Malaise

by Max Henry

  Carver shrugs at my question, that crooked smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “Who knows? But promise me wherever it is, you’ll let me drive?”

  I chuckle and push up on my tiptoes to place a chaste kiss on his nose. “Always.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Carver lies spread out on the bed while I examine every inch of the motel room. His amusement at my simple joy is clear given the wide smile on his face.

  “Do you know they have these cute little things?” I hold up the tiny plastic tubs of Marmite and peanut butter.

  He nods, his grin growing wider. “Yeah, babe, I do.”

  The one and only time I stayed in paid accommodation, I was too young to remember anything other than how enormous the twin bed seemed at four years old. Our family never did the annual holiday thing like so many kids at school.

  “Do you have to pay for this stuff?” I ask, picking up a tiny price card from the back of the basket.

  “Yeah, but if you want to use it, go ahead.”

  He shifts across the bed as I approach, and rolls to his side. I climb on the mattress and sit beside him, legs folded, my knee brushing against his chest. “What are we going to do tomorrow night?”

  “What do you mean?” He frowns, reaching out to run a finger down my shin.

  “You don’t have a job anymore, so how can I expect you to cover the cost of this?” I lift my hands and indicate the room around us. “We’ll have to figure something else out.”

  “Yeah.” His hand drops away with a resigned sigh, and I lament the loss of his touch.

  “Maybe after I talk with your dad he’ll let me stay with you guys?”

  Carver rolls to his back and crosses both arms above his head. I crawl closer, pulled to him by something I can’t yet put my finger on, and lie down at a right angle to him, my head on his chest. He drops a hand across my chest, curling his hand around and stroking his fingers through my hair as he talks.

  “I guess I’d hoped that I could put off you two meeting. I mean, Dad’s never going to be a nice guy to get to know, but I didn’t want you to add that stress to what’s already the week from hell.”

  Four days. Only four days have passed since we lost Den, and yet it feels like a lifetime with everything that’s been going on. “I miss him even when I’m not thinking about him,” I murmur, finding the edge of the sheet to fidget with.

  Carver’s hold tightens, and I drag in a deep breath, relishing the ease his musky scent brings me.

  “It’ll get easier.”

  His mum. He’s been through this; he speaks from experience. “How long did it take for you to feel… whole again?”

  “I don’t know.” He sighs. “I guess it was a few months before I stopped wondering how different the day would have been if Mum was still in it. But truthfully? I don’t think you ever get past it and feel the same as you did before, you just start believing that how you are now is normal.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “But?” Carver asks, sensing my hesitation.

  “But… I wonder sometimes, do people look at me and think I don’t care? Because I don’t walk around with a veil over my face and a handkerchief permanently under my nose, do they think I’m over it?” I frown, fingers picking at the edge of the bedding. “But then I also wonder if openly grieving would be easier, you know? Like, all shoving it down does is make it hurt even more. It condenses the pain into a tiny space it can’t fit in, and when I stop to think about the fact I’m never going to have another day to talk with Den, to hug him, or whine at him for teasing me, it feels as though I’m going to burst into a thousand pieces.”

  “Babe….”

  “I know it’ll get easier, like you say, that eventually I’ll be able to think of him and only smile about the good times. But shit, Carver, it’s as though I’m half-dead. It’s as if my ability to feel anything has been smothered, like I’m only operating on 50 percent.”

  He reaches his far hand across himself to grab my hips and drag me over the bed so we lie flush, side by side. I nestle back into his warmth and bring his legs up with mine. His chest heaves with a sigh, and he leans forward to place a gentle kiss on the shell of my ear as I fight the tears of confusion.

  “You feel this?” he murmurs against my skin.

  My words fall from my lips breathlessly. “Yeah, I do.”

  Carver moves his mouth to the intersection of my jaw and neck, placing two more gentle kisses against my flesh. “What about that?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  His nose tickles a gentle path along my neck, and he sighs. “As long as I’ve got hold of you, babe, I’ll make sure you never stop feeling a damn thing.”

  I roll in his arms and place a hand to his shoulder. He shifts to prop himself up on one elbow, and looks down at me with nothing but adoration. Yet there’s still that hesitation in his gaze. “What’s holding you back?”

  “Everything that shouldn’t.”

  “So why is it then?” I whisper.

  He closes his eyes briefly, and then opens them as he leans down to kiss me on the forehead. “Because if I give in and stick a middle finger up to the world to make this work between us… I’m scared, babe. I’ve never had this with anyone; the connection I get from you. I want more of it, and I’m scared if people find out about what we’re doing here, they’ll take you away and I’d have ruined any chance at ‘us’ because of my damn impatience.”

  “Who’s to know, though?” I jerk my head at the room around us and shrug in his hold. “It’s just you and me here, nobody else. Who’s to know how we choose to spend this time together?” I look deep into his eyes and plead with my gaze as well as my words. I need this.

  If he rejects me now… if we get this far only to have him pull away again.... When would I ever be enough if not now?

  He continues to gaze down at me, a war raging inside his mind. The air between us thickens to the point of my breathing becoming a slow and laboured process. I reach a tentative hand up and stroke two fingers down the side of his face, my lips parting as I do. His gaze follows the movement of my mouth, and he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth briefly before letting it go with a sigh.

  I’m fixated on the reddened flesh, obsessed with the idea that I could kiss that graze away, that my lips could bring relief to where he’s inflicted harm on himself in the name of keeping under control.

  “Meg?”

  “Yeah,” I say quietly, my fingers creeping toward his mouth to touch that spot.

  “If we start this now, it’s never going to end.”

  “I know,” I whisper.

  My fingertips brush the flesh below his bottom lip, my eyes tracking the movement. He sucks in a sharp breath, his gaze hooded as he tenses over top of me. I stretch out, seeking his foot with mine, and tangle our legs at the ankles.

  “Talk to me, Carver.”

  He shuffles his arm so that he can stroke the hair from my face whilst still holding his weight. “Have you ever been kissed, Meg?”

  I open my mouth to speak, yet he cuts me short.

  “Not those stupid kisses you steal with some boy you hardly know while nobody’s looking, but a real kiss. One that you wish wouldn’t end, that you wish you could hold on to and keep?”

  I hold his gaze as I shake my head, my heart alight at the anticipation of what’s coming next. Age is only a number. What does it matter if we’re two consenting adults? I’m not naïve; I know where this leads. And I’m not scared.

  I’m ready.

  For him.

  For us.

  The bed dips as Carver rolls his body over top of mine, propping himself up on both elbows, either side of my head. Our hips are connected, the weight of his body comforting as much as it’s exhilarating. His chest brushes mine with each breath.

  “Truth or dare?”

  “Pardon?” Isn’t he supposed to be closing this space between us, taking what he wants?

  “Truth or dare, Meg. Pick one.”

&n
bsp; “Truth.” Always the truth.

  “The truth is,” he says, slightly breathless, “I wished you’d said dare.” His eyes search mine, his pupils dilating. “Dare me, Meg. Don’t give me a reason to wait any longer.”

  I wet my lips, my chest pressing firmly against his. “I dare you.” His breath catches, giving me confidence. “I dare you to kiss me how you’ve been wanting to since we first met.”

  His hands are in my hair, his grip sure and firm as he holds me steady. I close my eyes when our mouths find each other, the unique rush of adrenaline from the connection exactly what I’ve been searching for. For so long I’ve felt like a part of me has been missing, like there was something not quite there, and it was him. All along. It was this, the feeling of being completely and utterly whole, that your entire life now revolves around the person whose mouth has the ability to erase the entire day and condense it down to one perfect minute, one shot at hope, and one reason to live life to the fullest.

  I open my eyes, dejected when he breaks away. “Why did you stop?”

  “Jesus…,” he mutters before bringing that bliss back, fusing our mouths and minds so that all I am is who we are, right now.

  A groan slips free as he shifts his legs to place a knee between mine. In one swift move, he knocks my legs wider, placing his thigh down hard on the sensitive area between my legs. I rock back, desperate to deepen this state of euphoria, and moan.

  Wrong move.

  Carver jerks back as though I’ve slapped him, pushing up on both hands to hover over me with a look of sheer horror on his face. “I have to stop.” He backs off the bed and stands at the foot as I prop myself up on both elbows to look at him. “That… I… you’re still seventeen.”

  Fuck! “So?”

  “So it’s statutory rape, Meg. Even if we both consented.”

  What does he mean? “What do you think the legal age is, Carver?”

  He frowns. “Eighteen.”

  I swallow hard, the sound loud in the otherwise quiet room. “It’s sixteen.”

  “What?”

  “Sixteen is the legal age of consent in New Zealand.”

  His chest rises and falls rapidly, his hands pushing through his hair. “Yeah?”

  I nod. “Yeah. Eighteen is the drinking age, but sixteen is consent.”

  “You shouldn’t have fucking said that, Meg.” He stalls, eyeing me as though he’s hesitant still.

  “You won’t break me,” I whisper.

  He shakes his head. “Are you sure about that?” The conflict within him is almost tangible.

  I shift to my hands and knees and crawl to the foot of the bed. “We don’t have to have sex. We could just… you know, kiss and stuff.”

  He chuckles as though I’ve just cracked the best one-liner ever. “Babe, you groaning and writhing around under me like that?” He gestures to the obvious bulge in his jeans. “I’m a guy, Meg. It kind of calls to my primal instincts.”

  I sit back on my heels with a huff, frustrated in so many ways, some of them new. My stomach flutters, my insides still abuzz after what he did. I need release. “What is it with guys and the need to go all the way or not at all?” I flick my legs out and flop onto my back, my hair billowing out around me as I do. “Maybe I just want you to touch me. Maybe I just want your hands on me, not necessarily in me?”

  Long, unnerving silence.

  I push up on my elbows again to see what he’s doing, and my breath hitches. He’s poised at the foot of the bed, hands laced behind his neck showcasing that amazing physique, and staring at me with the raw intensity of an animal waiting to devour its kill.

  “Carver?” I ask shakily.

  “You’ve thought about this before?”

  “Well, yeah.” I return to sitting, pulling my ankles in close to my body. “Haven’t you?”

  “Every fucking day.”

  I duck my chin and avert my gaze to the floor. Why does that admission make me so uncomfortable?

  “What is it?” He sits on the end of the bed, coaxing my face to his with a hand beneath my chin.

  “Why me?”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re….” I stall, realising I don’t even know his true age. I’ve got a fair idea, but still. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  I sigh, looking down to my fingers laced over my ankles, my chin atop my knees. “Seven years difference.”

  “That’s worth jack shit when you find the one who’s meant for you.”

  I look up and give him a weak smile. “People won’t understand, will they?”

  He shakes his head, reaching out to loop an arm behind my calves. “Nope.” He jerks his arm toward him, straightening my legs out. “But if you’re happy”—he pushes my shoulder so I lie down—“and I’m happy”—and crawls over top of me—“then what does it fucking matter?”

  I lift my head off the bed, eager to connect again. His lips find mine, and the truth of his words hits home. He’s happy. I’m happy. When we’re together, nothing else matters. He gets me, understands me, and wants me for who I am—nothing more. A lifetime of that acceptance is worth more than a day of adoration from the people who doubt me.

  People like my parents.

  “You and me, right?” I ask when he pulls back to catch his breath.

  “Always.”

  EIGHTEEN

  My feet criss-cross in a recurring rhythm as I study my English notes from throughout the year. Turns out the box that was heavy as hell contained all my school stuff… including my exam schedule that must have been delivered to the house after I bolted from the quad on Monday.

  I run a pink highlighter over the phrases and definitions that need to stick, and bite the end of the pen. The motel room is quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic as it passes by on the street. Carver went out this morning to ask around for work, determined that he’ll find a way to have us stay here as long as we need to.

  I think he just likes playing pretend and imagining this is how it would be if we did live together. Or maybe that’s me just hoping he’s thinking the same way I am? Either way, it’s nice.

  I woke up this morning with his arm lying heavy over my middle, and stayed where I was until he woke, just relishing where I was and how it felt to be cared for so deeply.

  As much as he said he couldn’t, he does know how to just “kiss and stuff.” I drop the highlighter and roll to my back as every intimate part of me throbs at the memory of his hands over my flesh, his fingers telling a story that his eyes echoed. My lips still ache from a night spent being woken repeatedly when he wanted more.

  As if I would say no.

  Realising my study session is screwed, I get off the bed and cross to the stash of condiments and coffee samples in the wee basket. I pick a minted blend, and find where the jug and cups are kept. The water slowly boils as my phone vibrates on the bed behind me.

  Carver: No luck this morning. You like donuts?

  Do I like donuts? Is the sky blue? Is the Pope a catholic?

  Cinnamon, I reply.

  I’ve got no idea what we’ll do if his dad won’t let me stay there with Carver. The few hundred I’d saved in my account was for bond when I found a place in the city. I could give in and use it, but then that’d mean staying in Whitecaps longer while I rebuilt that account. Could I do that? It’s not as though I’m going anywhere in a hurry anyway. There’s nothing forcing me to leave, other than my own selfish desire to get out of this black hole.

  I’m still running through scenarios in my mind when Carver returns to the motel. He pulls the Falcon up in the park outside our unit, and I greet him at the door like an overexcited puppy when he walks in with a paper bag in his hand.

  “Didn’t know if you like jam-filled or not, so I bought both.”

  “Either. I’m not fussy.”

  He leans down, holding the bag out to the side so I can push up on my tiptoes and lay a kiss on his cheek.

  “How much studying did you ge
t done?” His eyes roam over my things still spread out on the bed, and the two coffee cups waiting for the hot water in the kitchenette.

  “A bit.” As though I’d tell him why I had to stop. Embarrassing. “Would you like a hot drink to go with?” I gesture to the donuts as he pulls out a plate for them.

  “Love one.”

  “Nobody’s hiring then?”

  His gaze darkens as he sets four sugary donuts on the dish. “Or they aren’t hiring me. I can’t tell which it is.”

  “You think your last boss put out a bad word?” I flick the switch down on the jug and set it off bubbling again.

  “Babe, my last name is a bad word.”

  Right.

  “When’s your first exam?” He pops a hip into the counter and takes a bite of one of the donuts. Sugar coats his lips, and I stare while he licks it off.

  “Um, Friday.”

  “Which subject?”

  “English.”

  I pour the boiling water into our mugs and stir as he takes another bite, sugar falling onto his chin.

  “You got work tonight, right?”

  I nod, handing him a mug and snatching up my own donut. The cinnamon sugar sticks to my lips, and on instinct I dart my tongue out to lick it off.

  Carver stands silent, watching, hunger in his eyes.

  “Don’t forget your coffee,” I whisper.

  He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and lets it pop before turning away to pick up the mug. I take another couple of bites while he’s distracted.

  “What are you going to do if you can’t get any work?”

  “Hadn’t really thought past asking around, to be honest.” He stands with the cup half raised, side-on to me. “Can’t remember how long the stand-down period is before I can get the unemployment benefit.”

  “Well, hopefully you won’t need to, right?”

  He nods, mouth full of coffee, and swallows. “Yeah, hopefully. But if it’s what we need to get by, then I won’t say no to a handout.”

  I hate that he’s in this situation, and I hate even more that I’m the one making it hard for him. If he didn’t have me to think about, he could go home, but because of his dad he chooses to keep us away.