Losing Me, Finding You

by C. M. Stunich

  “I know.”

  Mireya and I keep walking, but she quickly outpaces me and disappears into the cool darkness of the hotel lobby with no indication that she wants me to follow her this time. I haven't even had a drink with the girl yet and already, Mireya Sawyer is not a fan of Amy Cross. I rub my hand along the stubble on my jaw and wonder if I should shave.

  “Hey asshole,” Gaine says from behind me. I don't turn around to look at him, instead keeping my gaze on the growing crowd and the lines of blistering metal that hold my heart in a tighter bind than any girl ever could. There are a lot of MCs here, colors flying, scoping out one another's bikes, along with a whole horde of rubberneckers and gawkers trying to figure out what we're all about. The folks in the leather know how to keep their distance, but the rest of the people, the ones in khaki and sweaters that don't make a lick of damn sense in the hot sun, those are the ones that keep touching and poking their hands where they don't belong. “I saw you go into that dress place down the block. You and Mireya have something goin' on you want to tell me about?”

  “Yeah, right,” I laugh as Gaine steps up beside me and tucks his hands in his pockets. “Can you imagine Mireya in a white dress with a bunch of flowers in her hair?”

  “Only in the same breath that I imagine the world collapsing in on itself,” he says, and he isn't kidding, just stating fact. Mireya is more at home in a leather jacket with her hair whipping in the wind and a custom chopper tucked between her sweet thighs than she'd ever be as somebody's wife. Even the thought makes me chuckle.

  “Fucking Christ,” I say as I peel my sweaty shirt away from my chest and wonder if all the time I've been spending up North is screwing with my natural resistance to the heat. I used to live for weather like this. I glance over at Gaine and am happy to see that he looks at least as hot as I do, sweat dripping between his thick brows and down the pinched bridge of his nose. He runs a hand through his dark hair, adjusts his leather vest like he can't wait to take the damn thing off.

  “What were you doing then?” he asks me as we both lean against the brick walls of the hotel and Gaine puts a cigarette into his mouth. He offers me one, but I turn it down. “You got a sex change operation coming up that I should know about?” I snort, but I don't answer him right away. I could just tell him I was chasing after a girl. That, Gaine could understand, but oddly enough, that's not exactly how I feel. I don't just want to know more about that girl, I need to. I want to take her to bed and make her mine and then the next morning, I want to do it all over again. Usually, I like to just get up and go.

  “Just trying to sort out a thought,” I say, and it's Gaine's turn to snort at me.

  “In a dress store?”

  “Bridal shop.”

  “What the fuck ever. How do you even know that?”

  I sigh and reach out my hand for a cigarette. Gaine hands it to me along with his lighter. My mother used to own a bridal shop, but I don't tell him that. He probably wouldn't give a shit anyhow.

  “I was looking for a girl.”

  “Seems like a strange place to do it,” he scoffs, shaking his head and tossing his cigarette butt to the sidewalk. “Ain't a bridal shop for girls that are already attached?” Gaine pauses like he's just thought of something, crinkling up his forehead and squinting his brown eyes. “Hey, maybe you're onto something there. If they're already getting hitched, then no attachments, no worries, right?”

  “Don't be a fucking asshole,” I tell him as I suck in a slow drag of smoke and sweaty Southern air. Gaine likes to act like a tough motherfucker, but in truth, I don't think I've ever seen him take a girl up to his room or anywhere else for that matter. Sometimes I see him gazing off into the distance like he's waiting for someone, but I never ask about it. Some stuff is best just left well enough alone. “I asked her for drinks earlier but didn't specify the place.”

  “Huh.” That's all Gaine says and then the both of us just stand there, wrapped up in our own screwed up thoughts.

  The long, hot afternoon stretches out before me as I squint my eyes and listen to the sound of cicadas in the distance, cigarette smoke trailing in lazy curls around my fingers. I coulda stayed there all damn day if Melissa fucking Diamond hadn't appeared from out of friggin' nowhere and reminded me of who I am and what I've gotta do.

  “Sparks, we're ready for you,” she says, tilting her head to the side and flicking her eyes up and down Gaine like she'd sure like to see him naked and willing. Gaine glances away and pretends he doesn't notice. After all, it's best not to mess with the Pres' wife, not if you don't want your face smashed in with an iron.

  I take another drag of my cigarette, flick it to the cement and sniff.

  “Alright, Diamond,” I say, giving the blond bombshell my meanest look. “But this time, try not to fuck things up.”

  The bridal shop is silent.

  No, it's worse than silent. In this room, there is the very absence of sound, the distinct impression that speech or noise is no longer a possibility. My family is too busy gawking at me and thinking all sorts of horrible things to remember how to form words with their quivering lips.

  “Mom,” I begin, and she cringes, the bubble of quiet broken jarringly as the bells on the front door jingle and Mrs. Hall, the bridal shop's owner, steps in. She wipes her feet on the dirty welcome mat with a scowl and shakes her head like she just cannot believe the audacity of those fucking Yanks. I wish I could tell her that I cannot believe the audacity of someone who leaves their own shop in the middle of the day whilst they have customers and runs over to the bakery for a dozen doughnuts. Not to sound rude or anything, but she most certainly does not need them.

  “Stop it, Amy,” my mother says as she tries to smile at Mrs. Hall. Ever the procurator for peace and normalcy, she doesn't let on that anything has happened and picks a piece of lint off the top of my dress. Behind her eyes, a storm brews and I know immediately that she's going to be telling my father all sorts of stories when we get home. “Mrs. Hall?” my mother inquires as the shop owner settles herself behind the front counter with a maple bar and a plastic, orange cup filled with instant coffee. The woman blots the edges of her mouth with a napkin and looks up like she's just realized we're there.

  “Hmm?”

  My mother's lips purse almost imperceptibly and then her fake smile blossoms like a flower in spring.

  “We'll take this dress, please, but we're going to need the waist taken in about an inch.” Mama pinches the fabric above my hips just a little too hard and grabs some of my skin in the process, making me wince. Jodie scowls at me and spins away muttering horrible things under her breath. I distinctly hear the word slut. My cousin just can't handle it when she's not the center of attention. My aunt tsk-tsks and steps over to the rack to continue scanning for dresses for the poor, fat, pregnant Jodie Stipe.

  Nobody mentions Austin.

  I drop the brochure to the floor and slide it surreptitiously underneath one of the plastic chairs with my foot. I'll pick it up later, on my way out. For now, I've resigned myself to the rough ministrations of Mrs. Hall and my mother as they poke and spin me, prod me with needles, and start to spread town gossip. Soon after, Jodie begins to whine again and everything goes back to normal.

  At least outwardly.

  Inside, my blood is flushed with endorphins and my heart won't stop pounding out a harsh, staccato rhythm. The small spot on my hand where Austin's fingers grazed mine tingles terribly and I touch it to my lips as the satin fabric at my feet is rolled up and pinned. As soon as my mouth meets skin, I shiver, imagining Austin's hot breath on me and how his kisses might feel if they pressed against my knuckles in greeting. I read a lot of books, so I imagine it might go something like this.

  “So glad you could make it here tonight, Miss Amy,” Austin says as he reaches out and takes my hand in his, smoothing his warm mouth against my skin with a light kiss. “I was hoping you'd show.” Austin smiles at me with his bright white teeth and hooks his elbow through mine. “Can I
offer you a drink?”

  I pause as my mother lifts my hair up roughly and asks my aunt how she wants it done for the wedding. I adjust my vision a bit, trying to match the fire in Austin's eyes to my imaginary version of him. Actually, I think it might work a bit more like this.

  Austin sets his beer down on the rough wood of the counter and turns towards me.

  “Hot damn. If it isn't little Amy Cross.” He smirks and the edge of his lip where it's scarred, pulls at his face with the expression. “Your Mama let you out of your cage for the night?”

  I stare at Austin and suddenly feel stifled in my stupid cardigan, wishing he'd tear it from my shoulders and bruise my neck with rough kisses and grazing teeth. I clutch my purse tightly in my hands to control the flurry of emotions in my belly and glance away, not because I'm demure or embarrassed, but because I like the hard bulge that I can see in Austin's tight jeans and have to stop myself from staring at it.

  He moves across the room fast, too fast, so fast I don't see him until he's slamming me against the wall and putting his hand up my skirt.

  “Now, Miss Amy, let's see if you're as ready for me as I am for you.” I groan and –

  “Amy!” my mom snaps, like maybe this is the third or fourth time she's said my name. I blink several times and focus on her brown eyes, the ones that are so much darker and prettier than mine. Despite her German heritage, Mama looks exotic somehow, like maybe one of her ancestors wasn't being entirely honest about the parentage of her child. Unfortunately, I inherited none of that. My eyes are plain, a blue so dull they're nearly gray; the perfect match to my hair which complements the unstained wood trim that lines the walls of the shop. “Go change.”

  I don't question the order, don't tell her that I am twenty-one fucking years old and can make my own decisions about how and when and what I do.

  Jodie and Aunt Megan watch me with narrowed eyes as I retreat behind the curtains and slump to the bench, snatching my book up like it's a fine drink, something to soothe my nerves and make me forget my troubles.

  “Adam?” I whisper, but he's nowhere to be found.

  He's left me.

  Adam has left me.

  My heart cries out while my body screams, certain that I'll die without his strong, hard arms wrapped around me. What will I do without those dark eyes and that sexy smile?

  I slam the covers closed and throw the book against the wall where it bounces back at me and hits me in the arm. My mother peeks her head in immediately to check on the commotion, and I can hardly stifle the urge to scream. Just a few hours ago, I was resigned to my fate. Now, all of a sudden, I can't wait to feel that sense of pain and anguish and longing that it's in my book. Maybe the energy of the motorcycle show is threading its way into my veins. After all these years living just a few blocks away, something was bound to rub off, wasn't it?

  “Stop fooling around, Amy. Get dressed.”

  “Yes, mother.” My words are hollow but my pulse continues to thrum like a live wire, making my neck feel vulnerable and exposed, almost desperate for the touch of another. I close my eyes and lean back against the wall, running my own fingers down the pale skin of my throat, sliding them under the fabric of the fuchsia nightmare, teasing the soft flesh of my breasts with my nails.

  I stop suddenly, tearing my hand away and panting like I've run a mile.

  Amy Cross, you need to get out more.

  I stand up and drop my dress to the floor, staring at myself in the mirror with wide eyes and flushed cheeks.

  Yes, out, out with Austin Sparks, I think as I send a silent apology to Adam, Daniel, and Micah. Hopefully, they'll understand when I don't show up for our dates tonight.

  My mother doesn't speak to me on the way home, but that's alright because I'm wrapped up in fantasies that combine Austin Sparks with a variety of my other favorite book boyfriends, making for a daydream that's almost too risqué for the hot heat of the afternoon. It's only when we pull into the driveway and I see my father's car that I start to get nervous.

  “Mama.”

  “Go up to your room,” she tells me, as if I'm five years old and unruly. I purse my lips, a habit I picked up from watching her.

  “Why?” I demand, tearing off my seat belt and turning to look at her. I can practically feel the brochure burning a hole in my purse. Honestly, I'd love to go up to my room and look at it, choose something to wear, finish my book, but I don't like being told to do so. I never have. What I've lacked is passion and conviction and although I can't lay claim to either yet, something about today has made me want an explanation, at the very least.

  My mother shakes her head but doesn't answer, keeping her eyes locked onto the beige paint of the garage door.

  “Mom.” I reach out my hand to touch her arm, but she slaps it away with such force that pain ricochets up my bones and into my shoulder, making me pull back and slam into the car door. Her eyes are lit from behind with the fire of misinformation and ignorance. I don't know what it is that she thinks I've done, but it's much, much worse than Austin's lie about me trying to buy a bike.

  “Did I raise you to be a whore?” she asks, and I gasp.

  “What?” I whisper as my mother takes off her own seat belt with slow, careful movements, like she's trying to hold back another surge of violence. She pulls the rearview mirror towards her and checks her brown eyeshadow, her nude lipstick, and her pink cheeks. She couldn't possibly show my father anything other than perfection. “I don't understand,” I say as she opens her door and steps out onto the pale pavement of the driveway.

  “I don't know who that man is or where he's from, but I do know that if you plan to see him again, the wrath of the Lord is going to fall onto your shoulders.” She pauses, one hand still on the handle of her door, the other reaching up to pat her hair. “Go up to your room and pray to Jesus for forgiveness.” My mother slams the door and disappears into the house, leaving me flabbergasted and wide-eyed. I sit there for awhile, unmoving, while the cool air inside the car starts to heat up and makes me sweat. Somehow, she's gotten it into her mind that I … know Austin Sparks. How? Why would she think that? I've never even gone on a date.

  I open my door and am ready to chase after her for questioning when my friend, Christy, taps on the roof with her knuckles and makes me jump. My purse falls to the driveway and opens up, sending poor Adam tumbling down the cement in a flutter of pages. Christy picks up the book, thumbs through it and hands it back to me.

  “Where have you been?” she asks, glancing up at the second story of her house where her mother's peeking through the curtains at us. It's almost enough to make me pick up a rock and throw it at the glass. “I've been calling you all day.”

  “Out with my mother,” I say and Christy blinks at me questioningly when the word slides from my lips like a hiss. Her blue eyes look extra pretty today, rimmed in a thin line of black kohl and topped with a dash of blue shadow. I realize suddenly that it's been three years since I've seen her in so much makeup – not since senior prom. “Why? What's going on?” Christy looks up at the window again; her mother is gone. I bend down and pick up my purse, tucking it under my arm as I shut the hot metal of the door with my bum – with my ass.

  “I'm going to the festival today,” she declares proudly. Ah. Her mother's glare makes a whole lot of sense now. Christy's parents may as well be clones of mine. While her father might not be a minister, he always sits in the front row on Sundays, prays the loudest, and donates the most money. Her mother and mine are old friends from high school, just like our dads, and by no accident happened to purchase the house next door.

  There's this terrible moment where I see my life playing out the same way, see myself peeking from the curtains at Christy's and my daughter while I scowl, so wrapped up in what I'm supposed to be and how I was told to act, that I'm rotting from the inside out. I close my eyes and struggle for breath as panic sweeps over me and brings goose bumps to my skin.

  “Really?” I ask, and when I open my eyes, s
he's nodding.

  “I mean, I've always wanted to go and this year … ” She leaves the rest of the words unspoken. This year, we're old enough to make our own decisions. This year, it's time to start our lives. This year, things have to be different or I might very well die from boredom. “It's long overdue, don't you think? Remember after senior year when we thought about going and chickened out? That's when we should've gone.” Christy pauses to tuck some hair behind her ear and then fiddles with the high hem of her dress. It's a few inches above the knee, a much more appropriate length for somebody our age. I resist the urge to hike mine up to match hers. “I feel like a kept woman, like I stopped maturing at age sixteen. I can't take it anymore.”

  It's like she's stolen the words straight out of my mouth. I wet my lips and focus on the dimple in her chin instead of her eyes, getting ready to tell her what she most certainly will not believe.

  “I have a date with a biker.”

  “Excuse me?”

  I swallow hard and glance over my shoulder. The front door remains closed and none of the curtains are open – my parents don't like those heathens to be able to see inside our house when they drive by, just in case they're looking for something to steal.

  “I met a man today, and he asked me for drinks.”

  “Holy shit,” Christy whispers and it's so rare that either of cusses aloud that we both laugh. “So you said yes?” she asks and I nod, describing the incident to her, including the bit where Mr. Sparks sauntered into the bridal shop and gave me the brochure. I pass it to her and she snatches it from my hand like it's made of solid gold. “Oh my God, count me in,” she whispers as her freshly painted fingernails graze the words that Austin scribbled. Tempered Iron. It's the name of the bar downtown, the only bar, the one that nobody in our church has ever set foot in.

  Christy unfolds the shiny paper and lets her eyes slide across pictures of bikes and leather clad women, her smile increasing in size until it's a full on grin. I lift my lips to match and jump when I hear the front door opening behind me. When I turn around, my lips are pursed again. My father is waiting for me on the front porch, face calm, but hands twitching. My heart starts to pound again, but not the way it did for Austin. This time, it's in fear.