26
In my room I tear off my coat, kick my boots to the corner, and slip into bed, somehow still able to feel Ben’s touch on my forearm. I close my eyes and tell myself that I did the right thing.
Even though it hurts like hell.
Even though there’s a gnawing ache inside me that gets bigger with each breath.
I roll over and bury my face in the covers, trying to think of something, anything else: work, school, Kimmie, my mom. . . . But all my thoughts travel back to the same place. Back to him, to how sullen he looked tonight, to the vulnerable gape of his eyes, and everything he said. It was almost as if something between us had died.
Or maybe together we’re killing it off.
I listen hard for the sound of his motorcycle, but the windows are closed and my CD player sings in my ear— the sound of water trickling down a brook. I switched it on to drown out my thoughts. It obviously isn’t working.
I toss in bed, noticing how my skin itches and my body feels suddenly sweaty. I sit up finally and reach for my glass of water.
That’s when I see him, just a second away from rapping on my window. His face is illuminated by the moon, making him look straight out of a dream.
I open the window wide.
“Take your promise back,” he says, before I can utter a single word. “I don’t want you to leave me alone.”
“I have to.”
Ben looks away so that I won’t see his eyes tearing up. “I know,” he mouths; the words don’t come out. “I was just thinking that maybe . . .” He looks at me again, his eyes full of sadness. “We could just be together one last time?”
I know I should say no. For five full seconds I tell myself that I can’t possibly allow this to happen. But instead I open the window wider and invite him to crawl inside.
We lie together on the bed, under the covers, and face the window. The moon casts its glow over the mound of our bodies.
I close my eyes and feel Ben’s hand slide up my back, underneath my shirt, sending tingles all over my skin. His fingers glide across my shoulders and down my spine, nearly stealing my breath.
And stealing his breath too.
As I start to fall asleep, I hear his breath heaving in and out. A gasp escapes his throat and he has to pull away, only to do it all over again a few moments later.
At one point in the night, I think I feel his kisses at the nape of my neck, his leg against my thigh, and his body spooning me up from behind.
My blood stirs and my body churns.
But maybe it’s all just a dream.
When I wake up the following morning to the buzz of my alarm, Ben is no longer there. A note rests in his place. In bright red cursive, it says “Thanks for breaking your promise and giving me one more night.”
I take it and press it against my chest, wishing it were so much more than one night, but grateful just the same. Because maybe this was the closure I was waiting for.
And maybe I’m finally ready to move on.
27
The next full week goes by in a blur, pretty uneventful and utterly depressing. You’d think that a bit of peace would come as a welcome blessing, but it only affirms the empty sensation inside me—a deep and bottomless pit that I can’t seem to fill with food, the company of friends, or even by doing pottery. I feel like one of those windup robots, wired to waddle through life, blindly bumping into walls and colliding with other objects.
That’s how out of it I’ve been.
I haven’t really spoken to Ben since that night. Whenever I see him in school we mostly just exchange a nod in passing, or sometimes a faint smile.
Kimmie calls our situation tragically romantic. “You have to admit, it’s totally hot of him to give up his own lustful needs because he’s afraid he might hurt you. I mean, aside from the other night, that is. He was obviously jonesing for you big-time to pay a visit to your bedroom. And that, my friend, makes him just beastly enough to score huge on my hot-o-meter.”
“Beastly?”
“You heard me. A sexy little blending of primal need and old-fashioned chivalry.”
“Too bad I’m going out with Adam,” I say, opening my closet door wide. Kimmie, my stylist-on-demand, is helping me pick out an outfit for tonight’s date.
“Why is it too bad?” She pulls a tube skirt from the rack. “I mean, look at what happened after just one measly scone and cup of coffee with Adam. You scored a date and laughed for the first time in months.”
“Not months,” I correct her.
“Well, whatever, my point is that the possibilities are endless . . . just like Ms. Mazur’s ass. I mean, did you see her in pottery class today . . . pink spandex with a T-shirt that barely covered her navel? They should make Spanx a requirement for some outfits.”
“Let’s leave Ms. Mazur’s ass out of this, shall we? Having endless possibilities, as you say, is not the reason I agreed to go on this date. I was hoping that going through the motions of moving on might trick my mind into believing that I am.”
“Right,” Kimmie says, eyeing a chain-link belt. “It’s a win-win. Plus, don’t even get me started on my whole Ben-the-stalker-boy theory.”
“Because I’ve heard it already?”
“Well, you have to admit,” she says, tossing a cream-colored cable-knit sweater at me, “leaving you twisted little notes and super-creepy photos would sure be an interesting way to keep you close, but not too close.”
“Wait, I thought you believed he was stalking me to keep me away, because he wanted me to see him as a killer.”
Kimmie taps her chin in thought. “I guess my theory works both ways, doesn’t it?”
“Whatever,” I sigh. “Let’s just hope the stalking stuff has finally stopped. Nothing weird has happened lately.”
“Right, because Ben’s back to being all ‘we need space’ again. Just wait till he gets lonely. You’ll probably get a pound of chicken thighs or a photo of Julie’s headstone in the mail.”
“That’s sick.”
“But possible.” She hands me a pair of black tights. “Here. Try all this on for me.”
“Fine,” I say, refusing to entertain her so-called theories for even one more solitary second.
“Seriously?” Kimmie giggles, holding up a short pleated skirt from the back of my closet. “You’ve obviously been holding out on me.”
“It’s from my middle school uniform,” I explain, all but yakking over the blue-and-green plaid. “It’s sort of sentimental, which is why I keep it.”
“This is just the sort of thing my dad wants my mom to wear,” she says, checking the size. “The poor woman’s barely hanging on to him by a Lee Press-on Nail.”
“Kimmie, I’m sorry.”
“Whatever.” She shrugs, returning the skirt to my closet. “I really don’t feel like talking about it right now. Back to happier topics?”
“Gladly,” I say, slipping on the tube skirt and sweater, and then yanking on my tights.
“Sexy lady,” Kimmie coos. “So where will Adam be taking us this evening?”
“Us?”
“Kidding,” she says, standing at my dresser mirror. She combs through the jet black layers of her pixie cut, examining the roots, where her natural shade of brown is starting to make an appearance. “Of course, you never know.” She meets my eyes in the mirror’s reflection. “Maybe I’ll show up anyway and stalk you from afar.”
“Very funny.”
But Kimmie isn’t laughing. Instead she flops back on my bed and snuggles Mr. Polar Bear.
28
It’s a little before seven when the doorbell rings. I’m thinking it’s Adam, but since my parents don’t call for me, I finish getting ready. Kimmie has already left. She ran out in a hurry, claiming to have a hot date of her own. Tonight’s her first time out with Todd McCaffrey, Debbie Marcus’s ex.
“I’ll call you as soon as I get in,” she promised on her way out. “We’ll compare all the sordid details.”
“Exc
ept mine won’t be sordid,” I told her.
I still feel conflicted about my date with Adam, but at about quarter past the hour, I head out to the living room, wondering what’s keeping him, surprised to discover that he’s already here.
He’s sitting with my dad, engrossed in conversation. Dad’s showing him his high-school yearbook, which is never a good sign.
“How come you didn’t tell me that Adam plays soccer?” Dad asks, spotting me in the doorway.
“Because I didn’t know?”
“I used to play,” Adam corrects, giving me a wink.
“Aw, once it’s in the blood, you can never give it up,” Dad says. “I used to play offense in high school. In college it was striker, then halfback. “I’ve got more photos somewhere—”
“We should probably get going,” I say, in an effort to save Adam.
“Oh,” Dad says, visibly crushed. He closes up his yearbook and hugs it against his chest.
I kiss Dad good-bye, but it doesn’t ease his sulking, even when Adam promises to look at his pictures next time.
Finally we leave and Adam opens up the door of his Ford Bronco for me. “It’s vintage,” he says, pointing out the hubcaps and the shiny new turquoise body. “From the ’70s. I restored it myself.”
“Nice,” I say, sinking into the creamy white vinyl seat.
“I’ve got the whole evening planned out,” he continues, scooting in behind the wheel. “I hope you’re ready for some fun.” He takes us to the fondue restaurant in the next town over.
“This looks amazing,” I say, noticing how the dining area is decorated with rich shades of purple, dangling chandeliers, and French impressionist art. We order sourdough bread chunks with cheddar cheese goo.
“I’m really glad you agreed to come out,” he says. “You were so standoffish at first. I thought maybe you had a boyfriend.”
“Well, we sort of just broke up,” I say, taking a nervous bite.
“When?”
“Four months ago.”
“So you didn’t just break up,” he says. “I mean, it didn’t just happen yesterday.”
“I guess not.” I reload my skewer with some bread. “I guess I was just kind of waiting for him to come back after some time away.”
“And did he? Come back, I mean?”
I nod, feeling my neck get hot, wishing we could talk about something else. I take a sip of water and gaze at one of the chandeliers, about to comment on the dangling crystal chunks, but before I can, Adam probes deeper: “So, what happened after he got back?”
“He didn’t want to work things out,” I say, then take another sip.
“Gotcha,” Adam says. “Obviously the guy’s an idiot.”
“Whatever.” I resist the urge to smirk. “It’s over. I’m here.”
“Well, cheers to that.” Adam raises his water glass to clink against mine. Then he proceeds to tell me how his last girlfriend broke up with him because she didn’t like his haircut. “Seriously, she couldn’t even look at me. She said it made my forehead look extra big and my eyes bug out of my face. I think she compared me to a housefly, but with uglier legs, like a gnat. I guess she picked on my body a lot too. She said I was too wiry . . . like a spider.”
“That’s crazy,” I say, trying not to giggle at the image. I mean, Adam is perfectly good-looking, with a perfectly normal physique.
“I guess she prefers the rocker type,” Adam continues.
“Either that or sexier insects.”
Adam laughs, and we end up spending almost four full hours at the restaurant, through two more servings of fondue—one made with chicken stock and another with dark chocolate for dessert. Adam talks about his dream of opening up his own architectural design firm one day, and I tell him that I’d love to have my own studio.
“Like Knead?” he asks.
“Maybe, but without the boob mugs.”
“Right, better to just have the penis straws.”
I let out a laugh, and it’s a full ten minutes before either one of us can contain ourselves to talk seriously again.
“I’d love to teach classes without the cookie-cutter molds,” I say finally. “I mean, how cool would it be to have an entire class devoted to form, texture, and shape, without having to worry about creating something specific right away?”
“Is that how you were taught?”
I shake my head. “I used to be all about the end product, but I’ve since learned that sometimes the process is just as important.”
“If not more so,” Adam says. “It’s the journey that makes things interesting, right? So, here’s to interesting journeys.” He lifts his glass again to clink against mine, and it suddenly occurs to me that I haven’t thought about Ben in the last sixty minutes. And that this is the most fun I’ve had in a really long time.
29
When I get home from my date with Adam, my parents are waiting up for me in the living room.
“You’re lucky,” Dad says, locking the dead bolt behind me. “You made your curfew with three minutes to spare. Your mother was a speed dial away from calling your cell.”
“Did you have a nice time?” she asks, blowing out an aromatherapy candle.
“It was fun.”
“And that’s it?” she asks. “Where is he from? What do his parents do? Does he live in a dorm?”
“Can’t this inquisition wait until tomorrow?”
“Not really.” Mom rises from the sofa. “You’re dating this boy; I want to know about him.”
“He was a perfect gentleman,” I say to assure her.
“Well that’s a relief.” She softens finally. “I think it would have broken your dad’s heart if you hadn’t enjoyed yourself.”
“No pressure, of course,” Dad says. “You don’t have to marry him or anything . . . even though he was the lead striker on his high school team for three years in a row.”
“I’m going to bed,” I say, eager to call Kimmie. I kiss them both good night, and head off to my room.
Kimmie picks up on the first ring: “I want every detail.”
“So much for a hello.”
“Hello . . . I want every detail.”
I give her the CliffNotes version of my date, telling her everything we talked about, and how the food was amazing.
“And after the food and talking?” she asks.
“What do you mean?”
“Do I need to draw you a picture?”
“We said good-bye. He dropped me off in front of my house. Then he drove away once I went in.”
“And that’s it? No smooching? No petting? Not a single brush against the thigh?”
“I’m nowhere near ready for any of the above,” I say.
“Unless it’s with a certain touch boy, am I right? Did Adam even try to go in for a kiss?”
“Nope.”
“Which could only mean one thing.”
“He’s not interested?”
“Even worse,” she says. “He must really respect you.”
“The horror of it all.”
Kimmie laughs and then tells me about her date with Todd. “We went to Pizza Slut and then made out in the parking lot for two hours straight.”
“Seriously?”
“I have the hickeys to prove it. I came home tonight totally exposing a really mean-looking one on my neck, but my mom was too engrossed in her Lifetime movie to notice, and my dad still isn’t home.”
“Oh,” I say, glancing at the clock. It’s a little after midnight.
“He’s been working into the wee hours of the morning,” she says, as though reading my mind. “He has a lot of clients in from out of town and he’s forced to take them out to dinner and stuff. Not that it would matter. I could probably come home nine months pregnant and neither of them would notice.”
“But let’s not go testing that theory,” I say.
“Are you kidding? I’d have to design a whole new wardrobe. Plus, I hear that feet swell when you’re pregnant. Just try to fin
d a pair of vintage heels in a size thirteen.”
“Well, that’s a relief . . . about the pregnancy thing, I mean.”
“Speaking of relief, Todd’s completely ecstatic not to be dating Debbie anymore. You were right, by the way, she totally still blames Ben for her stint in coma-ville, hence the evil look she gave him last week.”
“Even though it was her friends who were playing a joke on her? Making her all paranoid, making her believe that she was being stalked. . . ?”
“What do you want from me? It’s just what Todd said. He also said I have a really pretty mouth. Do you think he was just sucking up?”
“It sounds like he was sucking pretty hard,” I say, referring to her hickeys.
“Well, whatever. He said Debbie and him still talk sometimes, since they both live on the same street. Apparently she thinks that if it wasn’t for Ben and his seedy past, and coming to our school, nothing like that would ever have happened.”
“Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“Well, what might come as a surprise is the fact that Debbie hasn’t ruled out the possibility that Ben’s the one who hit her that night.”
“He doesn’t have a car.”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t have an alibi either.”
“He was with me that night,” I snap. It’s true that he was. That was the night Ben and I ended up at Knead— the night when we first kissed.
“I knew this would make you upset,” Kimmie says. “I shouldn’t have even said anything.”
“No,” I insist. “I want to hear it.”
“Okay, well, Debbie still argues that Ben would have had enough time to drop you off and then plow her down, because Columbus Street is right near your house.”
“And the no-car factor? I mean, the witness was sure it was a car. He even knew the make and model.”
“I suppose it doesn’t help that they never found the driver, or the car itself.”
“You’re right,” I whisper. “It doesn’t help.” It’s the one tiny detail that’s bothered me all along.
Deadly Little Lies Page 9