Hide Me

by Lexi Scott

  Good.

  We make a quick stop for the marshmallows and sticks, and I drive out to a strip that’s popular for bonfires in the summer. It’s abandoned now. Which suits me just fine.

  “There’s already a stack of wood,” she muses, plopping down on a log opposite a pretty good pile of driftwood.

  “Sometimes parties out here get rowdy before they really get started. Lucky for us.” I fish in my pocket for the lighter I took out of my glove box and kneel down, then use some dry grass as kindling.

  “Wait, you’re using a lighter?” Whit snorts. “I thought you were going to, like, build me a fire. Like with sticks and stuff. You’re just stealing a bunch of firewood and cheating with a lighter.”

  Before she finishes her sentence, the flames lick up, different colors from the salt on the wood. Her cute little mouth makes a perfect ‘o.’

  “Wouldn’t you rather sit around the actual fire instead of watching me try to start it?” I sit next to her, set up a marshmallow, and hand it to Whit, then get my own.

  “This is beautiful. I mean, obviously, I’ve seen bonfires before, but this?” She sighs as she rolls her marshmallow over the flames. “This is gorgeous.”

  I want to tell her she’s gorgeous. I want to tell her I think of ways to stretch out the minutes we’re together. That I catch myself writing down the titles of songs I think she’d love to dance to and smelling the inventory from my mom’s store to see what kind of tea she might dig. But I’m not sure friends do that. And I guess we’re still just friends.

  “Deo?” When she says my name, I realize it’s been a while since either of us said anything. The bag of marshmallows is a quarter gone.

  “Yeah?”

  “You okay?”

  She looks so damn sincere, I feel like a dick ruining it, but I have to say something. “Whit, why is it you can ask me that, as a friend, but I can’t ask you?”

  Her eyes shutter. “Don’t do this, Deo.”

  “Do what?” I demand, jabbing my marshmallow so far into the heat it becomes a flaming fireball. “I love spending time with you. And I don’t mind that you need space sometimes. But I care about you. You have to know that. Why the hell else would I let you kick the shit out of me in that lumpy ass bed every night.”

  She watches as I blow the small fire out and eat the blackened, dripping sugar marshmallow carcass, not because I like charred dessert, but because I need to avoid looking at her.

  “You don’t have to,” she says quietly, pulling her knees up to her chest as she drops her stick on the ground.

  “I want to. But I don’t want what we have to start and stop in that bed in the dark.”

  “What if that’s all I have to give you?” she asks, her voice hushed.

  “Maybe you can just try? Just try telling me more. If you hate it, pull back. How about that?” I ask, hope welling up in me.

  She leans her forehead on her knees and speaks from the hollow of her body and her thighs. “Okay. What do you want to know?”

  “Nice.” I stare at the fire for a few seconds and decide to push my luck. “You get weird when I mention your brother. Or your family at all. Care to tell me what spooks you?”

  Her face goes pale and her eyes get wide. “What if…” She takes a shaky breath. “What if I just can’t tell you that?”

  “Ever?” I look at her, let her know I’m here.

  “I’m not sure. Just not now,” she says, gripping her hands together until the knuckles go white.

  For a few seconds there’s only the roar of the fire and the smash of the waves on the shore.

  “Okay.”

  A few long minutes of quiet drag on, and I’m shocked at how accustomed to silence I’ve gotten since I met Whit. She picks up another marshmallow and begins to roast it like her life depends on it.

  “Deo?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Why are you putting up with me?” she asks, pulling the words out slowly. “Everywhere we go, you get checked out. Girls love you. Why not choose someone who wants a relationship?”

  It’s not a stupid question. I’ve never had an issue attracting girls. But I’ve always had an issue staying interested. I’ve always felt like I had to put on some show. I’ve never felt that with Whit.

  “I don’t have to pretend with you,” I say, staring into the orange embers because I don’t have the guts to look at her right now. “You think you’re fucked up? News flash. So am I. Everyone sees me as the joker. The guy who’s always happy. With you, I don’t have to be that way. You let me be quiet. You listen if I need you to, and you give me space if I need it. I feel like myself for the first time with you.” What I really want to say is how much I get out of holding her during her nightmares. How for the first time in my life, I like being depended on.

  But if I spill that truth, I’ll freak her out for sure.

  Her cheeks flush and she presses her lips together.

  “That makes me happy,” she finally says. “I care about you, Deo. I really do. And I love spending time with you, doing nothing. I hope you know I’m here for you if you need me. You don’t always have to be the one scooping me up and carrying me to safety.”

  I could make a good wisecrack right now. It’s kind of expected.

  But that’s exactly it. I don’t have to do what’s expected with Whit.

  “Thanks,” I say instead.

  “Eat this. I don’t know how you keep eating all those burned ones. It has to be like eating charcoal or something.”

  She pulls the golden marshmallow off the stick and holds it out to me. I lean over and eat it off her fingers. When I’m done, she licks the sticky residue off and we sit, leaned close together, till the fire dies and we head back home.

  I hold her that night, and she traces her fingers up and down my arm with extra gentleness, but we never say a word. I can’t sleep that well. One thought keeps running through my brain: soon enough she’ll meet some fuckwad who’ll take my place, and they’ll be more than just friends and snuggle buddies.

  That thought makes me see red, so I try not to think about it. I just take lots of long, self-satisfying showers, like I’m in eighth grade all over again, and I try to enjoy every second I get with her.

  I’m on my way to meet Cohen at the beach after seeing Whit to class on a normal Tuesday when I hear the beep of her answering machine. She’s old school, so she still keeps a landline, and I can’t help but overhear the message.

  “Ms. Conrad, this is Louise McKellan from Imperial Coast College. I’m afraid we weren’t able to process the second check you sent. Unfortunately, you won’t be able to get your grades at the end of the semester if this doesn’t come through. I noticed that you have an application in for a study-abroad program next year, unfortunately, your financial accounts must be current in order for your application to be considered. Your student ID is on temporary suspension, so all facilities are off-limits until this is cleared. Please call me as soon as you’re able, and we’ll get this straightened out.”

  Her strangely jolly voice is followed by an ear-splitting beep, and I resist the urge to smash the piece-of-shit answering machine into fifty fucking pieces.

  Seriously? Whit can’t get her grades? She’ll lose a place in this study-abroad thing she wants to do? Her ID is suspended? How the hell does dip-shit Louise think Whit is going to figure this all out?

  I know exactly what’s going to happen. She’s going to come home after a full day of classes, studying, and work, and she’s going to be exhausted after the hellishly sleepless night she had the other night. She’s going to crack. Whit, who seemed tough as nails and so put together before I really got to know her, has revealed herself as a wounded fighter barely juggling all the shit she has up in the air.

  This is not what she needs right now.

  Even though she’s usually Ms. Secret, Take Care of It All Herself, I’m taking one giant step over the quickly receding friend-line and getting all into this business. I can do this. Fixing stic
ky situations and charming people is what I was brought up to do.

  I pull out my cell. “Cohen? You have a suit I can borrow?”

  An hour later, Cohen meets me at the beach with the suit, sans socks. “Socks kinda pull the whole thing together,” I gripe.

  “I’ve got to get back to work, kid. Go see your grandpa. He’ll hook you up.” He takes a lint roller off his passenger seat. Thank God for responsible-as-all-hell Cohen. I love this guy. “So, what’s worth getting suited up for?”

  “Whit.” I don’t say anything else as he rolls my sleeves and back lint-free.

  Cohen nods, opens his mouth, closes it, and finally just comes out and says his piece. “Look, man. Whit is hot as hell. And smart. Too smart for you. And she’s gonna grow up to be a real adult who buys groceries and has health insurance and all that. So if you can hook up with her, you have my blessing. I know you don’t have the fucking job and degree and all that, but you’ve got your good qualities. Okay? Don’t waste time with her if she doesn’t know that.” Cohen gives me a half smile, and I clap my hand on his back.

  “Advice taken, man. And I swear to you, I will not wind up on your couch crying and playing video games for months if she does break my heart.” I tug on my tie and slip my feet into my beat-up Vans before I pull out, leaving Cohen looking like he’s predicting my imminent doom.

  Maybe his predictions will be dead on. But she’s worth the gamble. Whatever time I get with her, whatever it winds up meaning, she’s worth it.

  I pull into Grandpa’s driveway. He limps out of the garden, and I glare his way. “When did you get so old? You need a walker?”

  “I need a cane so I can smack you upside the hard-ass head with it!” he calls back. “What’s your ugly mug doing back here? I thought you were shacked up with that pretty little thing with those miles of legs, staying out of my damn hair. Why don’t you bring her over, by the way? Afraid she’ll leave you for a real man when she sees me?”

  He pokes his lined, tanned face into the truck, and my smile fades when I see how bleary his eyes look and how buckled over his back is. Is it just that I’m noticing this stuff now because I’ve been away for a few weeks? Or is he doing worse?

  “You doing okay?” I ask.

  “No. I need you to come home and tuck me in at night,” he growls. “What do you need?”

  “Dress socks. And shoes, if you have them.” I smile at the look of outrage that spreads over his wrinkled face.

  “What man doesn’t have dress socks and shoes?” he asks pointedly. “You wanna grow up to be a hobo?”

  “Yep. Just like my grandpa.” He turns away, chuckling, and I follow him into the house where I head to my room while he gets the shoes and socks, muttering about my stupidity. I slide under my bed, careful to keep my white shirt out of the dust. I find a box in the back and wipe the top clean.

  It’s been a long time. A long time. I honestly never think about any of this shit, because it just amounts to a bum’s pipe dreams. I slide the lid open and the gold coins wink up at me, bright as some pirate’s treasure.

  I run my fingers over the bumps and grooves. I just checked the stats on them. I only need to pawn a few and, no matter what Whit owes, it will take care of it. Part of me wants to sell the whole damn lot, just for spite. And waste it. Maybe on a bright yellow Mustang. Something that would irritate my father because of how showy and everyday it is. Because these coins aren’t for bullshit. They’re part of a vow I made with my dad when I was too young to realize he talks so much bullshit, even he can’t keep track of it all.

  Every time he got the chance, had someone in a tight spot, found a rare coin for a ridiculously good price, he’d snatch it up and send it home to me. We had enough under my bed for everyone to live in a shitty mansion, but Mom and Grandpa wouldn’t touch them. And I was under strict orders to keep my grubby paws off of them until I was ready to invest them. My dad—the intrepid explorer, adventurer, and shady investor in schemes that always seemed to work out for him—wanted them to go to a set-up for treasure hunting. Real fucking treasure-hunting, months or years on end on a boat, cruising dangerous waters, racing other idiots for a piece of huge deposits, sunk to the bottom of the ocean and waiting.

  Waiting for me and my scumbag dad to get our shit together and come scoop it up.

  Of course, Mom and Grandpa don’t believe that horseshit anymore. But they do expect me to do something amazing with the coins. Set myself up. They don’t care if it’s a dumb-ass dairy farm or a pottery studio; they just want me to do what I love.

  And right now, what I love is Whit.

  I almost choke on a dust bunny I sucked into my lung too quickly.

  Love? Love Whit?

  That was a little… What I meant was… I was trying to say…

  I’m a fucking dumbass.

  What I was trying to say is that I love everything about her.

  I love Whit. Love the nights I spend getting my ass kicked in her bed, love the way she smells like grapefruit and girl and feels like sand-rubbed, sun-kissed skin, love talking to her, love the scratch of her key in the door. I love enough things about her to steal from the only dream I’ve ever had, even if it is an embarrassing, pathetic, little-kid, stupid dream. As long as I had these coins, I was invested in. Practically a trust-fund baby. But I’m tired of living that what-if dream. I need to take care of the girl I care about right now, and accept the fact that my dream is a day late and a motherfucking dollar short.

  I grab the three I know will cover what I need, slip them in my pocket, thank my grandfather for the shoes and socks, and ignore his look. The look that says he knows exactly what I’m about to do, but can’t believe I’d actually betray this promise to my vague dream that I’ve held onto my entire life.

  I know the pawn shop to go to, and only get marginally ripped off. I follow the road to Whit’s college and attract the attention of every lady there with my suit. And my business card, stolen from the pawnshop lobby. I’m Joseph Morgenstern, Attorney. Smiling, handsome attorney in charge of Whitley Conrad’s financial accounts and so, so sorry to have caused so many problems for these lovely women, who already have enough on their plates every day.

  Thirty minutes, no ID check, very few questions, a good chunk of change, and several flirty smiles later, I leave the office and have paid Whit’s semester in full and the down payment for her study-abroad program next year. My phone has three messages when I take it off silent.

  I swallow hard when I see that they’re all from one person: Whit.

  This could be it.

  She could be calling to tell me that it’s over. That my toothbrush and whatever other shit I have stashed at her house are on the patch of grass outside her apartment complex.

  I sprang into action so damn fast when I knew she was in trouble, I didn’t even stop to think about the fallout. That she may tell me to get the fuck out of her life. For good.

  I let my finger hover over the voicemail button for too long before finally pressing play.

  And the messages freak me the hell out.

  I drive to her place with the gas pedal sunk to the floorboard, not giving a single fuck about red lights or cops. I run up the stairs and into her apartment, and she’s sitting on the floor, her head in her hands, sobbing.

  I kneel down next to her, take her shoulders in my hands. “Whit. Whit. Stop crying, baby. Stop.” She lets me unfold her and take her clumsily in my arms.

  “Deo, I’m screwed! I’m so screwed! My parents need that money, they need it! It’s not mine to use. That money is theirs—for Wake. For everything.”

  She’s not making a damn bit of sense. I try unsuccessfully to interrupt her over and over. To tell her it’s all okay, but she just keeps rambling on.

  “I can’t ask. I thought some financial aid was coming through, but it’s been denied. I didn’t know they could say they’d give it, then not do it, but they can. They can! And I’ll have to leave. I’ll have to leave California and go back home, a
nd I’ll be a loser! I’ll be a huge disappointment. What am I going to do? I couldn’t get anyone at the financial aid office to pick up the damn phone! Oh, Deo! What the fuck am I going to do?” Her sobs are harsh, and it hurts to listen to them.

  I wipe her tears away with my thumbs. “Listen to me. Listen. I fixed it.”

  Her head snaps up. There are dark rings of mascara under her eyes. Her hair is stuck to her cheeks with tears and sweat. The tip of her nose is bright red, and her lips look swollen. She wrinkles her forehead when she looks at my suit and tie. “What did you do?”

  “I worked some Deo magic.” I try to keep my voice light, but her night terrors mixed with this new, extreme sadness are kind of freaking me out. “All settled. By the way, when were you going to tell me you applied to study abroad in Italy? Did I ever tell you I love pasta? All the pastas. Tortellini, orecchiette, I don’t discriminate. Bring ’em all on. And the David? And passionate women with awesome accents? You were just gonna leave me to rot in this shithole? Not cool.”

  “How did you fix it?” she asks carefully, and I’m still not sure she’s going to be okay with my explanation, but I just have to stop being a pussy and tell her.

  “Don’t be pissed, okay?” I know that’s almost like asking for her to be pissed at me and throw a hissy fit. But I decide on telling the truth and trusting Whit to get it. For once. Even if it’s so not our thing lately. “Can I tell you something I don’t like talking about?”

  I pull her onto the couch and she looks at me, her eyes bloodshot. “Of course. Are you sure you want to tell me?”

  “I think you and I need to stop avoiding shit, Whit. I want to tell you, even though I don’t want to look like a whiny ass in front of you.”

  “I don’t think you’re a whiny ass at all,” she says. She scoots closer to me and tugs on my hand. “Lay your head in my lap,” she says, swallowing hard.

  “In your lap?” I repeat dumbly.

  She nods. “It’s easier. To say what sucks. If you don’t have to be eye to eye.”

  She says it like she’s got experience, which I know she does. So I lay down, my head cradled in her lap, her fingers brushing over my hair, my forehead, my temples. It’s not carrying me off the beach, but she’s lifting me up in her own way. I feel an immediate rush of calm.