Dodging Trains

by Sunniva Dee

  Friends. I’ve lived in Rigita my whole life, but because I am who I am, I have few of them. Besides my mother, it’s only the few handfuls of men I see regularly, and right now, if I accepted their invitations to meet up, I would disappoint them. The only friend I can’t avoid is Mack.

  Who’s… right: being an ass. Which I can’t tell Keyon.

  “How’s Mack?” he says on the phone today, as if he’s heard my quick trail of thoughts.

  “He’s good,” I lie. Sexually frustrated and bitchy.

  It’s quiet on the other end. Then he sighs. The sound travels deep into my stomach and makes me miss him more. “Have you thought more about Mexico?”

  “Why? Would you want me there?” I bite my lip to squelch the happiness his question causes.

  “I would. As a matter of fact, I might just need you there,” he says sweetly, so sweetly I bounce to the tip of my toes.

  “Really?” My voice bubbles and fizzes.

  “Really.”

  “Really-really?”

  “Paislee. Did you get your passport?”

  I grab the phone with both hands and thump to my bed. Once I’m comfortable on my back, I swipe the passport off the nightstand and hold it up. “Wait…”

  I snap a picture and send it to him, then put my ear to the phone again. I hear the pling as the photo reaches his side of the line.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Did you get a message?”

  He fumbles. Breathes. And is really cute and boyish when he returns on the line with, “Nice! Now, all we have to do is get you some travel details.”

  Wow. I might have a passport, but that thing was expensive. I twist the sheet under me in a fist. I don’t have savings. The few dimes to my name disappeared with the Florida trip, which was fine because I live cheap here. I go work to apartment, hand to mouth. Reality rushes in like I shouldn’t already be aware: it’s not just about taking vacation days on short notice. Traveling costs money, and I have no money.

  “I can’t.” Disappointment constricts my throat. I clear it too loudly.

  There’s a short silence, like he’s choosing his words. “Can you not get the time off? It’s a Friday, so it would be a long weekend.”

  “No, Keyon, that’s not the issue. I’m just—” It’s a humbling thing to confess how broke you are.

  “What then?”

  I consider asking my mother. She’d nickel and dime something together for me, but since she doesn’t have a boyfriend to share expenses with, she can barely pay for her own life. I’m not going there.

  “Paislee? Talk to me.”

  I sigh a heavy sigh. What does the mayor’s son know about these things? He’s never eaten Ramen a week in a row while his mother was between second jobs. “Naw, never mind. I can’t make it. Work, you know.”

  “Bull. You just said that’s not the issue.”

  “Okay, fine! I’m broke. I’ve looked, and the prices are astronomical. No way I can ever go to Mexico.” As I say it, a sob squeezes out too, which sucks bad.

  “Shhh, Paislee. I told you Markeston is sponsoring the flights and the hotel and everything, didn’t I?”

  “For the fighter and his team, yes, but—”

  “You’re part of my team.”

  “I’m your groupie,” I say.

  “My girlfriend.”

  I swallow. He’s called me this a few times when we’ve been together, but only to prove some possessive man-point to unsuspecting males.

  “Do you want to be my girlfriend? Or do you have other plans. With—other men.” He says it carefully, like he’s afraid of hurting feelings, mine, maybe his own in a different way.

  “Keyon,” I start, thinking back to high school and the last time he asked me this question. It all ended in immature teasing about growing boobies, and I never gave him an answer. Neither of us broached the subject again.

  “I’m sorry if I come off blunt, babe, but I don’t share girls, and if that’s a problem—”

  “You don’t even know,” I cut in, feeling that lump in my throat easing. In its place, little bursts of something fizzy and bright causes me to purse back a smile. It’s a ridiculously happy feeling. “You don’t even know how much I want to be your girlfriend, Keyon, only yours. It will make everything I’m going through right now worthwhile.”

  “Good. Wait, what are you going through?”

  “Abstinence symptoms. Withdrawal. Losing friends.”

  “Withdrawal? What are you talking about?”

  I see what he’s thinking. “Oh no, I’m not on drugs or anything. I’m just not used to being without sex, and now I turn my friends down half a dozen times a day.”

  He’s quiet, not finding the humor in what I’m revealing. “They’re not your friends if they only want to fuck you.”

  My gaze goes to the shimmering egg on my nightstand for support.

  “Right, but that’s my own fault. I’ve built these friendships on sex.”

  “Paislee, it’s their fault as much as yours. I hope that you moving on and not wanting to remain stuck with random sex for the rest of your life doesn’t keep them from taking a simple cup of coffee with you.”

  “You mean Mr. Gluckwelt should sneak away from Mrs. Gluckwelt and their snotty kids for platonic chats with me?” I ask, brutal and instantly regretting it. Seems I’m hell-bent on chasing away the only man worth being with for more than a minute. Here he is, unreal, offering me a relationship. He has shown me respect even when I’ve done nothing to earn it. Why am I doing this to myself?

  “Your girlfriend’s father? The one who got you started?” he asks.

  “No, Isa and her family don’t live here anymore.”

  “Well, this Mr. Gluckwelt is a first-class jerk. He needs to stay at his little house and love his little Mrs. and get out of my girl’s face. But your friend, Mack, should be mature enough to hang out with you for you, not for your pussy or your oral skills,” he spits.

  I dampen my gasp with a hand.

  Keyon must hate to think of me with someone else. If I were in his shoes, I’d be shouting unspeakable things to him too, I’m sure. I’d probably sound worse. “You’re right. Can… can you check with Markeston about that ticket?” I ask quietly.

  He tries to subdue the rumble in his throat. I hope he isn’t picturing Mack and me together. “No, I’ll book it. Right now. Right away. Watch out for an email with the details. Talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Keyon?”

  “Yes.”

  I speak fast because he’s about to hang up. I’m baring my soul, and he needs to hear before I chicken out. “Yours are the last fingerprints on my body.”

  He takes a moment to react. Then a sigh hisses from him. “Babe. You have no idea how happy that makes me. In two weeks I’ll be leaving more fingerprints on you, okay? I cannot wait.”

  KEYON

  I keep having these fucking nightmares. I wake up soaked and gasping for air. I find myself strangling my pillow when I come to.

  It’s the damn creep from the train. I can’t believe how he keeps resurfacing. I wonder if Paislee’s reappearance in my life adds fuel.

  We haven’t discussed her incident much since she revealed it, but my guess is her rapist is the same guy. Because what are the odds of there being two people as twisted as him in one small place over just a few years? I make a mental note to ask Paislee if she saw her abuser, for comparison.

  As soon as the fight in Mexico is done, I won’t have a constant visual hanging over me in the shape of Sanchez. I’m going to destroy the guy and make a name for myself. I’ll be moving on to other and better fighters, hopefully in the US and with better rankings.

  I’ve got two weeks left until the big match, and everything rides on this. I’ve told my girl I can’t be in contact until we meet up in Mexico, but that Markeston and Dawson will coordinate everything. She had no beef with it, more proof that she’s perfect for me.

  I’ll have to wait until after the fight to see
her, because an emotional reunion beforehand could wreck my concentration, a chance I won’t be taking. Over the last month, I’ve been training day and night. I purse my lips and exhale, pressing the air out through a narrow opening. There’s no doubt I’ll win this.

  I’ve booked a hotel on the coast afterward—nothing fancy. She’s flying in Thursday, fight’s Friday night, and after it, she’s got Saturday and Sunday with me as well. Two days to luxuriate.

  After the fight, I’ll indulge in everything—food, drink, sleep—and I’ll be indulging Paislee. My girl, she needs her sex, and I plan to make up for lost time until I see it in the way she walks. I want her so satisfied she squirms out of my arms, laughing with exhaustion when I offer more.

  Two days only for us. We’ll be going straight to the hotel, no pit stops at all. I’m counting on no major injuries and being able to give her everything she could dream of. Sunset walks on the beach and candlelit dinners. Romantic shit that girls love. I want her beaming. I want her smiling hard, all the time.

  I’ll damn well make her smile.

  PAISLEE

  “You going to be okay?” Old-Man grumbles from beneath his moustache. I’ve been busy inside my own rosy head, and a pang of guilt hits me at how he still needs a barber’s appointment. That moustache—geez. It’s getting in his coffee, leaving it with a yellowed rim.

  I hand him a napkin and nod. “Mexico isn’t that far away, Old-Man. People go there all the time. From California, for instance.”

  “But not from Rigita,” Mack supplies from the couch.

  It’s difficult to look at Mack nowadays, what with the lovesick face he’s wearing. He doesn’t insist anymore, doesn’t ask about lunches upstairs or “walks” to get away from Old-Man for a quickie.

  The first two weeks after Florida, I avoided his advances without explaining. The look in his eyes—shock, sadness—once I confessed that I was trying the girlfriend thing, was hard to swallow.

  Keyon’s girlfriend-question might not be a big deal for other girls, but for someone like me, a floozy not worthy of the ground honest men stand on, it was as big as watching the love of your life unwrap an engagement ring.

  Paislee Marie Cain is going steady. I grin at the thought even though it’s what most people did in middle school. Keyon and I might have gone there in high school if the world hadn’t flung us apart.

  It’s okay. After everything I’ve been through, I probably savor it more than I would have back then. And with love, it’s never too late.

  I let my mind roam to Mom and play with the idea of having her meet Richard Markeston. The man is the fun-loving, jovial type, and my mother needs to laugh more.

  Then I think about Cugs, and my heart sinks. He accepted my Facebook friend request three days ago. I was so excited, I spent two hours devising the perfect, light, two-sentence message. Cugs is on Facebook all the time, and I see him update with football scores, pictures of pals from his team, and even a few photos of himself with a cute girl.

  He’s a young man now. Handsome and happy-looking, no hint of bereavement marring his eyes. It’s like I was never in his life.

  “I’d have to ask Old-Man, but I’d come along,” Mack breaks into my thoughts.

  “What?” I ask, hearing him fine but buying time.

  He huffs. “Paislee, you’ve never been out of the country, and much less with someone you hardly know.”

  “You’re joking, right? Keyon and I have known each other since high school. He’s my boyfriend, and I’ll be more than okay.”

  “You’ve known him for, like, two days! How can you trust him like that?”

  I’m stunned. Not once since I met Mack has he asked about my past. He knows nothing about high school, about my friends and enemies, about Keyon. He has no idea what makes me me, which used to be fine. I accepted him each time he stood at my door, needing my body even if he didn’t need me. But what right does he have to throw unsolicited advice my way?

  “Listen, boo,” he murmurs, reaching a hand out for me in ways he did when he wanted me naked. “All I’m saying is I can be there and make sure you’re safe. If anything happens…”

  “Thanks, Mack,” I say. “I appreciate your concern, but I’ll be fine. My boyfriend will be with me along with a group of amazing people I love hanging out with. But if you ever want to have a coffee—just coffee—and a chat somewhere, I’ll be happy to treat you to it.”

  He takes my message like I’ve delivered a blow to his gut. Mack’s eyelids flutter with the impact, and I do feel bad, because I could never blame him for what we’ve done and where we’ve ended up.

  A lot could be said about Mack. He’s aloof and uninterested in people’s stories. He’s ignorant and self-serving. But none of those traits are crimes—good thing too, because if they were, most of us would be guilty.

  I’m no better than my friend. I’ve nourished Mack’s choices with my needs, and instead of searching for the right woman to share his days with, he has hung on to the illusion of me because I quenched his physical needs.

  Mack doesn’t realize he’s fed my choices too, and I’ll probably never speak of my revelation. As I stand up and walk out to the mirrors, his face pinches with retorts he’s dying to hurl my way. He doesn’t though, because when all is said and done, Mack is still a gentle one.

  KEYON

  Markeston and Dawson are thick as thieves. They devise plans they let me know about last minute. Thankfully, it’s been stuff I agree with—so far.

  Round-card Amy’s going to pass by my apartment and make sure Simon is okay during the days I’m gone. It’s the pitfall of not having a roommate; you need help with your pets when you’re out of town, and for me, Simon’s tons more than a pet. Little dude’s a freaking furry soul mate.

  Whenever I think of soul mates, Paislee’s name flickers on my brain; it was astonishing how Simon took to her. I’ve never seen him suck up to a sleepover the way he did with Paislee. It was like he was trying to steal her—I wasn’t even kidding when I told my girl that.

  I grin as I recall their first interaction. It’s so fucking hot when a woman loves on my little man the way she did. He knew he was special to her too, right away, and damn if it didn’t make me putty in her hands afterward. I mean, when have I ever let a woman take charge and ride me slowly into the sunset?

  We’re in a rowdy, loud, dirty part of an enormous city. The hotel is four stars, but the bellman knows no English, and the receptionist struggles through her words. It’s okay.

  Thanks to Markeston’s exuberant insistence, we now have four people gesticulating and guiding us to an elevator. Turns out they’re not only leading us there. They’re going up with us too, until we’re at the top floor, where three of them push the bellman wagon with all of our gear into the hallway and roll it toward the far end of the corridor.

  “Suite,” one of them nods out.

  “Gracias mucho!” Markeston bellows; he had a few cocktails on the flight and they haven’t worn off yet.

  The suite is set up for Dawson, Robbie, and me, while Markeston has the next-door apartment to himself. “It’s not big,” he shrugs as he enters, “but it’s got a Jacuzzi on the balcony. Back problems.”

  Later, we take a limo, also courtesy of Markeston, to the arena that’s being set up for the fight. It’s huge. You can tell Sanchez’s a big name in this city, which will make it harder for me. When thousands of fans cheer their asses off for your opponent, you’ve really got to be in your Zen.

  We drop our shit off in the dressing room. None of Sanchez’s peeps are there, but his portrait’s so huge on the wall facing the audience, it makes me think of populist propaganda: Evita, Peron—hey, Hitler.

  “Looks like all he needs is a statue of himself,” Markeston adds to my musings.

  “No shit.”

  “Oh boy, they’ll be sad once you’ve flogged the bastard,” Robbie mutters and slaps my back with his beefy hand.

  “Damn straight,” I say. “I’m here to make Me
xico City sad.”

  Dawson swings to me. He’s not someone I’d characterize as full of humor, but there’s mirth at the back of his gaze before he starts unloading our bags.

  From the hotel, I go for a run in a crazy neighborhood with Robbie at my side. We stare at each other over a car that’s caught fire on the curb. The owner, a girl, smacks a kid holding an oversized lighter while berating him. I want to say she used a tequila bottle as a weapon, but Pepsi bottles hurt too, judging by the wailing kid.

  “You need help, ma’am?” I ask and watch her unleash a tirade of what must be Spanish cusswords.

  “She’s fine,” Robbie fake-translates, and it’s the last straw for me to fold over laughing.

  “Wow,” I manage, because it’s all I’ve got.

  At the hotel, the employees aren’t overly interested in calling the police over the lit-up car. “Happen all the time,” a smiling receptionist offers.

  I sleep well. Oh yeah, because I wasn’t going to let the pressure get to me before the biggest fight ever. I have the master bedroom. The guys crash in adjacent rooms, and when I wake up—at four a.m.—I’m splayed on my back across the king-sized bed like the winner I’ll be.

  Fuck yeah. My heart starts a crazy sprint. Now all that’s left is to make weight.

  PAISLEE

  Another flight. My life has become surreal. This one’s longer than the first and has an additional layover. Still, it’s not hard to get into this new groove; I feel free whether I’m at airports or in the air.

  I picked up magazines at the first layover, and it tides me over when my thoughts rush rampant.

  It’s been a full month since I last saw Keyon. The first weeks, we talked daily, but then it tapered off until our phone calls became nonexistent.

  My boyfriend needs his mind wholly focused on the upcoming match, which I understand, but with him all the way down in Florida, ours started to feel like an imaginary relationship.

  Mack drove me to the airport, and the entire trip, he spoke politely about daily tribulations at the factory. We laughed twice at something Old-Man had done, so typical of him, but then I caught Mack furrowing his brow deeply, making me realize how worried he was.