Escape In You

by Rachel Schurig

  Taylor groans against my mouth. It’s just about the most arousing thing I’ve ever heard. His hands press lower against my back, dangerously near my ass. I whimper, wishing he would hurry. I want his hands everywhere, now.

  A twig cracks somewhere to our left, and I pull back, gasping. Taylor stares down at me, a dazed expression on his face. We look at each other for a beat, both breathing heavily. “Holy shit,” he finally mutters, and I laugh, the tension broken.

  “What was that?” he asks, running a hand through his hair.

  I shake my head. “A pretty amazing kiss, I’d say.”

  He gives a short, shaky laugh. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

  We stare at each other for another moment. I want to get back to the kiss, but I’m a little worried we won't stop this time. I’m not too crazy about having sex in the middle of the trail in the woods with my friends a few yards away.

  “We should go back,” I say, looking over my shoulder.

  Taylor nods, taking my hand. Somehow the gesture feels more meaningful now, as if we both realize we are embarking on something different for us. I usually don't do well with different. With all the craziness in my life, I crave familiarity. I like my group of friends, like being pretty certain what we’ll be doing on any given night. I know I can count on Ellie and Hunter, know they’ll never ask more from me than I can afford to give.

  I don’t think I can’t trust Taylor in the same way. He seems like the kind of guy to take much more from me than I want to give. But somehow, as he leads me back through the woods toward the sounds of my friends’ voices, I realize I haven’t thought about home or my mom in more than a half hour, probably a record for me. The ever-present knot of worry in my stomach seems to have disappeared right around the same time Taylor showed up.

  And that should scare me more than anything.

  Chapter Six

  Zoe

  By the following Tuesday, I’m starting to wonder if I might have imagined the intensity of the kiss we’d shared. On Saturday night I would have bet the little cash I had that Taylor was interested in me. But when Sunday passes without a word from him, and Monday, too, I start to wonder. I spend way too much of my class periods thinking about him. What is he doing now? Is he thinking of me?

  It frustrates me to no end. I’m not one of those girls who obsesses over boys to the point of distraction. I have enough real shit to worry about without adding Jet freaking Taylor to the list.

  But he seemed so into me in the woods.

  On Wednesdays I usually meet up with Ellie for lunch in the food court on campus. She’s taking classes through the college to become licensed in hairdressing—or, as she would say, the atheistic arts. She’s a lot farther along than I am, however, having started her program right after we graduated high school. She’ll be finishing up at the end of the summer.

  Ellie takes one look at me and shakes her head. “You look stressed.”

  I plop my backpack down on the table and take a chair across from her. “I haven’t been sleeping much.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Run-of-the-mill Zoe problems or more specific hot-boy problems?”

  “Take your pick.”

  “So he still hasn’t called? I guess he’s just an asshat like all the rest.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Listen, babe. Any guy who causes you this much angst is so not worth it. You’re already the angstiest girl I know—you’re about to OD on it. Let’s go out tomorrow and find you a no- strings-attached, angst-free guy to play tonsil hockey with for a few hours. You’ll be over Jet in no time.”

  I don't tell her that I doubt any guy could come up to par after our scorching lip lock in the woods. Maybe she’s right. I usually base my romantic conquests purely on their potential to be hassle free. I have real life to provide me with drama and worry. I certainly don’t need it from any guy.

  I take a sip of my Diet Coke. “Yeah, I think that’s a good plan.”

  “Great. I’ll round up Hunter and Everett and pick out a bar to hit up.” She’s quiet for a moment while she steals fries off my plate. “Shame, though,” she finally says. “He was super hot. I’m bummed we won’t be finding out what kind of heat he’s packing under those motorcycle-dude clothes of his.”

  I laugh, feeling slightly better. “C’est la vie.”

  My improved outlook lasts about as long as it takes to finish my classes for the day and head home. My mom managed to make it out of bed this morning, but that’s hardly cause for celebration. I find her sitting on the couch in her bathrobe, crying into a cold cup of tea.

  As hard as it is to watch her sleep every day away, watching her cry is even worse. I feel so helpless. When I was younger and she had these episodes—those days she used to call her blue hours—I used to be able to cheer her up by singing to her, or playing games, or sitting on her lap and holding her tightly. But that was a long time ago, long before I realized how bad things could really get. And her brother had been around in those days. Peter could always make her feel better. But thinking about my uncle brings on a familiar rush of rage that I struggle to tamp down so my mom won’t get even more upset.

  The house is in desperate need of cleaning, and no one else is going to do it. While I dust and vacuum and do the dishes, I keep up a steady stream of conversation, trying to draw her out of her crying spell. Instead she cries harder at the evidence that I’m spending my early twenties caring for her instead of out living my life. I get her to eat nearly an entire meal of grilled cheese and canned tomato soup. By the time she goes back to bed, I’m almost relieved, though it’s nowhere near a normal person’s bedtime. It’s exhausting, trying to pretend like we’ll be fine.

  I finish drying our bowls from dinner and put them away in the cupboard before leaning against the counter and gazing around the silent, empty kitchen. My cleaning spree has resulted in spotless floors and counters, but no amount of cleaning can hide the cracked linoleum tiles or the cheap, peeling laminate edges on the countertops. I hate this kitchen. Though our old house hadn’t been anything fancy, the kitchen had, at least, been warm and cheery. My mom and I spent hours at the butcher-block kitchen island, experimenting with our own baked good concoctions with varying degrees of success. When I was a little older, she’d join Grace and me at that same counter after school. She’d fix us a snack and ask us all about our day, gossiping with us about the boys in our class like she was one of the girls.

  There’s no sense in thinking about that. I’m mad that I even went there. That’s all over now.

  I’m starting to get that familiar, tight-skinned anxious feeling that usually comes from too much time in the house. I know if I stick around much longer it will slowly morph into all-out panic. A glance at the clock tells me it’s only eight p.m., not even fully dark out yet. I rack my brain for something to do, some excuse to leave.

  Ellie has a date with some guy she waited on at the Burrito Barn Sunday afternoon, so she’s out. I text Hunter and then remember that he’s working. If it were a weekend I could text any number of people to find out where the most promising parties were. But Wednesday night isn’t prime party time in this town. Sighing, I grab my purse. I have to find something to do, or I’m going to go nuts. Not having a car limits my options considerably, but I don’t care. Anywhere is better than here.

  It’s about a twenty-minute walk to the center of town. There isn’t a lot down there, just a few restaurants and a couple of bars, but it will have to do. I can find a quiet corner in a quiet bar and nurse a few beers until I feel tired enough to go home.

  As I step out onto the sidewalk, the muggy heat of the summer night envelops me. I reach into my bag, grab a hair tie, and pull my hair back off my neck as I walk. At the corner, I wait for two cars to pass before crossing. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the second one, some kind of old muscle car, slow down before stopping entirely. “Keep going, buddy,” I mutter and quicken my pace. Instead, the car backs up to the intersection, where it
turns and heads my way. Great.

  “Hey,” Taylor calls from the window. “That you, Zoe?”

  I squint at the half-rolled-down window in the dimming light. “Taylor?”

  “Yeah. Hang on, this thing is stuck.” He disappears out of view for a moment. Then the window rolls the rest of the way down, and he sticks his head out. He grins at me. “Where ya going? Want a ride?”

  I debate for a moment. I’m still kind of miffed that he hasn’t called after our kiss—which is silly, because he doesn't owe me anything. And getting in that car is only going to drag me further into the ridiculousness of this crush.

  “Come on, Zoe.” He winks and somehow that looks dangerous. “Isn’t it hot out there?”

  It is hot, and really muggy. A ride actually sounds really good. “Okay,” I say. “What the hell.” I climb into the passenger side, sighing a little when the ice-cold air hits my skin.

  “Isn’t that better?” he asks, rolling his window back up and putting the car into gear.

  “Much.”

  We’re silent for a moment, and I wonder if he’s feeling as awkward as I am.

  “So,” he finally says, “where were you heading?”

  I stare out the window. “Nowhere in particular. Just needed to get out.”

  “Do you always walk around alone after dark?”

  I roll my eyes. “It’s hardly dark out.”

  “It would have been by the time you got back.”

  I shift in my seat, uncomfortable. I don't want to tell him that I do, in fact, wander around the neighborhood on my own all the time, regardless of the time of day. It sure beats the alternative.

  He’s quiet for a moment. “Well, it sounds to me like you need a new plan then.”

  “A new plan?”

  He looks away from the road for a moment to smile at me. “Yeah. Wandering the streets alone in this kind of heat seems like a pretty shitty plan to me. You need a new one. You’re lucky you ran into me.”

  “Lucky, huh?” In spite of myself I’m smiling at his teasing tone, at the flash in his eyes. Everything seems to amuse this guy.

  “Damn lucky.”

  ***

  Taylor’s new plan for the night apparently consists of taking me back to his place. When he parks at the curb in front of the dark house, I raise my eyebrows. “So, when you said lucky, you meant as in ‘getting lucky’?”

  He laughs. “I didn’t mean it that way, no. I just want to show you something.” I still look skeptical, and he grabs my hand. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Zoe.”

  I follow him out of the car and up the long driveway. His house isn’t quite as big as Preston’s had been, but it’s close. “You live with your folks?” I ask, surprised. He strikes me as the independent type, and I know he has a steady job. I remember what he’d said in the grocery store, about shopping for his mother.

  “Yeah,” he replies, but doesn’t elaborate. I hope I didn’t embarrass him.

  He pulls a key out of his pocket at the front door but pauses before opening it, turning to me. “We need to be quiet, okay? Just until we get up to my place.”

  I have no idea what he means by “his place,” but I nod. I have quite a lot of experience sneaking through a silent house while those I don’t wish to disturb sleep. He takes my hand again and leads me into the dark entryway.

  Even with just the dim light of the moon outside I can tell that the place is massive and formal. A wide curving staircase spreads out in front of us, and an unlit chandelier hangs high above our heads. I’m pretty sure the floor is marble. “Wow,” I whisper.

  Taylor holds a finger to his lips, reminding me to be careful, then leads me further into the house. As we walk, I try to make out the various rooms in the darkness. I catch sight of a huge living room filled with furniture, a formal dining room with a table for at least twelve, and a smaller room filled with bookcases and a grand piano. Taylor doesn’t turn on any lights or give me a chance to look at anything, instead pulling me along behind him. We come to a stop in what appears to be the kitchen.

  “Stay here,” he whispers, releasing my hand.

  I watch as his dark silhouette walks away, and then a light flares above his head.

  “That’s better,” he says, and turns to smile at me. He isn’t whispering anymore, but his voice is still low.

  He’s standing in front of a double stainless steel sink. The small light he’d flipped on allows me to see that his kitchen is nearly three times the size of ours. Granite countertops stretch along each of the three walls. The cabinets are some kind of dark, rich wood, clearly custom, and everything sparkles with the cleanliness only achieved by the obsessive—or those who can afford to hire a cleaning person.

  “This house is amazing,” I say, shaking my head. “No wonder you still live here.”

  The smile slips from his face, and he turns to a tall cabinet. I wonder if I’ve offended him somehow, but then he’s pulling open the cabinet door and I realize that it’s a fridge.

  “Come here and help me,” he says, as he pulls a loaf of bread and some lunch meat from the door. I walk over to him and take the food he offers. “That should do it,” he says, closing the door with his foot. “I have beer and chips upstairs.”

  “You keep beer in your room?”

  Before he can respond, a light comes on in the hallway. “Jeremy?”

  He freezes, his entire body suddenly tense. His gaze flickers across my face, and I detect something like panic in his eyes. “Stay here,” he whispers, setting his food down on the counter.

  “Jeremy?” the voice calls again, getting closer.

  “Yeah, Mom,” he calls back. He slips past me and into the hallway, leaving me standing alone in the kitchen. I lean against the counter, wondering why he’s so nervous. Does his mom not like him bringing girls here? Or could it be that he’s more worried about her reaction to me, specifically? I don’t exactly match the high-end finish around me. But then again, neither does Taylor.

  I can hear him saying something to her, but his voice is too low for me to make out the words. His mother takes no such precautions. “I don’t know why you think I care,” she says, her voice shrill and slurred. “I stopped caring a long time ago, Jeremy. Right around the time you ruined everything.”

  “Mom,” he says, his voice pleading. “Please don’t do this, not now.”

  “You show up here in the middle of the night and disturb me. I’ve heard nothing from you all day, not that I should be surprised. You’ve always been a selfish little shit. When have you ever cared one bit about anyone but yourself?”

  My mouth drops open. The pure hatred in her voice makes my blood run cold. What kind of mother could talk to her kid like this?

  Yours, a sad voice inside my head reminds me. My mother has certainly had some choice things to say to me in the last few years. But I always know that it’s the illness talking, not her. Taylor’s mom sounds…well, she doesn’t sound anything like a mother.

  “That’s not true,” he says, his voice so soft I can barely make it out. “Please, Mom, just go back upstairs and lie down. You don’t need anything else to drink.”

  I hear the unmistakable sound of a palm hitting flesh, and Taylor’s tiny gasp of pain. I tense, my body coiled tight.

  “This is my house,” she yells. “How dare you tell me what to do? You’re just a worthless, pathetic little brat and you always have been! I’ve known it since you were born. I should never have even had you!”

  She’s screaming, her shrill voice echoing through the silent, dark house. I can hardly believe the cruel words she’s saying to him, to her own son.

  “Please—” he says, his voice filled with anguish.

  “Get away, get away!”

  I can tell she’s sobbing, but her voice comes from farther off now, like she’s heading away from the kitchen. “Don’t you touch me! I hate you! I just want my son, that’s all I want. Not you!”

  Her sobbing echoes through the house, but it’s
definitely fading. Was she going back upstairs? Should I go to him? Before I can decide what to do, Taylor returns to the kitchen. His face is red, his eyes wide and watery. He stares at me, almost defiantly, as if daring me to say something, to judge him. It breaks my heart, that look on his face. The shame and the guilt. The anger and the hurt. It’s almost like looking into a mirror. How many times have I run from my own house with that same look in my eyes? I want to weep for him, to hold him and kiss away the pain. Instead, I set my face in a neutral expression and meet his gaze as I walk slowly to him.

  “I can leave if you want.” Somehow, my voice is steady. “But I’d like to stay, if you’ll let me.”

  He exhales loudly then suddenly pulls me hard against his chest. I can feel his heart pounding through his shirt, and I wrap my arms around him and squeeze back. We stand like that for a long minute. His arms strain around me, his entire body pulled taut like a wire. His hands shake as they grip my shoulders. Is he crying? Finally he pulls away, looking down at me, his eyes dry but wide and scared.

  “Please stay.”

  He sounds so vulnerable, so scared, as if he thinks I might refuse him. As if his wellbeing depends on my answer.

  “Well, duh,” I say, and take his hand to bring him back to the counter. “I was promised sandwiches. And whatever awesome, totally non-sexual thing you were going to show me.”

  A smile ghosts across his face, and he almost looks like himself. “Well, let’s get to it.”

  Chapter Seven

  Taylor

  I can't believe Zoe stayed. When my mother slapped me and stumbled off back to the library, I stood frozen in the hallway for nearly a minute. I was sure by the time I pulled it together enough to go back to the kitchen she’d be gone. But there she is, right where I left her. For a moment she looks horrified, but then something in her face changes. Her eyes meet mine, steady and calm, and then she walks right to me as if she isn’t embarrassed or disgusted by what she heard. She asks if she can stay, and I can hardly believe my ears.