I Like You Like This

by Heather Cumiskey

  The mansions to either side measured equally in size and beauty, but the Giroux abode exuded an edge of glamour, as if an exotic sheik and not a mere politician lived there. Its twisting driveway wound visitors up the massive grounds, enclosing them in scrolls of wrought iron fencing with sharp spear points and coiling vines.

  Hannah tried to act cool, but she couldn’t help herself. “Dude, you live here?” she said in disbelief. “It’s huge! If this were my house, I’d never leave. You’re like that rich guy in that Arthur movie.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Deacon replied coolly, his clenched jaw sending the hollows of his cheeks inward. His sleek countenance seemed on the verge of fracturing, but he quickly flashed his candy cane smile at her, and his control was back.

  They walked up the wide cobblestone path to the towering double doors, which were flanked by a pair of greyhound statues, both pooches looking ready to pounce. Above them, menacing brass lion doorknockers roared their disdain.

  Deacon slipped his arm around her waist and gripped her firmly. She wondered which one of them he was protecting. To Hannah, they were entering a rich person’s wild kingdom, carefully guarded and yet charged with an imposing air of importance. She felt lightheaded with anticipation; maybe she’d see a bearskin rug or something inside.

  They stood there at the massive doors, letting the drizzle hit their faces. Confused, Hannah looked up at Deacon.

  “Yeah, I don’t have a key,” he said weirdly, then wheeled her around toward the garage.

  “Ah, why?”

  “Parents.” He shrugged. “Front door is just for show. We don’t actually use it.”

  “Lots of animals.”

  “That’s my mom. Wait until you see inside,” he said as he entered the garage code.

  Hannah thought she had just walked into a classic car showroom when she stepped into the Girouxs’ garage. She counted four—no, five—shiny vintage sports cars in a row, each one a more eye-popping candy color than the next. The space screamed cleanliness and was meticulously organized. Hannah thought one could eat off its checkered black-and-white floor tiles—a far cry from the Zandana family’s dank single-car garage stuffed with junk.

  Deacon immediately removed his boots, and Hannah followed suit. “My mom’s a neat freak,” he said, shaking his head, his eyes avoiding hers.

  “Listen, if this is a bad idea—”

  “No, it’s fine,” he replied, cutting her off. Taking her hand, he walked her through a long, dark hallway, which opened up to a two-story circular foyer that resembled a cage. Hannah looked up, imagining raw meat being thrown down to its captives. Dark wood moldings secured its walls to the ornamented ceiling, while a huge pedestal table with lion claw feet commanded center stage on top of a blood-red oriental rug.

  She immediately noticed the oversized oil painting of a lioness on the opposing wall, depicted after a kill, apparently: her prey was under one foot and there were traces of blood around her throat. Creepy, Hannah thought, and she absently touched the front of her neck and wrapped her other arm around herself. Her eyes widened as she absorbed the scope of the room, but Deacon seemed unaffected and aloof; he swiftly moved her into the next two rooms.

  The living room was a continuation of the menagerie, with several mounted animal heads sporting jagged antlers on the walls, their terrified glass eyes screaming Leave now.

  “This is where Babette . . . hangs,” Deacon said, motioning toward the parlor room just adjacent. His mom’s space felt lighter compared to the rest of the house, a break from the wildness. It contained a mix of pastels and chintz fabrics—expertly thrown together by the hand of a decorator, no doubt. Curious, Hannah picked up one of the books from the glass coffee table. Deacon’s mom read the romances, just like her mom.

  “And here’s old man Kingsley’s . . .”

  “Study,” said Hannah, finishing his sentence. As predicted, there sprawled in the center of the paneled room, surrounded by two tufted leather couches and a heavy wooden desk, lay the final resting place of a massive white bear with its mouth agape—razor-like teeth revealed and gleaming.

  Hannah jumped. “You could have warned me,” she chided.

  “Where’s the fun in that?” he teased, coming up behind her and grabbing her shoulders. Hannah’s attention was already preoccupied with trying to read the book titles on the massive shelves when he started to kiss her neck—at first gently, then more ardently. He turned her toward him, finding her lips. And at first she was enjoying it—but then, suddenly, he trapped her head and body in a vise grip, leaving her with no chance for air or escape.

  She had become the prey.

  Hannah pushed back at him, searching his face. “Wait, wait . . . are we alone?”

  “Yeah.” As soon his response left his lips, he expertly reclined her on the nearest leather couch. He seemed possessed, kissing her body and pulling her blouse from her jeans. Hannah’s eyes darted to either side of the room, trying to think of something to slow him down, worried that she’d somehow brought this on by suggesting they come here.

  She lifted up his head. “Deacon, wait! We shouldn’t be in here, in your dad’s study. What if they come home?”

  He continued to kiss her, unbuttoning her blouse and grinding himself into her more fervently. Hannah tried to roll him off of her, but his determination only grew stronger, from his mouth down to his desire, which was now protruding from his jeans. For the first time, Hannah felt afraid.

  A car door slammed outside, and Hannah, with all her might, pushed him off of her. “Deacon, your parents!”

  They scrambled to his mother’s parlor, frantically tucking in shirts and smoothing down hair—mostly Hannah’s—and fell onto one of the chintz settees. They both caught their breath and attempted to appear nonchalant, but Hannah knew their flushed faces and the electricity still radiating between their bodies were going to give them away. She held a peach pastel pillow against her chest and twirled a section of her hair as she awaited her first meeting with Deacon’s esteemed parental units.

  Deacon shifted in his seat at the sound of the garage door opening, followed by the thunder of high heels echoing through the hallway like a galloping horse. How fitting, Hannah thought. Then someone began coughing—a male clearing the mucus encrusting his throat—and they heard car keys carelessly sliding across the expensive wooden foyer table. In response, the high heels marched louder.

  “There you are,” Deacon’s mother said, hesitating in the doorway. Classical music began almost on cue in another part of the house as Babette Giroux sauntered into the room, smoother than a runway model in her quilted Chanel suit, dripping in long strands of black and white embellished pearls. Hannah immediately caught the disapproval in her skinny lips, which were holding a line like a tightrope.

  “Well, isn’t this cozy?”

  “Hi, Mrs. Giroux, I’m Hannah.” She extended her hand, unsure if she should stand or not.

  “Pleasure,” Babette said icily, her floral perfume snuffing out the oxygen in the room. She ignored Hannah’s hand and snatched the peach pillow from her lap, replacing it with an old-looking maroon one she’d surreptitiously pulled from somewhere. “Oil from the hands stains,” she said, coiling one of her pearl strands around her fingers. She appeared transfixed by Hannah’s erupting skin and the growing blotches crawling across her neck and chest. Babette’s lips moved soundlessly, like she was counting something. Hannah clenched the curls in her hand harder.

  Babette’s bosom swelled once, and then she slowly turned and slithered out of the room.

  Hannah couldn’t take her eyes off Deacon’s mom until she’d disappeared from sight. It seemed Babette carried her curves in all the right places, from her ample, fleshy chest to her upside-down heart-shaped bottom. Her creamy calves held their own like supple raw chicken breasts.

  Hannah turned to Deacon, trying to read his face.

  “Now you know,” he said, staring straight ahead, looking sadder than Hannah had ever seen hi
m.

  She took his hand in hers and kissed it. “Let’s go.”

  Hannah’s mind filled up with questions she desperately wanted answered during the ride back to her house. The car’s digital clock read 6:34 p.m. Shoot, later than I thought.

  “Deacon—”

  “I’m ditching school Monday, so I can’t give you a ride home.”

  “Where are you going?” Hannah asked, surprised that he hadn’t mentioned it before.

  “I’ve got to meet some people in the city. Work stuff.” Hannah imagined that he had to stock up on drugs and his supplier must be in New York City. Then something dawned on her.

  “Who are you going with?”

  Deacon hesitated and glanced out his back window. “You don’t know them,” he said, trying for nonchalance but failing.

  “Try me,” Hannah pressed.

  “Jade and Bobby, couple of the kids from the other night.” Who the hell was Jade? Hannah’s mind raced, running through the girls in her class, but couldn’t place anyone with that unusual name. She didn’t know many juniors or seniors.

  They stopped at a light across from Gossamer Park. Deacon began singing “Sunglasses at Night,” tapping the steering wheel to the music. Hannah gazed out her window, still wondering about the girl, when she spotted a huge oak tree on the corner of the park’s entrance. The girl standing with the boys in the park—that’s who he was talking about. Hannah’s anxiety traveled down her arms and into her hands. She resisted the urge to drill him further.

  “Hey, it’s no big deal. I go all the time,” he said, squeezing her thigh before turning up the block to her house. Hannah didn’t want to start a fight and wasn’t sure what she was feeling. Her Sunday afternoon had been all too surreal, starting with her father yelling about the stepstool and the scary LSD flashback, then being in Deacon’s house for the first time and him practically attacking her in his father’s study—and all of that capped off by his mother accusing her of having greasy hands.

  “Okay, see you when you get back,” she said, delivering her best chilled-out voice.

  “You going to kiss me or what?” Deacon said, sounding angry—but the corners of his mouth turned up, giving him away.

  “Or what?” she teased back, leaning in to give him a quick peck. He grabbed her face and pulled her in for a longer kiss. Hannah let out a tight laugh and backed herself out of the car.

  Before going inside, she stood and watched him fly back up the street. She didn’t feel like going inside; the November night air felt good against her skin. She closed her eyes, taking a needed moment to clear her head before facing her parents. A chill ran through her shoulders when she thought about Deacon and how he’d acted like a different person at his house and even cagier on the ride home, like something had set him off. His dark, romantic way scared her as much as it seduced her, she thought, bringing her fingertips to her lips. There also lay an undeniable beauty in his melancholy. One that she longed to heal.

  Hannah glanced back at her house. She shook her head and walked up the driveway, comparing Deacon’s insanely sprawling abode to her barely inhabitable squalor. Tonight it seemed even more unwelcoming, with every light off, the garage strangely open, and her parents’ paneled station wagon gone. Weird.

  “Mom? Dad?” Hannah tentatively called when she got inside.

  Nothing. No signs of life.

  She flipped on the kitchen light, then circled back into the living room and flopped on the couch. She wondered how she was going to face her father when he got home and how long he’d ground her for this time.

  The phone rang, interrupting her thoughts. It has to be them, she thought—then worried that they had called the house more than once looking for her.

  “Hello?”

  “Listen, the way my mom treated you, it’s just messed up.”

  “Thanks for saying—” Hannah stopped when she heard the sound of a car horn, followed by more street noises. “Hey, where are you?”

  “Outside Gossamer Park. At the payphone.”

  “Deacon, it’s getting late. Are you sure that’s such a good idea?”

  “Just one more transaction, then I’m out of here.”

  She took a breath. “I don’t know what’s going on with us. You were so strange in your dad’s study, in the car. I wish we could—”

  “Yep, that’s them. Gotta go.”

  Hannah held the receiver in her hand, letting the dial tone numb her ear. Warm tears stung her eyes as she stood in her hollow kitchen, surrounded by grime and neglect, watching the starburst clock clip away the seconds of her sad, pathetic life.

  CHAPTER 23

  HANNAH PAUSED HALFWAY THROUGH HER BOWL OF CEREAL and found her father standing in front of her, his broad body turned to the side, forcing her to read his profile.

  “Your sister swallowed one of your mother’s medications. They pumped her stomach. She’s at County. Your mom’s with her,” he said, stiff as a soldier.

  Water droplets rolled down his matted hair and coat onto the floor, creating small pools around his feet. He stared at the car keys he’d just slid across the counter and frowned.

  Hannah’s response lodged in her throat, making her spew her milk across the table when she tried to force it out. She quickly wiped it up with her sleeve, then pulled the sleeve over her hand and clenched the wetness underneath the table.

  “I’m going to bed,” her father said, studying the same kitchen cabinet for several seconds, burning a hole in its contents: little yellow and blue pills nestled behind the wine glasses. His arms stuck frozen at his sides.

  “How . . .”

  “And you’re grounded,” he added, turning away and leaving with his usual piece of her.

  That’s it? How the hell did this happen? Hannah screamed inside as her lips began to twitch, her shoulders now trembling. She wrapped her arms around them, longing to be held, still nodding even after he’d walked away. Oh Kerry, oh little Kerry. She wished she could head over to County now to see her, but she didn’t dare ask. Her father’s face looked ravaged and chewed up; his anger was still bubbling.

  The doorbell rang, making her jump.

  “I’ll get it,” she called, running to the foyer, hoping it was Deacon. Maybe he could give her a ride to the hospital.

  She yanked open the door, but it was just that jock, Toby.

  “Deacon around?” he said, trying to push past her for a look into her house. She could feel her dad behind her, standing in the hallway, and knew that she didn’t have much time.

  “No,” she said firmly, putting a hand up to his chest.

  “Do you know where he is?” he persisted, taking a couple steps back, self-consciously running his fingers through his hair. It was then that Hannah noticed the babyishness of his chipmunk-cheek face, a sharp contrast to his muscular man-body. He wasn’t as tall as Deacon, but he carried his wide shoulders stiffly, his curved Popeye arms making him look like a bodybuilder on steroids. He grinned every other second—a nervous tic, it seemed—and had deep dimples that created quotation marks around his mouth and chin. His wide brown eyes and the smattering of freckles across his nose only magnified his gullible appearance.

  There was something familiar in his dark eyes, too— something she couldn’t place. He was somewhat cute in a puffed-up Michelin Man sort of way, but his jittery manner annoyed Hannah.

  “He’s in Gossamer Park, I think.” Hannah wished she had stopped talking as soon as the words left her mouth; Deacon didn’t need this guy following him around trying to cop some drugs.

  “He’s not answering his beeper.”

  “I have no idea,” she said, shaking her head, getting irritated.

  “It’s cool,” he said, shrugging and looking away.

  She closed the door. Her dad was frozen in the same stance, one hand on the railing, gazing down at his feet like he wanted to tell her something. She waited, bracing herself. But no words came. She watched him slowly ascend the long flight of stairs.

&
nbsp; Monday morning on the bus, Hannah tried to look attentive as Peter rambled on about some show he’d watched the night before—Tales from the Crypt or something. He was definitely getting more comfortable around her. Hannah tried to smile and nod in appropriate places, but she really wasn’t following his critique. She had tossed and turned most of the night thinking about her sister and what could have possibly happened to make her swallow her mother’s pills, especially when Flintstone Chewable Vitamins were usually a chore to get down her. When she wasn’t mulling over that, she was thinking about Deacon and where things were going with them. She awoke exhausted.

  The drone of Peter’s voice was a welcome distraction from the noise in her head. She knew school would drag on forever with Deacon out today, but there was still hope that they’d see each other tomorrow, Election Day, since they had it off from school. She was sure they could figure something out, even though she was grounded.

  Suddenly, Peter stopped talking and stared at her.

  “Sorry, I missed that—still waking up, I guess,” Hannah said. “What?”

  “Do you want to see a movie tomorrow?”

  “I’m grounded,” she said, slinging her book bag over her shoulder. Oh my gosh, did he just ask me out? Weird.

  She was saved by their arrival at school. “Well, see you later!” she said, hastily, and made her escape.

  “Yo, Z!”

  Toby was waiting for her near the bottom of the bus’s steps, his bellowing voice causing every head nearby to turn.

  She decided to play it cool. “So, did you ever find him last night?” she asked as Toby began walking with her into school. Okay, this is even weirder.

  “Ah, no,” he said, looking annoyed. “No, the asshole didn’t show. We were supposed to meet today. Where is he?”

  “The city.”

  “Shit, really?”

  Hannah glanced around self-consciously. His jumpy manner was drawing people’s attention.