Keeping Never (Never say Never)

by C. M. Stunich

  “Is there anything you want to know?” Ty whispers, dark eyes sliding away from me and over to the dumpster that holds the trash from the kitchen, the living room, and the bathroom. We have a long way to go in cleaning this place, but in a way, I like that. I'm putting elbow grease and time into a treasure that means something to Ty, that has the potential to make him happy, to make me happy. I think about Ty's question for a long while, certain that he's serious about closing the door on this case. If there I anything that I'm wondering about, that I need to understand, I better ask it now. If I don't, and I try to bring it up again, I will wound Ty in ways that even I will be hard pressed to understand. So I think and I think and I think. I think about asking him how many people he slept with, if it felt good, how much money he made, what that girl's name was … that, poor, poor girl. I think about asking him if he was ever raped on the streets, how he managed to stay sane, how he came to the decision to work at the grocery store. There's a lot there that's missing. It's like Ty's given me the outline of his life, and he hasn't written the book yet. I know though that as curious as I might be in the future, as much as I might want to ask for that manuscript, that I won't. There are some things that are not meant to be read, some secrets that are meant to remain buried, forgotten, lost. I let the door slam on Ty's past, and I like that some of it is still a mystery to me. It makes him sexier somehow, more interesting.

  I smile.

  “I have one question,” I ask him and he cringes. I move forward, straddle Ty's lap and wiggle until I feel his body respond to me, pressing hard and insistent against the heat between my thighs.

  “Yeah?” he asks, voice tentative, afraid.

  “What's your preference: girl or boy?”

  31

  Ty doesn't care if our kid is a boy or a girl and neither do I. Gender is irrelevant in the world of love. Love exists pure and perfect without expectations or rules or restrictions. People put them there sometimes, try to map out the path of an energy that is too pure and perfect to restrain. That's how they get themselves into trouble. Neither McCabe nor I will make that mistake. And we certainly won't repeat the mistakes of those around us. We won't emulate my mother's selfish, illusive tendencies or his mother's blind, single-mindedness.

  This is the kind of stuff we talk about while we clean that house. We don't talk about ultrasounds or doctors or midwives or any of that shit. We discuss philosophy and poetry and politics and get deeper and deeper into one another. Elbow deep in muck and discarded kitsch, Ty and I grow closer and closer, open up wide like flowers in the sun and drink in one another's energy. Oh yeah. And we fuck, too. We fuck on the elevator at the hotel, in the stairwell, in the car, in the snow. By the time the week is up, I'm so sore I can barely walk and Ty's baby is cranky as hell, forcing me to drink fruit smoothies by the gallon and sit on a folding chair while he shovels old newspaper and empty tin cans. If I bend over, I puke. Period.

  The downstairs is now mostly clean, and I have even penned my first poem. It isn't very good, but Ty likes it. He sing-songs the lines as he scrubs down walls, floors, counters. He doesn't complain as he does it either, seemingly rather joyous in his discovery that, unlike the horrible Hoarders show we've been watching at night in the hotel (postcoital, mind you), this house has survived. Ancient craftsmanship combined with a shorter duration of the horde and the fact that the upstairs is not full of garbage, merely stuff, makes taking over this place as our future home a real possibility.

  I spend my days laughing and my nights listening to Ty's charcoal voice slither through the empty places in my being, warming them up, melting me, and reshaping me into the woman I want to become. I think we're going to get a happy ending, Ty and me. He's going to become a therapist for troubled teens and me, I'm going to do something reckless and artistic, something that makes no money, but it won't matter because I'll have my tortured bad boy and a baby and a dog. Oh yeah, and that orange tabby cat. It sits on the bottom step and watches us day in and day out. I told Ty not to feed it, so it would go home, but he didn't listen. Later, much later, we found a picture of it in a drawer, so we think it belonged to Ty's mom. He says he's naming it Chuck Norris, but we'll see about that.

  We'll see about a lot of things, Ty and me, but that's okay, we have time. We have forever.

  Epilogue

  Never is too tapped out for this shit, so I'm going to take over. She just had a fucking, baby, okay? My baby. He's wrapped up now in blankets with butterflies, and he's the most beautiful creature I've ever seen – except for her. Except for Never Ross-McCabe, my wife. That's right, I had a JOP come down here stat, and he married us literally hours before our son came into the world. His name is Noah which was my choice, not hers. I can appreciate a man with a passion and as happy as I am to have won, I can't help but realize how much he might have been hurt by losing her. So Never and I have a kid named after her ex. It's kind of fucked, but hey, so are we. We've come a long way, true, but we've got a long way to go which is good because if there was nowhere else to go, life would get pretty boring pretty quick.

  The Regali clan is going to come up and visit, throw us a housewarming party, so I hear. At least, that's what we're telling Never. I've got a lot of other cool shit planned. Remember that dress, that white one that she didn't want to wear? Well, I bought it and I'll be damned if I don't see her in our backyard under an archway of black, fucking roses.

  You want me to give you a happy ever after or some shit? Am I right? Well, I can't do that. I can give you a happy for now because that's all there really is to life. We have to live in the moment and make the best decisions that we know how. What I can do is promise you that I will love that woman forever, that I'd rather die than do something stupid that could hurt her. I can tell you that she changed my life, and I think, somehow, I changed hers. We're good for each other, Never and me. Just two tortured souls tangled together for life. Just two, tortured fucking souls in love.

  THE END

  or

  is it?

  Want to know what happens to Noah and Zella? How about India? Did you guys get enough Ty and Never? Send an email to author@cmstunich.com with your requests and we'll see where the wind takes us. After all, it's about living in the moment. You talk; I'll listen. And readers, one last note:

  I heart the fuck out of you.

  If you enjoyed this book, look for

  Paint Me Beautiful:

  A Tale of Anorexia, a Love Story, and the Rebirth of Claire Simone

  Coming March 2013!

  Excerpt Included!

  Chapter One

  All journeys have to start somewhere.

  In my experience, they usually begin where you least expect them, peeping out from behind corners and under rugs. They grab you by the ankle and take you to places you'd never thought you'd go, and they don't care if you're already heading somewhere, if you've already mapped out your future. When fate takes control, you can either ride with it or fight against it. I chose to fight, but we'll talk about that later. For now, let's talk about Emmett Sinclair.

  He's tall, almost as tall as me when I'm wearing my best heels. He has these eyes that can pierce your soul if you let them, like he's just in tune with the universe and everything in it. Maybe that's how he spotted me, chose me, made me the center of his world? I guess I'll never know because the day he first notices me, I barely even see him.

  I'm standing in line with a group of pretty girls. They've all got perfect hair and perfect teeth and smooth skin, like cream or cocoa or bronze. I'm comparing myself to every single one of them, starting with the blonde in front and working my way back. I am so out of my league, I think as I examine the redhead two ahead of me in line. She's at least ten pounds thinner than I am and she has this lanky-pretty quality that I've seen in a lot of magazines lately, like she was born skinny, not made skinny.

  I adjust the straps of my tank top and I hope I look appropriate. My blonde hair is slicked back into a ponytail and I've got on a pair of size two
jeans. I wish they were smaller. In fact, I'm utterly convinced that I'm going to be passed over because I'm too fat. I made the journey out here anyway. It was either that or sit at home and make peanut butter cookies with my mom, defend myself for not wanting to taste something made with two sticks of butter. I shift back and forth as a murmur passes down the line of girls.

  “No thank you,” they're all saying. I turn around and find a boy. It's Emmett Sinclair, but I don't know that yet, not until he gets to me with a red tray in his hand a black beanie on his head. Tufts of chestnut hair stick out in random places, just enough that it gives him this messy-cute look. Any longer and he'd look scruffy, but he's clean shaven and his shirt is crisp and clean. He's also wearing a red apron with a Super Smoothie logo on it.

  “Good afternoon,” he says, and the words come out of my mouth automatically.

  “No thank you.” I can't drink one of those cups, not when I'm seconds away from finding out if my destiny is in reach, if I'll be one of those girls that you hear about, the ones that get discovered in a mall. They start in modeling and work their way up to TV, film, music. A triple threat they used to call them – dance, act, sing – but the stakes are even higher now. To be that girl, the one that they all look at, that they all want to be, you have to be beautiful, more beautiful than they are because it's the only way you'll stand out.

  “Are you sure?” he asks, and in his voice, I can see that he's trying to flirt with me.

  He's cute, so I say, “Catch me after this? My stomach's in knots, and I can't think straight.” I don't have time for cute, but there it is.

  “Emmett Sinclair,” he says, and he doesn't move away. I smile nice and tight, but I can't stop looking at the girls that are walking down the faux runway they've set up in the middle of the food court with butcher paper. It's been taped to the linoleum floor nice and tight, but it's not enough to keep the stilettos from tearing it here and there as the girls stomp their way down to the end, pose, and turn. “Your turn,” the boy continues and although I'm barely listening to him, I respond.

  “Claire,” I say. “Claire Simone.” Emmett chuckles and tugs down the front of his beanie. He's totally feeling me now, but I barely see him. I see long legs and skinny bodies and desperation that mirrors my own. God, they want this so bad. Almost as much as I want it. Almost. Nobody wants this like I do. I want to be seen; I want to be beautiful. I want to be that girl that other girls look at and wish they were. Why? I don't know. I'm not a ward of the state or a victim of abuse or anything like that. I'm a girl with two loving parents and a big sister who's sweet, if a bit pushy. Something inside of me just wants to be seen, and there's nothing wrong with that, is there?

  “Sinclair and Simone,” Emmett says, and I turn my face slightly to look at him. My stomach is twisting and clenching, giving me the world's worst cramps. I fight them back and try to ignore Emmett as he balances his tray from one hand to the other. “Sounds tragic, don't you think?”

  “Mm hmm,” I say, but I'm no trying to be rude. I'm not trying to be anything. I just want to get through this with a nod or a smile from the panel of men and women that sit behind that long table and stare. I want one, just one, of them to come up to me and say, Wow, Claire, you are it. You are the next big thing. I don't think I can handle anymore rejection. This is my fifth casting this week, and if I don't sign with an agency soon, my mother is going to really set in on me about choosing a different career path.

  The line scoots forward and Emmett follows. His samples are melting, but I don't think he cares. This guy is really into me, I think, but I can't be happy about that because it's almost my turn to walk. My runway walk is not my best attribute. I take great pictures though. At least, I've been told that before. I'm both commercial and high fashion say the agencies who never sign me. I sigh and shift my portfolio from one arm to the other.

  “Is this for America's Next Top Model?” he asks, and I don't sigh or roll my eyes like the girl in front of me does. I smile softly and shake my head.

  “Not quite, no,” I say, and Emmett nods. His brown eyes are curious though, but he can tell I'm way too deep into this right now to flirt with him, so he takes a step back.

  “Good luck, Claire,” he tells me and moves over to a table to sit down. I wonder what his boss at the Super Smoothie thinks about that, but I can't really focus on him right now. I need to keep myself focused. Think tall, think pretty, think perfect. I swallow hard and close my eyes for a second to get control over myself.

  “Next.”

  That one word, so simple, draws me forward with the skinny redhead and the girl between us, the one that I think is pretty, but is too short. Agencies don't like short. They don't like fat either, so I make a point to suck in my stomach as I approach the butcher paper and step onto it, unconsciously memorizing the rips and tears, so I don't have to look down while I'm walking. That's the sign of a real, true supermodel.

  I lay my portfolio down slowly, purposely letting the other girls set theirs down first. These people have been staring at pretty pictures all day, and they don't have the time nor the patience to sit and examine each one. If they're only going to glance at one of our portfolios, I want it to be mine. I feel bad for the other two girls, but I've had worse done to me, so I decide this is just karma. The redhead looks familiar to me anyhow, and I wouldn't be surprised if she'd sabotaged me before.

  “Set up at the end of the runway, please. Hold your pose and turn back. When you're finished, please come back up and grab your portfolios. We'll call you.” The woman who's speaking sounds bored and looks it, too. Her eyes take us all in, judge us in a split second. She doesn't need to see us walk; she already knows, and I can tell she doesn't like me. It's because I'm so fat. That's why. I feel so guilty over the food I ate last night that I makes me sick. I had cheese. I shouldn't have had cheese.

  I march to the end of the runway and spin, letting my hair flow out behind me. I have nice hair; I've always had nice hair. Unfortunately, with extensions and weaves and all that, it doesn't really matter. Hair is fixable. Fat is not – not on a runway. I try to tell myself that I look good, that I look professional. I've got on new skinny jeans, new shoes, just a bit of light foundation. I look polished.

  It's not enough.

  The woman at the end of the panel motions for us to move forward, and we do, in perfect unison I might add. At first, the short girl keeps up with us, but soon, our long legs move the redhead and I past her. I make sure to swing my arms a bit, but not too much. I don't want to look like an ape. My strides are long and graceful and my eyes are focused on a man with a goatee who I think might be straight. You never know in this industry, but it's worth a try. I could never do anything like sleep my way to the top, but if it's just a bit of eye contact, that's okay.

  I pause, put one hand on my hip and tilt my chest side to side, popping my shoulder forward and my ass back, just enough so that I look shapely, but not too shapely. I've been practicing this walk for ages, and I hope to hell it's paid off. It may not be my best skill, but if it's good enough and my pictures are good enough, maybe they'll take me on.

  I turn and out of the corner of my eye, I see Emmett clapping. He's the only one doing it, and it's a little weird, but it makes me smile. Good thing the agency reps can't see my face now. I hit the end of the runway and pose again. I'm staring at a faux wall that's been constructed to give a slight bit of privacy to us in this busy commercial hub. There are people leaning over the railings from above and gaping from either side of the runway, but that's okay. That's what we're here for: to be looked at.

  I turn around again, still a model, still perfection in heels, and walk right back towards that panel like I'm stomping for Alexander McQueen or something. The other girls are not following suite, so I know that I am standing out, for better or worse. When I hit the table, I don't pose, just reach out and grab my portfolio. It hasn't been touched. That much is obvious.

  “Thank you,” I mumble along with the other girls
. Nobody stops me as I walk away. Right off the bat, I begin to analyze my performance. Did I walk too fast? Too slow? Did I swing my arms enough?

  “You were really great,” Emmett says as I pause next to him. Honestly, I had forgotten his existence. I feel a gentle flush warm my cheeks and try to give him a genuine smile.

  “Thanks,” I say as I reach up and let my hair tumble down around my shoulders. I fluff it with my fingers and shake my head a bit. Emmett's brown eyes follow my motions, drink me in like I am the cat's meow. I like that, so my smile gets bigger all on its own. My sister thinks I'm narcissistic, but that isn't it at all. I'm just focused on my dreams and those dreams depend on my appearance, so I pay attention to it. That's all it is. My stomach growls a bit, and I lay my arm across it to keep it quiet.

  “Want to grab something to eat?” Emmett asks, and I want to say yes, but I can't. I ate a lot this morning anyway, and my stomach is just riled up from all of the anxiety.