I stop long enough to realize he’s staring at me, open mouthed.
“What the fuck, Layla?” He drops his hands down on the table and stares some more.
I freeze. I’m drunk, but even I can’t believe what I’ve just said.
Luke’s blank-faced, blinking. He shakes his head, looks down at the floor. “That is some effed-up shit. She’s talking about my tongue, and he’s telling everyone who’ll listen how good you are with your mouth.”
“Oh. My. God. One time.” I sob, before I realize I’m crying. “One time I did that to him. Only so he’d stop trying to screw me in the back of his car. Unlike you, who went and did Miss Perfect Tits every which way, without even thinking about me!”
I stumble to my bed and pull the covers over me.
Luke’s weight presses into the bed when he sits; he murmurs apologies while I cry and strokes his hand over the lumps in the blanket where my head and back are.
“Go away,” I say, after I’ve calmed some. Between stuttered, post-cry gasps, I tell him, “I still don’t like you.”
He doesn’t leave, but he grows quiet and still.
After a couple of minutes, I start worrying about all that absence. “Are you all right?”
“Shit, Layla,” he says, turning away when I sit up and drag the covers off my head. “I hate fighting with you. There’s nothing worse. Never has been.”
“I know.” I curl myself into him, getting weepy again. “We’re the worst.”
He leans forward to nod against my knee.
“Luke? Tell me we’re too good to fight like this.”
“We are too good for it. I mean it. Remember this feeling, so we don’t ever do it again.”
He hugs me and hugs me, and somewhere along the line, we both fall asleep.
Fourteen
No Take-backs
“W
ell that sucked,” Luke says, when he wakes late in the morning. We shared the bed throughout the night, but I’ve since vacated it.
“Funny, I’ve been thinking the same thing.” I’m sitting on one of the chairs, not exactly meeting his eyes as he sits up and plants his feet on the floor.
“Fu-uck.” He groans, rubbing his hands over his face. “I’m sorry. I really, really am.”
“So am I.” I still can’t quite look at him, but I go over and sit beside him, anyway. “Is that why you beat up Evan? Because of what he said about me?”
“Yeah. That’s why.”
“Did he say anything else?” I wait. “Luke, I want to know.”
“He called you a prude and said at least you were good with your mouth. I told him to shut up, not to talk about you like that, and he said I was just jealous because I’d been trying to get into your pants since we were twelve.” He takes a deep breath, and looks at me. “I hit him once, but it wasn’t enough. So, I hit him again, harder. I might’ve kept hitting him, but people grabbed my arms, and…it ended and I knew you’d hate me forever. The whole thing sucked.”
“Well, I didn’t hate you. I wanted to, but…no.”
Luke nods, slowly. “I have to ask you a question. You said something about me last night— about being with Marissa—like it was a choice I made between the two of you. I didn’t wait for you, because I didn’t know there could be an us. You couldn’t have been saving yourself for me, either. Right?”
“No, not for you. I knew it was a ‘no take-backs’ kind of thing, and I was saving myself for someone who meant a lot to me. That person wasn’t Evan, so I waited.”
Luke nods again. “I want you to understand, if I’d known, or even guessed there was a chance for us to be together, I would’ve waited, too. No, screw that,” he says, shifting on the bed so he’s facing me. “I wouldn’t have waited for anything. I would have made you talk to me and I would’ve made you see how much I’ve always cared about you.”
“I wish we’d both let each other in.” It’s hard to meet his eyes, but I do. “I wish we’d done a lot of things differently.”
“Me, too.” He grows quiet. “There’s something else, though. I know I screwed up, but even before I hit Evan, even before I stood there like a horny moron, not helping you pick up your spilled backpack…you seemed like you already didn’t like me. Why?”
“Wow, big question.” I take a deep breath. “I think I felt betrayed, or at least forgotten. We were so close as kids, and then football and popularity happened for you…and you were always out of reach.”
Luke takes my hand and brings it into his lap, cupping it between both of his. “I felt that distance. To me, it seemed like you’d chosen it.”
I tense, but I know he’s right. “I guess I did. There was a lot going on between my parents and I felt lost. I wanted to disappear.”
“You’re talking about your parents’ divorce?” Luke’s voice is quiet, tight.
“Yes, plus the fighting that happened before and after. There was a time when it actually seemed like things would work out. Then I overheard my dad talking on the phone to some woman he was sleeping with. I was fifteen, and it was awful, but I knew I had to tell my mom he was having an affair. She didn’t even seem surprised, and she confirmed it wasn’t his first.”
My final words hang in the air. We still haven’t spoken about what happened between our parents, and I’ve never confessed to the part I played in it. Even now, I don’t know how to say what needs to be said.
Luke’s stiffness gradually fades; he wraps an arm around me, kissing me softly on the temple, and the time for confession passes. “I’m sorry,” he says. “That must have been hard to go through. I wish I’d been there for you.”
“I used to wish that, too.”
I’d hardly been able to talk to anyone about it. Nina’s parents were perfect, so even though I told her a few things, there was no way she could completely relate, and I didn’t want to get into it with my other friends, not even Josie.
So, while my mom raged at my dad, working up the strength to make her choice, I watched, alone. When she chose divorce and he chose to make it ugly, I slipped further and further away, even from myself. Lucas was gone, and Luke only drifted on the edges of my awareness, hazy and vague and unreachable.
None of what I was going through was his fault. That didn’t stop me from resenting him: he wasn’t around when I needed him most. He no longer knew me well enough to recognize that need.
There’s no changing the past, though. We only have the present.
“Be here for me now,” I say. “And let me be here for you.”
Luke pulls me in closer. “Okay, but I want to go on record saying this talking thing works a whole lot better than all the stuff that happened last night.”
“Wow, a guy who actually wants to talk. You really are a dream, Luke.” I lean against him. “What was in that devil drink, anyway? Never mind the whiskey.”
“I think it was a mix of cabin-fever, stalker-in-the-woods, and we-might-starve-soon.”
“Yeah, remind me to take a pass on that one next time the choice comes up.”
“Likewise.”
♦ ♦ ♦
We’re careful with each other all morning long. We’ve wounded one another—not terribly, but some. So, healing will require some time and some effort.
Around midday, Luke starts pacing, and I worry that it could be related to last night.
“Are you okay?” I can only ask the question quietly.
He glances at me, distracted. “Just thinking I need to go back out there for snow and firewood. That’s not the real problem, though. Mostly, I can’t figure out what to do with you.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Sorry. Bad wording. I just don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Back at you.” I hold Luke’s gaze until he resumes his pacing.
He goes on like that for a while, and all at once, he gets fed up. “All right. I have to do this, so I might as well do it now. You’ll stay in here until I get back, right?”
I nod, but I can�
��t make myself promise.
“I’ll have to search for clean snow, since we’ve used up most of the good spots around the cabin, and then I’ll come back to collect firewood—some from the pile and more of the fallen branches,” he tells me, pulling on his boots and coat. “The whole thing’ll take a while, so don’t get worried and come looking for me.”
He works the boards free from the door, and when he’s standing in the open doorway, hands filled with empty buckets and pots, and with his hammer for breaking ice, I grab him by the front of his coat and kiss him until he almost sets everything down again. “You’re making it even harder to leave,” he says, pressing his forehead to mine, kissing me once more.
I step back. With or without a delay, his going is inevitable. “Come back to me soon. And I want you in one piece, the whole deal.”
“I’ll do my best. I left the other hammer over there,” he says, raising a bucket-laden hand to point at the kitchen counter, “so you can secure the door behind me. Both boards this time, okay?”
I nod and, just like that, he’s gone.
I hammer the boards into place, both of them—lightly—and wait.
Waiting—by yourself in a cabin that’s growing low on food and water and heat while the boy you really, really, really care for is alone in the woods, where some strange man is lurking about, and maybe wild animals are, too—really, really, really bites.
I don’t play cards or clean or cook. I sit and wait and stare at the floor, at the rectangles of pale sunlight cast by the windows. I do my best to imagine the time of day, down to the minute and, possibly, the long, drawn-out second. I picture Luke, the sunlight shining on his face, going about his business, alone, safe. I will the picture to come to life.
Eventually, I start mimicking Luke’s habitual pacing: I check one window, scan the woods as far as my view will allow, check the other window, scan the woods again. Finally, when I’m at the front window, I start turning toward the other and catch the end of a passing shadow, its dark mass skimming across the floor. Something tall and male, I’m sure of it. Luke.
“Oh, thank God.” I exhale the words.
Even having returned with the snow, he’ll still have to gather firewood and kindling; he told me so. Maybe I’ll insist on helping with that last part, so he can be back inside with me as soon as possible.
I head directly for the door and concentrate on my loosening efforts, making them more effective than they were last time. As soon as I finish with the unbarring, I hop into my boots, pull on my coat and gloves, swing open the door, and plunge into daylight.
Silence is safest, so I’m quiet while I search. I creep around the side of the cabin, following the direction Luke’s shadow took toward the big tree out back. My feet crunch through the thick crust of ice here and there, so even with my attempt to be silent, chances are he’ll know I’m coming.
A branch snaps behind me, fracturing the brittle air, and I spin toward the sound, a lifting feeling inside me, ready to hug and be hugged.
There’s a man. He’s taller than me and wearing a hood, and he isn’t Luke at all.
Cold air rakes my throat: a gasp instead of a scream.
“Hey. Girl.” The man’s whisper is sharp, his voice as craggy as his face.
I stare, paralyzed, all except for my feet: I’m backing away from him.
He takes a few steps toward me. He’s the only thing I can see in the whole white and gray world.
“Hey, what’s your name? Girl,” he says, reaching out with red hands, black-edged fingernails. I don’t want those fingernails to touch me. “Tell me your name.”
He swipes at me and I scramble backwards again, turning to run, only to trip and fall, hard. My chin bounces off the icy snow and I’m sure I’ll see stars if I look up. Only I don’t want to look up.
Hands grab at my feet, and I’m trying to crawl away when a far-off voice splinters the frozen air.
“Hey! Hey! Get the fuck away from her!”
“Goddamnitalltohell!” the man says, releasing me. He’s older than I saw at first, bent and thin. “Psychos,” he screeches, slipping and crashing off into the bushes toward a rise, then over it, disappearing almost as quickly as he arrived. The crunches and cracks of his retreat distance themselves as the noises of Luke’s stumbling run approach.
“Are you okay?” he shouts when he gets close.
I try to answer, but my yes is faint; the fear has stolen my voice and the pain is making me breathless. My ankle is burning; my chin is spreading warmth into the snow.
“Did he hurt you?” Luke’s voice is still raised, even though he’s beside me now, pale and shaking, hammer in hand.
“I’m okay.” My palms push me up from the ground, away from the bright circle beneath my chin. My fingers tremble, searching my skin for the place where the ice bit into me, but I can’t feel anything through my gloves. I try to move and the burning in my ankle flares.
Luke lifts me, helps me turn until I’m sort of sitting. “Can you get up? I need to go after him.” The color has deepened in his face and eyes; he looks like he wants to kill someone.
I grab hold of him before he can move. “Don’t.”
“But I can still catch him!”
I shake my head, chasing after my scattering thoughts.
“Luke, no. Listen. I think…maybe…we just lost our chance to be rescued.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Luke lowers me onto one of the chairs, does a quick scan of the woods before closing and locking the cabin door, and shoves the table against it as a temporary reinforcement, before commenting on what I’ve been telling him.
“I don’t get it,” he says, grabbing the dish towel, crouching in front of me to hold it against my chin. “He wanted your name, so that makes you think he was here to help?”
“It was the way he kept asking for it, like that was all he wanted—not me.” I pull off my bloodied gloves and Luke takes them and tosses them into the sink.
“Keep this pressed here,” he says, referencing the towel. “It might take a while for the bleeding to stop.” He scoops me up and carries me to the bed. “And you didn’t see a gun or a knife or anything?”
“No. It all happened so quickly, but no, I didn’t see anything like that.”
“So, your name? You think that means he’s heard about us?” he asks, layering both our pillows behind me to prop me up.
“Maybe they’ve figured out we made it to this area before we got lost. We could be in the local news, or something.”
Luke folds up a blanket, rolls it into the shape of a bolster pillow. “Which ankle is it, again?”
“Left.”
He lifts my leg and carefully settles it onto the rolled blanket. “Does that help?”
“It does,” I say. “Thanks.”
Luke sits beside me on the bed, frowning as he brings his eyes to meet mine. “So, you really think I scared him out of helping us?”
“He ran away calling us psychos. I think it’s a pretty safe bet he won’t be back to share fruitcake.”
“Fruitcake?”
I let my head tip back against the wall. “I’m traumatized and starving. The holidays just passed. Work with me.”
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Luke says, pressing a kiss onto my cheek, “even if I’m not sure I agree about that guy being here to help.”
“How’s my chin?” I pull the towel away from it, so he can see.
“Still bleeding. I think it needs stitches, to be honest.” His eyes hold mine, watching how I take the news.
I grit my teeth, sigh, and press the towel back into place. Likely another scar in the making. Granted, scars will cease to matter if we have to stay here much longer.
I have no intention of crying, but my eyes grow watery, just the same. “What are we going to do, Luke?”
“Hey, we’ll be all right.” He pulls me close and tips his head against mine. “We still have food, and I’ll get the buckets I dropped out there, so we can keep gathering
snow, even when the bottled water runs out. If someone doesn’t come for us, once your ankle’s better, we’ll hike down the mountain.”
“All that way?” I ask, drawing back. “Even if the ice melts and it’s easier to walk, the last houses we saw from the road were so far from here. How much distance could we make before the cold got to us?”
Luke rubs his fingers over his bristly chin, thinking. “Be right back.” He stands and goes to retrieve the first aid kit from beneath the sink, and as he’s returning with it, he says, “We could walk day and night, as long as the moon’s bright enough. We survived over twenty-four hours out there before.”
“But we might not have, if it had been colder. Luke, we had shelter and even then it was terrible. You might not remember much, but I know you haven’t forgotten how bad things were the next day.”
He takes a deep breath, pulling supplies from the kit, lining them up on the bed: the bottle of stinging liquid, gauze, antibiotic cream, butterfly bandage. “I could go by myself,” he says. “Except I’m still afraid to leave you alone with that guy around. He might come back, whether he was here to help, or not.”
He uses some gauze to swipe the dreaded red-brown liquid over my chin, and my breath draws in sharply.
“That stuff really flipping hurts, Luke.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” He dabs on a bit of ointment, tells me to hold still, and stretches the bandage over my cut. This also hurts, but I wait until he’s finished to say anything about it.
“Owww. Anyway, even if that guy wasn’t around, I wouldn’t let you go searching all alone. What if you got injured out there by yourself? You’d be helpless. Besides, you might be bigger than me, but you’d freeze just the same.”
Luke tips up my chin to check the bandage’s placement. “All better, and I’ll finish getting you cleaned up in a minute. Your neck looks like something from a horror movie.” His arms come forward to enfold me. “You’re right. I know you’re right,” he says.
“At least here we have a chance,” I tell him, “even if it’s getting slimmer by the day.”
♦ ♦ ♦
The tears that threatened earlier return at night. Not a drop of alcohol in me, just some pain from my injuries, plus a whole lot of hopelessness.
Picturing You Page 13