I Like You Like This

by Heather Cumiskey

  There was no time. Her heart thumped so fast in her chest it made her ears ring. She knew that she had to get out of the house, run to a neighbor’s or something. Where’s the stupid phone? Didn’t I bring it to my room? She willed herself to her feet, still holding onto her bed. Her ribs and left hip ached like she’d been slammed into the side of a car. Blood was swirled across her bedroom floor, ending in a wet spot near one corner that seemed to be more puke. God, my pillow looks like a massacre, she thought briefly—but then she refocused on her escape and whether or not she could muster the strength to climb through the window.

  “There’s nothing to eat here by the way,” a voice called out.

  Hannah stopped. It can’t be. After a moment her shoulders relaxed, and she slowly made her way to her bedroom door. As she opened it, she caught the sound of magazine pages being flipped. He’s in the living room. Not trusting her balance, she leaned on the walls as she made her way down the short hallway. She hesitated in front of the kitchen, which stood empty but utterly trashed. Broken pieces of glass were scattered everywhere; the shattered sliding door hung off its track, and a cold breeze riffled through the room.

  She felt woozy as she turned the corner. Upon entering the living room she stopped again, blinking several times at the incredible sight of her drug dealer sitting in her dad’s favorite recliner and reading, of all things, Time magazine.

  Without looking up from his article, Deacon addressed her like they were old friends, “How ya feeling, there?” He peered over his magazine then shook his head with a smirk. “Yep, you look bad.”

  “Thanks,” Hannah said, her voice sounding like gravel. She quickly cleared it. “Thanks a lot. Why are you in my house?”

  “Well that’s quite an interesting story,” he said playfully.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Have a seat,” he said, motioning to the mustard-colored loveseat under the windows across from him. Cautiously, Hannah moved over to the seat, employing slow and deliberate movements. She felt like she was walking in a dream—a really bad one. When she sat, she practically fell into its corduroy cushions, but quickly straightened up to face Deacon. Self-conscious, she crossed her arms, holding her shoulders like a shield.

  “I came by to check on you,” Deacon said. “When I saw you lying in the basement, you looked like you were in trouble. But instead of opening the door, you shut the lights off and I didn’t know where you went. Same deal in the kitchen. What’s that ’bout, couldn’t you tell it was me?”

  “No,” she said, irritated. They looked at one another for a few seconds. “I don’t really know you. Why would I think it was you outside? Why did you even come check on me?”

  “Just thought . . .” He looked away from her then, his expression darkening.

  Hannah stared at the carpet, confused about what to do next. Finally, she said, “Y-you have to go.” Her voice cracked, her eyes still avoiding his. “I-I have to . . .” She swallowed back the tears that threatened to come as she leaned forward, jamming her nails into her upper arms. Suddenly, her anxiety over the state of the house superseded how broken and ill she felt, and her brain splintered into hysterics. “My parents . . . they’re gonna be home soon, oh my god, what time is it? I have to get cleaned up . . . there’s all this blood . . . in my room . . . pink throw-up . . . THE KITCHEN! They’re going to kill me. What am I going to tell them? I need to make up something about the glass door—but what, WHAT? They’ll never believe me. The house, they just care about the house . . . I’m dead, definitely dead . . . You have to go . . . NOW.”

  Hannah pushed herself up off the couch, turning from him so he couldn’t see her crumbling.

  “Hey,” he said softly. “It’s going to be okay. That’s why I stayed. To make sure you came out of it. I’ll help you clean up. When are your parents back in town?”

  That stopped her. “How do you know my parents are away?”

  “Well, they’re not here now, and they weren’t yesterday.”

  “Have you been here all weekend?”

  He smiled. “I saw Gillian yesterday when I was driving down your block . . . I’d gone home for a bit and was coming back to check on you. She said you and your family were out of town this weekend. I knew you weren’t, so I figured just your parents were.”

  That two-faced bitch, she thought. Gillian didn’t give a flying flip what happened to her, telling Deacon she wasn’t home when she knew she was. First she and the other girls stand her up Friday night, then she tries to keep Deacon away from her? Hannah steamed inside. Her anger revived her a bit. Maybe she was feeling better.

  “Here, let me help you,” Deacon said softly, tentatively putting his arm around her shoulders and helping her walk down the hall to the bathroom. “Take a shower, you’ll feel better . . . but first, show me where your mom keeps the broom.”

  His warm, brotherly way instantly made Hannah feel grateful he was here. Maybe he was a nice guy. Just maybe.

  Hannah felt a bit more human after showering, but still weak. She knew she should eat something, but her queasy stomach shut down that thought as quickly as it came. She dried off with one of her mother’s large, stiff towels, then used the damp cloth to wipe the steam off the mirror. Her face looked beaten; dried blood was still caked in her nostrils, and her nose was red and definitely swollen. She was afraid to touch it. Did I break it? she wondered. She scanned her body, turning around in the mirror and looking under and behind her limbs. The skin on her left hip had bloomed a shade of purple, and her ribs hurt when she breathed and moved a certain way. This can’t be happening, she thought.

  She could hear Deacon dragging chairs around in the kitchen, then the rustling of the large lawn bag she’d given him. Now he was moving the kitchen table.

  She quickly dressed in sweats and went to help him. He had already cleaned up a good part of the mess. The linoleum floor just needed some mopping to remove the evidence of blood and some other type of gunk that was smeared across it.

  The shattered sliding glass door posed the bigger problem. Together, they taped a few large garbage bags around the doorway to alleviate some of the chill. It was something Hannah thought her dad would do.

  The idea of them coming home renewed her anxiety. She checked the wall clock: 11:00 a.m. Okay, she still had a few hours, but she needed to work fast, especially on her story, just in case Gamma Mimi sent them home early complaining about one of her convenient headaches.

  Her grandmother and her mom didn’t get along, and they barely spoke outside of these semi-annual visits. A headache excuse from either one of them usually signaled her family’s impending exit, often to Hannah’s relief. She didn’t like the woman very much; Gamma Mimi was bitter and caustic, and showed her little affection. Mostly, Hannah stayed hidden behind her hair during visits there, avoiding her grandmother’s judgmental gaze on her acne-ridden face, which was inevitably followed by a disapproving cluck of the tongue. Hannah could only imagine what she had done to her dad growing up.

  The kitchen looked nearly back to normal when Hannah finally got up the nerve to ask him. “So how long have you been here?”

  Deacon shrugged and continued sweeping. “Friday night, just a couple of hours. I went home in between to make an appearance. My parental units hit some fundraiser Friday night and slept in most of Saturday. Probably hung over. Next night . . . some charity benefit, same deal, different day,” he said without meeting her eyes.

  That’s right, Hannah thought. Deacon’s dad was some type of politician, running for office again—lieutenant governor or something. She’d seen his campaign banners around town. Tall and distinguished, Kingsley Giroux was a very handsome man. It was probably where Deacon got his dreamy good looks. His mom was an old society beauty too, in a regal, arm-candy kind of way. The town revered the Giroux family to some extent; they were local celebrities. Many were jealous, of course. They lived in a huge English Tudor in the nice part of town. Not much was said about their kids, though. Hannah ha
d never crossed paths with Deacon before this week, except from afar at school. She thought he might have an older brother somewhere.

  Hannah searched his face when he spoke about his family, detecting a touch of sadness in his voice, but like a light switch, Deacon changed his demeanor and smiled brightly— a candy cane smile, Hannah thought—before continuing his account. The moment strangely disarmed her, and something swirled around in her chest.

  “I heard you fall inside, so I broke the sliding door. Looks like you smashed your schnoz pretty well, missy. Found you in the bathroom, just lying there not moving. I didn’t know what to do. It was kind of creepy. But I could tell you weren’t dead, which was a relief.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  He shook his head, ignoring her sarcasm and glanced up at the kitchen clock for confirmation. “Could tell you were still breathing. So I carried you to your room and got some water. You slept for a long time. I went home to eat. Got nothing in this house, girl.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Seriously, your parents left you to fend for yourself and didn’t even leave anything in the fridge for you. Pretty bogus.”

  “Yeah, I’m so sure.”

  He looked at her and laughed. “You’re pretty calm now after everything—”

  “So what happened to me?”

  Deacon met her eyes and took a deep breath. He closed them for a moment, exhaling before he spoke. “I didn’t know what was up when I first got here. You just kept crying, really bugging out, screaming for your mom, your dad, to stop. It was like someone was hurting you, like badly. Geez, I’ve never seen someone get so fucked up.” He paused and looked down at the broom he was leaning on. “You’d wake up for a bit and seem okay, but you were in a daze, just staring. I couldn’t tell what you were looking at. And eventually you’d pass out again.”

  Hannah sensed Deacon studying her face. She looked away and could feel her face heating up. She hugged her arms, running her hands inside her sleeves, looking for small bumps on the back of her arms ready for picking and scratching, something to soothe her . . . but then she stopped, realizing he was still watching her.

  “Bet you’re pretty bruised up,” he said—then, chuckling, he went on, “Dude, you pulled the kitchen phone out of the wall and just screamed into it. Dragging the cord all over the floor, crawling around with it, just weird. I kept yelling to you. That’s when you ran somewhere and then boom, it sounded like you ran into the wall full speed or something. I broke the door to get inside and found you in the bathroom, blood everywhere . . . I almost blew chow myself.”

  “Oh my god,” Hannah said. She began to remember bits and pieces of Friday night, but couldn’t be sure what was real or imagined. Deacon’s play-by-play was making her feel worse, like somehow she had failed at taking drugs for the first time. And he was the reason for what happened to her, with his “totally clutch” upsell, when all she had wanted to buy was some weed. The condescending smirk on his lips made her feel stupid and small.

  “You f-ing son of a bitch!” she screamed and attempted to punch him in the face. Her fist just caught the edge of his jaw.

  “Hey, bite me, Zandana! I was the one who took care of you. Cleaned up your mess in the bathroom, carried you to bed. Forget you!” he said, holding his cheek and stepping back. He glared at her, his brows furrowing like before.

  “Go screw yourself; I could have died. What did you give me, anyway?” Hannah yelled.

  “Just what you asked for. You came to me, remember?”

  “You made it sound so chill. It was supposed to be your ‘choice, trippy kind of stuff’—remember that, Deacon?—oh, and your ‘zero aftereffect’ bull? I could have died. Shoot, I think I had a seizure, bit my tongue and everything!”

  “You didn’t have a seizure. I was there remember?” he said, regaining his composure. He turned his back on her and reached for his coat.

  “What did you give me, Deacon?”

  “LSD, princess. What did you think?”

  “I . . . I took LSD?” Hannah asked incredulously. She had never done something so reckless. And for what, to be cool in front of those girls who never even liked her? Thinking of them made her boil inside; it had been her idea to approach Deacon. And she’d done it just to impress them. Stupid. Stupid. She grabbed Deacon’s arm.

  “Hey, I’m sorry . . . it was just so frightening. It was the scariest, ugliest thing I’ve ever experienced. Like a gruesome, never-ending nightmare . . . Twilight Zone meets Children of the Corn . . . I can’t get it out of my head. It really messed me up. I’m never doing drugs again. God, I swear. Never again.”

  CHAPTER 9

  LOOKING DOWN INTO HER EYES NOW, THOSE STRANGE, captivating pools of emerald, for a moment Deacon forgot to breathe. Something inside of him shifted as he tried to swallow the acerbic taste in his mouth that had first appeared when he saw her on her basement floor and knew it was because of him. He never meant to deal her something she couldn’t handle. He felt like a creep. He wanted her to be okay, and he wanted to stop feeling the guilt that had been gnawing at him since Friday night, when he thought she’d never wake up. He pushed away the thought and tried to make her, and especially himself, forget.

  “Congratulations, you are now an honorary member of First Lady Nancy Reagan’s ‘Just Say No to Drugs Campaign!’” he teased in his best politician voice. Hannah laughed, and he liked the sound of it. Then, out of nowhere, she hugged him. Deacon’s hands remained at his sides. He let himself inhale the sweet smell of her shampooed hair; the moist curls tickled his chin. Her body felt soft and warm against his, and oddly comfortable.

  Cautiously, his hands made their way to her shoulders. I should pull away, he told himself, but he left them there a little longer. Half-heartedly, he patted her arms like he’d seen his father do when the cameras were around, signaling that the photo op was over. But Hannah held on. And he couldn’t help it, she felt good. His hands found her upper back. His arms circled her body, pulling her closer. In that moment, he saw his father again, this time from long ago, embracing another woman—who was not his mother.

  Deacon was playing on the lawn next to his house the day the sun, its cruelty timed perfectly, disappeared behind the clouds and opened his four-year-old eyes to what was happening on the other side of the living room window. He gaped as he saw his mother strike his father. He’d heard his parents argue before, but nothing like this.

  He’d heard the name Brenda—or “cheap whore,” as his mother referred to her—surface several times over the past few months. She was his father’s campaign secretary, always at his side and on the road with him since his political career’s grassroots beginning. Many said that their relationship resembled a dance—unspoken and beautiful, every step anticipated and eagerly received. A natural match, it seemed.

  Deacon secretly loved seeing Brenda whenever he visited his father at his campaign office. She was always very patient and kind to him, playing silly games—so unlike his own mother. Sometimes he even pretended that his father was married to Brenda; many a night, he created fantastical dreams of the kind of life they’d have before crying himself to sleep over his real mother’s indifference toward him.

  Even at four, he knew that his parents’ marriage wasn’t based on love or genuine affection, but money. His mother’s father, Pierre Charbonneau, was an extraordinarily wealthy man who’d earned his fortune in plastics, the kind that went into faces, breasts, and other unmentionables. Pierre liked the politically ambitious Kingsley and his hardworking, right-wing sensibility, and hoped the young man could tame his wild, booze-loving daughter.

  Babette had apparently grown up to be a handful, wild just like her own mother, who killed herself one night by jumping from the penthouse suite at the Waldorf Astoria while Babette, still a baby, lay nestled asleep.

  Pierre didn’t have much use for a daughter. His parade of girlfriends, along with his expanding business, kept him busy, so he hired a fleet of revolving nannies—none of who
m did anything to lessen Babette’s selfish temper. She grew into an ill-mannered, spoiled debutante. Deacon heard his grandfather say many times between his teeth, “Babette grew up beautiful, ungrateful, and wicked.”

  Two years after watching his mother hit his father through the window, Deacon sat in a drafty, chauffeured town car, brimming with excitement.

  “Daddy’s going to be so excited to see us, I know it!” He beamed up at his pretty mother; her expression remained impassive, but Deacon didn’t care or try to contain himself. Finally they were surprising his father at work, something Deacon had begged for for weeks. His father’s long hours on the road and extended weekends away from the family left a hole in his chest he couldn’t quite understand. He especially missed Brenda, who he hadn’t seen in months.

  “Daddy’s been working really hard, huh, Mother?” he said, watching out the window, not expecting an answer. He sang quietly, entertaining himself with some of the silly songs he and Brenda used to make up together. He sat as still as he could, but inside his head bounced with thoughts of all of the many things he and his father were going to do that day. Maybe his mother would let him stay at the campaign office by himself, something he hadn’t done in a while. He looked over at her to ask, but thought better of it.

  When they arrived, he skipped up the short block to his father’s campaign office. A young man held the door for them, giving his mother a shy smile as she went past. She didn’t bother to acknowledge his presence.

  A couple of steps in and Deacon suddenly smashed into his mother’s leg. Babette sharply drew in a breath, her face unreadable. His own stomach dropped at the sight of his father holding up another young boy about his age. His father’s face appeared warm, almost loving. Something struck Deacon’s chest from the inside.

  “Who is he, Mother?” he asked, but his mother pretended not to hear him. She just yanked his arm and walked him briskly back to the waiting car.