by E. K. Blair
“Okay, I guess. It’s not like I have high expectations or anything. My times suck.”
The doors to the bus close, and then we’re on our way.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’ve been making a lot of progress.”
When I turn and look out the window, he calls me out. “What’s really bothering you?”
“I just told you.”
“There’s something more than just your times.”
Yeah. My dad isn’t here.
“Might as well get it off your chest,” he presses. “Leave it here so you don’t take it into the water with you later.”
I drop my head and then look at him. Everything we’ve been suppressing for this past month begins to crack beneath the fissures. I want to give him the cold shoulder because I’m mad at him for pushing me away. But then I get mad at myself too for being so selfish. I have no right to be angry with him when he’s the one who’s doing the right thing here.
“Talk to me.”
“I’ve never done this alone,” I finally confess.
And with everyone so wrapped up in their own conversations, he leans in slightly, saying, “It may feel like you’re alone, but I promise you, you aren’t.”
“It isn’t the same.”
“It’s never going to be. But I’m here, and you’re not alone.”
His words puncture a soft spot in my heart I’ve been trying so hard to ignore. I wish I were stronger, that my heart could sheath itself against him, and that I didn’t have to ache so much at the thought of him.
“Is there anything I can do?”
I can think of a thousand things, but they’re all forbidden—including you.
“It is what it is, right?” I say with indifference, because we’re powerless to change the past, so what’s the point in pretending we can?
Plus, I’m too busy pretending not to have any feelings for him, unlike Taylor, who lets her salacious thoughts be known to all the girls in the locker room.
I keep to myself for most of the day, which isn’t anything out of the ordinary for me. I spend my time between heats listening to my music and blocking out the other swimmers. Even with a bum shoulder, I advance through qualifying for both the fifty and the hundred with little effort.
When it’s my time to go up on the block for my last swim of the day—the fifty-yard sprint—Coach is right there behind me, clapping his hands and reminding me, “Keep those legs up, Cam. You’ve got this.”
It’s a disappointing twenty-five point two seconds until I hit the wall. Once out of the pool, he’s by my side, making sure my shoulder is fine and giving me his optimistic thoughts for my times. I hit the locker room, shower, change, and then go find Kroy in the bleachers to say a quick goodbye before getting back on the bus.
He stands and smiles, making light of my times, saying, “Well, you didn’t come in last.”
I laugh and shake my head.
“Seriously, though. You were amazing.”
“Thanks. I really appreciate you coming, even though . . .”
“Doesn’t matter,” he assures. “I’m always here for you.”
“I have to get on the bus,” I tell him, giving him a hug and thanking him again for coming out.
When I step off the bleachers, I hear Linze from behind me. “So you can’t even say hi to me?”
I turn back to see her defensive stance, which she apparently takes as my invitation to keep talking. “I mean, I’m standing right here.”
“I don’t even know how to talk to you anymore, Linz.”
“But you can talk to Kroy?” she says. “You ditched both of us, but it’s only me you’re shitty to.”
“I’m not being shitty.”
“Linze, just back off,” Kroy tells her.
“You didn’t come here for me. You only came because of your boyfriend, so what do you even want me to say?”
“I guess nothing.”
I look to Kroy, toss my hands in the air, and turn back to Linze. “What do you want from me, because I can’t seem to do anything right?”
“Just be my friend.”
“I don’t know how to do that anymore,” I snap in defeat. “I can’t just go back to how things were last year. If I could, trust me, I would, but I can’t.”
“More like you don’t want to.”
“Are you kidding me right now?”
“No, I’m not ‘kidding you’. You’ve been nothing but a total bitch to me.”
“Linze, what the fuck?”
“No, Kroy,” I say. “It’s fine. I can’t see myself wanting to be friends with someone like her anymore.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re so damn wrapped up in your superficial life that you can’t see beyond what hairstyle to choose for homecoming. I’m sorry if I can’t relate, but I’m over here dealing with real shit.”
“Oh my God! Are you serious? People die every day. I’m sorry it happened, but seriously?”
Irritation snaps inside me, and I tense my body to keep myself from losing my cool.
“Cam!” Coach calls from the other side of the pool.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Kroy lashes at Linze.
“How can you defend her after she’s treated you like shit and dumped you?”
“Bus is leaving,” Coach hollers.
“I can’t believe you,” I seethe through boiling anger. “He was my dad.”
“Cam, wait,” Kroy says when I turn my back and start walking to Coach Andrews.
“Leave me alone.”
I walk past Coach, gritting my teeth while trying to tame in the fury that’s on the brink of eruption.
“You okay?”
I don’t speak as I stalk in heavy strides to the bus that takes too long to deliver me back to my car. With my head pressed against the window, I watch as dark storm clouds roll in. Coach asks me a few more times about what happened, and when I refuse to confide in him, he encourages me to text him if I need to.
But I won’t, because when I finally get home, I find everything I need to calm myself in my dad’s leather case.
My stomach is marred. Every scar marks a tally of devastation I wasn’t strong enough to deal with on my own. I cut, and for a moment, I feel strong and untouchable, but when the high wanes, I’m left feeling weaker than before. It’s a vicious cycle that somehow I’ve become addicted to.
I hear a commotion from downstairs and close the razor, tucking it back in the case and stashing them both under my vanity. Then, I wipe away the blood with a handful of toilet paper, jump to my feet, and flush the reddened wad before rushing to the top of the stairs.
I look down to see my mother lying at the feet of some man.
“What the hell is going on?”
“She’s wasted,” the stranger says as I run down to her.
“Who’re you?”
“William. I’m a friend of your mother’s.” It’s all he offers before reaching down to pick her back up. “Which room is hers?”
Words fail me, and when I point up the stairs to her bedroom door, sense kicks in, biting its fangs into my flesh deeper than what I ever could have expected.
Blood pulses heavily through my veins as I watch him carrying her with her arms draped around his neck. I’m frozen in shock of the truth as to what she’s been doing when she goes out.
When William reappears after putting her in bed, I question, “Are you two dating?”
“I wouldn’t exactly call it dating.”
His cocky smirk tells me all I need to know, and a wave of nausea strangles me.
“Here are her car keys,” he adds, reaching into his pocket.
I hold my hand out, and when he drops them into my palm, I feel like vomiting.
He leaves, taking all the respect I ever had for that woman with him.
How could she?
Stomping up the stairs, I stand in the doorway and look at the monstrosity who’s black-out drunk. I
fist the keys, willing them to break my flesh before I send them flying toward her limp body. And finally, the eruption spews its flames and throws me over the edge.
I ball my fists and scream, calling her a slut, calling her a whore. Half of me wishes alcohol poisoning on her, but then the other half prays she doesn’t die and leave me.
I hate her so much.
I hate everything she’s doing to the remnants of us.
My heart pounds erratically against my chest, so hard I can feel the vibrations, so hard I can feel it in my throat, so hard I just might choke on it.
I run to my room, slam the door behind me, and fall face first onto my bed. Burying my head in a pillow, I wail. My voice rips through scalding tears for my dad to come save me, but it isn’t enough. I have to get out of here, so I grab my keys and escape this purgatory disguised as my home.
Rain falls hard against the windshield as I drive. Everything blurs in streaks of liquid light, and I make it to just outside the entrance of the neighborhood before I’m forced to pull over. Throwing the car in park, I listen to the wipers as they whip back and forth while I try to catch my breath.
I can’t do this on my own any longer.
In dire need of comfort, I pick up my phone and call the only person I know that can make me feel safe.
“Is everything okay?”
“No,” I choke out, trying to hide the harrowing urgency in my voice, but it bleeds through anyway.
“What happened?”
“Please,” I beg, frantically trembling. “Can you come pick me up?” Because I’m heartbroken and afraid and there’s no way I can drive right now.
“I’m on my way.”
I STAND IN THE RAIN, believing that the elements just might be strong enough to abate.
Tilting my face up to the heavens above, I wonder if they even exist. And if they do, why would God allow this to be happening to me? It’s hard not to hate whatever is in control here, if anything is at all. Maybe this world is nothing more than spun out happenstances.
I’m sick of feeling.
I want to go back to numb.
Headlights beam brightly, and when I turn toward the blinding rays, they slow to a stop and the driver’s side door pops open.
“Are you okay?” Coach Andrews questions in a panic as he runs over to me.
A barreling of thunder crashes overhead.
He quickly tucks me under his arm, shouting over the storm, “Come on,” and leads me over to his SUV.
I want to speak so I can calm his worry, but I can’t. Everything collides with surrealism now that he’s here. When I’m safely inside his car, he walks around to his door, ducking his head against the pouring rain. His car is warm and dry and peacefully silent aside from the pelting of rain and occasional rattle of thunder.
Without a word, he begins to drive.
My clothes are plastered against my skin, and when I look to my side, I catch him running his hand through his soaked hair, leaving it spiked up and messy as droplets fall from the tips and run down the sides of his face. He looks over and catches me staring but still remains unspoken. He stays that way through every stoplight and every turn he takes before pulling into the garage of his brick home. Once inside, the door lowers behind us, and he steps out of the car.
Rankled with nerves, I open my door and follow him inside the house. My heart kicks in a notch too high as we walk into the laundry room.
“Follow me,” he says as he goes into the connecting closet and pulls out some dry clothes from a couple drawers. “Here. Change into these. My bathroom is right through there.” He nods toward the double doors on the other side of the closet.
I take the clothes from him and walk into his large bathroom to see that it wraps around to his bedroom. I shut myself in before stripping out of my wet clothes. I hold up the T-shirt he gave me to my nose and breathe in his scent, closing my eyes and allowing it to seep deeply inside me.
For what?
I don’t know.
But I can’t help myself from seeking comfort everywhere I can manage to find it.
I slip on the shirt and long pajama pants that swallow me up and drag beneath my feet, and then turn to the mirror, only to be met with the face of disparity. There’s no hiding my swollen, bloodshot eyes, so why even bother?
Gathering my clothes, I take them back to the laundry room and toss them in the dryer. I walk through the house, following the soft glow of the fireplace, which leads me into his living room. I watch him toss a couple smaller pieces of firewood in, noting that he’s changed into dry clothing too.
The air is chilly, and with my hair still wet, I shiver and wrap my arms around myself while I stand here awkwardly. When he turns away from the fire, he comes straight to me and guides me to sit on the couch with him.
“Will you tell me what happened?”
His words prick gently against wounds I don’t think I can hide anymore, and I drop my head. His hand reaches behind my back, and he takes my shoulder, pulling me against him. The touch alone weakens what little guard I have left at this point.
I cry silently but so very painfully.
“Talk to me.”
“Everything’s falling apart,” I weep, every word breaking as they come out.
His arms band around me entirely, a comforting strength I’ve been neglected of for far too long, and I bend into him.
I’d melt if it meant I could be closer.
“My mother is hardly ever home,” I admit, needing to rid myself of all the secrets, to free myself of their burdening weight, which is suffocating me. “And when she is, I’m invisible to her. All she does is drink, sleep, and cry. I’m completely alone.”
“You’re not.”
“I am. I lost everything the day I lost my dad.”
“I promise you. You didn’t,” he states with fervency.
I wrap my arms around him, needy for his words to be true, because I can’t bear the thought of being alone any longer. He holds me close to him, never wavering in his strength as I break down in his arms and cry for everything that’s been taken from me. I tell him about my mother’s drinking, about the nights she never comes home, about all the neglected responsibilities I’m forced to take care of, and about the man who dragged her through the front door tonight. I dump everything on to him, and instead of him pushing me away, he asks for more, and so I give it until I’m weak, cried out, and falling asleep.
His fingers comb through my hair with my head resting on his lap while I watch through slow blinking eyes as the fire burns down. The glowing wood pops, releasing a spray of embers, and I let out a deep sigh before my eyes shut for the last time.
His hushed words, “Wrap your arms around me,” stir me, but not enough to fully wake me.
Without opening my eyes, I feel him lift me, and I slip my arms behind his neck, drifting and fading as his steps lull me back to sleep.
A chill creeps across my skin, and I rouse, noticing I’m now in his bed. Grabbing at the blanket, I pull it up under my chin and open my eyes long enough to see the shadow of him standing in front of the bay windows, watching me.
I blink, and he turns away, casting his eyes outside before dreams of my stolen past pull me back under.
A crash of thunder jolts me awake, and he’s right here with me, his thumb dragging beneath my eye.
“Do you always do that?” he murmurs.
“Do what?”
“Cry in your sleep.”
As the haze from waking slowly dissipates, I become aware of how close we are. So much so, that the heat from his body has me warmed to the bone. And yet, my skin pricks in goose bumps.
The longer his eyes hold mine, the harder my heart pounds.
None of it makes sense though, because mine’s broken. It shouldn’t be able to beat, but it does. And when he’s near, it doesn’t just beat strongly, it beats wildly. It drums in my ears, silencing everything around.
Kiss me.
His eyes close, and his brows furr
ow in the confliction I wish didn’t exist, but it does. It’s everywhere we are, following us, taunting us.
This is wrong.
But when the whole world is spitting its wrongs at me, what the hell is just one more?
I reach my hand up and touch his face, and when I do, he pulls me in and presses his lips onto mine. The blissfully painful butterflies return, awakening all my nerve endings with their fluttering wings. They slice me from the inside, marking every single soft spot as their own, determined to never let me forget this moment by branding me in tender scars.
His hand drops down my back and tugs me against him so tightly that our bodies are flush together, and I swear I can feel his heart against mine.
Lightning strikes, thunder rumbles, and rain falls violently against the window that reflects sinful impulses we can’t deny any longer.
Our legs tangle, and he shifts his body above mine, trapping me safely beneath him as our lips move together. He’s slow and purposeful, painfully so. Another tear slips from my brokenness and drifts down my temple and into my hair. I hold on to him to hold on to myself, but I slip on the heat of his affection, and no matter how hard I fight it off, gravity takes over.
I whimper against his lips, but it doesn’t stop him. He only gathers me in his arms more, squeezing me against him. His kisses soften and deepen, opening my lips with his, tasting the unforgiving flavor of heartache. He licks it away, salving my tongue with his, and I let him as I slide my hands under his shirt, pressing the tips of my fingers into his back.
His kisses drift from my mouth to the salty dew on my cheeks, and I wish he could do more than just kiss them away. I wish he could vanquish them entirely, freeing me of my relentless agony. But we don’t live in a place where wishes come true. I’ve learned that the hard way. So, I take what he’s willing to give, hoping it’ll be enough to mend, but no longer wishing for complete healing where complete healing doesn’t exist.
Some wounds are everlasting.
“Don’t cry,” he breathes against my neck.
“I don’t know how to stop.”
He draws back and looks down at me, but he’s nothing more than a beautiful shadow, illuminated by the flashes of lightning outside. I shudder beneath his touch when his hand slips under the hem of my shirt and trails up my bare flesh and between my breasts.