad cleared his throat. “Could I speak with you for a moment, Jessica? Please.”

  I turned to him with a granola bar halfway to my mouth and leaned back against the counter, giving him a silent yet reluctant go ahead.

  He slid some pamphlets out in front of him, spreading them out on the table. I couldn’t see what they were. Probably for some boarding school he planned on sending me off to so he wouldn’t have to see my face anymore.

  “Liz and I have been talking, and…” he swallowed, clearing his throat again. “I know you’re not very open to talking with us, and you have every reason to be
closed-off and angry, but we think…we think it would be good if you could talk to someone. Someone you might feel comfortable enough opening up to.”

  What the hell was he going on about?

  “We thought it best to give you some time, but it’s been months now, Jessica, and you still walk through this house with your shields up.”

  My fingers tightened around the counter behind me. I was the one with a problem?

  “You need to talk to someone about your mother.”

  My heart was racing, pumping blood through my veins in overdrive. What the hell would he know about what I needed?

  “I—we had no idea things had gotten so bad for the both of you. Your mom, she never—”

  Fuck that; and fuck him. I threw my granola bar onto the counter, taking an anger-fueled step towards him. “How in the hell would you know?” I cut him off. “Did you ever call? Did you ever even try to come see me? No! You didn’t! You don’t know shit about how bad it got! And you know what? That’s fine. But you don’t get to act like you give a shit now!” I yelled that last sentence so loud my voice went hoarse by the end of it.

  Because seriously, this was bullshit!

  “Jessica,” he pleaded. “I want nothing more than to explain to you—”

  “Fuck your explanations!”

  He didn’t even flinch at my words, at how loud they’d come flying out of my mouth. “We have to make the best of this situation,” he continued in vain. I wasn't hearing any of it. I didn’t think it was possible to be that angry, yet there I was, ready to break everything in that goddamn house of his.

  I rubbed at the ache in my chest. What had he said? Make the best of this situation?

  “That’s not what I meant,” he cut in, somehow reading my mind.

  “I don’t care what you meant,” I said through clenched teeth, walking straight out of that kitchen and through the front door, slamming it as hard as I could behind me.

  I only made it to the curb out front before I almost lost my shit. I was pissed, livid. At myself more than anything. Because I felt like I might cry, but screw that, and screw them, and screw everything!