By the time she’d finished, the song had faded. But I remembered every sound I needed to recreate it.
She straightened her spine in a tired stretch. Cracking her neck from side to side, she rose, taking the cup of dirty water and paintbrush with her.
And all I wanted to do was stay there.
There was a dangerous part of Charlene Johnson that I knew I couldn’t turn away from if I took us past what we currently had. She wasn’t the kind of woman that I could woo with money, laughter, or the size of my dick.
She was impossible.
And impossibly irresistible.
Yet another contradiction I didn’t know how to handle.
How could I tell her I wanted to be with her? I couldn’t knock on her door and take her mouth to mine to get the damn point across. I couldn’t use words, because even if I planned them out, something would hiccup through my brain and I’d fuck it all up.
A date might’ve worked. Lots and lots of dates until she was comfortable enough with the idea.
Wait. What idea? What was I asking from her?
Dammit.
People used to talk about it. They used to say when you meet her, you’ll know. And I’d laugh and laugh and laugh. But nothing about my life had been the same since I’d met her. She challenged everything I knew about my faith in mankind. And my reasoning for losing faith had been logical and justified; I hadn’t just made that shit up. People sucked.
But not her.
She couldn’t hurt me if she tried.
Dammit.
I was asking for forever.
Because anything less was unacceptable.
Chapter Four
Jesse
I woke the next morning with a dozen crumpled pieces of paper on my chest. The first signs of daylight shone through my car window, and it took me a second to remember where I’d fallen asleep. My arms were heavy, my chest felt empty, and my head pounded with regrets.
In Charlie’s driveway sat two cars: her green Taurus and a white pickup truck. The clock on my dash read 5:42, and as I sat up slowly, the phone numbers from a dozen women fell to the floor.
How Charlie had guessed I kept them in my ashtray, I didn’t know.
I picked one up and turned it over to find the written music of the song that had lingered in my head while I’d watched Charlie the night before. The sounds, the noise, the beat, ideas of how to create them all, and one had a few lyrics as well.
Rock me in your arms, I can feel it burn.
A vague recollection of trying to find a pen entered my head, but I must have been somewhere else when I wrote them.
A tap on my window startled me, and I realized I shouldn’t have been there in the first place. I rolled down my window, looking out of the corner of my eye at the man that stood next to my car.
“May I help you?” he said with the sun rising on the horizon behind him.
I sucked in through my teeth and squinted one eye shut. “Probably not.” My lips weren’t working as fast as I wanted them to.
He scratched his head, and spread his fingers to give his graying moustache a quick combing. “You must be Jesse.”
I looked in my rearview mirror for a police car, and then noticed his uniform. A FedEx patch was sewn to the breast of the navy blue and purple shirt. “Who are you?”
“I’m Charlene’s father.”
Oh shit.
“Mr. Johnson. It’s nice to meet you. Yes, I’m Jesse.” I stuck my hand out my window to shake his, and he accepted. But that motherfucker had a warning grip.
“Why are you sleeping in my driveway, son?” He quirked an eyebrow.
I had to admit, it looked a little strange. “Umm…” I chuckled but my mouth didn’t smile. “I came by last night, but didn’t want to wake the whole house. So I guess I fell asleep.” My eyes widened. “Hey, look at it this way,” I casually flipped my hand, “at least you didn’t find me asleep in her bed.”
I set my jaw at my words.
Mistake.
Mr. Johnson tried to hide his smirk and nodded, then tapped the top of my car. Turning away, he called over his shoulder, “If you could move your car, I have to get to work.”
His reaction—more than anything—left me scratching my head. I knew I had said something that would’ve justified dragging me from my car and beating me senseless. But perhaps he knew that my intentions with his daughter weren’t twisted, and he was a young man once himself. It could’ve been that the man just had a good sense of humor and took the comment in stride. Or maybe he was just happy to see his twenty-two-year-old daughter be the object of someone’s affection.
“Sir!” I yelled.
He stopped and turned to me, seeming just as surprised as I was that I’d called him sir.
“Thank you…for the money last week.”
He nodded and raised his bushy eyebrows. “You’re welcome.”
I pulled out of the driveway with my bare and dirty feet, wondering what it would be like to have a father like that. Something told me Charlie knew how lucky she was; she wasn’t the kind of girl who took kindness for granted. The warm Christmas gatherings around the fire, opening presents and being just as delighted to spend those days with family as she was to receive gifts from Santa Claus; the hot summer days that burned her toes on the pavement only to find relief in the cool grass and drinking straight from the hose; the man she held closely, clinging to him for support when they buried the family dog out back; the comfort that she had the opportunity to turn to a man over failed tests, lost jobs, and broken hearts.
Some men just weren’t that good.
Some of them continually failed.
Some of them should’ve never had children.
I should’ve known that by the time I reached my house, my mood would have shifted. From not remembering what I’d done a sober night prior to the elation I felt when I watched Charlie through her window, it should’ve been obvious to me what was coming.
But I didn’t see it.
I didn’t want to see it.
I’d been in the Whirl.
That meant the Grim would approach quickly, and I didn’t have much time until that darkness pulled me inside. Soon my mind would be gone, trapped in the endless black hole, falling into a place where no light was allowed to enter—no matter how bright and stubborn she was.
I had a day, maybe two, before Charlie saw the other side. And if I hadn’t already scared her away, I shuddered to think what she’d think of me in forty-eight hours.
Maybe I was a monster. Maybe I was crazy.
Maybe it was good I hadn’t acted on my urge to knock on her door. What kind of man could I be for her if I couldn’t even get out of bed?
Because that’s what was coming. After weeks of nonstop fast-forward, my existence would embrace a never-ending deadlock: no where to go, nothing to do, and all the time in the world to dwell on regret.
The medication hadn’t worked. The promises to change me through a balance of chemicals and serotonin had failed.
I’d have to wait for another time to prove to Charlie that all the bullshit I’d put her through was worth it, because I was about to become a shred of the man I had once been.
And that was what I had feared all along: wanting to keep the girl close, but knowing she needed someone better than I was capable of being.
***
I walked through my door and went straight to my room. If I only had a day of clarity left, I was going to put it to some use. Maybe there was a way I could beat it—stop the cycle of disastrous beginnings without endings and keep the demons away for another few days until I’d talked to Charlie.
The day would come and go. Charlie worked a double, and it was my day off. If I was lucky I’d have the night, but there was no telling what kind of mindset I’d be in by then.
I’d lived enough life to know the warning signs. I’d seen plenty of bad days, not knowing if I’d end my life at that moment or wait another week to see if it got better. I’d had
the razors to my wrists, the pills in my gullet, and the noose around my neck.
People always said “It will get better.” They claimed they “knew” what I was going through.
I knew better.
They’d only know how low I could get if they’d experienced how high I could go. And I hadn’t met a single person who understood my reality.
Depression was for pussies. My Grim was beyond any clinical definition I’d ever read.
I grabbed a random book from my bookshelf and pieces of text jumped out at me. I studied the mind, the body, and the chemical reactions. I read the experts who’d written books on their own experiences, fellow unsatisfied surge junkies like me, only to find that none of them had the answers.
As the day stretched on, my body weakened but my will to seek out information strengthened. I longed to find the research; I craved the opportunity to think clearly and brainstorm for ideas and life again. I encouraged it and wouldn’t let anything stop the rush. The Whirl had taken over, and I was powerless to stop it.
Book after book, articles, newspapers, and case studies became my obsession. Quick ideas and feelings captivated me. The ordinary became extraordinary. But by dinnertime, that clarity became muddled. My synchronized thoughts brought me from one vantage point to another until I had no idea which thought I’d started with. The logic became illogical, and the manageable became unmanageable. Soon it would all come crashing down.
The clock became my enemy as the seconds crumbled, then dissipated.
It’s 6:02.
Will I have one more hour? Six? Can I chance going to the restaurant and having Charlie see me like this? Could I fake it? How much time do I have left? Can she see it? Feel it? What kind of insight does she really have? Why do I adore her? How could I hate her? She could’ve changed your whole world. She’s already started.
I haven’t eaten. Did I take my meds? What kind of person lets his mind get like this? It’s not genius. I lie between panic and dread knowing that once Charlie sees the man I am beneath the coldhearted prick that she’ll leave like the rest of them. She’s different but she’s not too different. Logic tells me it’s silly to compare, but my gut tells me to run away and never turn back. I’ve got nothing, no one. Friends are a joke and the joke’s on me. Never could stomach most of them anyway.
Rock me
in your arms,
I can feel it burn.
It’s too hot in here.
Charlie and Jesse. The idea is as silly as a woman who gets squeamish at the sight of blood and a man who stands next to her to lap it up as it drips. Never mind. Being alone isn’t as bad as it seems. Charlie is the kind of girl who needs that time. I don’t know how she does it. I hate it. Being alone isn’t something I look forward to.
I used to be smart; I used to be a lot of things. Bree knew me at my best, the days when problems were plentiful and their resolutions were simple. My mind worked differently then; it thrived on the discussions, the passion, the foundation of moral judgment, space, time, sex, love, compassion, and rules. But at some point it all got too complex, and I didn’t see things as clearly as I once had.
We were young, alive, and nothing we said was going to make a difference anyway. At what point should we all just stop talking about it? Is that when the change occurs? For Bree it was roses. For Charlie it’s daisies. Sunflowers, tulips, dinner, wine, cherished moments. It would be nice if there were still women out there worthy of it all.
The young and the pure are worthy. Once we grow up we’re only good for one thing. I wish I could go back to the time I was young, untouched, and worth some fucking effort. But those days ended early for me. Earlier than they should have.
“Listen here, boy, things are tough enough around this house without your attitude added to the mix. Your mother is sick and I’m out of work. You think maybe you could shut your damn mouth and keep out of trouble at school?”
It’s too hot in here. Stifling. And I don’t know where she is.
It’s almost too much to bear. People become worried, scared of my words and thoughts. It’s only when I stop making sense to them. They call me crazy, but every word I speak has an experience to back it. I still make sense. I’ll always make sense. It’s not crazy. Not any crazier than Charlie thinking everyone has good inside them.
Besides, crazy is relative.
Seclusion. It’s the only way for me. Although being alone with my thoughts is a grisly place to lurk, I couldn’t stand to see the look on Charlie’s face when I turn; that moment when her laughter becomes faded and distant, more concern and doubt riddling her soft eyes than wonder and gratitude. That’s the minute I stop making sense and skip to the next subject too quickly, not being able to stop them from coming.
I’ve seen the look before. So I try to keep quiet. I try to keep her from looking at me that way again.
Fuck, it’s so hot in here.
The clearer we are in the moments that define us, the longer we vividly remember them.
Dammit. It’s only 6:03.
It has begun.
Chapter Five
Jesse
By eight o’clock, it had escalated.
No longer could I wait to explain to Charlie all the things that had gone through my head, but time was imminent. Who knew how long I’d be in the Whirl, or how long I’d be in the depression afterward? But if my past was any indicator, it would be weeks—if not months—before I’d see myself in a state I considered normal.
Regardless of how much I rationalized not seeing Charlie that night, my hand still found its way to my keys. My keys still found their way to my ignition. And my foot still found the pedals to bring me to the restaurant.
But my mind was a mess, teetering on some kind of brink of desperation, remorse, and optimism. An optimism that Charlie seemed to make viral. Because as I pummeled my way through the front doors, my eyes sought out every strand of red hair in the place, spotting her by the takeout side of the kitchen countertop.
Carrying nothing but a dozen crumpled pieces of paper in my hands, I walked quickly to the expo line, approaching her from behind. Angie stood to her left, and turned just as I stopped a few feet behind Charlie.
Charlie’s back was turned. She talked with Alejandro about a ticket, and I felt like it took an hour before she finally faced me.
“Charlie?” Angie snapped, tugging on Charlie’s apron string. Her eyes were fixed on mine, but mine were fixed on the back of Charlie’s head.
She held up a finger, finishing her sentence, and Angie continued to stare at me wild-eyed.
“Charlie,” Angie repeated, more sternly that time.
“Yes?” Charlie turned, facing Angie.
Angie nudged her chin in my direction, and I’d hoped I was smiling. I felt like I was smiling. Was I smiling?
“Look at his eyes,” Angie whispered, dipping her chin to stare at the floor.
Charlie’s smile vanished as soon as she saw me.
“Jess?” She looked around the room—for what, I didn’t know—and I tried to remain as casual as possible.
But my knees shook, and I didn’t know what to do with my arms. They had suddenly grown too heavy, and no matter if I crossed them, kept them at my sides, or wrapped my fingers around the back of my head, I couldn’t find a comfortable position.
“Charlie.” Rattled from the thoughts of seeing myself through her eyes, my voice shook.
That time, I’m pretty sure she noticed.
“You okay?” she asked, butting up against the counter to take a step back from me.
Was I too close? Had I invaded some kind of seven-foot distance standard she’d set?
So many fucking rules.
“Fine. Can I talk to you?”
“What’s in your hands there, buddy?” Angie said, looking down at my fistfuls of paper.
“None of your goddamned business.” I cocked an eyebrow and looked to her side. “Charlie?” Turning on my heel, I headed back to the lobby, hoping she’d follow.
I stepped outside and the cold air hit my exposed skin. “It’s cold out here,” I mumbled. Was it this cold when I left my house?
The door opened and closed behind me, and she stood with her hands rubbing her arms for warmth. “It’s freezing out here. Where’s your jacket?” she asked.
“Never mind that. Look, I’ve been at home all day, and I wanted to ask you a question. Well, first a question, then just, well…a statement, I guess.”
“Is this going to take long? I should tell someone I’m on break or something,” she said, waving her hand toward the building.
I smiled. “It won’t take long.”
“Okay. Shoot.”
“What’s the strangest thing you’ve ever done?” I asked. “Besides skinny-dipping.”
Her eyebrows knit together. “Strange for me, or strange for you?”
I smiled at the way her mind worked. “What do you mean?”
“Well there are a lot of things that feel natural to me, but other people find them strange.”
“I’m not talking about the way you have to dump the sugar in your coffee before you pour a cup. I’m talking about weird, out of the ordinary, something you never thought you’d do, or a morally compromising situation.”
“Morally compromising?”
“Yeah.”
She laughed. “I don’t think I’ve been in many of those.”
“You’ve never found yourself debating whether or not you should do something because of your stance on a subject?”
“No. Well…there was one time I left work. I worked at a department store overnights, stocking shelves. And I got a phone call from a friend of mine. Her boyfriend had just broken up with her and she needed to talk.”
“And what happened?”
“Are you sure this won’t take long?” she changed the subject.
“Time’s ticking, Charlie.” I shook my head, a deep pinch in my brow. “What happened?”
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