Carnival

by D. M. Thornton

  “I’m sorry,” I say with all sincerity. “I’m so, so sorry, Piper. I never meant to—”

  “It’s fine, really. I get it. It took me a long to time to come to terms with it, but…” She pauses and shakes her head, erasing everything she’s said. “No, it’s really not fine. Not one bit. You broke my heart and now you want to act like nothing ever happened. You want things to pick right up where you left them. We’re too old to play these games, Oliver.”

  The wheel rotates and jerks to a stop, causing our cart to rock back and forth. The attendant’s foot catches the cart and he lifts the latch, waving us off the ride. When I step off, I hold my hand out for Piper to take, but she pushes it aside and steps off. Her little legs move quick, leaping off the stairs and walking fast to get away from me, but I grab her hand and pull her back.

  Maybe it’s the timing or the fact we are standing in front of a dart game, the same game I won a massive teddy bear for Piper all those years ago, but those memories from that night rush back. I yank on Piper’s hand and pull her tight against me, bending her back, my arm wrapped securely around her waist for support. I catch a glimpse of her wide eyes before I kiss her. Not a peck. Not a quick, simple kiss, but one that has all the apologies and unsaid words behind it. A kiss full of feeling and heart.

  The world quiets around us. No hustle of people walking by, no choir of noise, no smell of greasy food. Just me and Piper alone in our own world. I’m rather enjoying these snippets.

  Piper doesn’t fight me off; instead, her hand comes up and rests on my cheek. She presses her mouth harder to mine, parting her lips so our tongues can meet in swift swipes. She tastes of cherry lip gloss and smells of roses.

  A flash of light snaps us back into real time. Our heads turn simultaneously to the photographer snapping pictures of our intimate moment. Sadly, paparazzi are a side effect to my career choice, one that I’ve become numb to. But, by the way Piper’s face looks mortified, I realize it’s shocking for anyone not having their photo taken on the daily.

  I slip my hand around Piper’s and weed her through the crowd, pushing the photographer out of the way as we snake through the carnival games and food stands. We take off running when the photographer starts to chase after us. We duck behind port-o-potties and jump over game booths, ducking down behind the counters until the attendants yell at us to get out. We’re giggling, laughing, and sprinting for a back exit, losing the paparazzo in the process.

  The stars freckle the black sky. It’s a lovely evening, no cloud cover with a hint of breeze to cool the rather warm October night. It’s the first year I believe in global warming because why else would it be ninety-six degrees in late October?

  A lamp post highlights a curb, which makes me chuckle to myself. “Hey, did you hear about the midget who tried to commit suicide?” I ask, hiding my smile behind straight lips.

  Piper’s eyes widen and she gasps. “Oh my God, no?”

  She is genuinely concerned. I almost feel bad, but not enough to not finish the punch line. “Yeah, he jumped off a curb.” Piper’s hand comes out swinging and nails my arm. “Ouch!” I rub at my bicep.

  “You’re horrible,” she mutters. Piper steps up onto the curb and leaps off with a playful scream. She grabs at her shirt, synching it at her collarbone. “Whoa, my life just flashed before my eyes,” she teases.

  I mock horror, grabbing at her waist. “Holy shit, are you okay? For fuck’s sake, I thought you were a goner.”

  We both laugh and walk toward the water.

  The spray of ocean water spritzes our faces as we walk along the sand. Piper has her arm woven around mine, our elbows locked together. The smell of salt and seaweed lingers in the back of my nose, resting on my tongue. It’s a smell I’m familiar with, one from my childhood. When the nights at home would get bad, my brother and I would sneak out of the house and come here to the beach. We would bury our feet in the sand and camp out under the stars, waiting out the storm that was our parents.

  The waves bring comfort, always have, and I find myself stopping to watch the whitecaps kiss the sand at my feet. Piper rests her head on my arm, her breathing finally calming after running.

  “Our picture is going to be front page news tomorrow. Again,” she says.

  “Yeah, afraid so,” I agree.

  “How do you get used to it?” she asks.

  “You don’t. You become numb to it, but you don’t become blind. I’ve learned to just roll with it.”

  Piper lets go of my arm and takes a few steps back so she can sit in the sand, a safe distance from the water. I follow her, sitting beside her. Her head finds my arm again. I like the contact, always have, and I’ve missed it. God, how I’ve missed it.

  “I’m not ready for it. Maybe it’s not something one ever can be prepared for, but I don’t like the idea of living in a glass bowl.” She plays with the cuff of my shirt that’s rolled up my forearm, her fingers lightly brushing my skin.

  “There are ways around it,” I assure her. “It’s a game, kind of like a hide-and-seek, of sorts.”

  “Always looking over your shoulder,” Piper says matter-of-factly. “Ducking corners and running through crowds, being chased. It’s the worst game of cat and mouse. No thanks.” She sighs, her shoulders deflating into a hunch. “I have a feeling the tiny taste of the media I got at the start of Fletcher’s career is going to implode once word gets out I left. I’ll be as much of a target as Milo Creed, just for all the wrong reasons. I can only imagine the stories they are going to spread.”

  “Hey.” I draw her attention away from my sleeve and up to meet my face. There is a gold fleck that veins through the green in her eyes, something I’ve never noticed before. “Don’t ever read what they write. I’d say ninety percent of the time its false news. They will come up with whatever bullshit they can, so don’t let it get to you, because it will if you let it.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. I get hate comments all the time on my column, which I refuse to read. I mean, everyone has their own opinion and you can’t please every single person and all that bullshit, but politics is on such a grander scale than my tiny column.”

  “Tiny?” I laugh. “Little bird, your column is awesome.”

  Piper’s face lights up with a smile deep enough for her dimple to peek from her cheek. I’m compelled to dip the tip of my finger in the indent. She rolls her eyes.

  “You’ve read my column?” she asks, surprised.

  “Of course I have. I have read every single one since you started.” I’ve kept them, too. I reread them whenever I wanted to feel close to you, when things got real bad.

  Her smile fades and she turns her head away from me. Then, as if it’s no big deal, she adds with a shrug, “That’s cool.” Piper drops her voice. “I own all your albums.”

  “What? What was that?” I nudge her with my shoulder. “You have what? Did you say you have all my albums? Every. Single. One?” I tease.

  Piper slaps my arm. “Oh, get over yourself. We don’t need your head to inflate bigger than it already is.”

  My mouth falls open on a laugh that barks out into the night, but it’s cut short when she adds, “I do like Milo Creed far better than Oliver Leif, though.”

  Those words, they strike a chord. They make my heart sink straight to my feet. I search her face for a sign of sarcasm, but she looks back at me, lackluster. “I’m sorry,” I find myself saying, again. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  No matter how many times I say those words, they will never make up for all those years ago.

  Six

  Piper

  I’ve never seen Oliver so serious before. Our MO is banter, back and forth comebacks. One-liners. It’s what we’ve done since childhood, going until someone caves, which is usually me. I’m usually the one who gives up, exhausted from the constant teasing. But tonight, it’s Oliver. His apologies have been coming in spurts throughout the night, and it’s time I hear him out.

  “You can stop apologizing, Oliver.
For one, it won’t change anything. We can’t go backwards. And, because I forgive you. I really do understand.”

  “No, Piper, you don’t. Do you know what happened the night I left?”

  I nod. “Yeah, you got scared. You confessed your love for me, kissed me with everything you had, and then I didn’t see you up until the other day. All the feels spooked you.”

  Oliver shakes his head on a clipped laugh. “First, the way I remember it, you confessed your love for me; I just happened to feel the same way.”

  I snort, but Oliver raises a finger to stop me before I try for a rebuttal.

  “I didn’t get spooked, Piper. I have loved you since preschool. I’ve never stopped. But that night, after I dropped you off at home after the carnival, I went home to find my mother badly beaten on the kitchen floor.”

  I grab at the sleeve of his shirt. “Oliver,” I whisper his name.

  “All those years you were right to call me an asshole. I was back then. I was a punk who used sarcasm to ease the pain I was always feeling, you taking the brunt of it all. I used it as a diversion for what was really going on. Sam and I lived in an abusive household. My mother was a constant punching bag for my dad, and when he would drink, he was uncontrollable.”

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” I ask. “How did I never see any signs? You all looked and acted like a happy family.”

  “My father was well-respected at his job and had a lot of friends, and my mother knew how to cover her bruises with makeup. And, she was a great actress. We never talked about it. With anyone. We were all too scared to. To anyone else, there were no signs. Sam and I never had any bruises where someone could see them; my dad never did anything or said anything to my mother in public. It was saved up for behind our four walls.” He drops is head, remembering the bad memories. “I walked over to my mother who was curled up on the floor and checked for a pulse. Her black and swollen eyes cracked opened when my fingers pressed into her skin. When I knew she wasn’t dead, I stood up and walked out of the house, never looking back.

  “I got in the car and I drove. I drove as far as Seattle and found a bar where I drank myself into a stupor and found myself passed out on the sidewalk the next morning. When the bar opened, I went in for round two. I met Nash when he came in and we started talking. He told me about wanting to put a band together, and the rest is history.” Oliver rubs his chin nervously. “It was never my attention to leave you behind, but I knew I couldn’t come back. At least not right away. Then before I knew it, the band took off and we haven’t stopped since.”

  “Have you been home? Have you talked to your mom? Is she okay?” I spray him with questions.

  He shakes his head. “She died a couple years later from a heart attack. I didn’t go home for the funeral. It’s something I will regret for the rest of my life, but I can’t go back and change it. I wish I could, but I can’t. I’m a coward, and I’ve paid greatly for it.”

  “I’m so sorry, Oliver.” He ignores my apologies, ducking his head. I tug on his shirt. “Hey, you are not a coward. You did the only thing you could think of. You’re only human, Oliver. How much can one person take, anyway?” My words fall flat. No matter what I say, he already has it set in his head and nothing I can say will change that.

  I watch his profile, the way his nostril flares and the corner of his mouth curves down. He’s trying to suppress his emotions, trying to stay strong. He avoids my eyes, staring out across the water. A glossy sheen coats his lashes, so I scoot as close as I can, our bodies pressing together, and lean my head on his shoulder again. My hand finds the fabric of his sleeve and my fingers begin to play with the cuff. I cup his arm and run my palm along his skin, pushing his shirt further past the crease in his elbow.

  My lids blink, clearing my vision, making sure I’m seeing things right. Scars trace the indent of his arm. Pinholes and track marks. If I close my eyes, maybe they won’t really be there. Maybe the salt water is affecting my sight. But my eyes open, the cicatrix still there.

  Oliver shifts beside me and his other arm reaches across his body, showing me the identical scars on the inside of his arm. “It’s what you think they are.”

  “Oh, Oliver,” I whisper, sliding the tip of my finger over the raised lines. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It is what it is. You know, trying to hide my inner demons and shit.”

  His face is forlorn, drooping with shame, embarrassment…acceptance.

  I could ask questions, be nosey, but sometimes it’s better to say nothing at all. To just let it be. I’m not here to pry into Oliver’s past, but I will be here for him when he’s ready to talk. If he even wants to. I will listen, and I will be a shoulder, as a friend should, because it doesn’t matter how much time has separated us, I still love him.

  Oliver opens the door to his apartment and waves his hand, ushering me in first. I take a few steps, but it’s dark, so I put my hands out in front of me and shuffle my way through the house, blind. I catch my foot on something and stumble, falling into the corner of a piece of furniture. Something crashes to the floor while I ramble, “Uh-mother-may-I.” I groan as pain shoots into my abdomen.

  The lights come on and Oliver jogs over to me, helping me off a small table in the foyer. What looks like an expensive vase is shattered on the tile floor.

  “Oh, Oliver, I’m so sorry. I’ll replace it,” I say, crouching down to pick up the large shards of dragon-covered white and blue porcelain with one hand while the other rubs at my belly.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I sent you into the dark not knowing your way around. My bad. It’s just a stupid vase.”

  I put the broken pieces in the dust pan Oliver brings over and help sweep up the remaining bits. “I can’t believe I did that. Honestly, I’ll replace it.”

  Oliver clips the dustpan back on to the broom and tucks it into a cabinet then wraps me in his long arms. “It’s really not a big deal, little bird. Don’t worry your pretty li’l head about it.”

  “I feel so bad,” I say, finding comfort in Oliver’s hug.

  He pulls back, his fingers sliding down my arm, and takes my hand, leading me into a modest kitchen. My palm feels the void when he let’s go to grab two wine glasses from a cupboard, setting them down on the white marbled granite. As Oliver fills the glasses, I let my eyes wander around his condo.

  I’m surprised how neat and tidy everything is. Clean.

  Growing up he was…haphazard. Johnny Depp, of sorts. Greasy. His hair was always disheveled, his clothes never pressed, and he never remembered where he put his homework. Creative brain, he used to say. Lazy was more like it. But now, now he’s hip. Almost classy.

  Eccentric art decorates the walls and there are a few knick-knacks throughout the condo, but the space is rather open and free of clutter. I spot a baby grand off in a separate room and allow it to draw me in, walking off without taking the glass of wine Oliver is holding out to me.

  I sit down on the woven leather bench, my years of piano lessons coming back to me. The keys are cool and smooth beneath my fingers. Playing an instrument is like loving your one true love. It never leaves you, engrained into your brain…in your heart.

  My fingers caress the ivory, “Fur Elise.” After all this time, I can still play it without the music. But, my skills are not up to par with Oliver’s. He sits beside me and waits until I’m done before he starts to play. His talent far exceeds mine and it has me closing my eyes, melting into the chords. Into him.

  I could sit and listen to Oliver play for hours.

  Music has always connected us, bringing us back together when we were ready to kill each other. It seems people can change; Oliver is proof of that. He has grown. It’s something I never thought I would see.

  I don’t realize Oliver stops playing until he nudges me lightly with his shoulder. My eyes flutter open, drunk on his melodies. My body sways, bumping into him. “Beautiful.” The word fumbles from my mouth.

  Oliver’s head dips, the tips of our noses brushi
ng together. His lips hover over mine. “Not as beautiful as you, little bird.”

  His mouth covers mine, light and delicate. Red wine lingers from his kiss, and my tongue glides across my bottom lip to take a taste. I moan. “Mmm.”

  Oliver’s head snaps back on a laugh and he rolls off the bench to stand. “C’mon, small fry.”

  I accept his hand and follow him to his room where he tosses his pillow and a blanket onto the floor.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  He comes out of his closet with a t-shirt and tosses it on the bed. “If you want to change out of your clothes.” He takes his shirt off and folds it neatly, placing it on top of his dresser. “You can take the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

  My mind isn’t forming thoughts, or words. Seeing Oliver with his shirt off is making me all sorts of flustered. He’s not the scrawny kid he was back in high school. He’s the perfect mix of smooth and muscle. To keep from staring, I quickly dip my head and slip my arms into my shirt, looping them into the shirt Oliver gave me to wear. With a swift lift of my arms, I put on Oliver’s shirt at the same time I remove mine then shimmy out of my bra, pulling it from the sleeve. I glance down and roll my eyes. The hem of Oliver’s shirt passes my knees. After climbing into the bed and covering myself with the blankets, I kick off my jeans and drop them on the floor.

  We exchange goodnights before Oliver turns off the lights then disappears at the foot of the bed.

  The bed feels cold alone. I should be used to an empty bed. Fletcher and I hadn’t slept in the same room, let alone bed, for the last year. Knowing Oliver is on the floor, so close to me, makes me want his heat beside me. My eyes don’t want to close and sleep doesn’t want to come. I lie awake in a foreign bed in an unfamiliar house, the only comfort asleep on the floor. “Oliver?” I whisper. I wait for a response, but all I hear is the purr of his breathing. I bite at my lower lip, not wanting to wake him. Not wanting to sleep in his massive bed by myself. “Oliver,” I say his name louder.