by Roxie Noir
I’m shaking, I’m so fucking mad. The only thing that keeps me from throwing my phone into the brick wall or into traffic is the fact that Darcy’s standing right there, watching me, and she looks nervous.
So I shut my phone off. I put it into my pocket, and I don’t even punch this fucking wall though I want to. I don’t pick up the weathered wooden bench and throw it into the street, like I want to.
“How’s Eli?” she finally asks.
I just shake my head and start pacing back and forth again, because I have to do something.
“That bad?”
“I fucking can’t,” I say, cracking all the knuckles on my right hand. “That fucking goddamn asshole, he calls me and then he acts like—”
I pass by Darcy again, still pacing, and she grabs my forearm, and any other time it would be like a lightning rod to my dick but I’m so fucking pissed at my brother that I just stop and glare at her.
“You’re shouting,” she says.
“Good, everyone can know what a shitshow my—”
Darcy puts a hand over my mouth. I’m so surprised that I stop shouting, I stop pacing, and we just look at each other. Her hand is small but strong, her fingertips calloused.
“You’re gonna get us banned from Aunt Sadie’s,” she says, in a perfectly reasonable tone of voice. “Can you hang on one more minute, and I’ll be right back?”
She takes her hand off my mouth without waiting for an answer, and a prickle of disappointment travels through me, even as my brother’s dumb voice echoes through my head.
“Yeah,” I say, and Darcy turns and disappears into Aunt Sadie’s.
I get back to pacing. People on the sidewalk look at me weird, not that I give a shit. I don’t even know why I’m so pissed, because what the fuck do a few more years in prison mean for Eli? He’ll be forty-five when he gets out already, his twenties and thirties lost to orange jumpsuits, solitary confinement, stupid grudges against other prisoners and making toilet wine.
I just wanted something else for him, I guess. I wanted him to want better.
Darcy reappears a few minutes later, and I’m still pacing and fuming. She’s got a whole pie in an aluminum tin, plastic lid, two plastic forks.
“Come on,” she says, walking past me, and I just follow her. I don’t know what the fuck else to do.
When we get to the car I unlock it. She puts the pie in the back seat and turns to me.
Then she grabs the keys out of my hand.
“Get in,” she says, pointing at the passenger seat.
“You’re not driving.”
“Yes, I am. Get in.”
“You’re not on the rental agreement, you can’t fucking—”
“I don’t give a shit, Trent, and you’re not driving like this so get in the fucking car.”
I hold out one hand for the keys. She crosses her arms over her chest, keys tight in one hand, and glares at me.
“You’re not driving like this.”
“Like what?”
“Pissed about your brother.”
“Darcy for fuck’s sake I don’t need you to fucking nanny me right now, I just need to fucking drive back to the fucking hotel, and—”
She opens the driver’s side door, gets in, buckles her seat belt, and looks up at me, both eyebrows raised in her so what are you gonna do about this face.
“Motherfucker,” I mutter, and walk around the car. Darcy’s stubborn as a mule and she can be impossible to argue with sometimes, and besides, I haven’t fucking got it in me right now.
Anyone else? Fuck ‘em. But she’s my weak spot and I lose every argument we have.
She starts the car and drives out of downtown Tallwood in silence. After about five minutes we’re deep in the woods, on some winding two-lane road, the thick blue-green-gray pine forest surrounding us, the sound of wind whispering through the trees, and I feel myself start to unwind.
“Are we going back?” I finally ask.
“Nope.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
I hate secrets and surprises, but I let her have this one. No harm in it, right?
We drive for a few more minutes, and there’s nothing but forest and road, the occasional driveway to a house deep in the woods. It’s astonishing how easy it is to get away from civilization here, how little time it takes before there’s no other sign of human life.
I take a deep breath, because I’m still fucking angry but I don’t feel so dangerous any more. I don’t feel like I might just see white and hit something, then realize thirty seconds later that I’ve done something awful.
I’m not afraid of much, but I’m afraid of myself.
“He stabbed a guy and got moved to a maximum-security prison up the valley,” I finally tell Darcy.
She steps on the brakes and looks over at me quickly, her blue eyes worried.
“Oh, shit,” she says softly.
I tell her everything. She already knows the backstory, of course, but she just listens as she turns off the main road and onto a gravel one, the rental car bumping over ruts. After half a mile or so the gravel ends, and she pulls into a wide spot, then kills the engine.
“Come on,” she says, getting out of the car, still moving a little gingerly.
I don’t argue. I gave up arguing with Darcy, and I just follow her out.
The sound of the wind is even louder here, and it takes me a few moments to realize that it’s not wind, it’s rushing water.
Right at the edge of the little parking area is a huge, steep cliff, a river below about sixty feet down. There’s no fence, no warning signs, nothing. There are a few spindly trees, but nothing strong enough to stop a car from going over.
Darcy points at a rock. It’s about the size of my head.
“Throw it in,” she says.
I look at her. She looks at me.
“Come on. Throw the rock into the river.”
I almost protest. I’m still in a bad fucking mood, and I’m tempted to tell her that I don’t want to throw fucking rocks into fucking rivers, I just want to go back to the hotel, but I’m already here.
“You’ll feel better,” she offers.
I don’t think it’s true, but I pick up the rock anyway.
“Over your head,” Darcy says. “Really launch that bad boy. Maybe yell while you do it.”
I heft it once. It’s heavy, and I walk until I’m about a foot away from the edge, then lift the rock over my head.
This is fucking stupid, I think.
And I hurl it downward, straight into the river, where it makes a deep, satisfying kerfloop noise. Darcy looks over at me, a smile around her eyes, eyebrows raised.
“This is dumb,” I tell her, and bend to pick up another rock. This one’s even bigger. I throw it into the river even harder.
The splash is even more satisfying.
“So dumb,” Darcy says, crouching to pick up a rock as well. I watch her cautiously from the corner of my eye as she lifts it over her head and chucks it downward, but she’s fine.
We both watch as it splashes into the river, and without speaking, she bends and picks up another one.
“Try yelling,” she suggests.
She doesn’t have to suggest it twice, and I shout at the top of my lungs as I propel the next rock down, watching it tumble end over end until it hits the water. Fuck this feels good.
“Aahhhh!” Darcy shouts, picking up one more and holding it over her head. “Aaaaauuughhhhh!”
She launches it down. It falls in the river. We’re both breathing heavily, but this might be one of the most satisfying things I’ve ever done.
“You feel any better?” Darcy asks, pushing her hair out of her face.
I pick up yet another rock.
“I’m getting there,” I say, then shout as loud as I can and chuck it on down.
Chapter Sixteen
Darcy
If you search “things to do in Tallwood, WA” on the internet, this com
es up on a message board. I have no idea if we’re on someone’s land right now, or if we’re about to get chased off by the cops, but I don’t particularly care. Judging by the beer cans strewn around, we’re not the first people to come to this place.
We throw rocks into the river for a long time, shouting and screaming and grunting, and no one ever comes to ask what the fuck exactly we’re doing, so I guess it’s fine.
After a while, I can’t even lift little rocks over my head any more. My arms are shaking and sore, and I’m barely doing more than dropping them into the gorge. Trent’s still going, but I can tell he’s starting to get tired. There’s a half-circle of sweat ringing the top of his t-shirt, it’s dripping down his face, and he’s breathing hard.
And I can’t stop staring at him. In a completely pervy way, and I know it’s wrong and weird to do it because I’m watching him work out some kind of psychic pain about his brother, but I can’t stop. I’m completely powerless.
Because it’s fucking hot, and we’re alone here. There’s something raw and primal and animal about watching him just go for it, tossing these massive rocks into the river like they’re nothing. I mean, he’s sexy and ripped and he’s lifting heavy things. What’s not to like?
Finally, he stops. He runs one hand through his sweaty hair and leans against a thick pine tree. His shirt’s sticking to him as he breathes hard, the muscles in his chest and abs flexing and bowing as he closes his eyes for a moment.
I.
Fucking.
Stare.
I finally have to close my eyes so I stop staring, because this whole rock-throwing episode feels like it’s shaken loose the last part of me that can fucking behave herself and I’m just thinking about running my hands down his slick chest, his thick arms, unbuttoning his jeans while he kisses me hard, his fingers curling through my hair—
“That felt good,” Trent rumbles, his eyes still closed.
It doesn’t help the pervy thoughts, not one fucking iota.
“You feel better?” I ask, my eyes lingering on the spot where his shirt is sticking to his abs, right above the button on his jeans.
“A little,” he admits.
“Even though it was stupid?”
He opens his eyes and one side of his mouth hitches upward in a smile.
“Stupid things can help,” he says, and pushes himself off the tree. “Though that was a pretty good stupid thing.”
“I got a stupid pie, too,” I offer.
I grab the pie from the car, definitely not thinking dirty thoughts. I didn’t get it cut or anything, so it’s just that: a whole pie. In a pie tin. With two forks.
We sit on the hood of the rental car. The sun is lowering in the sky, the woods around us turning golden and blue, the river still loud static below us.
“No plates?” Trent teases. “How uncivilized.”
I just laugh.
“Two thirds of my meals today are pie,” I say, and stab my fork into the middle, pulling out a big, gloppy bite of apple-rhubarb. “No one’s calling me Martha Stewart.”
We eat for a little while in silence. I’ve got a thousand questions about his brother, about what the hell really happened, but I know that Trent doesn’t know the answers either. If he did he probably wouldn’t be here, shouting at the river and throwing things and eating pie straight from the tin like a barbarian.
I know it’s not perfect. I know that shouting and throwing things and eating comfort food doesn’t really help, but I know less about how to have a brother than I know about astrophysics. Rocks and pie is what I’ve got.
“He wanted to be a cop when he was a little kid,” Trent suddenly volunteers.
I pause, fork halfway to my mouth. A glop of apple falls off.
“Eli did?”
Trent nods, fork in mouth. He’s staring straight ahead, not looking at me, and I look at him from the corner of my eye as I chew and swallow. Something about this ties my heart into a knot, tugs at both ends and doesn’t let go.
“Yeah. He even went as one for Halloween once. My mom used to have a picture somewhere. No idea where it is now.”
“I wanted to be a social worker when I was really young,” I say.
“I thought you hated them.”
“I did, later,” I say, twirling the fork in my hand. “Eli turned out to hate cops, right?”
He stabs the pie, shoveling out a forkful.
“Point taken,” he says.
“Before I really learned how the system worked, I thought the social workers were the ones in charge of where we all went. So I wanted to be in charge of where I got to live.”
“And then you learned about middle management and your dreams died a horrible death?” he deadpans, his voice low.
“Basically,” I say. “But if cops were the only people your dad was ever afraid of, I get why your brother might want to be one when he grew up.”
“And instead he fucking stabbed someone in prison,” Trent says, but he doesn’t sound angry any more. He sounds exhausted and resigned.
“Dreams don’t always work out,” I say.
We put our forks back on the pie, and Trent sticks it on top of the car before leaning back against the windshield, both arms behind his head. I lean back, too, and he watches me carefully.
“Your back okay like this?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “The cool glass is kind of nice, actually. You good?”
“I ate too much pie.”
“No such thing.”
Trent doesn’t respond for a long moment, and the two of us just stare up at the sky, reclining together on the hood and windshield of the car, and it’s nice. It’s really nice, much nicer than this terrible-hey-your-brother-almost-killed-someone moment should be.
And God help me, but I like it. I like being alone with him. I like sharing these moments with him that I know no one else shares with him. I like the quiet between us right now, the intimate silence that happens because neither of us needs to say anything.
“I always wonder what I did wrong,” he finally says, quietly.
“You didn’t,” I say, turning to face him.
He looks over at me, and his eyes roam my face for a moment before he looks back at the darkening purple sky.
“What if I did?” he asks, his voice soft. “What if the old man started again after I left? What if Eli tried to fight back too, only it didn’t go so well?”
“You’d know.”
“Would I?”
He swallows, takes a deep breath.
“He never talks about it. And my mom — I mean, Mom barely talks. If something happened I’d never know.”
There it is again, the feeling like my heart’s being squeezed to bursting. Like I want to rain destruction on everyone in Trent’s life for making him — the best person I know, my closest friend, the guy who stayed in Tallwood to take care of me, who fucking saved my life — feel bad that he left a war zone the second he turned eighteen.
“Sometimes I feel like I took all the luck,” he says. He’s not looking at me, he’s looking up at the stars, his voice coming from somewhere far away. “Like I took all the good stuff before he could get to it, and now he’s stuck.”
God, I know exactly — fucking exactly — how he feels. I prop myself on one elbow and look at him. My back doesn’t like it, but that’s just too bad.
“Trent,” I say.
He turns his head and looks at me, his warm brown eyes meeting mine. The knot in my heart tightens again.
“For the last fucking time, it’s not your damn fault,” I say, and one side of his mouth hitches up into a half-smile. “You survived how you could, and that’s what matters, because if you hadn’t where the fuck would Eli be now?”
“Supermax instead of regular max security prison?” Trent says dryly.
“Damn straight,” I say. “He’s got you to thank for not being in that Silence of the Lambs getup with the plexiglass room and the face mask.”
There’s another long pau
se.
“You do know Eli didn’t cannibalize anyone.”
I stop short, frowning, and just look at Trent. He lifts his eyebrows.
“That was why he had the face mask.”
“Who?”
“The guy in Silence of the Lambs.”
“That was there so he wouldn’t eat people?”
Trent’s eyes crinkle around the corners, a sure sign that he’s about to laugh at me.
“I haven’t actually seen the movie,” I say quickly.
“Really?” he says, just a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
I flip him off, and he laughs. I settle back against the windshield, the glass cool through my shirt and bandages.
“It wasn’t you, Trent,” I finally say. “You didn’t make Eli do any of this and you don’t have the power to save him.”
There’s a long pause, silence stretching out warm and familiar between us before he finally speaks again.
“I know,” he says quietly. “I just wish you were wrong.”
We sit there, on the hood of the rental car, for a long time, just being together in this silence, listening to the water below, watching night fall over the sky above.
I don’t know what this is. I don’t know the word for what Trent and I are, because friends doesn’t quite seem right, but we’re not lovers. He knows everything about me, knows me better than any other human on Earth, but we’ve never even kissed.
After a while, Trent points at a line of stars in the sky, barely visible.
“Is that Orion’s belt?” he asks.
I tilt my head and draw my knees in until my feet are flat on the hood.
“I think that’s the big dipper,” I say.
“It’s definitely not,” Trent says.
“Ursula?”
“What the hell is Ursula?”
“It’s a constellation,” I say, like it’s obvious.
“You’re bullshitting me.”
“Prove it.”
I tilt my head over at Trent. He’s still looking up but the telltale crinkles are there around his eyes, the ones that mean he’s laughing at me, and I smile.
I don’t know how long we’re there for. We talk stars and trees and rivers and rocks; cars and old blues songs and autotune.