Out from Under You

by Sophie Swift

  I knew that then.

  Just like I know that now.

  “Lia!” My dad’s voice interrupts my self-pity party, calling from the bottom of the stairs. “I made breakfast!”

  I check the time on my phone. It’s ten a.m. I can’t even think about digesting food right now. Or worse, sitting at the table across from Grayson, trying to read his expression through bites of toast. But I also know that if I skip breakfast, I will have to explain why. And if I explain why, I will get a lecture about drinking more responsibly not only from my father, but also from Alex because, ever since our mother left, she’s enjoyed stepping in and taking over the maternal role of the house. Even though she’s never even here.

  I stagger into the bathroom, splash some cold water on my face, and twist my disheveled hair back, securing it with a clip. Then I change into a pair of pajamas so no one can question why I slept in my clothes.

  Come to think of it, why did I sleep in my clothes?

  I’ve been so busy lamenting about my bad decisions that I didn’t even stop to contemplate how I got from the car to my bed.

  Did I walk? Did Grayson carry me?

  I think about how I woke up. Fully dressed but under the covers.

  Suddenly the warm tingles I was getting from imagining myself being carried in Grayson’s muscular, tanned arms are snuffed out by the thought of him tucking me into bed like a fucking toddler.

  If he thought I was immature and irresponsible at age fourteen, I can only imagine what he must think of me now.

  Clinging onto the banister as though it were a life-preserver, I wobble down to the kitchen and plop myself into a chair at the table. I feel Grayson’s presence across from me but I don’t look up. I don’t dare. I can’t meet his eyes. And I wonder if I’ll ever be able to again.

  I can feel him looking at me, though. His gaze is like a laser beam burning into the center of my forehead. He wants me to look up. He wants to share some kind of knowing half-smile, but I just won’t do it.

  Whatever happened last night, I can’t face it.

  I can’t face him.

  “What’s the matter with you?” my sister asks as I pick at a piece of bacon on my plate. Just the smell of the meat is making my stomach curdle.

  “I didn’t sleep well,” I mumble.

  “Me neither.” Alex’s tone is soaked in acid and out of the corner of my eye, I see her give Grayson a biting look.

  What was that?

  How much does she know?

  Oh God, this is worse than I thought. I should have just played dead upstairs and let them bury me in the backyard. Anything to avoid this unbearable awkwardness.

  “Everything okay?” my dad asks me.

  I nod. “Sure.”

  “You seemed upset. At dinner.”

  “I guess I’m just sad that Mom isn’t here to celebrate the good news with us.” As hard as I try, I just can’t seem to force any enthusiasm into my voice.

  But as lies go, it’s a fairly good one. During the time that Alex and Grayson were together, I’d gotten really good at coming up with cover stories to hide my true feelings. But in the past four years, I feared I might have fallen out of practice.

  Turns out lying to hide your secret love for a man who will never love you back is a skill that simply stays with you.

  Lucky me.

  My dad smiles weakly. “Yeah. Me, too.”

  Alex sneers. “My engagement is none of Mom’s business.”

  Everyone falls silent. Dad is the first one to speak. “Are you saying you won’t even invite her to the wedding?”

  “Why would I ever invite her to my wedding?” Alex replies, as though it were an insult for my father to even suggest otherwise.

  “Alex.” Grayson’s tone is almost chiding. “I think your mom would be crushed if we didn’t invite her.”

  “Well then, I guess it’s a good thing you don’t have a say in it.” She tosses him an angry glare.

  “I don’t have a say in who gets invited to our wedding?”

  “Not when it comes to my mother, no.”

  “Alex,” my dad tries. “I know you’re upset with your mom for what happened but—”

  “But nothing!” Alex yells, forcefully, pushing her chair back. “She’s not coming and that’s the end of discussion!”

  She storms up the stairs, slamming her bedroom door behind her.

  Grayson starts to slide his chair back. “I’ll talk to her.”

  But my father shakes his head. “I wouldn’t. Don’t worry, she’ll come around eventually.”

  Grayson nods and stands up, picking up both his and Alex’s plates.

  “My God,” my father exclaims, staring at Grayson’s right hand. “What happened?”

  I follow my dad’s gaze and blink in surprise when I see what he’s referring to. Grayson’s hand has swollen up like a balloon, and the skin is bright red and irritated.

  He hurriedly delivers the plates to the kitchen sink and tries to shrug my father’s concern away. “Oh, it’s nothing. I slammed it in the door when I got up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night. Klutzy me.”

  I can tell from a single courageous glance at Grayson’s face that he’s not telling the truth.

  His expression is too stoic. Too controlled. Too rehearsed.

  What the fuck happened last night?

  But before I can even contemplate why he would feel the need to make up some ridiculous story, his eyes find me from across the room.

  It only lasts a second. A fleeting glimpse.

  But it’s enough.

  Enough to shake the ground beneath my feet. To cause everything around me to tremble.

  Enough for me to realize...he’s not just lying.

  He’s lying for me.

  I’ll admit it. It was hard not to touch her. I know that makes me sound like a dick but it’s the truth. As I lowered her slender body into the front seat of the sedan and buckled the seat belt around her, my hand brushed up against her left breast. That one accidental touch set fire to everything.

  And when I drove her home, I couldn’t help but steal guilty glances at her smooth, tanned legs, tangled around each other on the passenger seat, her tiny cut-off shorts pushed so far up that the fabric pockets were visible.

  I felt like an asshole. Looking at her like that. Wanting to reach over and just steal a taste with my fingertips.

  And yet, it was nice to feel like an asshole for a change.

  I’d spent my whole life being the good guy. A well-behaved Southern gentleman doing exactly as I was told. Eating where she wanted to eat. Fucking the way she wanted to fuck.

  For once, my thoughts were impure.

  And it felt darkly amazing.

  The guilt invigorated me. Like caffeine shot directly into my heart. My whole body started to pulse with anticipation. I could do it. I could reach out and touch her. I could slip my hand between her thighs and feel her warmth.

  I could do it and no one would know.

  But of course, I didn’t.

  Because that’s not me. I’m not the guy who thrives on disobedience. Who gets off on being a jerk.

  I’m the other guy.

  The one who throws up from a guilty conscience. Whose indiscretions wind up painted across my face like a bright, blinking neon sign. The guy who always knows what the right thing is, and, better yet, always does it.

  Which is why I didn’t touch her any more than was required to remove her from the car, carry her up the stairs, and lay her gently in her bed.

  Then I stood there for a good five minutes, debating on what to do next.

  She was passed out drunk. Should I sit on the chair in the corner and make sure she’s okay? Should I prop her up with pillows? Should I undress her?

  The thought nearly made me choke on my own saliva.

  The asshole buried deep within me was screaming into my ear, egging me on. Reminding me of the baby pink bra I caught a glimpse of in the car earlier. Conjuring up images of m
atching underwear, maybe even lined with lace.

  But the other guy—the one I’ve always prided myself on being—was there, too. Scolding me for even entertaining such inappropriate thoughts. Not so subtly reminding me who this was. Who she was.

  I shook my head, pushing the rebel from my mind, and went to the bathroom to fetch a trash can. I placed it by her bed in case she got sick. Then I filled up a glass with water from the bathroom sink and set it on her nightstand.

  I gently maneuvered her body until I could pull the blanket and sheets from under her legs, and covered her with them.

  Then I crept back into Alex’s room. I walked straight into the bathroom. I shut off the light. And in the pitch darkness, where I wouldn’t be able to see my shame in the mirror, I unzipped my pants and let them fall around my ankles.

  I squeezed my hand around myself. Shutting my eyes and biting my lip to muffle the sound.

  I took less than a minute.

  Eight years ago...

  The swarm of bodies pressed in on me from all sides, gyrating with the beat of the music that was cranked up so loud the floor beneath me pulsed. I shoved through the crowd, searching for a familiar face. Someone grabbed my waist and rammed their hips against mine, trying to coerce my body into their rhythm. Annoyed, I pushed the stranger away and kept moving.

  I had come here tonight with one purpose and it wasn’t to be groped by a horny, drunk teenager.

  I needed to find Alex. I had to get her home.

  Our parents had called and they were coming back early from their weekend getaway. I could tell from the slight quiver in my mom’s voice that something had gone wrong but I was so desperate to get off the phone and warn my sister, I hadn’t even bothered to ask.

  If my parents came back to find Alex at some high school rave, they would shit bricks.

  Although why I was even bothering to help Alex after what she’d done to me earlier that day, I had no idea.

  She had promised to drive me to Hartford that afternoon for a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to meet Amanda Connor, one of the most famous female comic book artists in the country, and my idol. She was doing a signing less than an hour away. I couldn’t remember ever being more excited. I’d gathered up every single comic I owned that Amanda worked on, sorted them by publication date, and wrapped them each in plastic for the drive. Then I waited for Alex to get home from wherever she’d gone that morning.

  But I waited and waited and she never showed. Later that evening, she strode breezily into the house with wet hair and freshly bronzed skin, smelling like the beach. She told me she’d decided it was simply too beautiful of a day to be stuck inside a stupid comic book store.

  I screamed until my face turned red and tears welled in my eyes.

  But she simply shook it off like I was being ridiculous. “Why are you getting so upset? It’s just some girl who draws pictures of men in capes.”

  And then she disappeared into her room to get ready for the party.

  I was so angry, I wanted to kick down her door, and destroy everything she loved. Everything she thought was important—her clothes and shoes and expensive designer make-up. I wanted to shout at her until she understood. Until she became a different person.

  But I knew it wouldn’t do any good. Alex would never get it. She would never get me.

  She would never put anyone’s needs ahead of her own.

  And yet there I was. In the middle of that party. Trying to find her. Trying to help her.

  Because in spite of everything, she was still my sister. And I didn’t want her to get in trouble.

  I carefully stepped over a pile of puke in the middle of the floor, cringing as I attempted to breathe through my nose.

  Lovely.

  If this is what I had to look forward to when starting high school in the fall, I’d already decided you could count me out. Why anyone would want to hang out with a bunch of fucking drunk morons was beyond me. But apparently, this was Alex’s thing. This was her scene. Her idea of a good time.

  Me? Not so much.

  Just another item to add to the never-ending scroll of reasons why I swore one of us had to be adopted. Could two sisters really be that different?

  I caught a glimpse of a digital clock in the living room. Thirty minutes until parental touchdown.

  Shit.

  I approached the next intoxicated idiot I found—a scrawny boy wearing a T-shirt for some obscure band that I’m sure he thought made him look cooler. He flashed a sloppy smile and ran his chapped hand down my bare arm. “Hellooooo,” he drawled lazily, attempting a seductive eyebrow raise but failing miserably.

  I held his chin in place so he was forced to look at me and snapped my fingers in front of his face. “Hey! Have you seen Alex Smart?”

  He teetered slightly but his face lit up at the mention of her name. “Alex is hot!”

  I rolled my eyes. Tell me something I don’t know.

  The boy clearly interpreted my annoyance as jealousy. “But you’re not so bad yourself,” he slurred, looking me up and down and taking in the baggy shorts and hoodie I threw on the second I hung up with my mom. “I like the au natural look.”

  I snapped my fingers again. “Yo! Focus. Do you know where Alex is?”

  “I saw her go upstairs with some dude.”

  I eyed the stairs, my shoulders sagging.

  Great.

  Just what I needed right now, to walk in on my sister losing her virginity to some dumb fuck with beer and Cheetos breath.

  “Shall we join them?” the boy was saying, using his last ounce of strength to waggle his eyebrows at me.

  I released my hostage, who barely managed to remain upright and headed for the stairs. “Hey!” he called after me. “Are we gonna make out or what?”

  I ignored him, tromping up each step with a sick feeling in my gut. I knew Alex was going to be really pissed when I barged in on her. She would yell and get all irrational the way she always does when things don’t go her way.

  But I reminded myself that I was doing her a huge favor. I was saving her ass.

  A commotion at the bottom of the stairs suddenly stopped me in my tracks, and a moment later I heard sirens blaring from the street.

  “COPS!” someone screamed.

  Everything after that happened in a dreamlike blur. I heard the pounding footsteps of a horde of teenagers barreling down the stairs. I felt the rush of bodies charging past me, desperate to make it out.

  There were simply too many. I was a trout swimming upstream. I was a leaf caught in a hurricane. And then I was simply...

  Falling.

  Down, down, down. My head hit the landing with a thud and blackness swirled around my vision. A night littered with blurry stars. Feet trampled dangerously close to my head. A few landed on my hands, one on my foot, causing it to twist unnaturally inward. I heard a faint pop, and searing pain shot up my leg like I was being injected with fire.

  Just before I lost consciousness I saw him for the first time.

  Tall and beautiful and rushing toward me. His silky sable hair fell into his eyes as he moved. He swept me into his arms like I weighed nothing more than air. My throbbing temple pressed against his solid chest, somehow alleviating the pain. I could feel the vibrations of his hurried steps as he carried me through the throng of bodies, toward the back door.

  I drifted in and out of awareness for the next few minutes. When I opened my eyes the next time, a miserable dull ache pulsed between my ears.

  I saw trees overhead. A forest.

  Where am I going? I thought.

  He glanced down at me and smiled, his mystical dark eyes sparkling. It turned my entire body to liquid in his arms.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, shifting me slightly. “I’ve got you.”

  I don’t think he had any idea just how right he was.

  My hand is still throbbing. It’s been a long time since I punched someone. I forgot how much it hurts the next day. Especially when the asshole has a bony
face like that redneck did last night. It’s basically like shoving your bare knuckles into gnarled wood.

  I couldn’t believe how much it had swelled over night. Thankfully, Alex was so preoccupied with early wedding planning details, she completely bought my pathetic story about slamming my hand in the door. Had she not been aflutter with venue touring and cake tastings, she probably would have called my bluff outright.

  The next four hours are a whirlwind of seating capacities and butter-cream frosting and headcounts of our closest friends and family. You don’t even realize just how many people you know until you start planning a wedding. Alex’s dad has four brothers so that side of the family alone is like half the invite list.

  It becomes apparent very quickly, however, that a wedding in Eastbrook will never be able to live up to Alex’s expectations. From the moment we walk into the wedding planner’s office, Alex is already pointing out all the ways it doesn’t even begin to compare with what you see in the city. And she proceeds to rule out every venue, caterer, and florist that we visit, deeming them “too provincial” or “not sophisticated enough.”

  It was originally my idea to get married in Eastbrook. I thought it would be romantic, seeing that this is where we met and all. But I’m beginning to think I should have just kept my big mouth shut.

  And by lunchtime, the decision has been made. Our wedding will be in Manhattan.

  Probably at some ridiculously expensive ballroom that charges eighty dollars a shrimp.

  I’m actually grateful when Alex tells me that she’s going to grab lunch with some of her old high school friends and I’m left to my own devices. I’m actually looking forward to lying down and taking a nap. This wedding shit is exhausting and I didn’t get much sleep last night.

  Alex drops me off at the house and I sift through the refrigerator, looking for something to nosh on. I see a styrofoam container with the word “Arrabbiata” written on the top with sharpie. I figure it must be leftovers from La Bella Vita.

  I grab a fork and gobble down the pasta straight from the box. The dish is relatively tasteless—which surprises me as Marianne’s sauces were always delicious—but I’m too hungry to care.