by Jenn Cooksey
“Oh, I would, Erica, but I can’t. My dad is getting remarried next weekend and both my brothers, her daughter, and I are all going on this crazy-long, three-week honeymoon cruise with him and Stacy, and then I’m moving to New York straight from there. I still have a ton of packing to do for that and college,” she explains, gesturing to and then picking up a long shopping list from where it’s been laying in the seat of her cart, “And plus, I want to spend as much quality time with my mom as I can before I leave, you know?”
“Oh, I totally understand!” I tell her genuinely. “Wow… So I probably won’t get to see you again before you move.”
“Oh my gosh, you’re right. You know, it still hasn’t sunk in that I’m actually doing it. I mean I’m actually leaving home to live and go to school all the way across the country, and I’m doing it all by myself,” Missy says and widens her eyes at me, “It’s kinda scary.”
“Well, I’m excited for you. You’ve worked really hard to be able to do this and I think the payoff for all your sacrifices and hard work is gonna be amazing.”
She smiles bright and hugs me again. “Thank you for being such a good friend and always being so supportive. Not many people have been all that understanding about why I never wanted to hang out or go to parties and stuff, but you always were. It means a lot. And honestly, I wish I had time to create some more memories with you before I leave, but… We’ll always not have Prom, though.”
I start laughing. “God, that was a fun night.”
“It really was,” Missy agrees when her phone dings again, “Ugh… Okay, I really gotta get the rest of this stuff and Brad’s ice cream.”
“Don’t forget the fudge-sicles!” I call out as we part ways.
“Right! God forbid I forget those! Maybe I should be irresponsible and go to a movie with you. You know, just to see what happens,” she answers over her shoulder with a laugh.
“What’ll happen is that your mom will get worried and have an Amber Alert sent out for you,” I say with a chuckle.
“True,” Missy nods and then turns around again to say, “Hey, why don’t you give Laurel or Monica a call to see if they’re up for a movie? Or what about Destiny? Don’t you guys usually see movies together?”
“Yeah, we do, but I asked Destiny earlier…she’s grounded, so, oh well.”
“She is? I just saw her hanging out in front of Sonic on the way over here. She was with John Garcia and his girlfriend, Maddie Mason, I think, and that guy who always looks and smells like he lives in a Hollister store.” Her wrinkled nose evidences her distaste while she refers to someone I can only think must be Drake Turner. God knows why I’m sure, but according to all the pictures on his Instagram account, I swear his one and only mission in life is to become a Hollister model. Then Missy stops and gasps, “Oh no! Did I do it again? Please tell me you guys aren’t, like, super good friends or anything.”
I laugh at her and shake my head. “Nope, I hardly know him. But hey, are you sure you saw Destiny?”
Missy opens her mouth to answer when her phone starts actually ringing, so she just nods emphatically in the affirmative and waves goodbye, answering her phone and hurrying down the aisle at the same time before disappearing around the corner.
With my ostrich spade of hopeful oblivion momentarily slipping from my grasp, my forehead wrinkles as I slowly trudge forward to the front of the store and checkout lanes, wondering how Destiny could’ve whittled down her time served so easily and why she didn’t call or text me to say she’s free to see that movie now…
9
“Weak”
—Cole—
With my face still throbbing where that mother fucker landed a well-placed punch, and the continuing sting of the back of my dad’s cauterizing hand scorching me on the inside as well, I stand at the counter of McDonald’s inside Walmart, seething and waiting for my Big Mac value meal. After using my employee discount to buy some camping supplies including a tent and a new sleeping bag, along with a shit-ton of Slim Jims for the road, I decided to pull out all the stops and treat myself to a farewell dinner that isn’t made out of the loaf of bread and jar of peanut butter in my cart that will most likely be making up the majority of my meals for the next couple of days. You know, because nothing else quite equals being kicked out of the only home you’ve ever known like celebrating with two all-beef patties and flash-frozen fries.
The clerk gives me the stank-eye when she hands me my order to go, and I’m still so incredibly pissed about everything—Holden, his funeral, and especially the enormous, steaming pile of bullshit surrounding Erica and me… I have to take a deep breath and stop myself from lashing out at her and everyone who dares to make even the slightest amount of eye contact with me. Like I’m a goddamned gorilla taking it as a sign of aggression or being challenged in some primal way. Yep, that’s me. One seriously pissed off silverback who’s just waiting for any opportunity to rip someone’s arms off their body and then throw feces in their face.
I sneer my insincere thanks to the clerk and stalk towards the drink station to fill my cup with Mickey D’s sweet tea, but I’m so focused on the rage bubbling inside me that I instinctually drop my cup and raise my fist in preparation to swing when I hear my name and feel someone tap my shoulder.
“You better fuckin’ back off!” I snarl and turn, ready to lay waste, practically gnashing my teeth and feeling like my incensed warning is more than justified because someone went further than simply making eye contact.
It takes me a few heated moments before I realize who provoked me…whose teeth I almost slammed my already shredded knuckles into. Utter shock is staring at me from behind wide eyes that begin filling with tears. And something worse… Fear.
My first impulse is to pull Erica to me; to chase away the tremors of sheer fright I can see her shaking with, and allow her to feel the comfort and safety of my arms instead of the annihilation she’s expecting from them. My fury overpowers my cardinal instinct to protect her from everything under the sun including me, though. So I just stand here, breathing heavy and scowling down at the face of the only person left on the planet I even remotely care about.
“I—I’m—I didn’t—” she stutters, one lone tear slipping from her eye as she turns to flee.
Maybe five seconds pass before I’m shoving my hands in my hair and then raking them down my face in extreme irritation.
“Fuck!” I hiss under my breath, “Erica, wait. I’m sorry…I didn’t know it was you,” I hurriedly explain, reaching out for her elbow and trying to keep a level tone, but not succeeding very well.
“Let go of me,” she whispers without turning to look at me. Her voice and body’s rigidity screams distrust and makes me feel even shittier. As if that’s possible.
“I said I’m sorry, Erica, what more do you want from me?” My words are angry, almost like I’m accusing her of being the one out of line.
“You almost hit me, Cole. I tapped you on the shoulder and you almost hit me.”
I sigh and take her by the shoulders, turning her so she has to face me. “I know. I’m sorry. I wasn’t in my right mind…I’ve had a really, really fuckin’ bad day.”
Her eyes lift to meet mine, and for the barest moment, there’s nothing in them except overwhelming hurt. Still glassy, her eyes then perform a search of mine and in one sweeping glance at the rest of my face, they widen in surprise and her wounded tears evaporate. Concern and Erica’s hallmark compassion quickly replace every other emotion she’s been experiencing as she gasps and reaches up with a gentle, yet trembling hand to lightly brush her fingers across my swollen cheek.
For some reason, this pisses me off. I don’t know why it bothers me so much and I don’t care to understand why either; the betrayal inflicted upon me and the subsequent rage give me justification…purpose. I grasp onto them and hold them tight because they spur me on and keep me going like nothing else can. I jerk my head away from her touch and feel my features twist and contort back into contempt.<
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“Oh my G—what happened to you?” Like it has a mind of its own, her other hand reaches up to trace a tender spot under my left eye, blatantly ignoring my glare of obvious hostility that declares my wish to not be touched.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes briefly to block out the world around us when she lowers her hand to my shirt. She uses it and the other one to reverently smooth out the wrinkled and bloody image of Eddie, as if petting him will wash away the last remaining vestiges of violence from my day that the shirt clearly depicts. Then with my eyes open again, I notice the people. They’re staring at us, watching our every move; inspecting us and waiting for any little movement or look that can be used as verification of the unequivocally abhorrent sin Erica and I reportedly committed together. Even though I know they’re mostly wrong; that she and I are innocent of the crime we’ve been unjustly tried for and found guilty of, I feel like giving them what they want. I feel like throwing my arms wide and shouting, “Yeah! That’s right! I fucked her! I fucked my best friend’s girlfriend the night of his funeral! Are you vultures happy now, or do you want proof? Want me to slam her up against the soda fountain or bend her over a table and pound her from behind while your kids eat their Happy Meals and you watch live porn?!”
As much as I’d love to see their reactions, I don’t give in to temptation. I do, however, remove Erica’s hands from my chest and demand that she stop. “Quit touching me. Everyone’s watching us.”
“Wha—? No, they’re n…ot,” she argues, but stops when she looks around and notices for herself that, yes indeed, most everyone’s attention is focused on us, “Cole, why are they all looking at us like that?”
I almost laugh. She doesn’t know yet. Of course she doesn’t. She’s the victim and I’m the criminal, so of course no one’s said anything to her face. Although I’m still surprised she hasn’t heard the whispered rumors yet. I mean it’s been almost a whole day and word of a scandal like this travels with ultra sonic speed, however false it may or may not be. Then again, Erica’s still deep in mourning, so maybe her ears haven’t processed anything they’ve heard, or maybe she’s just been holed up in her house all day where she’s been kept safe from neighborhood arbitration of jurisprudence.
I glance down at the bags in her cart and in the single moment of realizing she’d gone ahead and bought new sheets for me anyway, I feel a white-hot flash of…something. Anger is definitely present, but there’s something indistinct and unidentifiable roiling within my ever burgeoning temper as well.
Knowing she and I shouldn’t even be within 500 yards of each other right now, I still find myself unwilling to risk what could happen or what someone might take it upon themselves to say to her if I were to just walk away without another word. I put her hands on her cart and give her elbow a little shove, directing her towards the exit, and mutter, “C’mon, we gotta get outta here.”
“Wait, what is go—”
I keep us moving forward, but lean down to whisper, “Everyone thinks I fucked you last night, Erica. They’re watching and waiting for fucking anything we do that’ll confirm it.”
She stops dead in her tracks, a look of profound disbelief spreading across her face. It’s replaced in short order by a dawning realization when she once again takes in the bruising on my face and blood on my shirt. I stop and raise a single, darkly suggestive eyebrow at her; the look meant to corroborate her understanding and the picture she’s forming in her head of what must’ve gone down earlier in my day, and why I’d flown off the handle so quickly when she approached me a few minutes ago.
Inclining my head with the smallest of movements, I gesture towards the closest exit and inform her, “I’m seriously about to flip my shit here and do something really fucking stupid if I don’t get out of here right the fuck now. You coming or not?”
We start moving forward again, finally getting out of the McDonald’s and passing the bank branch, although just as we’re about to round the corner of the small hair salon adjacent to the sliding doors of our destination, I catch a telltale flickering light out of the corner of my eyes. It isn’t the first time this evening either.
“Oh my God, was that a camera flash?” she asks dumbfounded, looking over her shoulder to try to determine if someone had actually been brazen enough to snap a picture of the two of us, even though we aren’t actually doing anything except walking to the exit of a store at the same time with a couple dozen other people who’ve finished their shopping like we have.
My nostrils flare and my grip on my cart tightens further, but I don’t react otherwise. I just keep pushing forward until I’m breathing in the scent of asphalt and motor oil that’s been left behind in the parking lot by poorly maintained vehicles. We walk straight to my car, and without even thinking, I unlock the passenger door and shove her inside before I throw everything from our carts into my trunk. When I slide behind the wheel, I blow out a breath and pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to somehow combat the pounding that’s been building behind my eyes. Sighing again, I look over at Erica to see confusion and the beginnings of anger tingeing her cheeks with color.
“I don’t understand this, Cole. How did this happen? I mean, I didn’t say anything, I swear! Did you?”
“You fuckin’ know I didn’t, Erica! I got blindsided at a goddamned Circle K for Christ’s sake! And my dad fuckin’ kicked me out!”
“What?!” she screeches, her outrage and shock finally catching up to be on par with where mine was a couple short hours ago.
“Yeah. I got home after the fight and he goes, and I quote, ‘you preyed on that sweet girl’s emotions and stole her innocence.’ He basically called me a fucking predator and told me I’ve brought nothing but shame to his house,” I spit out the abridged replay for her like the words are venom, poisoning everything inside me.
“Bu—why didn’t you tell him the truth?!”
I exhale pure resignation and shake my head. “Because he won’t believe me. No one will. Their minds are already made up because they don’t want the truth. Fiction is more entertaining, Erica, and nothing either of us says will make any difference now except make it worse. If we deny anything or try to explain, it’ll be seen as an admission of guilt,” I explain, laying it all out for her, as if she needs me to help her understand that our Miranda Rights have already been read to us, unspoken as they were.
We sit for a quiet moment, me with my eyes closed again, my head screaming in pain, and her with a blank look on her face as she processes the situation as I’ve outlined it for her. When I hear a small gasp come from beside me, I crack my eyes open and notice she’s had some kind of epiphany. Turning in my seat to face her more fully, I realize she’s pulled her phone out and that utter disgust is now dripping from her features.
I hastily snatch it from her hand and find myself staring open-mouthed at a picture of us in McDonald’s that someone posted on Instagram with a snide caption that reads, “I spy with my little eye, 2 out of 3 players in what’s sure to be 1 epic haunting.” We’ve both been tagged in it and there’s already forty-seven likes on the picture along with several comments, one of them being, “Do I hear chains and ghostly wailing?” That comment has a ghost and one of those laughing with tears smiley face emojis following it.
Partially grateful that I have all notifications turned off everywhere already and that I’m hardly ever on any of the social media sites I have accounts with anyway, I toss Erica’s phone onto her lap, my jaw reflexively clenching while my teeth work back and forth as I silently fume. She expresses her indignation by going the sarcastic route, though, and saying, “Seriously, people. Get over yourselves. We’re just standing there talking. And we’re not even touching each other in this picture! I mean, Jesus Christ, we’re not living in an episode of Gossip Girl for crying out loud.”
I roll my eyes and shake my head again. “Clearly that’s exactly where we live,” I mutter and let my head fall back against the headrest of my seat.
I hear her huff ou
t a short, derisive laugh, alerting me to the fact that she’s discovered something more for us to take umbrage with. Not wanting to know, but not being able to resist either, I look at her once more to see her index finger poised over her lips, telling me to be quiet while she holds her phone in her palm face up and close to her mouth while she turns the speaker phone on. It’s ringing. When a girl answers with a sullen “Hi,” I glance at Erica’s face again. There isn’t a hint or trace of surprise or sarcasm in her features anymore. She’s fucking pissed.
“Why did you lie to me?” Erica asks.
“Lie to you about what? What are you talking about?” The other voice says in what sounds distinctly like discomfort. Or put more aptly, she sounds like she knows she’s just been busted and is hoping that faking cluelessness will save her from having to fess up. In point of fact, in the background we can hear other voices and some snickering in conjunction with the sound of cars both idling and driving by and then the sound is muffled, like it might be when someone is talking with their hand cupped around the mouthpiece.
“I know you’re not grounded, Destiny. I saw you at Sonic with Maddie Mason and Drake Turner,” she says and flat-out glares murderously at her phone, as if to make sure nothing of her ire is lost in translation.
Destiny lets out an overly annoyed sounding breath and blurts out, “Fine. I lied to you. It’s better than what you did to me.”
“What I did to you,” Erica growls.
It isn’t said as a question; it’s an accusation. And Destiny…? Well, she hears the hidden meaning with perfect clarity and I just sit here, staring at Erica’s phone, being unable to find the words in my head to describe the level of lunacy Destiny has reached as she goes off on Erica. I mean we’re talking like, Fatal Attraction stalker status here with what she admits to in her raving…