by Jennifer Yu
28.
It goes something like this:
We’re in his room. The lamp next to his bed is on, because the sun sets way before 5:30 p.m. these days, and the light throws elongated, blurry shadows of his desk along the floor.
We’re lying on our sides facing each other. His arm around my waist. My hand along the side of his shoulder.
Both of our shirts are on the floor.
“Kevin,” I murmur, pulling away.
“Mmm,” he says, pulling me back in.
I sit up—ignoring the noise of disapproval he makes from the back of his throat—because I really do want to say something to him, something about how I’ve never felt so vulnerable before in my life, how it’s not just the fact that we’re half-naked, or lying in bed together, how it’s more than that, it’s everything about this, being together, being so close, being a part of this moment right now with nothing other than his skin pressed against my skin and his hand in my hair. And I want him to know that even though it’s true, I’ve never felt so vulnerable before in my life, I’ve also never trusted anyone like this. I’ve never trusted anyone the way I trust him right now.
But I never get around to saying all of those things. I never even get around to starting. Because when I sit up—between Kevin’s disappointed noise and the moment his eyes fly open, irises bright and pupils dilated in the glare of the light—that’s when I see them, running along the inside of his upper arm. Slightly raised. So pale the skin is almost pink.
Scars.
“Oh,” I say.
Kevin sighs. It’s pretty obvious what I’m looking at.
“I didn’t know,” I say.
“I never told you,” Kevin says.
“I can’t believe this is the first time I’m noticing,” I say. “I mean we’ve done this—what, how many times?”
“You weren’t looking,” Kevin says. “A fact that I was perfectly content with.”
He sits up, too, and grabs his shirt from off the floor. I guess I’ve ruined the mood.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t need to say anything, Stella.”
“But I—I want to say something. I want to say the right thing.”
Kevin sighs, pulls his shirt over his head and onto his body. I get one more glimpse of the scars as he threads his arms through his sleeves, and then they disappear from view.
“You never...?” Kevin asks.
I shake my head.
“Well, that’s good,” he says. And then, with a bitterness I haven’t heard in his voice since he told me about his mom that one afternoon: “Don’t.”
“Kevin...”
“I’m going to be honest with you, Stella,” Kevin says. “Is that okay? Can I be honest with you for a sec here?”
I nod. The truth is, I’m afraid of what Kevin’s about to say. What if he tells me that he still cuts sometimes, but makes me promise not to tell his mother? Would I be obligated to tell someone even though it would probably make Kevin hate me forever? Just thinking about that possibility makes my stomach lurch with helplessness.
“There was a period of time when I really hated myself, Stel. It sounds so stupid to say out loud, and I wish that I had a reason for you, some way to explain why I felt the way that I did. But I don’t have a reason. I don’t even have an excuse. I just really, really fucking hated myself, and I just—one day, I just did it. And I liked it, so I kept doing it, and then I couldn’t stop, and honestly, I didn’t even want to stop. Okay? I know that sounds bad. I know that is bad. But it’s the truth.”
“Okay,” I say. And then, because I really, really don’t know what else to say, I reach out and take Kevin’s hand. He closes his eyes, but doesn’t pull away.
“And I know I should have told you sooner, but I didn’t want that to be what you thought of every time you looked at me. I wanted a chance to—I don’t know, I guess I wanted a chance to be more than that.”
Kevin waves his hands in the air. Then he flops down onto the bed and pulls the blanket over his face.
“Thank you for sharing that with me,” I say. And is it wrong that after all of that, after everything he just said, what I want more than anything in the world is just to kiss him? If I could just kiss him right now, then maybe, maybe that would be enough to convey everything that I’m thinking, everything that I can’t find a way to put into words.
“You sound like my therapist,” Kevin says, voice muffled. And then we snicker, because we both know it’s true.
“Did you talk to him about it?” I ask.
“Sometimes,” Kevin says.
“Did he help?”
“Sometimes,” Kevin repeats.
“And your mom...?”
“She doesn’t know,” Kevin says flatly, and that’s that.
I lie back down, get under the covers so that I’m next to him. Pull the blankets back down so that I can see his face again. Ignore his look of surprise as I drop a kiss on his collarbone.
“I don’t know that I’ve felt that exact way,” I say slowly. I’m choosing my words carefully. Part of me doesn’t even want to say anything, because, well, kissing would be so much easier. But this is the time, and this is the right thing to do, and if I don’t say something now, when will I?
“I don’t know that I’ve ever felt that—that pure self-hatred, you know, just, like, sitting there hating myself. I think I just feel very hopeless sometimes. Like there’s no point in getting out of bed, there’s no point in going to class, there’s no point in texting Lin, there’s no point in eating, there’s no point in—well, anything. And then, at that point, it’s like there’s this voice in my head that takes over, that starts screaming at me, Stella, what the fuck are you doing, Stella, why the fuck aren’t you at school, Stella, how the fuck are you going to pass history, Stella, you’re ruining your parents’ marriage, and just on and on and on.”
Kevin nods. He turns onto his side and starts tracing figure-eights on the side of my shoulder with his pointer finger.
This is one of those times when it feels like my chest might explode.
“I guess I should have told you more about this when we were talking on Katie’s balcony on Halloween,” I say. “I mean, we were already on the subject. But I didn’t. Because...”
Our eyes meet, and the intensity makes me feel like I’m about to cry.
“But you were afraid,” Kevin says.
I swallow. “Because I was afraid.”
“I get that, Stella,” he says.
A lot of people have said those words to me before. Karen, of course, because she’s my therapist and she gets paid a hefty sum every week to try and make me feel understood. My mom, probably because Karen has told her that empathy is the foundation of any good relationship or something like that. Lin and Katie, because they really don’t know what else to say.
But the thing is, I believe Kevin when he says it. I really do.
29.
That is the moment when I know that I have fallen in love.
31.
It is five degrees below freezing outside. The storm has left most of Connecticut without electricity and heat, there are trees uprooted in backyards and trash cans strewn across highways and we have not had school in two days. From where Kevin and I stand in the middle of his bedroom, we can hear the windows rattling throughout the house, the roof groaning under the weight of constant, ceaseless snowfall. There are two lit candles on his desk. It is the only light we have.
But I am not thinking about the storm.
“I wanted to do this at the right time,” Kevin whispers. He hooks his index fingers through my belt loops and pulls me in, all the way in, so that I’m pressed up against him.
I pull his shirt off. Trace my fingers up the outside of his arm, then down the inside. Where the skin is smooth, ne
w. So pale it almost glows in the candlelight.
“Stel,” he says, and takes my hand in his. “Stella, Stella, Stella. I have never felt this way about anyone before. You know that, right?”
I don’t know what to say.
So I kiss him.
“Do you want this?” he breathes. And then: “Do you want me?”
The heat has not worked in over fourteen hours.
I have never felt warmer.
“Of course I do,” I say.
And I mean it.
It really does seem very beautiful, at the time.
60. April
We’re close to the end.
* * *
We’re in my room. I’m sitting at the foot of my bed, listening to Kevin shout at me, and I’m crying.
Kevin isn’t crying. He’s just angry. He’s been angry for the better part of the last month.
There was a time when I’d be embarrassed to set the scene like that. When I’d try to say something less dramatic and emotional, something like, “We’re having another one of our disagreements,” or, “I don’t know what’s come over the two of us this time.” But we’ve been fighting so much lately that, honestly, I’m numb to it. Yeah, Kevin and I are fighting again, and I’m a mess, just like I always am, and now it’s 4:00 p.m. on a Tuesday and I’m sitting on my bed, being yelled at by my boyfriend and sobbing like this hasn’t become a weekly routine. What of it?
“I feel like you think this isn’t a big deal,” Kevin says. “Like I should just be able to pick myself up and get over it. Well, guess what, Stella? It’s not that easy. And maybe if you tried a little harder to understand instead of spending all your time frolicking around with—”
“I’m not saying it’s not a big deal!” I say, ignoring the second half of his comment. Snide remarks about me and Jeremy have become so common now that I barely register them.
“So what the fuck...” Kevin shouts. He lets the word hang in the air, runs his hand through his hair. There was a time when I found that habit so endearing.
“...are you saying?” Kevin finishes.
There was also a time when I always knew the right thing to say to Kevin. When I could always make him feel better. When I could always make him feel good.
“I’m just saying that it happened. That it happened and there’s nothing you can do about it now, so what’s the point of—”
“Oh, sorry,” Kevin says. “I didn’t realize that all of my feelings had to have a point. You’ll have to teach me your ways, since you’re so rational and put-together these days.”
“That’s not what I fucking meant!” I shout.
Something I’ve learned in the last months is that you can only feel crushed by sadness for so long before the pressure turns it into anger.
“That’s exactly what you meant!” Kevin says.
“Kevin,” I say. “Kevin, there are other ways to get out of Connecticut. There are other schools. There are plenty of people who—”
“Oh, shut up, Stella. I don’t know why I came over here. Honestly, it’s not like you ever have anything new to say.”
“So leave,” I say. “If I’m not helpful, if I don’t understand how you feel, if I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know, get out of my house!”
And that’s when Kevin picks up the math textbook on my desk and throws it at the window.
Which promptly shatters.
My first thought, because the brain works in mysterious ways, is that I really need that textbook in order to finish my homework for tomorrow.
“What the fuck?” I say.
Kevin doesn’t respond.
I stand up. There’s glass everywhere—all over the floor, scattered along the edge of the bed and probably some that’s fallen out into my backyard along with the textbook. The neighbors have probably heard. My mother has definitely heard.
“What the fuck?” I repeat.
I’m angry now. I’m angry that Kevin is taking his feelings out on me, and I’m angry that I can’t figure out the right thing to say to make him feel better, and I’m angry that he just threw my math textbook out my bedroom window, for God’s sake. And I’m angry that now there’s proof—proof of how fucked up this situation is, proof of how fucked up this relationship is. It’s hard to wish away a shattered window.
“What am I supposed to tell my parents about this?” I say.
“Oh, who gives a shit?” Kevin says. “Tell them your boyfriend is a fucking psycho, for all I care.”
“It wouldn’t be a lie,” I say.
Kevin scoffs. “I always liked that about you, you know that?” he says. Voice like acid. “Witty. You were always so witty.”
I don’t know what to say to that. So instead, I stare out the space where my window used to be. You can hear the birds clearly now, and the street noise is oddly loud.
I wonder if the neighbors can hear us yelling.
“It’s too bad you’re also such a bitch,” Kevin says. And then he leaves.
32.
By the time we’re a few days away from winter break, freedom is so close that everyone at Bridgemont just sort of collectively gives up on the semester. The ratio of homework assignments completed to homework assignments given plummets with astonishing velocity toward zero. My parents stop nagging me about my grades in order to nag each other about arrangements for Christmas dinner. And—the truest sign that it’s almost vacation—teachers start filling class time with “educational” movies like Dr. Strangelove and The Day After Tomorrow because they can’t be bothered to put together actual lesson plans.
Kevin, Yago and I have spent the better part of the last week binge-watching Netflix episodes while binge-eating Smartfood at Kevin’s house instead of doing anything remotely resembling studying, but we’re forced to make alternate arrangements on Thursday afternoon when Kevin informs us that his mother is in the process of repainting her basement art studio.
“The entire house smells like paint fumes,” Kevin says as we all pile into his car after school. “Stel, can we go to yours instead?”
“Not unless your idea of a fun afternoon involves getting grilled by my mother over tea,” I say.
“Yago?” Kevin says. “Feel like inviting us over?”
“Ugh,” Yago says, next to me in the backseat. He unzips his backpack, pulls out rolling paper and a plastic bag filled with weed and starts rolling a joint. “I hate my house.”
“Yago lives in Crystal Ridge,” Kevin says, by way of explanation.
“You live in Crystal Ridge?” I say, dumbfounded.
“My parents live in Crystal Ridge,” Yago says. “And I live with my parents, so I suppose that the answer to that question is yeah, I do live in Crystal Ridge.”
Yago finishes rolling the joint, pulls out a lighter and takes a long, long drag, as if living in the nicest neighborhood in the Hartford area is a great burden to him. He exhales, and the entire car is flooded with the smell of weed.
“Fine,” he finally says. “Let’s go to Crystal Ridge.”
“Thanks, Yago,” Kevin says. He turns the key to start the engine, and the motor revs—but doesn’t start.
“Hmm,” Kevin says, and frowns. “That’s not what’s supposed to happen.”
“Your car is a piece of shit,” Yago says, now blowing smoke rings.
“I like this car,” Kevin says. “It’s got personality.”
He turns the key again—rev, rev, nothing.
“It sure does,” I say. “The personality of a crotchety old man.”
Yago snickers. Kevin turns the key a third time and the engine finally roars to life.
“See? The car is perfectly fine,” Kevin says. He shifts into Reverse and backs out of his parking space, ignoring the ominous thumping noises now emanating from the back.
By the
time we get to Yago’s house, the thumping—perhaps offended by Kevin’s outright dismissal—has increased both in volume and in frequency. The car thump-thump-thumps as we get on the ramp for the highway, it thump-thump-thumps even louder when we take Exit 10 for Crystal Ridge and it thump-thump-thumps most insistently of all as Kevin shifts from third gear to first and we make our way down the neighborhood’s winding, tree-lined streets.
“Kevin,” I start to say, “I understand that it is very important to you to drive a stick shift, because, I don’t know, that’s what Sartre would drive or something, but it’s actually very important to me to not die before I turn eighteen, because then I’ll never make it out of Wethersfield. So could you please just—”
But my plea for Kevin to please, please get a new car already never makes it out of my mouth, because now we’ve pulled into Yago’s driveway—practically the length of a street—and his house comes into view. And Yago’s house is...not really a house at all. It’s a freaking mansion.
“This is where you live?” I say.
Yago sighs and kills the joint.
The inside of Yago’s house is pretty much exactly what you’d expect based on the outside of Yago’s house, a fact that seems to fill Yago with an unhappiness so profound that even Nietzsche might be impressed. “I thought you said your parents were just ‘boring computer nerds,’” I say as Yago leads us into the foyer, past a gleaming kitchen twice the size of my bedroom, and up a flight of stairs. “Did they invent the computer? Is that what you meant?”
Yago takes us down a hallway on the second floor, past another staircase and then through a set of double doors that leads to another wing of the house with yet more stairs.
“How many sets of stairs does your house have, Yago?” I say. “And do they move around, like in Hogwarts?”
Yago doesn’t respond.
“It’s fine,” I say. “Don’t respond. Probably for the better, anyway. God forbid you get distracted and lead us down the wrong hallway and we get lost. It might be years before someone manages to find their way to us.”