Tell Me Something Real

by Kristen Kehoe

  My eyes flick from my shoes, where they’ve been focused since we got back to the farm and Colt went immediately to bed. Maggie and Beau saw us walk in, and the look that crossed their faces—I imagine it was the same look they got when they realized they weren’t going to be able to keep their youngest son from hurting himself.

  Because I knew she would worry, I texted Lincoln to let her know he was safe… and then sat down outside of his door because something inside of me continued adding the phrase “for now.” The way he looked out on that field—so gone, like being present was painful…I know I can’t guarantee anything past this moment.

  When Lincoln appeared, sliding down the wall next to me, I wasn’t surprised. But I was grateful.

  Now, we’re sitting shoulder to shoulder, her short legs pressed against her chest, held there by her arms, my longer ones sprawled out in the hallway. She’s staring straight ahead, much like Colt the time he and I went to the hospital for her, imagining life without him, much like he was probably doing when their roles were reversed.

  And then there’s me, again, silent, uncertain what to say or do because in all my life, I’ve never felt as alone or as tired of living as my cousin on the other side of the wall. Stupidly, I thought I understood Colt when he had those dark days Lincoln talked about. I thought I understood his anger, and his need to draw blood or rage or let out aggression, because I had those. Those days were the reason I crashed my car and got into fights.

  Those days are why I’m here, in love with a girl who has to battle for everything, like my cousin on the opposite side of the door has to battle. Which means I can’t really understand what they feel at all, because my dark days were nothing like these—but goddammit do I wish I could help.

  It’s a surprise even to me just how much I wish I could save them both.

  “Why?” I finally ask her, the words suicide and epidemic rolling around in my head, followed quickly by Jesus, no, Jesus, no, Jesus Christ, no.

  She shakes her head, like she still can’t comprehend the answer. “Something about this place, and the lives people like me and Colt never escape… death seems to follow them. And it reaches us all eventually, in some way or another, reminding us what will happen if we stay. What we come from, and what we’re destined for.”

  My mouth goes dry—like I haven’t had water in days. Lincoln’s words are finishing touches on the picture I’ve already begun piecing together. A picture I’ve only ever seen from the other side, one where people talk about things like suicide and addiction and poverty, concocting fundraisers to help those in need while wearing Donna Karan or Armani, and drinking Cristal or Pappy Van Winkle.

  “I bet this isn’t what you signed up for when your parents sent you here—sick girls and suicidal cousins.”

  It’s not. I didn’t sign up for anything, which is why it’s harder to want to sign up, to have the burning desire to write my name down on a list entitled Savior, and somehow make all of this go away. “Pain exists everywhere—zip code and status can’t protect people from pain or fear.” Or loneliness. I leave the last part off, squeezing my hands tight together.

  “Even where you’re from?”

  Looking down at my hands in my lap, I think about the friends I had and people I knew in Seattle, the ones who partied every night and went to school high—who drove drunk and tested all the limits because what they really wanted was to matter… to be seen as more.

  And then I think of Alyssa, the girl who just wanted to be seen as mine. The girl I couldn’t see, not really, because I was too wrapped up in my own head, my own needs, and my own demons.

  I see you now, Alyssa. And I know what you felt, because I feel it now, too.

  I swallow, not looking up. “Even where I’m from.”

  Lincoln is quiet, and I can feel her staring at me. I just stare ahead—as much as I have come to depend on her and the small secrets of her life she shares with me, this admission, whatever it is, feels too big, like she’ll see it the minute our eyes meet. I might not know what it is, but I know I’m not ready to share it. Not ready to see how her vision of me changes when I do.

  After a second, her hand slides between my arm and ribcage, down until our palms meet and our fingers link. I watch them twine together, her small fingers interlaced with my much longer ones, her skin shinier and smoother than mine, her nails more delicate.

  I stare, our hands resting together in my lap, my own fingers holding tight, like I know what she’s offering, and I want it so much I’m already grabbing for it. Raising our joint hands, I bring the back of hers to my lips, kissing it once, twice, and then a third time before bringing it to my cheek and just holding on.

  “Promise me,” I say. “Promise me that you’ll come to me if you need a reason to keep going—or if you need someone to carry you.” My voice wavers, and I stop to clear it. Then, I turn my head and look her right in the eyes because as scared as I was for my cousin, Lincoln’s words have hit me even harder, and the thought of losing her in any way steals the breath from my lungs. “I’m here, Lincoln—and I need you to use me, to be with me and use me so you’re here, too.”

  Because I’ve only just found you, and I can’t live without you. It will ruin me.

  She doesn’t answer right away, and though my heart begins to jackhammer against my ribs, I stay still, eyes focused solely on her. Finally, she shifts, angling her body toward me, holding onto my arm with both hands.

  “I can’t promise to use you, Ford. I won’t do that to you.” Her voice is fierce, and before I can interrupt and tell her I want her to, she gives me more than I ever thought she would, more than I knew I ever wanted. “But I’ll always come to you, so we can hold each other up.”

  She barely finishes before I’m hauling her into my lap, one hand wrapping around her waist, the other snaking up her back to tangle in her hair. And then my lips are on hers, hot and insistent, more forceful than ever because the heaviness of tonight demands that I prove to her there’s something—someone—worth being here for.

  My need for her grows in that instant, until I breathe and feel and think of only Lincoln and what her lips are like on mine, what her heartbeat feels like while it pounds in rhythm with my own. What her breath sounds like when it catches in her throat.

  Changing the angle of the kiss, I use my tongue and my teeth, drawing Lincoln’s flavor into my mouth time and again, holding her against me and reminding her with every second we kiss that I want her, that I need her.

  That I love her.

  That I’ll be here no matter what. And then I hold on tight because no matter what is laying in the guest room behind me, and I know tonight didn’t change anything.

  A loud voice booms behind me: “You told Maggie you were worried about me.”

  I jump, my heart rearing to my throat when I whirl away from my locker and find Colt staring at me. His brows are set in a hard line across his eyes, and his face is livid.

  “Colt—”

  “What makes you think you had any right to do that, Lincoln?”

  “Listen,” I start again, but he bulldozes over me once more. Stepping closer, he forces me to back up until I’m almost inside of my locker, the top jamb digging into my back when I bump into it.

  “No, you listen.” He punctuates his words with a stab of his finger at my face. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing talking to Maggie and slinging bullshit about my mental health, but I’m warning you now, stay the fuck out of it.”

  He slaps his hand on the outside of the locker beside me, and I hate that I shrink. This is Colt, my best friend; he protects me. I know he would never hurt me. But his face right now…it isn’t one I’ve ever seen, and that—that scares me more than anything.

  Before I can process, and try and find a way to make him calm down—or put my knee in his balls so he backs the hell off—Ford’s voice slices through, and then he’s there, inserting himself between me and Colt, shoving his cousin and showing his own t
emper.

  “What the fuck, man? You’re scaring her.”

  “Stay out of it,” Colt spits, shoving him back. Ford doesn’t move an inch, his body solid granite while he stays in front of me, almost completely obscuring me from vision. Now, they stand near mirror images of each other, arms dangling at their sides, weight shifted to the balls of their feet, shoulders squared while they face-off. “This doesn’t concern you.”

  Ford doesn’t react; he simply stays, staring at Colt. I can’t see his face, but I know it’s probably blank, the calm exterior shuttering over him as he assesses the situation and what comes next.

  Eventually, Colt shifts his eyes over Ford’s shoulder and pierces me with his anger again. “You fucking ratted on me. They’re making me see the school shrink.” Heads are turning, no doubt watching this standoff and taking in every word, ready to relay it to anyone who isn’t witness. But I don’t glance and tell everyone to move on, I don’t look away from Colt—from my best friend—because he needs to see me to know that I would never, ever do that.

  “Colt—”

  This time, it’s Ford who interrupts me.

  “It wasn’t her—it was me.” Colt’s eyes slash away from mine, locking on Ford.

  “What?” I say. Ford ignores me, even when I step out from behind him and stand next to him. He’s locked on Colt.

  “Who the fuck do you think you are?” Colt’s voice has gone from angry to barely controlled fury. The cords in his neck are sticking out, and his face is getting redder by the minute.

  If Ford’s temper is engaged, I can’t tell. He stands, calm and solid and alert, eyes one hundred percent focused on his cousin. “You scared her, man,” he finally says, voice low. Colt flicks his eyes to me and away, not ready to feel, to reengage and remember who I am to him. Who we are to each other. “Fuck, you scared me. The way you were talking… I couldn’t risk it.”

  “No one was asking you to risk anything!” Colt explodes, stepping forward with his arm cocked back, already braced in fight mode. The minute I step in front of Ford, he stops, and I regret it.

  Because now Colt is looking at me, and instead of seeing his best friend, he’s seeing a girl who has left him—a girl who’s chosen the side of his cousin, just like a woman left his father and chose someone else. Just like his mom always chooses men, or drugs, or liquor over him. Just like his brother chose the high life instead of him.

  I’m the only person who’s ever chosen Colt…until now.

  My body trembles, and I step away from Ford, but it doesn’t matter. The intent was clear; there’s no taking back what I’ve done.

  “Colt.” I try to reach for him, but he shifts and I stop. Swallowing, I look up at him. “Are you okay?”

  He sneers. “Ask my counselor. Better yet, ask your boyfriend, since he seems to know every goddamn thing about everyone.”

  When he turns to go, I try again, because however angry we’ve been at each other before, this is different, and everything inside of me is telling me that if Colt leaves now, we won’t ever be the same.

  “We only want you to be okay.”

  My hand touches his arm, but he spins so quickly I step back, bumping into Ford whose arms automatically go around me.

  For one second, Colt’s face is tortured, and my knees buckle. But then his anger is back, and his eyes tell me nothing. “You made your choice, Lincoln. Now, I’m making mine. Stay the fuck away from me—both of you.”

  He walks away, the sea of people who gathered to watch our epic meltdown parting automatically. In the crowd, my eyes meet Evie’s. Hers are wide and wet and scared, flicking between me and Colt’s retreating back.

  I nod my head in his direction, because I need someone to go with him. I have to respect that he’s told me to stay away—however much it hurts—but I need to know someone’s there for him, someone he might not hate.

  Evie doesn’t hesitate. She turns, those long legs eating up ground and taking her from my sight.

  “You okay?”

  Ford’s voice is quiet, and his movements are gentle when he changes our positions so his back is to the crowd. I shake my head, tears clogging my throat.

  “Ford,” I whisper, and he brings me closer until my face presses into his chest. I don’t wrap my arms around him, but I let myself lean while my heart breaks. “What did we do?”

  My words are muffled, but I know he hears me because his arms get a little tighter.

  “Come on.” Without letting me go, he closes my locker and grabs my bag, reaching down to weave our fingers together.

  Then we walk out the back doors and around the school to the street where I parked this morning. When he takes my keys and unlocks the passenger side, I only stand on the sidewalk and stare at him.

  “You shouldn’t have done that. We shouldn’t have done that.”

  My voice breaks, but when he tries to bring me close, I hold stiff and step back. “He has no one now, Ford. I was his family—and now he has no one.”

  “Not true. He has us.” I shake my head, but he stops me, hands cupping my neck and thumbs tilting my chin up. “You know what you asked me that night at the field when you gave me a ride home?”

  “What?”

  “You asked me why I crashed—why I needed the speed like it was my life. I didn’t answer you then, maybe because I didn’t understand. I didn’t even really answer you when I told you about Alyssa.”

  “And now?”

  “No one said anything to me, Lincoln.” His doesn’t raise his voice, but I feel his words anyway. “It wasn’t the first time I’d driven too fast, and it wasn’t the first time I put someone else in danger. But everyone was too scared to say anything, and because of it, I never stopped to think, never knew what they thought, or what they needed.”

  “It’s not the same,” I say. Ford stops me.

  “Do you love Colt?”

  I nod.

  “Then that means you have to be the strong one sometimes. Even when it’s hard—especially when it’s hard—because he trusts you to be.”

  I understand that he’s right—even if I hate the role I’ve played in hurting Colt. Ford reaches around me and opens the passenger door, waiting for me to get in before closing it.

  He walks around the hood and gets into the driver’s seat, and I wait until he’s pulled out and driving away from school before I speak. “A part of me knows you’re right, but another part… what if he never trusts me again?”

  Ford speaks before I finish my question. “He will.”

  Irritation prickles under my skin, because he’s so sure, so confident, and I want to feel like that instead of this bone deep fear. “How do you know?”

  Now he hesitates, just a little. “Because I do.” Before I can snap at him, he takes a hand off the wheel and puts it on my knee, his large palm covering a lot of my thigh. “You can’t save him, Lincoln. If anyone’s taught me that, it’s Colt. You can’t save him,” he repeats because I’m ready to disagree with him and he knows it. “But you can let him know you want to—that you need him to save himself because his life is as important to you as your own.”

  “Is that what happened to you? Someone ratted you out after you and Alyssa crashed, and people showed you how important your life was?”

  Ford’s eyes are unblinking while he stares at the road, his body motionless and unflinching. And then he shakes his head no.

  My heart aches when I see it—because now I understand more than ever who Ford Slaughter is: the boy who shouted for help, for someone to see him, in the loudest way he knew, and still, no one ever asked him to be careful, never heard his shout for what it was and responded. Not even when he was begging them to.

  I slide my hand over his where it rests on my leg, waiting until he turns his so we are palm to palm, fingers linked.

  “You know I need you, right?”

  I’ve never said those words to anyone but Colt. They’re scary—more than scary because of h
ow true they are.

  Ford’s breath seems to stop, his whole body going immobile except for his hand. The fingers holding mine clench hard, as if holding onto something he’s afraid will slip out of his grip if he isn’t careful. I squeeze back just as hard, hoping he knows I feel the same.

  “I’m here, Lincoln—and I’m going to continue to be. You…” he trails off, his throat clicking when he swallows. He seems less sure now than I’ve ever seen him. “You made me see what it meant to have someone—someone who makes living right just by being there. I don’t want to live without that—without you. Not ever again.”

  The hollow spaces I’ve lived with inside of me are beginning to fill, like they did the first time he kissed me, the first time he held me, the first time he looked at me and told me I was a part of his new plan—the part that made him understand that this was now his home. They fill until I’m near bursting, and then I do the only thing I can: I lean over and put my lips on his cheek. And then I rest my head on his shoulder while he drives us somewhere quiet.

  I think of Colt, and I wonder how he’ll forgive me—if he’ll forgive me. But I don’t wallow, and I don’t make myself sick. I sit with Ford, and I let him make me believe that life can be good, if only we let it.

  I want to keep Lincoln away from school all day—to put gas in her car and point it west towards the coast, or east towards the mountains.

  What I don’t want is to be pulling back into the school parking lot right before the last bell of the day rings.

  Lincoln’s eyes are searching, and I know she’s looking for the big blue beast that will tell us if Colt is here or not.

  “I don’t see his truck.”

  “I know.”

  “Ford,” she whispers, and my chest tightens. I hate that what I did hurt her, that it caused a rift between her and the person most important to her—because both Colt and Lincoln are important to me. However sick it made me to do it, I knew that bringing Colt to the farm that night wasn’t enough.

  I’ve seen darkness—I’ve felt it creep into me and make every day blend into the next, make every breath painful. But I’ve never seen darkness the way Colt has. And I’ve never felt pain as deep as that which lives inside my cousin.