Tryst Six Venom

by Douglas, Penelope

  I’ll never let anyone else cost me what I love most in the world.

  And we walk into school together.

  One Month Later

  CLAY RUNS PAST me, and I start to charge her with my stick, but I stop, giving up. “You want to tell me why we’re still practicing?” I shout as the team races around us. “Season’s over.”

  She spins, running backward as she speaks. “We still have incoming freshmen to train this summer.”

  “And why did I agree to that?”

  “Because you do everything I say.”

  She winks, a wicked smile spreading across her face, and a jolt hits my heart the way it always does at the sight of her.

  “Actually, she promised you a massage,” Krisjen adds, jogging past me.

  Followed by Chloe. “A full body one.”

  Oh, yeah. Now I remember. She caught me at a weak moment.

  Girls run back and forth, Clay saving the ball from the goal, and I think she’s going to miss this. Being captain, she told me, has been one of the best parts of high school, because she got to spend time with me.

  I remember it a little differently. Body slams and extra workouts and her always hogging the ball. But she sure is trying to make up for it. She kept her word. She has been so pleasant.

  I swoop in front of her as she charges toward me and flings the ball off to Krisjen just as Clay pushes me to the ground. She lands on top of me, smiling, but I roll us over.

  I stare down at her. “I’m not sure I wouldn’t rather just spend it on the beach, instead.” I tell her. “Hell, I’d rather be on an air boat with Trace, gator hunting this summer, than sweating my ass off on this field one more second.”

  “Why were you ever on the team?” she fires back, because she knows this is the last thing I want to be doing with my time.

  But we both know exactly why I put up with this shit for so long, and it wasn’t because athletics looked good on my college applications.

  I cock an amused eyebrow, smirking a little.

  She smiles like she didn’t already know I was always here for her.

  “And gator hunting doesn’t start until August,” she says.

  “And he’s not hunting. Is that what he tells you?” Krisjen pants next to us. “He just feeds them marshmallows and then we sneak onto Mark Chamberlain’s house boat, drink his beer, and have sex.”

  I groan, rolling off Clay. “Too much information, Krisjen.”

  I rise, pulling Clay up after me, and notice blood on her knee. She’s wearing pants to prom, otherwise she’d be pissed about a scraped knee. I’m wearing a dress again, but this time it’s thin silk, tight, and there won’t be a stitch of underwear underneath. I enjoy making her sweat in public.

  Squatting down, I take her leg and use my shirt to pat away the blood. Coos go off to my left, and I turn my head at the girls on the bench looking at me like puppy dogs as I take care of her.

  I shake my head. Some people, as expected, were pricks about it all when Clay came out, but the advocates are louder, stronger, and much more vicious when they witness an injustice. Anyone who had shit to say soon found it was better to keep their stupid comments to themselves, unless they wanted to be immortalized on the internet forever.

  If anyone wasn’t a friend, they were at least quiet.

  Callum has never made eye contact again. It’s almost as if we don’t exist at school. He never appears without a girl wrapped around him, and I’m not sure who he’s trying to convince that he’s living his best life—us or himself—but the bruises Dallas gave him that night have healed, and Callum behaves like nothing ever happened.

  We stay out of his way. He stays out of ours. For now.

  Milo mysteriously left school following Fox Hill. We’d see him around town here and there, but no matter how many times I ask Clay about it, she denies playing any role in having him finish the school year from home instead of anywhere near me.

  Not that I don’t appreciate her throwing her weight around to protect me. Her mother’s help to protect the lighthouse—and essentially Sanoa Bay—worked like magic, after all. Her grandmother fought us on it, but her father backed off surprisingly quickly, even though he was one of the people who lost when the development deal fell through. I think he just lost the energy to do anything else that might make his family any more unhappy.

  “What are you all doing here?” I hear someone exclaim.

  We look up, seeing the coach in a sundress with her glasses pushed up on top of her head. She looks like she was passing by on her way back from the beach.

  “I have no idea,” I tell her, shooting Clay a look.

  Coomer checks her phone. “Prom is in four hours, Clay!”

  Everyone looks to Clay, my devious angel feigning innocence.

  “All right, we’re going,” she laughs. “See y’all tonight! Get out of here!”

  “Whooo!” a unanimous howl sounds.

  Everyone grabs their gear, thunder cracking across the sky, and I rise, pulling Clay in for a kiss now that everyone is clearing out.

  Her hands immediately go to my face, and I’m trying not to count the days left, but it’s always in the forefront of my mind.

  “Come on.” She takes my hand. “Hair, makeup…”

  “Shower,” I tell her, implying all good things start there.

  “I’ll be at your house in an hour,” Krisjen says to Clay.

  “Okay.”

  We put away our gear and take our bags, and I notice Amy sitting on the benches, packing up her stuff. Alone.

  The first day after the ball, Clay and I ate by ourselves in the cafeteria until Krisjen and Chloe joined us. Over the next few days, others found their seats closer until eventually, we were in the mix, no separation between our little party and everyone else. We’re a part of things now, despite whispers here and there.

  Amy never showed.

  And while she’s not alone at school, she looks lonely, because her pride won’t let her grow up.

  I eye Clay.

  She narrows her eyes, following my gaze to Amy and then back to me. She shakes her head.

  Yes, I tell her with my glare.

  Enemies are a choice. A result of our egos. They happen when we’ve chosen to see sheep instead of sleeping lions.

  Amy will be a lion. Like us. She just needs to wake up.

  Clay holds my stare, finally rolling her eyes, because she doesn’t give a shit about convincing Amy of anything, but she does whatever I say.

  We have that in common.

  She looks down at Amy, who keeps her eyes lowered like she doesn’t know we’re right here. “So, are you…getting ready at home tonight?”

  After a moment, Amy nods

  “By yourself?” Clay asks.

  Another nod.

  Clay’s eyes flash to me, and we both look at Amy, who still hasn’t met her eyes.

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” Clay says, swinging her bag over her shoulder. “Just bring your stylist. Margaritas kick off in fifty-nine minutes.”

  Amy shoots her eyes up, excitement and a smile on her face. She looks between Clay and me, the disdain I used to see there now gone.

  “Thanks,” she says.

  I have no idea if we can trust her, but I guess we’ll find out.

  I pull Clay along, our duffels hanging crossbody, as I rush us to my bike and hand over her helmet. Taking mine, I pull it over my head and climb on, Clay straddling behind me and wrapping her arms around my body.

  “Shower,” she whispers against my neck.

  Shivers hit me, and I kick the bike into gear extra hard, speeding off.

  I take us to her house, usually loving the feel of her too much to rush, but we’re busy tonight, and I want her to myself before everyone gets here.

  My dress is already in the living room, as well as some vanities set up for makeup and hair, and I can hear Clay’s mom chattering away on the phone, her earpiece hanging in her ear, as we run into the house

  “G
irls, slow down!” Gigi shouts as we race for the stairs. “You’re all muddy!”

  We kick off shoes on the marble floor. “Sorry, Mom!” Clay says, taking my hand.

  Clay’s mom holds a tray of beautiful, white frosting-covered little cakes with pink flowers decorated on the top.

  I reach out to take one but stop myself. “I need to fit into my dress.”

  Gigi leans in. “Take it from me: Eat the cake.”

  Well, if she’s going to twist my arm about it. I pluck a fancy little confection off the tray and let Clay haul me upstairs as I stumble and eat at the same time.

  “Your mom looks good,” I tell her over my mouthful.

  She pulls me inside her room and slams the door. “I think she’s feeling good, too.”

  “And your dad?”

  She pulls off her shirt, her black sports bra looking fantastic on her, and walks to the window, spying outside. She shrugs. “It doesn’t feel weird.”

  That he’s moved out, she means. Despite the flames and love that still exist between her parents, Gigi decided she needed to be alone, and good for her. Their divorce is proceeding.

  “I’m glad Henry isn’t here to see it,” Clay says, “but she’s getting younger every day. You know?”

  She peers out the window, down onto the patio, and I walk over, seeing her mother enter the small greenhouse she’d built—or had someone build—in the backyard below. She’s discovered a love of gardening, I guess.

  She’s also looking into a photography course, and teaching herself the stock market. At first, I thought she was trying to distract herself, but it seems to bring her joy. Learning how to grow again.

  I sit in the window seat, pulling Clay down between my legs. Her head falls back into my shoulder, and I kiss her hair.

  “I’m gonna miss you,” I say quietly.

  “Just be here,” she whispers. “Let’s not talk about it, okay?”

  “I can’t stop thinking about it, though.” A painful lump stretches my throat. “Maybe I can get into Wake Forest. Or you can come to Dartmouth.”

  “Too cold.” She shivers. “And I’m not going to Wake Forest.”

  Excuse me?

  “I haven’t told my parents yet,” she says. “But after everything, I think they know better than to stand in my way.”

  “Where are you going, then?”

  This is news. When did she decide this?

  She pauses, threading her fingers through mine on her stomach. “I’m staying, actually.”

  “What?”

  She draws in a breath and sits up, turning around to face me. “I’ve seen the world, Liv,” she tells me. “I’ve met people. Dressed to impress. I’ve had the same conversations with people I don’t like and networked with people I don’t want relationships with. Everything leaving home is supposed to give me, I’ve already had.” She doesn’t falter, gazing into my eyes and thoughtful. “I don’t want to be in a sorority where peer pressure will have me vomiting every carb, or hiding how much I love you, instead of some frat brother.” She touches my face. “I know what I want.”

  I don’t know if I’m unnerved or relieved. It’s normal to worry about her meeting someone else. Insecurities come with being separated. She’d make new friends at college, perhaps find something or someone who could take her away from me forever. It seems less likely now that she’s staying home and won’t be in that environment day in and day out.

  But if we’re going to have a future together, I don’t want her to feel like she missed out on anything, either.

  “I want to have a relationship with my parents again,” she tells me. “I’m going to intern with Mrs. Gates. Take my classes online. I want to be here.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “The only thing I’m not sure about is how hard it will be to watch you go.”

  Pain stretches across my chest, and I almost wince. It’s almost harder. Knowing she’ll be here. I’ll be able to picture everything. The places she’s eating. The storms when I check the weather. Her path to the funeral home every day.

  “But you have to leave,” she tells me softly. “Dartmouth is your dream. You’ve earned it. You deserve it.”

  I don’t want to leave. “Clay, things change…”

  “If you don’t go, you’ll always wonder.” She inches in, hovering her lips over mine and staring at my mouth. “I mean, you can stay, and we can get married since we’re eighteen, but then what?”

  I laugh, but then her words hit me, and I stop. It didn’t occur to me before she said it, but the words sound so right. I’m going to marry her.

  I see her chin tremble. “And if you come back…”

  But I press my finger over her lips. “I’m coming home.” And I take her face in my hands. “This doesn’t end.”

  “I love you,” she breathes out.

  And I kiss her, letting her feel my heart so she never doubts it.

  I’m going to marry her.

  Four Years Later

  I’M GONNA BE sick.

  I hover over the sink, seeing Macon through the window. He paces around the garage, working on my Bronco, and it seems like maybe I should wait to talk to him. He’s already fixing my car for free. I’d hate to ask for more.

  A slap lands on my ass, and I yelp, spinning around. Dex squeals, Cheetos crumbs all over his mouth, and then he runs away.

  “Dex!” I growl as he disappears out of the Jaeger’s kitchen.

  No manners, and why should he? I’ve only spent more time with him the last four years than his aunt. He’s absorbed nothing that I’ve tried to teach him.

  I dust his crumbs off my jeans and blow out a breath, smoothing down my hair. I’m more nervous to speak to Macon than I am to Liv.

  I take a couple of more deep breaths, and swipe the corners of my mouth, tidying up my lipstick, and head into the garage.

  “Turn it up,” Macon calls out.

  Army sits on the stool at the work table and reaches over, turning up the radio. Some Type O Negative song plays, and I hover at the doorway for a minute before I force myself down the steps.

  “I’m not done yet,” Macon says to me.

  He bends over the hood, twisting a wrench, and I stand on the other side, shifting on my feet.

  Can I speak to you in private?

  No, don’t say that. Adding occasion to this will just piss him off.

  So Liv and I…like since we’re moving into the old lighthouse…I was like…wondering if…

  Ugh. Why am I stuttering? After four years, I’m no more comfortable around this man than I ever was. Direct works best, but I feel like if I open my mouth and don’t prepare myself, I’ll puke.

  I open my mouth and then close it, my skin vibrating, and a light sweat dampening it.

  “Are you okay?” I hear someone ask.

  I look up, seeing Macon frozen under the hood and watching me.

  “Um, yeah. Why?”

  He starts working again. “You look like you have something to say.”

  I swallow a few times to wet my throat, but I realize I’m wringing my fingers, and I stop immediately.

  “I…um…” I can’t catch my breath.

  He stops again and looks up, and I sense that Army has stopped what he’s doing, as well, watching.

  Just say it. Jesus.

  I suck in a breath. “I would like to marry your sister.”

  He stands there, and he doesn’t even look like he has a heartbeat as he stares at me.

  My stomach roils, and I cough to stop myself from throwing up.

  I mean, is he surprised? Liv and I have been together since high school. We’ve weathered separation, doubt, a few fights, uncertain futures, and where our careers would take us. She even left Dartmouth for a week and came home because we couldn’t stand to be apart anymore.

  Until I convinced her to go back, that is.

  We just bought the lighthouse, and now we’re renovating it. He knows we’re in this forever.

  “And y
ou want me to what?” he asks. “Ask her if she likes you, but just don’t tell her you like her unless I know she likes you first or something?”

  Such an asshole. “I’m asking for your blessing.”

  “My permission, you mean?” he corrects, amusement lighting up his expression.

  I clench my jaw, my stomach all right now, but my anger rises to take its place.

  He laughs, glancing to Army and then back to me. “She doesn’t come with goats or land or anything. We’re poor people, Clay. I mean, you could probably get us to pay you to take her off our hands.”

  Army chuckles, and I cock a brow, losing my patience. “Macon…”

  “I don’t know, we might be able to stuff her arms with six packs of Bud or something,” he offers as her dowry. “Would that do?”

  Army cackles louder.

  Asshole! I tense up. “Would you shut up?” I bark at Macon. “This was supposed to be a beautiful moment, dammit.”

  I mean, excuse me for living. He’s a southern man. I thought the gesture of asking for his sister’s hand in marriage would be appreciated.

  Fuck it. I’ll just take her, then. “Are you going to create a stink if I marry your sister?” I growl.

  He and Army finish laughing at the irony of an independent woman like myself, a successful business owner, asking for a man’s permission for anything.

  He calms down, sets down his tool, and walks around the Bronco to me. A thoughtfulness hits his eyes. “Be good to her?”

  I square my shoulders.

  “Be faithful and supportive,” he tells me. “It was the only thing my father could do for my mother. It kept her alive.”

  I drop my eyes for a moment, knowing the mental illness that killed Trysta Jaeger years before she actually died. One of the hardest things to learn with my brother was that you couldn’t always take away the pain of those you loved. Just be there.

  “At the end of the day, that trust is all you need,” Macon says.

  I nod, a little surprised by the tears in my eyes.

  He turns and heads back to the car. “If you fail her,” he calls over his shoulder. “I feed you to the gators.”