Under the Influence

by L. B. Simmons

  I snicker. “Okay because that’s not creepy.”

  He shrugs as we continue to walk. “What’s Daisy Mae up to these days?”

  I laugh. “You know that’s not her name. And you know she hates it when you call her that.”

  The previous tension of his face fades as he grins and angles his head. The cap on his head fulfills its purpose as it shields his bright blue eyes. “I also know you hate it when I call you Pencil, but that doesn’t stop me either.”

  “It’s only cute when it comes out of the mouth of a five-year old little girl who can’t pronounce Spencer,” I remark straight-faced as memories of little Anna Grace from the shelter fill my mind. She wasn’t there long, but during the short time she had lovingly bequeathed to me the nickname of Pencil. Well, actually to Dalton I guess since he’s the only one who uses it.

  His laughter echoes around me as we make our way to my porch. “Stop lying to yourself, Pencil. You think it’s cute when I say it too.”

  I do, but that shall remain unsaid.

  He continues. “Plus, if Cassie doesn’t want to be called Daisy Mae, she needs to wear longer shorts.”

  I nod in agreement. “To answer your question, she’s up to no good, that’s what she’s up to,” I answer truthfully.

  His features draw taut and he turns to look at me with his face now hardened. Protective. “You know she’s not a good influence.”

  I bark out a laugh and shake my head at his blatant audacity. “That’s rich coming from you.”

  Dalton narrows his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You, my friend, have introduced me to pretty much everything my mom has warned me to stay away from. You’re not the best influence yourself.”

  Finally at my porch, Dalton shakes my backpack off his shoulder and onto the front step as we take our usual seats. His on the left and mine on the right.

  I inhale deeply and turn to face him, and as I do, I watch his expression morph from that of protection to one of internal dissension. I can see it so clearly in his blue-grey eyes when he’s warring within himself. I’ve seen this struggle frequently over the past five years, and I have yet to figure out a way to help him through it.

  My eyebrows draw together and without hesitation, I lift my hand and tug on the bill of his cap. “Hey, what’s going on with you?” I ask softly.

  My hand falls to his shoulder while he continues to stare off into the distance. I remain silent, allowing him the time he needs to speak. We’ve danced this dance many times before.

  You see, the day he showed up on our porch, something happened while we watched that first sunset together. I don’t know how or why or if I can even put it into words, but we were forever connected that day. My hidden pain cried for his pain, and his rage searched for mine. It was as though the most deprived parts within each of us sensed the other’s, then reached out and grabbed hold, essentially melding us together and making us whole.

  I know it because I felt it.

  I felt him.

  And soon after, the number of sunsets watched became too many to count, the amount of easy laughter shared was immeasurable, and the quantity of weed and alcohol consumed between the two of us … copious.

  Yet with all this time between us, amid the sunsets and the laughter, not once did we dare discuss our pasts.

  As far as Dalton knows, I’m the only daughter of Deborah Locke and my father is deceased. I’m a habitual visitor of domestic violence centers, alcohol/drug rehab clinics, and homeless shelters because my mother volunteers nonstop. With no one else around, I’ve pretty much had to traipse wherever she went ever since I was a little girl and sometimes still do. I have seen horrors that no one should ever have to witness during these visits, which obviously had the intended effect because I’m actually very thankful for my life. Thankful for the chance I’ve been given, and thankful that I have a loving mother.

  While Dalton is aware of all of this, there’s also lot that he doesn’t know. But he has his skeletons too.

  Dalton is very secretive about his former life—or lives. I know nothing more than I did the day he showed up on our porch. My mom, however, was provided in-depth knowledge of the various situations in which he was removed because as his emergency foster parent, she was privy to the information upon his arrival. She has never shared that information with me out of respect for him, and I would never ask her to do so, for the same reason.

  Every single child that lands themselves in our spare bedroom is given that same respect. But I know enough to understand that if they have found their way to our house in need of emergency foster care, the situation is never a good one as it is typically needed for the child’s protection.

  We only housed Dalton for a matter of weeks before he was placed with the Housemans. My mother worked closely with Dalton’s social worker to have him placed within their care. Through the relationship built while volunteering at the local abuse shelter, she knew from experience that they were very kind people with vast experience when it came to fostering abused children.

  The bond Dalton and I formed that very first sunset was strengthened over his four week stay into a friendship that lasts until this very day. Because even after he left, the Houseman’s close proximity meant he was still near enough to stop by whenever he wanted. His visits never ceased and even though “aged out” of foster care last year, they still continue.

  Over the many years we have spent together, I have vowed to try to help him. To teach him the lessons that I’ve learned. To find a way for him to let go of the past that so clearly haunts him. Which means I must have the utmost patience during times like this.

  And I will wait as long as he needs.

  The corner of my mouth lifts into an encouraging smile. Breaking his eye contact from the ground to meet my patient gaze, he hesitantly reaches up and removes my hand from his shoulder to encase it in his own.

  “I just worry about you, Spence.” He shakes his head in frustration. “I mean, you said it yourself, I’m not the best influence. I’ve never pretended to be. But what you need to understand is people like me, like Cassie, we find ourselves unintentionally drawn to you because I think deep down, we want you to influence us. Not the other way around.”

  He tightens his gaze with familiar storms brewing in his eyes. “You’re such a good person, Spence. I just worry that one day, being surrounded by people like us, well…I worry that what makes us who we are will eventually destroy the person you are meant to become.”

  I hold his gaze, assessing him, then break into a full-on smile. “Dalton, I’m not a freaking piece of china. I’m not some delicate, fragile child.” I laugh boldly at his assumption. “You are not going to destroy me. Cassie is not going to destroy me. No one is going to destroy me.”

  I shake my head. “We’re all just people, Dalton. People make mistakes. Some more than others, but every person deserves to be judged on how they learn and adjust from mistakes made. Not defined by tragedy or happenstance. I know who you are now, Dalton, and that is a good person who just happened to make some crappy decisions along the way. That’s all. Same with Cassie.”

  He remains expressionless, but when his jaw clenches, I sense his objection to my statement. Shrugging my shoulders nonchalantly, I add, “You know, I’m always here if you want to talk about before. You never do, but I just wanted to let you know while we’re having the ‘no discriminatory judgment’ conversation.”

  I watch as his eyes soften and the storms with in them calm, before Dalton, in typical Dalton-style, completely disregards my offer by deflecting, “I also worry about you alone in that goddamn high school. St. Louis Parochial High School is full of nothing other than rich, pansy-ass douchebags whose brains are capable of processing exactly two things: spending their daddy’s money and satisfying their dicks. I’m 100% sure Cassie’s no help in the latter department, either.”

  Laughter bursts from my chest. “Um, I go to that school, so that blows both your theories si
nce I’m clearly lacking in those areas. I’m only able to attend that school because Mom works there and well,” I look at my lap and shrug. “Clearly lacking.”

  He fights a smile. “You aren’t like anyone else in that school.”

  “Cassie isn’t either.” I counter before adding, “Neither were you.”

  “I don’t even want to know what Cassie had to do to get in that school. And I only got in because your mom pulled strings to get me some obligatory we-care-about-poor-people-too scholarship.”

  “That’s not true and you know it, Dalton.” And it’s not. He had to be tested before he was accepted and his scores put him right at the top 10% of his class. Mom did relay that information to me.

  Dalton returns his gaze to the ground in front of us and mumbles, “Yeah, well, I hate that I’m not there anymore to watch over you.”

  I grin. “You are aware that it’s March, right? And that I already made it through the majority of the year unscathed. I think I’ll be okay for two more months.”

  He nods stiffly as I continue, still smiling because I kind of find this whole thing adorable. “Is that why you come by? To make sure I’m surviving without your protection?”

  His features depress as he releases my hand, relaxing back onto his elbows and stretching out his long legs. Facing forward, he stares at the horizon.

  “Not the only reason,” he answers softly. “I miss our sunsets.”

  My smile lessens and without a word, I lean back and mirror his position, stretching my legs to match his. We watch together in shared silence.

  Just as the sun begins to set, I whisper, “Yeah. I miss you too, Dalton.”

  He continues to look forward, face blank, no words spoken. They never are. But I know he heard me when he finally releases a long, contented sigh because my own heart warms in response.

  I know because of the bond that we share…

  That’s exactly what it feels like when Dalton’s heart smiles.

  AN INVOLUNTARY EXHALE PASSES through my lips and as much as I want to hide it, to act as though her presence has no effect on me whatsoever, I can’t help but expel that much-needed breath. As it releases, familiar warmth coats my chest and soothes the constant burn, temporarily salving the open blisters it often leaves behind. I know the pain will be back. It always comes back. But instead of focusing on the inevitable, I take a brief moment to relish in the serenity that floods me. The peace that only she can provide.

  I maintain my forward gaze, not chancing a look for fear she will see my weakness—my overwhelming need for this feeling. The pure ecstasy it brings is better than any drug I’ve ever done.

  I crave it.

  I crave her.

  After a while, she releases her own long sigh and without thinking, I glance to the side. The breeze kicks up and the sweet, citrus scent of Spencer fills my lungs. Our gazes lock, her blue eyes meeting mine, and I find myself mesmerized by the innocence staring back at me.

  It’s then that the tranquility of the moment is broken because just as quickly as my relief was found, the purity in her eyes strikes a match and sets my chest aflame. Guilt reemerges, a fiery blaze of sins and transgressions committed. All oxygen vanishes and I can no longer freely breathe as the familiar burn once again spreads inside of me.

  I need to go.

  I shouldn’t be here.

  Rising off my elbows, I scoot into a seated position. I have every intention of telling her this, but as soon as I begin to speak these words, her freckled nose crinkles in a very familiar way. In a way that tells me she’s about to ask me to do something I most likely won’t want to do.

  She sits up as well, and as she does, her face breaks into a breathtaking smile and her blue eyes light with anticipation. “Come to the shelter with me,” she proposes. “Mom is there and she’ll want to see you. Plus, the kids love it when you come.” She laughs, then knocks my shoulder with hers. “Even though you pretend you don’t like them, I know you secretly do.”

  There’s definitely no pretending on my end. “I can’t,” I answer quickly. “I need to get back.”

  She narrows her eyes and pinches her mouth tightly, clearly disappointed by my response. I watch as her lips then move to the side, marking her expression now more thoughtful than frustrated.

  “Hmmm…,” she hums, tapping her finger on her chin while looking skyward. Her gaze falls to mine and her eyes fill with tenacious humor. “I think you should come to the shelter with me,” she repeats.

  I fight the urge to smile. “I have go, Spence.”

  “No.” She shakes her head, unrelenting. “I think you need to come with me.”

  I know exactly what she’s doing and damn if it’s not working. Laughter climbs its way up my throat and I’m forced to swallow it back down.

  “I. Have. To. Go,” I respond, enunciating each word and adding sign language since she’s clearly not hearing me.

  Spencer giggles and the lyrical sound of it deadens the pain in my chest a bit. She twists her body to face me. “You…” She points at me, then scissors her index and middle fingers in a walking motion. “Come with me.”

  My jaw tightens as I try to choke down the laughter because she really, really sucks at sign language. She grins wider because she knows she’s about to get what she wants and I’m helpless to do anything but to give it to her.

  The sight in front of me—Spencer with her huge smile and eyes wide while nodding her head like an overly excited puppy—breaks whatever remaining hold I had on my amusement. My usual hardened face splits into a wide grin and my shoulders shake as I laugh, a response that only she and Rat are successful in eliciting.

  I shake my head as the laughter subsides and concede. “Fine.”

  “YAY!” she screams, then jumps up, snagging her backpack. “I’m gonna put this up and then we can go.”

  As soon as the screen door shuts behind me, my head falls into my hands. I cannot believe I let her talk me into this. Every time we visit the abuse center, it’s as though I’m reliving my past, the one I’ve been trying to forget since the day I was born. The helplessness I see in the eyes of the mothers and their children–their fear, their uncertainty, their desolation, their scars (inside and out)–it all just makes me sick to my stomach because it’s all so fucking familiar.

  I know she thinks that my being there will help me come to terms with my past, to find some measure of healing by helping others through what I’ve experienced, but it doesn’t. All it does is piss me right the fuck off.

  But I will endure it because that smile on her face, the one I just witnessed, is just another facet of my addiction. Because when I’m with her, when she smiles at me that way, it’s easy to pretend my reality doesn’t exist. That instead, I’m the person she believes me to be–believes I can be–rather than the monster I’ve become.

  What I wouldn’t give to live in that world.

  “Okay! I’m ready!” Spencer shouts.

  I reluctantly stand. Turning to face her, I plaster a fucking fake smile on my face and gesture to my car in the driveway. She giggles then reaches forward, taking my calloused hand in hers to lead me off the steps of the porch toward the passenger side of my car. I revel in the skin-to-skin contact as we walk and only release her to open the door once we’ve arrived.

  When she’s tucked safely inside, I close the door and curse to myself as I round the front of the car. After sliding into the driver’s seat, I stick the keys in the ignition and fire up the engine. My Camaro growls to life, the roar of it reverberating all around us. The side of my mouth kicks up, as it does pretty much every time I hear it, and I glance to the side to see Spencer’s face full of appreciation.

  “I love this car, Dalton. I can’t believe you restored it so quickly.” She smiles and runs her hand along the dash. “It looks like your time at the garage is paying off. I’m so proud of you.”

  Ah, yes.

  The garage.

  My job as a lowly mechanic; the same as Rat. I eye the
pride in her expression and my chest tightens with the truth. I don’t have the heart to tell her this car was actually taken as payment in full from one of Silas’s customers. Not that I ever would.

  Over 200K owed, we took whatever cash he had available and the Camaro for our time. I broke my hand during the acquisition, and Silas, in turn, gave me the car as a reward. I accepted it happily because 1) you don’t argue with Silas Kincaid and 2) it is a fucking pretty sweet ride.

  But as far as Spencer knows, my broken hand was the result of a jack slipping from underneath one of the cars at the garage. Being a mechanic seems to be the source of many of my accidents. In fact, to her, I must seem like the most accident prone mechanic there ever was.

  After putting the Camaro in gear, we make the fifteen minute drive to the center with minimal conversation. As soon as we pull into the parking lot, I park the car and leave it idling, still trying to psyche myself up for this visit. I stare forward, watching a woman as she enters the front door and it’s not until a warm finger curls around the bottom of my chin do I look away.

  Spencer’s hand redirects my attention to her face and my eyes fall directly to her mouth. It’s so unbelievably wrong, but it’s the only thing my eyes seem to want to see. She swallows deeply, and after watching her teeth rake across her bottom lip, I force my gaze away from her pouty mouth to meet her blue-eyes.

  She smiles shyly, then tilts her head before clearing her throat and narrowing her eyes. “You’re not going to back out on me, are you?”

  A grin tugs at my lips, her persistence one of her most endearing qualities. “No.”

  Her mouth broadens into a full smile as she removes her hand. “Good. Now come on, Mr. Grumpy McGrumperton, let’s get in there and change some lives.”

  A chuckle works up my throat and escapes through my nose. I shake my head. “Your incessant positivity is wearing. Don’t you ever get tired?” The words fly out of my mouth before I can think better of it and I immediately regret them.

  Her mouth falls and her lips draw tightly. “Actually, Dalton, what exhausts me is trying to haul your ass out of the cesspool of negativity in which you insist upon drowning. It’s an endless, tiring job.” She sighs. “But I will continue to do it because I believe in you that much. And if it means I have to drag your negative ass to see a bunch of kids who happen to adore you in order to get you out of one of your many funks, then that’s what I will do.”