I Love You Like That

by Heather Cumiskey

  That’s a lot of coffee, Hannah thought, even for Mom. She brought one of the mugs up to her nose, then another. They both contained the same coffee aroma, giving her some comfort. She pivoted around and looked for others in the sink. Her hand hesitated for a millisecond over the dishwasher before tugging on the handle.

  The plates were smeared in Chef Boyardee and some sort of Manwich variety, the juice glasses pink from Kerry’s Kool-Aid. Behind them more coffee cups were lined up, lip to lip, on the top rack. Her father didn’t drink coffee.

  Hannah sniffed the inside of one, then another. The vapors from these smelled like the rubbing alcohol she’d once used to sterilize her first pair of pierced earrings.

  The emptiness spread through her just like the cold water had. She was that little girl again, running through the house in her white First Holy Communion dress with bloodied knees, looking for someone to hold her.

  It’s only vodka. Not the pills. Her thoughts rambled. It’s okay, parents can have an occasional drink. Occasional, or every day? What if it’s every hour?

  She squeezed her eyes shut to stop her brain from spiraling into ugly thoughts about what her mother did when no one was paying attention. That was the problem. No one in her family paid attention to anything. She wasn’t even sure if either of her parents knew where she worked at the mall. Then again, maybe they didn’t care. Now she knew why.

  Since the summer began, Hannah had equated her family’s home life to four spinning tops whose paths never crossed. Her dad left early most days; her mother didn’t get up at all in the morning, leaving Kerry and Hannah to fend for themselves. And by the time Hannah got home from The Candy House, everyone else would be out somewhere. She couldn’t recall the last conversation she’d had with her mother. It’s like I don’t exist.

  Hannah yanked on the freezer door handle and started shuffling through the piles of Swanson and Banquet frozen dinners Kerry and her father dined on most nights when her hand landed on something cylinder-shaped. She pushed the boxes out of the way to see what it was. Behind the boxes, in one of the storage trays where extra ice was kept, a large jar of Jif Extra Crunchy lay on its side. Weird. Hannah brought it up to her face, wiping off the stars of freezer burn.

  Her heart sank inside her chest.

  The jar, meticulously cleaned, was filled halfway to the top with little pills: yellow ones with tiny fives imprinted on them, and blue ones imprinted with tens. The yellows far outnumbered the others, like someone was purposefully leaving her least favorite M&M color in the bottom of the candy dish. That same person had screwed the peanut butter jar’s lid on crooked, as if she had done so in haste—sort of like how the kitchen had been left.

  Hannah bit down on her lip, toying with the satisfying idea of dumping the whole container down the toilet. She looked around the kitchen, guessing where the other jars might be.

  Will flushing them finally end this, or will she only get more? How can I stop her?

  She flung open the door again, placed the jar in front of the boxes for the next person who opened the freezer to see, and slammed the door shut. A wave of control flooded her; she was finally doing something.

  She grabbed a Diet Coke out of the fridge and let the fizz singe her throat. She winced, feeling the tears rise. She stared at the freezer door thinking of little Kerry, who loved peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on Wonder Bread with the crust cut off. Hannah couldn’t just leave that bottle in plain sight.

  A long sigh escaped her lips.

  She placed the peanut butter jar back in the storage tray behind the boxes.

  She crossed her arms over her chest, her fingertips searching for the little bumps on the back of her triceps. She dug and scratched. Her anxiety still rose.

  Those damn doctors didn’t fix a freaking thing.

  “Hi there! So, where are we headed?” Peter grinned up at Hannah from inside his car.

  “Anywhere but here,” Hannah said dully as she slid into the passenger seat.

  “Hungry?”

  “No, I just wanted to get out of there.” She flicked a hand toward her house.

  “Okay,” Peter said. “Let’s hang indoors somewhere. It’s still boiling out.”

  Hannah gave him a small smile as he put his green Chevy in gear.

  The restaurant arcade in Norwalk had been a popular place for kids’ birthday parties when she was in elementary school. Though she’d never been invited to any, the place had always appeared to contain a small circus.

  Her expectations of a glittery spectacle quickly plummeted at the sight of the arcade’s dark, wet-looking carpet and the locker room smell that assaulted her senses the moment she and Peter stepped inside. The stench followed them everywhere, especially into the darkest corners of the arcade. The midnight-colored carpeting covered in bright neon swirls had clearly been selected to mask more than just dirt.

  Families began filtering out by the time Hannah and Peter arrived and were quickly replaced by roaming teens. Packs of clone-like, dressed-to-impress girls, from ribbon barrette-wearing pre-teens to older girls with crimped hair (à la Demi Moore in the new St. Elmo’s Fire movie), circled groups of boys, laughing and nudging one another and trying to steal their crushes away from their games.

  A few came paired and meandered around holding hands or with a hand in one another’s back pockets, leaning over games that lit up their faces as they engaged in long, R-rated kisses. Summer romances in full bloom, Hannah thought. It was obviously a huge pickup spot.

  Beside her, Peter acted like one of the kids she used to babysit, pulling her from game to game and trying to get her to join him. Her head pulsed.

  “Wanna get out of here?” Peter finally said, as if realizing how little Hannah was enjoying the experience.

  “Please.”

  They drove toward the lights in Gossamer Park. Hannah’s stomach dropped at the memory of what had gone down there six months earlier. She pushed away those thoughts.

  There were a few cars out that night. Peter drove to a different parking lot, near a freestanding picnic shelter that was deserted.

  He took her hand and led her into the structure. The full moon lit up the varying levels of concrete walls inside. He sat on a low wall that enclosed the fire pit within the structure, while Hannah, on a whim, chose to walk on top of a narrower wall that led up to the shelter and around the backside. All at once, she felt daring and alive, pretending she was atop a balance beam.

  “Come sit by me,” he urged.

  “I’m showing off my gymnast skills . . . tonight, I have great balance,” she announced, her arms extended wide.

  “You always say how clumsy you are . . . look at you now.” Peter chuckled, watching her.

  “I know, right? Must have been my need to get out of the house. The night air feels great.”

  “What was going on with your family, anyway?”

  “Nothing, just more of the same. They weren’t home when I left.”

  “Come here will you? I want to kiss you.” Peter patted the concrete next to him.

  “I’ve never been able to do this before . . . look, one foot!” She stretched her arms in front of her like Superman and raised her leg behind her, imitating those little gauzy-ballet-skirt girls she’d always envied. She smiled, steadying herself. Her eyes flicked over to Peter to see if he was still watch-ing—and Hannah lost her balance.

  She cartwheeled to the ground and landed on her side. She went from shock to relief that nothing was broken or bleeding. Then a gush of laughter expelled from her lips, turning quickly into unstoppable tears.

  Please, Mom . . .

  I’m so tired of it all.

  I can’t keep pretending.

  Peter jumped to his feet. “Oh my God, are you okay?” He stood over her. “Guess you are since you’re laughing. Here, let me help you up.”

  “Thanks,” she said, twisting her face away from him to blot her lower lashes with the side of her finger before reaching for his hand.

&n
bsp; Peter dusted her off, and together they walked back to the concrete wall where he’d been sitting. He pulled her into his lap and circled his arms around her. She rested her head on his shoulder.

  “You’re sure you’re okay?”

  She nodded. “Just uncoordinated . . . as always.” She grimaced. She knew she’d feel the fall in the morning.

  “It was pretty impressive—”

  “Until I spazzed out,” she said, making them both laugh. He tugged gently on the back of her hair, pulling her head back like a marionette, and kissed the front of her neck.

  His hands released her hair and slid down her back. He shifted to the side so he could look her in the face, and his handsome features grew serious.

  “Your eyes are sparkling in this light.”

  Hannah’s eyes drifted off to the side. She didn’t want to talk about it.

  He lifted her chin and began kissing her. He turned her to face him and pulled her left leg into a straddle around his waist. Her hands traveled up his strong arms and gripped his biceps. She could feel the warmth in his lap, sense his excitement growing. It excited her to be so wanted. She closed her eyes and inched her pelvis onto him. With both hands, he positioned her butt in closer and let out a low sigh.

  “Oh, Hannah, I want you so much,” he whispered into her hair.

  “Hmm,” she murmured, hoping that was enough of an answer.

  He lightly sucked on her top lip. “Do you want me . . . too?” he breathed.

  She didn’t know what she wanted, but she didn’t want his attention and affection to stop. She enjoyed the high it gave her. Wanting to get lost and desperate to escape, she tightened her legs and arms around him.

  Her actions made him crazier. Every part of him was aroused, and it made her feel powerful and in control.

  Maybe I can fall for you.

  He kissed her harder, and it felt good to get lost in his arms. To. Just. Not. Think. He was completely into her, and she wanted to turn him on more.

  Hannah leaned back—dizzy with desire, from the heat between their bodies. Her hands cupped the back of his neck, while his found her breasts. He laid her back on the cool concrete, his fingertips outlining the curves of her body. His light touch gave her chills. She wanted this boy to do things to her; she wanted the sensations he sent through her to lessen the drowning feelings she couldn’t escape.

  She sucked in air between every kiss, stopping her lonely secret from surfacing. She shut her eyes, forcing the images of those coffee cups and the jar in the freezer to fade.

  His hands traveled faster over her body, like he couldn’t get enough. “Oh, Hannah.” He dragged his lips over her face. “Let me love you . . . I’ll never leave you.”

  Her eyelids flipped open. What the hell?

  “Peter, you can’t say that.”

  “Why? It’s how I feel. I’ve been into you for so long. I know what I want. It’s you—”

  She pulled back. “It’s me, what?”

  “It’s you . . . who needs to . . . to get over a ghost.”

  “I . . . I . . .” Him bringing up Deacon at the height of them making out made her head spin. Where did that come from?

  “Your body tells me yes . . . it’s just that pretty head of yours,” Peter said, tapping the side of her temple, “that likes to tease, and give me mixed signals all the time.”

  The warm smile on his face clashed with his words, which held an underlying tone of—what was it? Anger? Was she wrong to be with him like this when his feelings were more intense? She thought her feelings could grow in time. But what if she was merely using him for the attention . . . or, worse, as a distraction?

  “I’m sorry, I’m being selfish,” she said slowly. “If this doesn’t feel right, I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “You’re not hurting me,” he said with a bleak chuckle. His eyes tightened, and he looked away.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “I’m not some weak guy.”

  “I know you’re not.”

  Peter clicked his teeth together. “I want more, Hannah. I want to do everything with you because you want me to. Because you can’t imagine being with anyone else.”

  “I know.”

  He kissed the tip of her nose and her face softened. His smooth fingers strummed the top of her shorts like raindrops before he found the metal button fastening them . . .

  Hannah jerked back and his hand dropped. She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against his. “I can’t.”

  “Be with me,” he whispered.

  “Is that a request or a command?”

  “Both.” He smiled, looking more like himself again. “It’s okay . . . I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Peter, I like being with you . . . obviously I do,” she said pulling her hair off her sweaty neck. “I’m just not sure I’m where you are . . . yet.”

  “Is that a question or a promise?” He smirked. “Never mind, don’t answer that.”

  “You make everything sound so sexy.” She laughed, hoping to lighten the air between them.

  Peter cocked his right eyebrow. “Be with me and you’ll realize . . . just how crazy you are for me.”

  CHAPTER 26

  South beach, Miami

  DEACON UNFOLDED HIS HEAVY LEGS FROM HIS BLACK Camaro and emerged onto the dark, palm-lined street that connected some of the largest houses in Miami Beach. He swallowed back the acid rising into his throat and stood gingerly, holding his abdomen. He most certainly had an ulcer.

  He hesitated, staring at the car keys in his hand, flirting with the notion of running away, driving far out of town, and never being seen again. He could run for the rest of his life from the cartel and Feds. Who was waiting for him back home? A loving family? Friends? What a joke, he thought.

  But then there it was. Hope.

  Hope that she still cared.

  It was all he had left. “Damn hope,” he grumbled, and dropped the keys inside his coat.

  His weighted legs moved like he was walking in a swimming pool. His brain switched to autopilot as he crossed through the tall hedges and into the gated driveway.

  He was walking toward his own suicide.

  The cartel’s new safe house—a pink, four-bedroom mansion on the Biscayne Bay—was a benign enigma to its well-to-do neighbors on either side, all of whom would surely move if they knew of its occupants.

  The house’s street-side entrance opened to a large circular driveway with tall palms planted in a wreath formation at its center. The full moon reflected off the lush leaves like a spotlight.

  Deacon stopped at the sound of voices streaming out into the night air from inside. It didn’t matter how many there were; everyone would be armed. And in a few short hours, sunlight and the Feds would crack this place open.

  This could be it.

  He paced a few times in front of the ring of palms like they were his jury. He cupped both sides of his neck to calm his nerves and replay his spin on the story before Chalfont drilled him. How did you let this happen . . . so many of my men gone . . . and yet you get away . . . how did you manage to escape?

  He climbed the stone steps with a hand over his exploding heart and the wire that was taped to his skin, underneath his shirt. He was reaching out to knock when the double doors sprang open and Pedro, one of Chalfont’s henchmen, lunged at him. Without a word, he took hold of Deacon’s collar and dragged him into the house.

  Oh, shit.

  They were equal in height and had never officially met. Deacon didn’t interact with most of Chalfont’s henchmen— mostly out of fear and his inability to keep up with their Spanish. Tonight, Pedro’s round face appeared two shades darker than Deacon remembered it being, and his eyes were blood-red, like every vessel in them had burst. His hair and face were wet with dirty sweat. His strength and rage took Deacon by surprise.

  “Tú, puto!” Pedro spat, pulling him down the hall and into the kitchen.

  “W-where’s Chalfont?” Deacon sputtered. “There wa
s a problem. Thompson never showed. The cops—”

  “You cobarde . . . you abandoned them! Mi hermano was with you tonight, and you just ran off!” Pedro screamed through spit and tears. He pulled Deacon’s face closer to his and a drop of his saliva flew into Deacon’s eye.

  “I didn’t, I swear,” Deacon said, cringing away. “I got lucky. I thought one of the cops was Thompson. I didn’t know until he started shooting at us!”

  “You abandoned your hermanos, my blood, you are un traidor, disloyal to la familia!” Pedro cried, bringing a knife to Deacon’s throat.

  Deacon cursed himself for not seeing this coming—the day that one, if not all, of them would turn on him.

  He fumbled, trying to get the gun from inside his coat.

  Pedro grabbed him tighter and pressed the blade deeper into his skin. Deacon’s knees caved; the blood from his upper body rushed to his feet.

  People ran through the house like thunder, speaking feverishly in Spanish. What is happening?

  A round of shots peppered the wall behind them, causing them both to jump.

  “You, Pedro, you’re the traidor. Leave mi hijo alone!” proclaimed Chalfont before firing into Pedro’s chest. The knife and Pedro dropped to the floor, his blood decorating the wall above the stove.

  The room spun. Deacon grabbed onto the nearest counter. When the shouting ceased, Deacon looked toward the sound of a woman crying and saw only Chalfont with Luis at his side, both of them statues of composure.

  Deacon coughed like mad. Neither of them said a word. He’s going to kill me next.

  “C-Chalfont, listen, we had a problem with the transport,” he blurted, trying to catch his breath. “Thompson never showed. The police ambushed us. They intercepted the drop at the docks. We lost a shitload, capitán!”

  Chalfont’s beady pupils shrank into pinpoints. “Luis, have one of the men clean this up,” he ordered in a low, razor-sharp tone. He slung his gun over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving Deacon’s. Luis’s look of amusement confused Deacon even more.