by A. M. Wilson
I swallow the food in my mouth and reach for the glass of water before answering. At least it’s an easy question. “Halfway through my junior year, my mom was found in our bathroom unconscious from a heroin overdose. Since I was underage, I would have been placed into foster care, but I petitioned to be emancipated from my mom. A judge granted my request, and I have since been living in my apartment and working fulltime to make rent and buy food.” I realize the glass in my hand is shaking, so I take a small sip before setting it back down. “Wyatt knows where I live, and I’m afraid he’ll come looking for me.”
“Wow.” That one word holds so many emotions. Jacoby isn’t saying it with disgust or sarcasm or judgment. He’s saying it with pride and admiration. I think I see shock as well.
“So you’re basically housing me from a psycho. Sorry about that,” I say flippantly, raising an eyebrow.
The corners of Jacoby’s lips twitch. “I meant it when I said stay as long as you need. I’d prefer you to be safe, and I know you will be here. Although, I hope he won’t try to contact you after I spoke with him today.”
My fork slips out of my hand and clatters loudly against my plate.
“You-you spoke with Wyatt today?” A wave of disgust rises within me from saying his name aloud. I hold it down with another sip of water.
Jacoby shovels a bite of food in his mouth. “I went down to the mechanic’s shop today and got your car. We spoke.”
“And what exactly did you speak about?” My heartbeat is picking up in my chest. I don’t want him involved. I want to move on, forget it ever happened, and never see or hear from Wyatt again.
“I told him to leave you alone, got your car, and left. That’s about it,” he responds with a shrug of his shoulders. I don’t entirely believe him.
“I didn’t see my car when we pulled up.”
“I parked it in the garage until you’re ready to go back home.”
We eat companionably for several minutes, neither one of us speaking. Though, I’m sure both of us are thinking about this predicament we’ve found ourselves in.
“How old are you?” he suddenly asks, while taking a drink from his wine. I find myself watching the smooth glide of his Adam’s apple before I answer.
“Eighteen,” I respond, pausing because Jacoby chokes on his swallow of wine.
“Well that’s good,” he says simply. Hmm. I wonder if he’s thinking about our kiss. He must be a little relieved I’m of legal age and all that jazz. Not that it matters because this will never go further than it already has. The thought makes me frown for some reason.
“And you, Mr. Heartthrob?”
Jacoby laughs. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh come on, you can’t tell me you don’t notice how half the female student body stares dreamily in your wake every day.” I try to hide my grin with a bite of garlic bread as his face turns an impressive shade of red.
“Can’t say I’ve noticed. And I’m 25.”
“Why would you choose to teach high school when you’re only 25? You’re barely out of high school yourself.”
He scoffs. “I’ve been out of high school for 7 years, thank you very much. I couldn’t tell you the exact moment I decided to teach high school. It just sort of happened.”
Jacoby and I sit staring at each other, neither of us eating or talking, for what feels like forever. I get the feeling he’s holding back something. Maybe a piece of personal information, which kind of pisses me off. It’s not like he hasn’t learned more than enough about me in the past two days.
He stands up to clear our plates, and I hop up to join him, shaking off my annoyance.
“So, I feel a little better asking this now that I know you’re eighteen, but a buddy of mine wants me to go out with him tonight.”
“Oh.” Suddenly, I feel surprisingly hurt. “You should go. I’ll be fine here.” I discard the remnants of food into the garbage, pile of dirty dishes in the sink, and begin running the water to rinse them for the dishwasher.
“Tatum, I want you to come with me.”
I pause scrubbing a sauce pan. “You do? Why?” Always too curious for my own good. I can’t help fishing for information even when I should keep my big mouth shut.
“I’m not leaving you alone here. You’re my guest, and I want you to come with me. It might be nice for you to get your mind off of everything.”
“I don’t want to make things awkward for you.” And I don’t want to be a damn charity case.
“You won’t. I promise.”
“What if someone sees us? I don’t want you to get into trouble.”
Jacoby looks thoughtful for a minute. “Don’t worry, I have an idea. It’ll be fine.”
I probably shouldn’t agree. I should stay home and study or figure out how to clean up this mess called my life. I should probably do anything other than go with him. But somehow I find myself saying yes before I fully think it through.
“Great,” he smiles at me. “We’ll head out around nine.”
Even though I’ve lived here my entire life, I’ve never been out to Old Willow. The place is known for not checking ID’s so my age isn’t an issue. At the end of junior year, I decided I have too little free time to spend it out drinking, and vowed I wouldn’t step foot in this place until I graduated. I made it about 4 months. I can categorize that into the win column.
The building is old and weathered, with some bricks crumbling on the face of the structure. There’s one heavy wooden door leading in, and one heavy wooden door leading out through the back, and six huge windows which are frosted so you can’t see inside, liquor advertisements plastered across the glass.
As we step inside, I realize the old decrepit looks are deceiving.
The bar is alive with loud rock music, a local band playing on a rickety stage in the far corner. A large semicircular bar adorns the front of the room, behind it lined with shelves upon shelves of bottles and four large coolers. The place is literally packed. Young and old, bikers and groups of women, pretty girls and football jocks. I’ve never seen such a strange array of people gathered together in my life.
“Come on,” Jacoby whispers as he tugs my hand, pulling me inside. I stopped to take in the scene in front of me and evidently upset some patrons by letting in a rush of cold air. Oops.
Jacoby leads us through the crowd, stopping to scan around us every few minutes. He stands almost a foot taller than my 5’2” and doesn’t seem to have any trouble spotting his friend. He pulls my hand towards the center of the bar where a huge guy gets out of his chair to great him.
This man has muscles larger than my head, and I’m mesmerized by the flex and rippling of his forearm as he shakes Jacoby’s hand. He’s about 6’5 and by the looks of him, spends a lot of time in the gym. His head is nearly bald, and he has a set of piercing blue eyes, which he pins me with in that moment, catching me staring. I think the temperature in here just increased a good 10 degrees.
“And who’s this pretty little thing you’ve been hiding from me?” he asks, slipping my hand into his large paw.
“Stop it, man,” Jacoby says, pushing the guy jokingly. “This is Tatum. And this is Trey,” he introduces us before taking a seat at the bar.
“Nice to meet you, Tatum,” Trey says, giving my hand a gentle squeeze. I swear if he kisses it, I’m out of here. “Sit by me, will you?”
The flash of my eyes to Jacoby’s is automatic, a subconscious reaction as if searching him to say, is this okay?
As if he heard my silent question, Jacoby locks his eyes with mine and nods his head. A small smile curves his pink plump lips.
Shit. Don’t look at his lips.
Trey pulls the stool out with his foot, and I clamber on none to gracefully. My back is ramrod straight while I sit, unsure of what to do next. Small talk has never been my forte, unless it includes 90 year olds who don’t hear half of what I’m saying anyway. Sensing my distress, Jacoby begins a conversation with Trey, and I try to relax.
> As I sit here taking them in, I realize this was part of Jacoby’s plan. My stool is somehow positioned closer to Trey than Jacoby. When I look over, I see Trey’s huge thighs are situated on each side of my stool. The close position makes us look like a couple.
Add that to the ball cap Jacoby has pulled low on his forehead, and we’re almost unnoticeable. Almost.
“Hey, what do you want to drink?” Trey asks me a few minutes later, pulling me from my thoughts. I got caught up watching a girl dancing between two guys, their bodies moving like the parts of a well-oiled machine. I’m not a prude, I know people behave like that, but I can’t imagine myself acting that way, especially in a public place. She sure seems to be enjoying herself, though, when she suddenly latches her mouth onto the guy grinding against her front.
“Um,” I freeze, unsure of what I’m supposed to do.
“She’ll have a water,” Jacoby butts in.
“Seriously? Nothing to drink for you, Sweetheart?” Trey isn’t letting it go. I frown. The endearment sounds all wrong coming from Trey.
Looking at Jacoby, I’m unsure what he wants me to do. He seems so different than the authority figure he tries to be in school. After the first few days of class I never would have imagined myself sitting at a bar on a Saturday night with my calculus teacher and his good friend. He tried to order me water, but I want to push my limits with him tonight. I wonder if I can bring out the Ryan I met two weeks ago.
“Actually, I’ll have a vodka cranberry.”
“What?”
“Sure.”
Jacoby and Trey answer simultaneously, and I have to hide my grin. One drink won’t hurt, but it was worth seeing that look on Mr. Ryan’s face.
“Uh, yeah. I need to unwind a bit.”
Jacoby tries to pin me with his stare, attempting to scold me with his coffee colored eyes. Instead, I turn on the stool and face Trey to escape.
“So, Trey,” I smile sweetly at him. “What do you do?”
“I’m in the military. Army reserves now, although, I was on active duty up until last year. I’m co-owner of the gym on Seventh Street. So if you ever need a place to work out, I could help you out with that,” he finishes with a wink.
I giggle. I can’t help it as the high pitched squeak escapes my mouth. Part of me knows I’m flirting to irritate Jacoby, but it’s all fun and games. For once, I feel like I’m acting my age, instead of the eighteen-going-on-thirty-five I’ve maintained for the past 6 months.
“Can’t say I ever really workout,” I reply, looking at my puny arm, “But thanks for the offer.”
“What is it you do, Tatum?”
I explain my job as a CNA, and add a few memorable stories to keep the conversation going.
“So we had these two clients last year. One was mostly blind and had dementia, and the other rarely ever spoke and also had dementia. So you can imagine, most of what they said was gibberish. Some afternoons we sit at a picnic table outside and read the newspaper to the residents. I had just finished reading a section about a young man who had set up a local basketball tournament to raise money for some charity, when the first lady shouts out, “Hey, what’s the score?” I kid you not, the second lady was across the table, and she leans over and says, “Pimps 10, Hoes nothing!”
Both Jacoby and Trey erupt in a fit of roaring laughter, and I join them before taking a swallow of my drink.
“Sounds like a pretty entertaining job,” Trey adds while tipping the neck of his beer to his lips.
“It can be. It has its low points, too.” Suddenly Monica surfaces in my mind. I haven’t really thought about her since Thursday morning when I left her with her family, and I feel guilty. The thought puts a damper on my good mood, and I’m quick to swallow the rest of my drink. The refreshing coolness slides down my throat perking me up a bit.
“Another?” Trey asks, and I nod, ignoring the way Jacoby tenses beside me.
When the bartender places the drink in front of me, I take a big gulp.
“Jacoby here says you’re staying with him a while. What’s up with that?”
“Uh, water leak. Yeah. There’s a huge leak in my apartment ceiling, and I can’t live there while maintenance fixes it," I lie quickly. “It destroyed my bed while I was at work the other day.” Hopefully the lighting is dim enough he doesn’t see the bright red color now coating my cheeks.
“Ah, so good ‘ol Jacoby here decided to share his with you?” Trey wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, and I blush even more.
“Man, she’s in the guest room,” Jacoby cuts in, quick to shut down that train wreck.
For some unknown reason, his response actually stings a little. Maybe he really is seeing someone. Why would he bring me with then? Pity? Fuck pity.
I down the rest of my vodka, starting to feel a little buzzed on the stool I’m perched on. I shut out the conversation the two are having and get lost staring at the television next to the bar—staring but not seeing.
“Want to dance?” Trey inquires, breaking me from zoning out.
“Seriously, dude? And what I’m I supposed to do?” asks Jacoby, an irritating look in his eye.
“Go pick someone else out,” Trey tells him. “What do you say, Sweetheart, one dance?” he finishes to me.
“Sure,” I reply, feeling a bit reckless and even more annoyed. If Jacoby just brought me here because he felt sorry for me, I’m going to make sure I have a good time without him.
Trey stands up, swiping his beer off the bar top and holds his hand out to me. As I go to hop down from my stool, a pair of strong hands grasp my waist, holding me still. A shock of electricity zings from those hands to the depths of my belly.
Jacoby puts his mouth to my ear. “What are you doing?”
“Having fun,” I reply simply, trying to ignore the warmth spreading from his touch.
“Fuck, Tatum, don’t do this. We can go if you want.”
I glance back over my shoulder once and almost regret it. Jacoby’s face is within inches of my own, and I don’t miss the way his eyes drop to my lips. My breath catches in my throat.
“I’m going to dance. I’ll be back.” Placing my hand within Trey’s, I allow him to pull me out in front of the band.
The beat is fast. A rapid pounding of drums and Trey knows how to dance. He wraps me in his arms, tightly but casually, and I can tell he’s only trying to have a good time, not get into my pants. Maybe he sensed some of my tension earlier and is trying to help me loosen up. Regardless, our dancing is platonic, and I feel comfortable with him.
Jacoby on the other hand looks pissed.
Every time I face the bar, I feel my eyes magnetically drawn to where he sits, nursing another whiskey. And every time I face the bar, his eyes lock on mine. Dark brown to hazel. Angry to defiant. I feel a surge of annoyance that he’s pouting when he could have asked me to dance. Instead, I’m encased in the muscular arms of his good friend whom I just met.
Trey releases me, holding just my hand, and I close my eyes and feel the music coursing through me. The drumming takes up residence within my body, and my hips rock to the beat. I release my tension on the string of melody floating through the air, losing myself. I couldn’t have imagined how good it would feel to just let go for a little bit. I’m more tightly wound than I thought.
One song turns into two, turns into three, and before I know it, sweat is running down my back. Trey is still dancing with me, although not too closely, as if he understands I’m not that type of girl and he’s giving me space. I feel comfortable with this genuine guy, and I’m glad Jacoby brought me along tonight.
Thinking his name has me suddenly looking for him. In my passionate desire to unwind, I sort of forgot he was here. Turning my attention to the bar, I find him where we left him, looking forlorn and slightly angry. What the hell is his problem? At least Trey is nice enough to engage with me. Jacoby wants to just sit around and act like a father figure. I don’t need him to try to take care of me. I need to have some fun.
<
br /> The song changes and I need to take a break, but I don’t want to sit at the bar again. Jacoby will probably try to talk me into leaving so I excuse myself to use the restroom.
Once inside, I pause at the sink, resting my hands against the porcelain basin. I’ve never been much of a hopeful person, but after everything with my mom, this past week makes me wonder what’s really out there for me. Why do I try so hard to make a good life for myself when shit like this happens? Why do I deserve for everything to be so tough when people like Emerson seem to have it so easy? When I look down, I realize my hands are gripping the ledge with white knuckled force, and I relax my hands, letting out a long, slow exhale.
Maybe it’s time I stop fighting reality. Maybe I was never meant to have a happy life, and I should just settle with what’s around me. Maybe I’m not so different than people like Wyatt, two squares cut from the same cloth.
Get a grip, Tatum. I did not just compare myself to him.
I wash my hands violently at the sink until the skin is red and raw. The sensitized skin takes my mind off the depressing path it was trailing down. I better get back out there before those two guys wonder what happened to me. Jacoby will probably be waiting with a lecture.
As I walk through the heavy wooden door, I’m startled. Standing directly across from me is Jacoby. His face is blank and impassive, yet he’s watching me with a strange intensity.
“You didn’t have to come looking for me. I know how to use the bathroom by myself.”
He doesn’t reply. Instead, he pushes himself off the wall and takes a measured step towards me. I hold perfectly still, captivated by his suddenly strange demeanor. What is he doing? When I don’t move, Jacoby takes another step, and another, his eyes locked on mine the entire time. Something stirs within my belly as I watch his unhurried approach, and I can’t help sweeping my eyes down his muscular frame.
Suddenly, he’s before me, but he doesn’t stop there. Before I can react, Jacoby threads his large hand into the hair at the back of my neck and walks me backwards until I’m pressed against the door I just came through. His eyes close seconds before he lowers his lips to mine, and something inside me breaks. Whatever wall I had erected to protect myself is now lying in a crumbled heap around me. I’m frozen by the feel of Jacoby’s warm mouth pressed against my own as he brushes his lips back and forth before pulling away.