Today though is school picture day for my senior year. I’ll go to the fancy photographer and be given that black smock thing to wear for all the posed headshots.
I turn the water on in my shower and get in, so I can primp for photo day.
My skin becomes raw from scrubbing and pruned from exposure, so I get out of the shower and throw on a robe. I’m met with silence as I turn on my hair dryer. The fucking thing shows no sign of life. I’ll have to steal Mom’s.
My feet move until I stand outside my mother’s closed bedroom door, but I’m hesitant to enter. She’ll be pissed if I wake her up, and dealing with her wrath is never how I want to start my mornings. She was out late last night, and I never even heard her come home. That means there is a better chance of me sneaking in and out without waking her.
I creak the door open, mindful of staying quiet.
But, once the door is open, it becomes apparent that my silence isn’t necessary.
I wasn’t being paranoid. It isn’t just my mind playing tricks on me.
The deep-rooted anxious sensation I felt before getting out of bed was instinct. It’s mysterious—the reasons behind how your body can sense bad fate before you’re informed—but it just happens sometimes.
What I see knocks the wind out of me, and I can no longer breathe deeply. I can barely breathe at all. I stand paralyzed.
Tuesday morning. Picture day. A week before my eighteenth birthday.
The day I find Mom hanging from her ceiling fan.
I have no reaction. Zero. I’m not shocked or scared or angry or relieved. I’m empty.
Her feet dangle inches from the cracked and cluttered floor. Her head hangs forward with her unwashed hair hiding her face from me. She’s dead, long gone before I ever opened the door. You’d think I’d run to cut her down, but I just stand there, unable to take my eyes off her, while her body sways from the makeshift noose.
Every dark thought concerning Mom over the last few years runs through my head, and shame rushes through me. I should be remembering when she tucked me in as a little girl or when she was the parent helper in my second grade classroom, but I can’t help which thoughts filter through my mind. I imagine the arguments, the angry fists, the times I came home to her passed out on the floor, and all the school functions she missed. I remember her reasoning—that my behavior pushed her to act these ways. I see the scary men she invited into our home and remember the times she didn’t turn up for weeks. Her words as she told me I was the reason she disappeared rings through my head.
Even now, I’m the monster who can’t forgive my mother’s mistakes. This was her choice. She left me, but I am the one guilt-ridden about moments like this—where all I can see is the bad and believing that’s the reason she’s dead. She’s dead because of me. Because I couldn’t love her the way she needed to be loved. Because I couldn’t forgive her for everything that’d happened since Dad died.
I am the child, her child, but guilt about not being enough eats at me.
My fingers hit the numbers on my phone.
9-1-1.
Somehow, I give my address and explain what’s going on, but I don’t remember doing so.
“Stay on the line. Somebody is on their way,” the operator’s voice says from my phone, but I just set it down.
I can’t listen to her placating voice.
A piece of paper near Mom’s feet catches my attention. My hands tremble as I walk toward Mom to pick it up. The paper is folded with my name written on the outside, but my hands won’t work. I can’t bring myself to unfold it in order to see what her last words are to me. I sink to the floor, holding the paper in my hands, and stare at the messy scribbled handwriting.
The police come and usher me out of the room. A woman officer takes the note from my hand and urges me to call an adult.
Adults have failed me. The adults in my life are why I am in this situation in the first place.
I put my phone up to my ear. I don’t consider what time it is or that she’s probably in the middle of getting her picture taken. I should be there with her.
“Aria, I need you.”
No questions asked, she responds, “I’ll be right there.”
Aria can handle my bad situations. She can give me what I need from her for strength. She knows how to be there for me when I need to fall apart.
I’m sitting at the kitchen table when Aria gets there. She makes coffee and sits by my side.
“She was sick, Rylan,” Aria says.
“But am I the one who made her sick?” I can’t look at my friend when I ask the question.
“Are you kidding? You can’t really believe that. No one made her sick. She just was. This isn’t your fault. You know that, right?”
“Maybe.”
“No, Rylan. This. Isn’t. Your. Fault.”
“Why wasn’t I enough? Why couldn’t she love me more than the alcohol or her depression? Could I have done something to save her?”
“Your mom was battling demons for a long time. Those demons, this decision—they had nothing to do with you. She loved you, Rylan.”
Did she? How could she? Leaving me like that for me to find…
I’m not sure you can love anyone else when you don’t love yourself. I believe that was Mom’s real truth. She couldn’t love because she wasn’t capable. Her addiction made sure of that.
The woman officer walks by the kitchen table and heads for the door.
“Excuse me?” I call for her attention. “Can I have that note back, please?”
She gives me a sympathetic grimace. “It’s evidence.”
“May I see it before you go?” I need to know what Mom wanted to tell me.
“I think it’s better if you don’t see her last words.”
The officer takes a step back from me, and Aria takes my hand.
“Who are you to make that choice for me?” I scream, finally feeling something other than numbness. Blinding hot rage.
I move to stand, wanting nothing more than to snatch that letter from her, but Aria wraps her fingers around my elbow. It’s her quiet calm that keeps me sitting.
“Did you read it?” Aria’s voice is soft, almost apologetic.
“I did,” the officer responds.
“Okay. Thank you.”
I’m not even sure what Aria is thanking her for.
Was Mom apologetic? Did she blame me for her final decision? Was she manic and incomprehensible?
I’ll never know, but the fact that the officer doesn’t think I should read her thoughts from her final moments makes me think it wasn’t an apology. The note will sit, unread, in some evidence storage place, never having delivered its message to the person it was addressed to.
I never end up getting my senior pictures taken.
Callen
Callen: Meet me at the club.
Rylan: I think you mean, “Will you please meet me at the club?”
Callen: You’ll be the one saying please tonight.
Rylan: Tatum and I are at Mohegan Sun. Come, and maybe you’ll find out if you can make me beg outside the club, without toys and equipment.
Callen: Your draw never had anything to do with the club. See you soon.
Rylan: We’ll see about that.
I’ve packed an overnight bag, and I am in my truck, driving to Rylan before much time has passed. The drive will take me about an hour, but I’ve been meaning to check out the casino while I’m here anyway. Rylan’s challenge made it impossible for me not to go find her, and I’ll enjoy proving that it’s me that causes her legs to shake and her cunt to spasm, not the club.
After I arrive, check in, and drop my bag off, I then go to find her without bothering to send a text. Inside the casino, groups of women who are dressed in napkin-sized dresses saunter around, and I ignore them. I pass a group of women decorated with dicks, obviously here for a bachelorette party, who are showering the soon-to-be bride with attention. There are the requisite drunks holding up the bar and complaining a
bout how much they lost.
I eventually find the woman I’m looking for standing next to a roulette wheel. She ups her bet and places it on six. The wheel spins and slowly comes to a stop. She wins, and her face lights up. She doesn’t notice my advance as I come up behind her.
“You feeling lucky tonight, Little Bird?”
She jumps a little as my words reach her ear but quickly settles. “I do feel pretty good about my odds of scoring tonight. How about you?”
“Oh, I’m confident I’ll win big.”
My hands dip down to her ass.
“We’ll see how your cards play out. Now, take your hands off my ass and say hello to my friend, so we can get back to the game.”
After giving her ass a playful smack, I straighten and turn.
“Hello, Callen,” Tatum drones, completely unimpressed with my being here.
“Hello, Tatum. We up, or are we down?” I motion toward the wheel.
“I’m about even, and Rylan is up a few hundred.”
Rylan places her next bet on two while Tatum sticks with black. I don’t bet this time. The wheel spins…and lands on two, meaning they both win. The two girls celebrate and cheer for their victory. The lady in charge of the wheel smiles with them as I hand her a hundred to break for chips.
“What’s your strategy?” I lean in and question Rylan.
“I’d have to kill you if I told you.”
Killing is my job. Not hers. If she only knew…
“So, you’re blindly picking numbers then?”
“I am not.”
“Who has a strategy for roulette? It’s like the definition of chance. My strategy has been black, but I think I’m going to switch to red. That’s about as complicated as it gets,” Tatum adds.
“Tatum, you might not, but I have a strategy.” The smirk on Rylan’s face tells me she just might be picking numbers methodically or at least with some significance.
I study her choices. Rylan sets a stack of chips on twelve, and then Tatum picks red. I decide to join the fun and throw a bet down on twenty-one.
The wheel spins.
I lose, but both girls win again. Tatum dances in place and elicits a chuckle out of me. The girls give each other a high five before Rylan ups her bet again and places it on number twenty-three.
Six. Two. Twelve. Twenty-three.
I smile and lean toward her. “You’ve run out of room numbers. What’s your next strategy?”
The way her lips press shut tells me that my hunch is right. Six was the room she was in with Tatum. Two was the room she toyed with me in. Twelve was the room I tried to break her. And twenty-three was the room next to the one with the mistress and her friends.
“I’m ready for a new game.” Tatum saves her from having to admit I figured it out.
“Probably for the best. Rylan doesn’t have any more numbers to play,” I tease.
Cocky or not, I’m right.
Rylan opens her mouth, probably to throw a smart comment my way, but my attention drifts over her shoulder to the man stumbling through the crowd behind her. His eyes are locked on Tatum. He reaches for her, but I step forward and yank him back by his arm. Careful not to make a scene, I hold the man’s arm tightly behind his back.
I’m seething with anger as my harsh words tumble out. “Do not touch her.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, man,” he slurs his words and unsuccessfully tries to free himself from my grasp. “The girl is a slut. I saw her at Utopia. I saw the way she was asking for it in that room. Girls don’t flaunt it in a place like that unless they want it.”
I pull his arm tighter behind his back, and with my other hand, I reach into the guy’s pocket, pulling out his wallet and flipping it open.
“What the fuck, man? I’m not into dudes. I’m into sluts like her.” The drunken man nods Tatum’s way.
“Robert Kendall,” I read from his license. “Apologize to her. Right now. Apologize for coming near her, for trying to grab her, and for speaking about her the way you did. She has the right to behave any way she wants—in or out of that club—and it doesn’t give you the right to take anything from her. Nothing. Got it?” I angle the idiot in Tatum’s direction.
“You’re fucking kidding, right?”
He cries out as I twist his arm further behind his own back.
“I’m deadly serious.”
Tatum moves closer to Rylan, looking uncomfortable with what’s happening.
“I’m sorry!” He rushes the words out. “I’m sorry for bothering you and for assuming things and for the stuff I said,” he whines in pain. “I’m sorry, okay? Make him let me go,” he pleads with Tatum.
“Leave this casino. If you have a room, check out. I don’t want to see you again tonight. And don’t bother ever going back to the club. I have your name, and after the regulation board is informed about tonight, your membership will be revoked.”
I release the man with a push, and as soon as I do, he straightens, runs a hand through his hair to smooth it, and walks the fuck away.
Tatum watches him as he goes, looking a little shaken but otherwise unharmed. Rylan takes her by the shoulders and walks her toward a restroom. I silently follow behind in case the drunk decides to show his face again. The two girls disappear into the restroom while I look like a creep held up outside the door. They are in there for way too long, doing whatever girls do in a restroom together, but when they come back out, Tatum seems to be okay.
“What should we do next?” Rylan looks to Tatum.
I speak up instead, “Why don’t we go grab a drink? There are easily a dozen bars just outside this casino.”
“Good idea,” Rylan agrees.
“Guys like that one give the rest of us assholes a bad name. Don’t listen to him. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Tatum smiles at me, but before she can respond, I walk ahead of them. Moment over.
When we get to a bar, Tatum takes the barstool next to me while Rylan excuses herself to the restroom. I guess girls in pairs don’t actually do their business when they use the place as a conference area.
“Thank you,” Tatum says without looking at me.
“Don’t mention it.” I also keep my eyes forward.
“Maybe I was too harsh and judged you too quickly. I don’t want to be that person.” She turns at the waist to better look at me.
“You weren’t. You didn’t. And you should be that person when it comes to me.” I keep my sight straight ahead.
“You’re right; I don’t think I am wrong, but something tells me you’re exactly the right kind of wrong for Rylan, which is all that really matters.” There is conviction in her voice.
I face Tatum and attempt to dissuade her, “I’m not the right kind of anything for anybody.”
“We’ll see about that. But, Callen?” She rests her hand on my shoulder. “If you hurt her or make me regret the last couple things I said to you, I will chop off your balls. Don’t test me.”
I’m surprised by the hard edge behind her threat. I nod, she removes her hand from my shoulder, and the both of us go back to looking straight ahead, as if the exchange between us never happened.
Tatum waves down the bartender and effectively puts our bizarre conversation behind us.
Drink.
Drank.
Drunk.
Hours later, more than a few drinks deep and varying amounts of money lost and won, the three of us stand in the lobby of the main floor of the hotel. Tatum hiccups and then clumsily covers her mouth. Rylan attempts to scare her to force the hiccups away. It doesn’t work, and the two of them just end up in a fit of giggles.
“Where’s the room key?” Tatum searches her purse. “I can’t find it.”
“I’ll find mine,” Rylan says.
She begins to search, but I speak up, “Neither of you needs your room key.”
“Oh no, you don’t, mister.” Tatum squints her eyes at me. “You might have defended my honor tonight, but I am
not joining your little sex games. I’m going to my own room. Rylan can go where she wants.”
“Tatum doesn’t want you, but I do! Your penis is like magic,” Rylan chimes in, her voice echoing throughout the hotel.
“I’ll remember you said that tomorrow when your smart mouth comes back, but I’m not trying to arrange a threesome. I upgraded your room when I got here. There is a two-bedroom suite upstairs, waiting for all of us.”
Rylan takes Tatum’s elbow and heads for the elevator, but Tatum drags her drunken feet.
“Can you just do that? Change our room reservations without us being there?” Tatum pokes me in the chest.
“Probably not, but I’m more persuasive than most.”
“I bet you are.” She glares at me with drunken eyes and doesn’t even notice that I’ve backed her into the waiting elevator.
“What about our bags?” Tatum asks through a hiccup as the doors slide shut.
“The hotel staff moved them up to our new room.”
Rylan is quiet as we ride, and when the doors open, she and Tatum follow me down the hall and watch as I swipe the card through the lock.
Tatum rubs her eyes and sways on her feet. “Where’s my room?” she asks as she trips through the main room.
I offer her my arm, which she takes, and I lead her into the second bedroom. She dives headfirst into the bed without even bothering to remove her shoes. Her crazy headband shifts awkwardly on her head. Her breathing deepens, and I return to Rylan in the main room. She stumbles, toeing off her shoes, but keeps removing clothing. Her shirt flies over her head. She shimmies out of her jeans and then turns my way as she struggles to unclasp her bra.
“Don’t just stand there! Help me! I want that magic penis, and I want it now.”
“Careful, or you might just make a man feel objectified.”
“Shut up and touch me.”
She finally gets her bra unclasped, and it slides off her body. Her panties are next, but she trips while stepping out of them. Her hair falls into her face, but she doesn’t bother to try to fix it as she kicks the material from her ankles.
Deeper Page 11