by Celia Loren
Brendan smiles at me in a dopey way over his mirrored John Lennon sunglasses, looking cute as hell in a sleeveless black top, skinny jeans and one day's growth of stubble. We share a breakfast burrito, at his insistence. “These are the best in the city, and they're right on campus,” he tells me, while waving away my money at the Podunk little stand. From the first bite on, it's heaven. It seems that even the San Diego food vendors association seems to be smiling on our union.
And I can't stop giggling. I'm not even phased when Professor Chen cuts her eyes at the pair of us, frowning at our joined hands. “Everyone please pull out the Forster essay,” she says, peering hawkishly at our class. “And let's hear a quick distillation of this work. One or two sentences on the theme. Any takers?” She doesn't give the room so much as a moment to compose itself before riveting her eyes on me. “Avery Lynne,” the lady says. “Can you summarize for us?”
I can feel Brendan stiffen beside me, in solidarity. The whole humming room seems to draw breath. And sure, I'm Angry Avery in this moment. I don't appreciate being pinned to lower expectations. I don't enjoy being made a fool of. And for once, given that I've spent the past week steadfastly avoiding the male gaze, I have an answer.
“Forster's treatise is self-explanatory and eponymous. As is the case in all of his novels, he's chiefly concerned with the human ability—and moral significance—of people striving to communicate successfully with one another. The essay is about humanity at the same time it's about a writer's obligation, as crystallized in the quote: 'Only connect the prose and passion, and both will be exalted.'”
A charged hush falls over the room as my classmates swivel back towards Professor Chen. Beside me, Brendan swallows. It's all ridiculously out of proportion, in my opinion. I mean, you can call me a lot of things, but stupid isn't one of them.
“That's fine,” our teacher says finally, her lips curling into a smile. She nods once at me, eyes shifting only briefly to my seatmate. Brendan reaches over, below the table, and squeezes my thigh with appreciation. When I catch his eye, he's beaming at me, all pride and surprise. So this is what feels like, I think to myself, dizzy and chipper. To have someone fully in your corner. Because I could get used to this.
Though we pay far less attention throughout the remainder of the Forster lecture—Brendan keeps making eyes at me, and I keep doodling erotic cartoons in the margins of my notebook where he can see—I'm surprised at how quickly the time flies. Brendan buries his lips in my scalp as we rise and gather our things, before reaching down to pinch me lightly on the ass. I squeal with delight as our classmates shake their heads, repulsed. But I still don't care! Ha! No one can rain on my parade today. Absolutely no one.
We pause at the top of the Hampton Hall stairs, poised in a beam of sunlight. Brendan takes my face in his hands. “You look beautiful like this,” he says, eyes flickering back and forth between my own pupils, as if they can't bear to rest on just one part of me. “A perfect muse.”
“You're not so bad yourself, mister.” I reach up and playfully tug on his lower lip with my front teeth, drawing him down toward me. We laugh together, syrupy and goofy and gross, and I'm just about to fold myself into the sweet cage of his arms when—
“What the fuck is all this?”
—a dark cloud descends. My heart plummets at the familiar voice.
“Chase, listen,” Brendan is saying above my head, sounding meek in protest—but this is a battle I know I can't let him fight for me. We're both to blame for giving in to passion.
“You scamming on my girl, brother?”
“It's not like that, man. You know it's not.”
“Don't fucking tell me what I know...”
“Chase, please. Listen. This is my fault. I should never have –”
“Shut up, bitch!” The atmosphere in the air seems to shift at the harsh word rendered. I turn to face Chase, plant my feet squarely. I search his eyes for any inkling of the compassion he's shown me previously, but I can't get through to him. Not least because he's wearing mirrored Aviator sunglasses that remind me of the Terminator.
“Don't you fucking call her that! Listen. Bro, we never meant to hurt you. Honest.” They sound just like the little boys I knew, in one way. Brendan's tone is wry and slightly whiny, while Chase is authoritative and flat. But something darker lies beneath both.
“FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT!” some kid shouts from the bottom of the stairs, and it's then that I realize what I'm witnessing. From the lower vantage, it's clear that these two hulking, strong men are about to wail on one another. I step up, between them.
“Don't you bro me, Brendan. What? You think since you're all rock-star now, you get a piece of my ass?”
“She's not a piece of ass. She's been our friend since we were kids. And don't you even give me this shit, like you haven't always known how I felt about her.”
At this, Chase merely smiles a warped, unrecognizable smile—one of possession, and cruelty. What happens next is fast: the elder Kelly coils his fist, reaches his arm behind his head like he's throwing a javelin, and then sinks a punch into his brother. Square in the jaw.
I scream, obscuring some of the sickening crunching noise that comes from Brendan's face. That's the thing about a punch—it doesn't sound quite how the movies would have you believe. I think for a moment that Brendan's jaw has been broken, but after a moment's staggering, he rights himself. I run up to his side, thinking I can create a barrier between the brothers—but Brendan firmly motions me aside.
“Avery, this is older than you,” my lover says, jamming the blonde hair back behind his ears like it's the source of his fury. Then, Brendan grits his teeth. He cracks his knuckles—the picture of a cartoon villain. A small crowd of onlookers has begun to gather around the Hampton steps, each of them so fascinated by the prospect of a fight in our peaceful, “Hang 10” SoCal that they could be munching on popcorn.
“Guys, please,” I try again, this time allowing a thickness to enter my voice. This is truly the last thing I wanted—the last thing I thought of, even, while deliberately not thinking about my situation with the Kelly brothers. But on seeing his brother's preparations to retaliate, Chase has turned his attention back to the fight. He bounces from foot to foot like a boxer, and begins taking swings at his brother again. This round, Brendan has the presence of mind to duck.
He's light on his feet—especially compared to Chase’s slightly clumsy, rage-fueled motions. One boy appears all muscle, and the other all skill. I know it's neither the time nor place, but their divergent body types have never struck me so much. I think of Chase’s heavy breathing on our runs, and mentally compare these to the muscular curve of Brendan's back as he flexed himself inside of me just last night. But now is surely not the time for a mental tally. I start screaming again: Stop, you guys! Don't be stupid!
Out of nowhere, Tara, Trevor and RA Jeff emerge and secure themselves around my elbows—and my friends seem as titillated by the street fight as the cooing crowd.
“Go Brendan!” RA Jeff hollers, pumping a fist in the air.
Trevor shoots him a look. “You mean, go Chase! Chase is the one who called Avery all those times. He's Mr. Perfect.”
“Chase also just called our girl a bitch, and is not doing himself any favors with the Cro-Magnon act,” Tara trumpets. She rubs me on the shoulders, as my eyes swing from brother to brother. So far, no more punches have landed—but Brendan's artful dodging is infuriating his brother. If they didn't seem hell-bent before, they sure are now. Chase tosses his glasses aside, and I see that the look in his eyes transcends something. Some human impulse has left his face. It's like watching a shark's eyes roll into kill mode. I am suddenly truly afraid.
“Boys! Chase! Stop it! We can talk about this!” Not quite having a plan, I take a step or two into the designated 'ring' around my fighting suitors. Brendan sees me do this, and his eyes tighten with shock.
“Baby, get out of the way!”
“No! I won't let you guys do this
. It's stupid! You're brothers!” I take another two steps into the center, so I'm between Chase and Brendan.
“This is so rich. And you've been with Melora this whole time, Chase! I don't know what your deal is!”
These words—this revelation, rather— pinches something inside of me, but it does something worse to Chase. The older Kelly paces and snorts like a bull seeing red, and doesn't appear at all phased that a girl has entered his ring. Instead, without looking at me, he cocks his bruised fist back and roars before letting loose the second punch to find flesh.
He aims well over my shoulder, but his eyes are fixed on Brendan—to the extent that he doesn't notice I'm in slippers, standing on the precarious edge of a long stone staircase. When I see his fist coming, I know a terror I've only experienced once before. I'm horrified to see such cruelty in this face I know so well. It makes me duck, involuntarily. Which makes me slip. Which makes me fall.
I'm dimly aware that Brendan is cowering, clutching his left eye—but only dimly. Tumbling backward down the stairs, my stomach flips up and down. At first, I seek purchase. My hands and feet reach out for anything in my path—the legs of people, the stones themselves. But in another few seconds, I give in to the dull pain assaulting me from all sides. I feel stone on the side of my head, and stone against my shoulder, and stone against my stomach. Everything hurts. I know the staircase can't be this long. I hear screaming, but can't locate where it's coming from. Finally, I collapse in a heap, heart pounding, limbs aching—and my intelligent, battered body makes a choice: darkness.
Chapter Twenty-Four
When I wake up, I see: an icky, brown stain on an otherwise sterile-looking white ceiling. Light; excessive, aluminum light. One flickering panel of fluorescents guards a window, which is slightly open so I can hear and smell the outside. It only takes another second to confirm that I'm in San Diego, which I deduce because from the perfume of jasmine, and the baying of seagulls.
My eyes are sore, which is strange. They feel weary and wet. Still, I let them travel to a bedside table, where they discover three—no, four!—elaborate floral arrangements, each of them fixed in long plastic drinking glasses. The first is a suggestive red orchid. Beside this, there's a hearty mixed bouquet of white and red roses. In the largest glass, there's a bundle of what I take to be pseudo-flowers—long stems made of wire, crowned by mini-collages and buttons. And finally, there's an exuberant bunch of wild-flowers, knotted with red ribbon. These, I decide, are the true source of the jasmine smell.
Though the beauty by my bedside makes me smile, the next sensations I know are pain. A dull pain, induced by any kind of movement, threads most of my body. I open my mouth to find that my teeth feel fuzzy, and my lips are cracked. I immediately wonder how long it's been since I last showered—and accordingly, how much water could hurt me, given the current state of affairs.
“There she is,” my father says, making himself known before I can even account for his location in the room. “There's my pretty girl!” He sounds tired. I swivel my neck and find Pa in a hospital chair, rubbing his eyes like he's just woken up from a nap. I'm not used to seeing my father so unkempt. He's got three days’ worth of beard and his typically gelled hair is tousled. Fresh worry lines are etched in his face.
“Do you know where you are, sweetheart?” Frank says, bending towards me, taking my palm in his.
“I've got a wild guess.”
“See your sense of humor is intact. That's aces.”
We share a silent moment, the old man and me. I realize, on regarding his sweet brown eyes and dumpy suit, how much I've missed him. How much he's probably been missing me.
“You're going to be just fine,” Dad says, sweeping my brow just as I'm beginning to articulate my sappy rejoinder. “And look at all these flowers, huh? Someone's got a big fan club.” He rises and makes for the window. The light coming in through the blinds tells me that it's the end of the day. This prompts more realization. The passage of time, the presence of flowers, the sickening crunch of bone on bone...suddenly, memory intervenes, and I can think of only one man. Where is Brendan?
“Dad,” I say, voice parched. “Brendan Kelly. Did you see him? Is he okay?” I try to sit up, but my back protests.
My Dad puts a finger to his chapped lips, and motions me back against the pillows. He tiptoes the length of my hospital room, then, with a magician's flourish, pulls aside the curtain separating my bed from what must be another patient's. There, coiled up in scratchy-looking regulation blankets and thin pillows, is my man.
The skin around his eye is blue, and shiny with some sort of cream. His hair is damp-looking, and falls sweetly against his face. His sleeping face bears the same concerned look as it did that morning, in his dorm room. This is the face of someone who cares deeply. As if in response, he groans in his sleep, and tosses a blanket aside.
“Avery, sweetheart! Don't cry!” My Dad rushes back to my bedside, ready to proffer water or a cool compress—but I have no real explanation for the water works. Only that something aches in me, to see Brendan sleeping like that. To see anyone loving me so very much.
“I'm okay,” I bluster, all snotty and teary and pained. My father rubs my head. The world closes in again.
The next time I wake up, I believe it to be morning. The window light has a fresh quality, and the sounds outside indicate early commuters. I yawn and attempt a stretch, raising my sore arms above my head. I note that my biceps are covered with dark purple bruises, though some of the general pain seems to have subsided. I also feel less foggy than yesterday.
When I turn, ecstatic, to the bed beside me—I'm disappointed. It's empty, and made. Brendan has apparently gone. I turn as fast as my neck will let me towards the flowers on my night-stand, and am relieved to find my little trophies still there. Everybody looks a little un-watered, but it appears I didn't dream my visitors. People have cared about me. People have come. There's even a new bouquet, I discover, with a sleuth's delight. Yellow tulips, secured in a vase that's covered with Edwardian script. I think I can faintly determine the words along the mouth of the glass: only connect...
I hear voices in the hall, then—three young-sounding people, conversing in the way of three young-sounding people who aren't trying super hard to be quiet. Two women and a man. One woman is saying to the other: “She's not ready for big groups yet,” while the man is speaking over them both. In another heartbeat, the door to my hospital room has eked open, admitting two of the last people I'd ever hoped to see at my near-death bedside: Chase Fucking Kelly and Melora Fucking Handy.
They can tell they're unwanted. Chase shifts from foot to foot and doesn't look right into my eyes, while Melora—carrying a big ugly teddy bear, of the cheap variety one wins at fairs—immediately bites her lip and bugs out her eyes. I must look worse than I feel, I decide. Great. Let them know what utter dirt bags they are. Let them simmer in it.
“Hey, Avery,” Chase starts, taking a gallant step towards me. I purse my lips. That's when I realize that the two of them are holding hands. Today, Melora is strawberry blonde, just about stitched into a pair of hip-hugging skinny jeans and a t-shirt that manages to be both low cut and midriff-baring. ‘Midriff-baring.’ Ugh, I sound like someone's grandmother. Is this what a violent tumble down a stone staircase will do to a sex-positive lass? Turn her into a prude?
“I don't even know where to start,” Chase says. His voice catches, containing tears. I'm not quite ready to look at him, though. He's not going to earn my forgiveness so easily.
“I want you to know that I'm really deeply sorry,” he continues, while daring to take one more step into my safe space. “I've never—I would never—it was honestly never my plan to hurt you.”
“Yet you did.”
“Yes. I did.”
“And you hurt your brother, too.”
Do my eyes deceive me, or is Chase Kelly cracking the ghost of a smile right now? I long for something to throw at his square, thug-like head. I wonder how I could have e
ver fallen for this act. All the while, he was just a brute.
“Should I go?” Melora asks, her glossy mouth screwed up, uncomfortable. Chase just shakes his head no, and seems to grip her fingers tight.
“I fight with my brother all the time. That doesn't really mean anything.”
“So you're not sorry?!”
“No, no—I definitely am. But I've talked to Brendan. We can get through things like this. Our concern for the moment is you.”
I'm secretly loving how awkward Melora is as she bears witness to this conversation. A pettier part of my mind is wondering: did she know about me and Chase? Was it at all true, what Brendan yelled on the steps about their ongoing affair? I figure then, if I'll ever have a moment to ask, this is probably it.
“Are you two really dating?” I blurt. The words tumble out so fast that I choke on them, and have to lunge for the water glass by my head. To my surprise, Melora swoops towards me and brings the cup to my lips, her movements as expert as a nurse's. I tilt my head back and sip slowly as she speaks, her tone professional:
“My family is actually ultra conservative, Avery. They've never wanted me to date, and they've certainly never wanted me to hitch up with a guy like Chase. So we've had a secret thing going for a while, but for a lot of complicated reasons nobody really can know about it. Drink.”
I swallow the last of the water, curiosity piqued. I don't even take a moment to affect shyness at Melora Handy seeing me battered in a hospital, like a body being taken apart for science. So he never liked me. I was an elaborate beard, all along. On some level, this news should be shocking—but it's either the effect of painkillers or the complexities of my own conscience that prevent me from being truly angry with Chase. I mean, about this particular wrongdoing, anyways.