by A. M. Wilson
I discovered the relief of the blade when I was fourteen. I can’t remember how the idea came to me, only that I was desperate for anything to take away the constant hurt of disappointment, of being unwanted and unloved. I nabbed the paring knife from our kitchen drawer (the only knife that wasn’t dirty since mom hadn’t done dishes all week) and snuck off into my room. There wasn’t any fear, only anxiousness as I shed my shorts and danced the tip across my thigh. I didn’t realize what I was doing until it was done.
My hormonal teenaged mantra carved into my flesh beneath my hip. FTW. Fuck The World. I smirked when it was all over. Seemed fitting considering my life.
I hid the knife in my closet after that. Mom wouldn’t notice it was gone. Between the booze and the drugs and the Johns, she didn’t notice anything. I found myself retreating into the dark shadows of that four-by-four box whenever the pain was unbearable. It became my sanctuary.
Until now.
Now I’m eighteen and living on my own. Emancipated from my mother last year after she OD’d on heroine in our bathroom. Ironic, I know.
But what I do is not about death. Honestly, I don’t think it was for her either. Just too much stupidity. She survived but is currently in an inpatient facility fifty miles away. I’ve never known my father, but I wasn’t about to search for him at a time when my whole world had crashed down around me. Not that he’d want me, but if he did, he didn’t deserve to be my support. He didn’t deserve shit from me.
I would have been placed in foster care, seeing as the only family I’ve ever had was my mom, but the job I’d held for two years agreed to bump me to fulltime. The court determined I could support myself. The second I left the courthouse, I jumped into the search for a new place to live. The only apartment building in this microscopic town had a studio available. The red brick exterior was aging and in desperate need of a power wash, the lawns brown and uncared for. The building was noisy with paper thin walls, sketchy residents with sketchier company.
It was a tiny piece of shit, but it became mine. Only mine.
Now I commence my ritual in the quiet privacy of my own bathroom, attempting to erase the demons chasing me, exorcising the ones embedded in my soul. No one would understand why I do it. Why I use a sharp metal edge to keep myself afloat. So I hide the truth. Cover the tracks of my ruined flesh with decorated fabric. Every time I catch a glimpse of the wristband, a small smirk ghosts across my lips, a little thrill in my chest. My little secret.
I’m still not sure what Ryan was thinking or what I saw in his eyes, but if he wants to give me pity, then fuck him. Pity is the last thing I need.
CHAPTER TWO
Tatum
The rumbling of the engine quiets down to a gentle purr when Ryan pulls up in front of the all night diner. This town is so small it has one of everything. One church. One bar. One mechanic’s shop-slash-gas station. One restaurant. One coffee shop. One nursing home. And one school that houses k-12. Anything else is a 20 minute drive out of town.
Plenty of residents are entirely comfortable making that commute to have more amenities in their lives. The majority of us stay put, myself included. I embrace the simple life. I’m too busy juggling my life so I don’t get evicted, fired, or expelled to spend time at the theater or the mall. Not to mention I can’t afford it—the time or the money.
My stomach shifts with a sudden bout of nerves as Ryan exits the car. He steps onto the curb but looks back when I don’t follow. I’m stuck stupidly staring after him through the windshield. What am I doing here? I just met this guy, and now I’m going out for a late night snack. I don’t do this. I never do this. So why do I want to go inside? Why do I feel as if I’ll miss something spectacular if I ask him to bring me home instead? I feel crazy and conflicted. Ryan confuses me and intrigues me, angers me and excites me all at once. I like it. The thrill of doing something out of the ordinary is intoxicating.
Slowly, I climb out of Ryan’s car and join him on the sidewalk.
“Hi,” I supply when neither of us move nor speak.
“Is that all you know how to say?” he teases, a dimple creasing his cheek. Somehow I failed to notice that feature during the dark car ride, but it’s kind of sexy.
Under the lamp lighting the entrance, I realize he’s handsome. He definitely does not look like a creepy stalker murder. And he can’t be much older than I am. His hair is dark brown and tousled, falling slightly over his ears and collar. He has rich, chocolate brown eyes, and his gaze is warm, regarding me with curiosity and a whole lot of interest. As my eyes slide down to assess his mouth, I notice he’s grinning at me again.
“Uh-what?”
I forgot he asked me something. I was too busy ogling over the dimple in his cheek. Ryan drops his chin to his chest and shakes his head slowly. He’s laughing at me and trying to hide it. Bastard.
“Nothin’, Sweetheart. Let’s go inside.”
Ever the chivalrous gentlemen, Ryan holds the door open and waits for me to pass through. I’m beginning to feel awkward. I’m not used to this behavior, and I don’t know how to react. My natural inclination is to be a smartass but that would be rude. Rudeness is something I reserve for familiar company, not some stranger who saved me from being stranded on a dark, remote highway.
“Thanks,” I mutter instead, digging deep to locate my manners.
I zip passed him, swerve around the empty hostess station, and slide into the booth in the corner by the kitchen. The diner is outdated and in extreme need of some TLC. Yellowed chandeliers hang throughout the ceiling, one above every third table. Faded green and white wall paper peeks out beneath an array of local sports memorabilia. Jerseys from past all-star players, bats with signatures, hockey sticks, team photos, trophies; all dating back to when my generation’s grandparents were kids. Ancient dark green booth tops stand in a half moon shape around the counter that’s lined with hard metal barstools. Stained and faded dark green carpet covers the floors. Despite the crippling décor, the food is delicious, encompassing all that is warm belly filling home-style comfort food, and the owners are the friendliest couple I’ve ever met.
My assessment takes all of three seconds, and then Ryan is seating himself into the opposite green padded seat of the booth. Grinning at me.
“Are you always so happy?”
The words slip from my dry lips before I have time to assess if I should speak them aloud. Normally, I can pride myself on a decent brain-to-mouth filter; however, it’s been malfunctioning in Ryan’s presence. His grin falls for half a second before he fixes it back into place. I duck my head and suck on my lower lip nervously, hoping he won’t respond.
“Aren’t you ever happy?”
“No,” I answer flatly. That was an easy question.
“No? You’re never happy just because? Happy to be alive? Being able to wake up each morning doesn’t make you happy?”
There’s more he wants to say, but he’s waiting for a response from me. So I give him one. Tipping my head back, I release the bubble of laughter erupting from deep in my belly. Tears trickle down my cheeks as I roar from the hilarity of his question. Happy because I exist? Abso-freakin-lutely not. I don’t have an obsession with death. There isn’t a plan somewhere for how and when I’ll die. I’m not suicidal. But I’m also not even remotely happy for my existence. Not unless that existence was a few hundred miles away from here.
“That funny, huh?” The clipped tone of his voice brings me back from the edge of a manic episode, and I crack open an eyelid to peek at him. He’s pretty cute. Ryan’s leaning back in his booth, his long masculine fingers fiddling with the roll of silverware while he waits patiently for me to contain myself. He looks slightly exasperated except for the corner of his mouth that’s twitching. He finds me amusing!
“Sorry! I’m sorry. I just-.” What can I possibly say to explain my crazy? “Are you really happy simply based on your existence? I find that hard to believe. Nobody is that happy.”
“Sounded pretty stupid, di
dn’t it?” Ryan runs his hand through his thick, dark hair making it stick up quite charmingly. He pauses amid a second swipe, freezing as if realizing he’s performing a nervous habit, and he flattens both palms on the hunter green tabletop. “I have a friend who was always trying to get me into a more positive mindset. She suggested I work on being happy because I’m alive. That’s it. Be happy because I’m here. I always thought it was a load of crap.” His smile turns thoughtful and somewhat sad. “I’ve never tried her advice on anyone else before. Judging by your reaction, I’d say you feel the same way as I do.”
I nod carefully. I try to ignore the way my stomach contracts at the mention of ‘she’ and force myself not to ask who ‘she’ is to him. I’m having a friendly meal with a stranger who rescued me from the side of the road in the middle of the night. There’s nothing more to this. Nothing. There can’t be. Even if I had the time to invest in a relationship, I can’t think of one reason why this guy would want to go out with me. So ‘she’ can have him. She can have him. I can’t.
“Is she a psychologist?” Damnit. “I mean, it sounds like a load of shrink mumbo jumbo.”
Ryan opens his mouth to respond when the waitress appears to take our orders.
“Hey there, my name is Heather. What can I start ya off with to drink?” Heather is a few years older than me, a blonde bombshell beauty complete with a soft body and perfect curves. She’s round in all the right places. She’s wearing the standard uniform of black slacks and a white collared shirt with a hunter green apron folded across her waist. She folds her hands and rests them against her cocked hip while she waits for us to order.
“A water for me,” I reply quickly, keeping my gaze away from Ryan’s. Now that my car is junk, I’ll have to repair that first. Which means no food or kindle money for the next week. Why did I agree to this? I can’t expect him to pay for me just because he’s a guy. Sure, he’s been sweet and chivalrous all night, but that doesn’t mean he wants to pay for my food, too. He’s done enough for me already.
“I’ll have a Coke,” Ryan says, but I know his eyes haven’t left me. I can feel the weight of his stare, my body tingling with awareness. The hairs on my arms and neck prickle to attention. God, please look away before my embarrassment is evident. I’m sure my cheeks look like two hot tomatoes.
“You two ready to order or do you need a minute?” Heather’s voice rides the scale, nearing a crescendo in her sweet singsong tone. Girl needs to lay off the caffeine.
“Are you ready, Tatum?”
“Uh-sure. I’ll have a side of fries.”
“A side of fries?” Ryan and Heather repeat simultaneously. If my face wasn’t pink before, it sure is flaming now. Please, someone take me out. Send in a heat seeking missile or a zombie apocalypse. I’m sure either would be able to find me with the way my heart is pumping right now.
“Sorry, can we have a minute?”
My gold nail polish is chipping off. I really should get them painted more often, but it takes so much time and between school, and work, and homework, the last thing I want to do at midnight is paint my nails. They look ridiculous with half the color coming off though, so I start grinding away at the edges using my thumbnail. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
“Tatum.”
Only two more fingers left on my left hand, then I need to move onto my right. Can’t have one hand with polish and one without.
“Tatum, look at me.”
I scrape harder, almost done with my pinky, but my thumb slips off my nail and tears into my cuticle. The skin breaks and a trail of blood wells up from beneath the sliced skin.
“Ouch!”
My skin burns, and I bring my damaged finger to my mouth to suck the blood from my wound. Ryan reaches his hand out to stop me. My head snaps up to find him seated next to me instead of across from me where I left him before retreating inside myself.
“What happened? Are you hurting yourself?” Ryan swiftly wraps my finger in a napkin from the silverware roll.
Oh, the irony. I sigh. “I scratched my finger. You can let go now.”
He doesn’t let go.
Ryan holds slight pressure on my barely injured finger while he looks intently into my eyes. “Why don’t you want to eat anything?”
His proximity is making it hard to breathe, and his question makes me want to punch him in the face. Sucking in a quiet breath, I hush my inner bitch. It’s not his fault I’m dirt poor.
“I’m not hungry,” I try to placate him.
“I call bullshit.” No such luck. “Why come to eat with me if you’re not hungry?”
“Because you look like you tell fascinating stories?”
“Don’t lie to me,” he warns. “Does it have anything to do with your newly acquired car repair and the money you’ll be spending to take care of it? Because, Sweetheart, I wasn’t joking when I said I was offering dinner. Don’t worry about the cost. It’s my treat.”
I shake my head sadly, wondering why this stranger had to drop into my life tonight. Maybe if this was a year or two from now I’d be more willing to relax and eat a comfortable meal with Ryan. “I can’t accept that. You’ve been too generous already.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s my treat.”
“Seriously, Ryan. I can’t let you do that—ˮ
“Sweetheart,” he pauses, and I can’t help but look up at him when he doesn’t continue. His gaze is strong and confident, and it holds me steady. “It’s. My. Treat. Now, pick something decent to eat, or I’ll choose for you.”
Whoa.
My heart drums a rhythm of galloping horses as I pick up my menu. Whatever you say, Mr. Bossy. Whatever you say.
The conversation flows easily in the aftermath of our intense moment. Heather returns with a BBQ chicken sandwich for Ryan and a giant omelet breakfast platter for myself. We stick to lighter topics, discussing movies (most of which I haven’t seen), and music (most of which I haven’t heard). We skim the topic of books, but as soon as I mention my uncontrollable obsession with the young adult and romance genres, Ryan shuts the topic down insisting he’d prefer to keep his balls firmly intact. I think some men in this world could seriously benefit from reading a few romance novels. I’m not sure yet if Ryan is one of those men, but it couldn’t hurt.
We finish our meals and I excuse myself to the restroom when the check comes. I know Ryan insisted he’s happy to pay, but I’m uncomfortable witnessing his generosity.
After using the toilet, I spend a ridiculous amount of time washing my hands and staring at myself in the mirror. My eyes are tired, my hair is flat, and I look pale. I pinch my cheeks to add a little color and tease my hair with my fingertips. After I’m positive enough time has passed, I walk out and find Ryan waiting for me by the hostess stand.
We walk to his car in a slightly uncomfortable silence. What happens now? This is foreign territory for me. Besides a fling or two my freshmen year, and Wyatt, I don’t have any experience outside of teenaged, hormonal, immature guys. Nowhere near the realm of a real man like Ryan. Is he going to kiss me? Does he even like me? I’ve had such a good time that I’ve forgotten I just met him this evening. How embarrassing. Here I am crushing on this stranger, and he probably thinks he’s just being polite.
He might even have a girlfriend.
Shit. Shit!
This is exactly why I don’t do this. Dating is too complicated.
“Tatum?”
I’m still a million miles away in my head, so I fail to notice we’re standing outside the passenger door to his car, but his voice breaks my inner panic. I was probably standing here, still as a statue, staring off into nothing for who knows how long. He probably thinks I’m a head case. Maybe he’ll drop me off at a mental ward. Brilliant, I’m turning into my mother.
“I’m sorry. Did you say something?”
Ryan takes a hesitant step towards me until we’re standing toe to toe. I have to tilt my head back in order to see his face properly. His eyes are shadowed from the streetlight
behind him, but I can feel the intensity in his gaze. My eyes are drawn to his tongue darting out from his mouth to run across his bottom lip. My stomach swoops. I slowly rake my stare back to his in perfect timing for his next question.
“Can I kiss you?”
“Do you have a girlfriend?” I blurt. I really need to work on this brain-to-mouth filter thing.
His face registers shock, before he grins and lets out a small laugh.
“You think I’d be asking to kiss you if I have a girlfriend?”
I stare at a button on his black shirt. Well, I ruined that moment. Now I’m too mortified to look him in the eye.
Shrugging my shoulder, I respond, “I don’t know. Just wanted to make sure.”
Ryan laughs again, but I’m not finding this funny.
“Look at me.” I don’t comply. His index finger caresses the smooth skin of my neck before he clasps my chin between his forefinger and thumb. He tilts my face until I meet his eyes. “Tatum,” he pauses. I’m beginning to pant. This is ridiculous, guys don’t affect me like this. “I’m going to kiss you.”
He barely gets the words out, and I gasp as he crushes his mouth to mine. Ryan slides the hand holding my jaw to cup my neck instead, his thumb brushing along the hard ridge of my cheek. His other arm wraps around my back; his strong fingers sliding to tangle in the hair at the nape of my neck.
At first, I stand shock still, unable to process what’s happening. Screw the brain-to-mouth filter, my entire brain is malfunctioning in general. When Ryan slips his tongue against opening of my lips, I’m sparked back to reality. Throwing my arms around his neck, I grasp his silky strands, anchoring his mouth to mine.
His tongue rolls against my own, twisting and swirling in a slow, sensual kiss. He takes tiny licks and flicks into my mouth, drawing my breath into him. It’s heated and intense, but in a controlled way. Unhurried. I feel as though I’ve come alive for the first time. Ryan holds my body tight against his, and I moan at the feel of his erection pressing against my stomach. This is…this is…