“I heart the fuck out of you, you know,” he says, and I laugh. Ty bends down, grabs my hair roughly, and pulls my mouth against his, burns my words from my throat with his tongue, gives me goosebumps on my neck when he slides his fingers down my skin. Lacey can't stop texting me about pregnant women and how horny some of them are which she thinks is, like, super cool, and as annoying as that is, I have to admit, I want nothing more than to push Ty into the back seat and ride him until the sun goes down, comes up and leaves again.
I groan as he pulls away, leaving me warm and wanting, desperate for his touch, his taste.
“Tease,” I joke, cheeks flushed, embarrassed at having just kissed a dude after vomiting. How sexy is that? Ty grins, big and wide, but without dimples. I'm starting to miss those fuckers.
“I have to do what I can to keep you around, Never,” he says as he moves over to the opposite side of the car. When he climbs in, I tell him the truth.
“You've got me as long as you need me.”
15
Thanks for being so patient with me. I know you need to know; I know you gave me everything you had, and I know it's time, but please, wait just a little longer. I have to break this down piece by piece or else this story will break me, tear me up, and toss my remains to the sea. And fuck, Nev, I have just found my reason to live. I have tasted you, and your essence is so much a part of me that if you leave, I will find you, and I will do whatever it takes to keep you. I'm not trying to sound like some creepy fuck, some stalker, or what the fuck ever, but I just know that you and I are meant to be together, alright?
So my mom marries this big, fat, friggin' douche bag who smells like rot, whose smile is like a mouthful of moldy cheese. She marries him because he says he loves her, simple as that. It doesn't matter that it's a lie. My mom might as well be living blind because she no longer sees anything she doesn't feel like seeing – and that includes me.
I watch from the shadows, watch her tie us up in a man who does not understand what it's like to be a part of a family. All he sees is a woman who has inherited some money from her mother, who has a house, and a boy.
Me.
I was just a fucking kid, but he looked at me like he could eat me up, swallow me whole, and make me disappear.
This guy who I refuse to fucking name because he's not worth the monicker, moves into the house my grandma left my mother. Did I ever mention that she wore rings? She picked a different one every day and always had a jewelry box organized by color. She had long fucking fingers, witch fingers I used to call them, but only as a joke. I loved that old broad to pieces.
Right, so mom marries this guy and he moves in, and I know right away that he isn't right. Still, he spends years working up the courage to do what I know he wants to do with me. Every night I prepare myself and I wait for him to come, ready to defend myself.
Until Casey comes.
Casey is my cousin, okay? He's this little, blonde haired, blue eyed dude that looks like Noah probably looked as a brat. Him and me, we looked like angel and devil together. We had fun, too. Serious fun. The kind of fun that only kids can have.
Well, Casey came to live with us because my aunt had passed away and her husband was missing. I won't go into that. There's a whole story that you don't want to know, a twisted tapestry of deceit, a general fucked-uppedness that will make your head spin. Bad luck sort of follows my family, you know?
Casey comes to live with us and right away, that fat, fucking douche bag is attracted to him. I don't know what happened, Never, but I do know that the day he died, he was a broken kid. I tried to help, really, I did, but I was so young. I …
My mom ran him over with her SUV. She didn't mean to, okay, but she did it because she didn't see what she didn't feel like seeing. That meant Casey and me. That meant the horrible things her husband was doing or wanted to do or whatever. I think on that day, Douche Bag was going to move to the next step. I think Casey ran. I think he was trying to get into the SUV, to stop my mom from leaving us alone with that fucking piece of shit.
That's what I think, but it doesn't really matter because the last thing I noticed about Casey was how sad his eyes were. He died a broken boy, and I was damned if I would be next.
16
Ty and I arrive at the hospital a few hours later, sliding into an empty parking space near the front entrance. Since he finished his story, McCabe hasn't said a word, not one single word. I wrapped my hand around his and held it tight, gazed over at his face and memorized the strong lines of his profile. Ty has nice lips, full and curved, sharp, and at the moment, tense and pursed. They tell stories, those lips, up and down my back, along the inside of my thigh, across the hot heat between my legs. His eyes remain wide and open, focused on the road, watery and far away, unsure. Normally, they're like windows to Ty's dark tortured soul, the one's that hot enough to scald, but that he never lets hurt me. And then there's his nose, straight and strong, solid, like his chin. That's not to say that Ty is overly masculine, but there's a straight edged cut to his features that makes him look tough, badass even.
I took all of this information in and held onto tight, desperate to keep as much of Ty's good side within me as I could because I had – have – a horrible feeling about what's to come. That sense is cemented when we climb out the doors and stand in the parking lot looking up at the tall, white building with the gray trim and the bright, red sign. It doesn't look cheerful, not in the least. See, I like old houses, Victorians and Craftsmen and whatnot because the way they were built makes them look like they're smiling. It's hard to explain, but the placement of the windows and the door and the accoutrement that accompanied houses in those days is just fucking cheerful as hell. This hospital, this bit of construction that can't rightfully be called old also can't be labeled as new. It sits somewhere between vintage and modern, this horrible piece of bad taste and a testament to the fact that not all architects are good designers.
Ty slips a cigarette into his mouth and does not offer me one, lights up with his purple lighter and sticks his blank hand into his pocket. His ringed beauty, which today is decorated with rhinestone speckled bracelets, sings in the clear air, clicking and ringing across the quiet parking lot which is dark with moisture and the threat of more rain. Very few people pull in nearby, very few enter that sad building, but those that do have gifts and smiles and woolen coats with fur trim.
Poor Ty, I think as I watch him, as I wish I'd gotten him something impressive for Christmas, something that would take his world and turn it upside down like he did for me. Like a cat. I should've gotten him a cat then we really would've been the perfect family. Can't be complete without a cat. Instead, poor fucking Ty gets to visit his dying mother on Christmas, the one he hates, the one he blames for not being brave enough, for not seeing, for not caring.
Ty lifts his hand and grabs his cig with two fingers, lifts it away and closes his eyes as he exhales. Gray, gray smoke twirls in the air like a dancer, twists and turns, spins and rises to join the wet water clouds that hang above us threateningly. In. Out. In. Out. Ty takes his time and lets the gentle breeze ruffle his dark hair, kiss his cheeks, and move away, pulling a bit of his energy into the universe.
I don't rush him, and I don't speak. I stand very still and listen and watch; I push back my nausea and try to let this peaceful moment find a permanent home in my memory, a bit of something to look back on when I'm stressed. The calm before the storm. I adjust my black skirt, my green tee with the red Christmas tree and I used to wear half the year when I was in high school. I scoop my hair up into a ponytail and use a hair tie from my little, silver purse, the one that has no money but plenty of useless crap. I want to look good for Ty's mom, even if she is sick, even if he does hate her, I want to make sure that any memories of me with her son are good ones. Of me and her grandkid. I frown and touch a hand to my belly. When I look up, Ty is staring at me. He spins his lip ring around once and then sighs. It's not a sad sigh, though. Instead, he takes all of his pent u
p energy and pushes it out, lets the wind take that, too, and stands straight, broad shoulders back, chest out. Confident. My Ty looks confident.
“How about we go out to dinner after this?” he asks me as he easily closes the space between us, takes me in his arms, and tucks my head under his chin. “I think … I think I'll feel better then, you know? I just have to see her one more time, just one more fucking time, and I'm done with all of this shit. Then we can play merry fucking Christmas together and Skype your sisters up some wicked awesome New York cuisine.”
“You have no idea how good that sounds,” I tell Ty as I step back and take his hand. He leads the way across the parking lot with a peppier step, with determination that his past ends here and now and that, after he tells me everything, he'll be cleansed, fresh and ready to start anew. With me.
I can't wait.
17
Ty's mom is dead.
I'm sorry, says the stone faced doctor who doesn't really care. But she went last night. We did everything we could.
Ty now sits on a bench in the hallway with his face blank and empty, drained of that essential Ty-ness that makes him so fucking special. He sits there with his eyes wide and his shoulders hunched, his knees shaking just enough that I can see his nervousness but nobody else can.
“I – ” I start to speak and Ty jumps like I've frightened him somehow. When he looks up at me, his gaze is unfocused and far away. “Why don't we get out of here?” I say, trying to smile. After all, most of Ty's pain has not come from his sadness. Melancholy like that is hard to cure, I know, but this disappointment, this fear, that he has can be erased if only he just lets it go. He didn't think he could move on until he saw his mother, but that just isn't true. He has the strength inside of him to move forward, and now, thanks to him, I have the strength inside of me to do the same. I don't sit down next to him or rub his back or anything like that. I can't nurture the state of mind that he's in. I have to do everything in my power to break him out of it. After all, life isn't always perfect. Sometimes it's bumpy and full of potholes, but if you drive carefully, you'll still make it to your destination. I have to impart this wisdom that I have somehow obtained.
I stare at Ty for awhile longer, missing him something fierce. Ever since he got that phone call, something has just been off … I miss him and he's right in front of me. Not good.
“Let's go to dinner and we can talk about it.”
“I don't want to fucking talk about it,” he says and pulls out a cigarette, ignoring the myriad No Smoking signs in his usual fashion. As soon as someone sees him, they're going to kick us the fuck out.
“Okay,” I say as I watch him inhale. I can respect that. “Let's go find a restaurant crazy enough to be open on Christmas day and just let this all go.” I pause. Here, now, it's time for me to speak up. “That important thing I wanted to tell you, I think it's time. Well, after we each have a glass of wine.” I try to smile, but Ty keeps his frown.
“The only money I have for dinner is fuck money,” he says which makes me step back. His voice is pitched at a normal tone, but there's something essential missing from his words. It takes me a second to realize that it's heart. Ty is absolutely, one hundred percent not speaking from the heart; Ty always speaks from the heart. Snap him out of this, Never. This is dangerous territory. You have both been there, done that. Get him out of it.
“I don't care,” I say, and this time, I really, really mean that. Ty's past is over and done with, end of sentence. There's a bit of silence where all I can hear is the buzzing of the florescent lights above our heads.
“Sure you don't,” Ty says as he stands up and flicks his cigarette to the pristine, linoleum floor. I look at it and then at him, but he doesn't acknowledge his strange behavior or his harsh words. “Let's get the fuck out of here,” he tosses over his shoulder as he moves away, leaving me standing there with a sick feeling in my belly. Maybe it's Ty's baby or maybe it's just me, I don't fucking know, but I don't follow after him. I might love him, and I might understand his pain, and fuck yes, he is my soul mate, but that does not give him an excuse to take his shit out on me.
Ty notices that I'm not following him when he gets to the end of the hallway and turns around, staring at me like he can't believe how hard I'm making this for him. I close my eyes slowly and think of the tractor, the way he changed Jade in a single afternoon; I think of Ty playing dress up with my little sisters and of the dog that he got me even though it was a stupid thing to do. I fucking love this man, no matter what he says or does, and I just have to remember that. I open my eyes again, letting happy memories play in them.
“Come pick up your cigarette,” I tell him as I point down at the still burning cherry on the floor. It's Christmas day, so the staff at the hospital is minimal, and nobody has found us yet, but they will and I don't want them to see proof of Ty's disregard for their admittedly practical rule. There are plenty of reasons not to smoke in a hospital. Ty looks at me for a long, long while and then he turns on his heel and walks away.
Ty walks away from me, and I pick up his cigarette for him, put it out on the edge of a metal garbage can and toss it inside. Deep within me, old pain stirs and the stitches that Ty and my family have put in place begin to come loose. I touch my chip earring for comfort and pray to the souls of those that have come before me that I will make it out of this alive.
18
I have no idea where Ty is taking us, but he seems to know where he's going, and there is no way in fuck that I am going to ask. I was so pissed off at him that when I got outside, I dug through my purse until I found a cig, light it and smoked half of it before I realized that the only people I was hurting were my baby and me. I threw it to the cement and stomped on it, and climbed into the car where Ty was waiting, hands wrapped around the wheel. He smelled the cigarette smoke right away and gave me a very challenging glare that I ignored. Hell, he isn't even willing to admit that I'm pregnant, so what gives him the right to preach to me about it? He can talk about prenatal vitamins and ultrasounds when he actually acknowledges that I am carrying his child. Until then, well, until then, he can fuck off.
We turn off a four lane thruway that is understandably bereft of vehicles. After all, it's Christmas day and the sky is growing darker while the storm brews fiercer and the air holds a charge that convinces folks that it is in their best interest to stay indoors. Ty guides us down small side streets that grow greener by the block, filled with historic houses whose charm makes me smile as they slide past. Of course, then I hear Ty's bracelets jingle and I frown. I am royally pissed at him, but I am trying to be understanding. Remaining quiet seems like the best option right now. After awhile, I get tired of looking at houses and lay my forehead against the glass. Cooking Ty's offspring is a lot of work.
When I open my eyes again, the car is parked and the night sky is winking down at me, flashing stars sparkle like diamonds in the few spaces where the rainclouds have not taken over. Ty is nowhere to be seen, but there's a blanket on my lap, so I have hope of what I'll find when I climb out of the car. Ty has parked us at the top of a gravel driveway that comes off a garage that frames the yellow and white house that towers above me. It's awfully cold, so I wrap my arms around myself and take the blanket with me, unsure of where we are or why we're here. I already have the directions to our hotel programmed into the GPS on my phone. This place, wherever it is, is too quiet to be anywhere near NYC.
I move across the green grass, wet with dew, and shiver as the cold blades kiss my calves and make me wish I'd worn boots like Ty's. The front door is open, but the inside of the house is dark, making me a bit nervous as I approach the wrap around porch with the white columns.
“Ty?” I ask as I take the first step up and notice that while the house is beautiful from afar, up close it's a bit run down. The paint on the porch steps is chipped and peeling and the columns have definitely seen better days. If not mistaken, there's even one that looks like it might be leaning, if that's even possible. O
ne of the big, beautiful windows in the front is cracked and covered with duct tape. Behind the glass hands a wrinkled sheet instead of curtains or blinds. From experience, I know that's a bad sign. Anyone who hangs sheets or blankets in their windows has questionable taste, especially when their front yard is as well manicured as this one. Somebody was hiding something here.
I hear breaking glass come from inside the house and pick up my pace, pausing as I hit the threshold and a horrible stench overwhelms me. It's a horrible potpourri of urine, garbage, and feces, and it forces me away and over to the pretty row of well trimmed hedges that hide the rotting wood of the porch railing.
Keeping Never (Never say Never) Page 7