by Hart, Megan
Gabe looked at Janelle, who hesitated, but nodded. “Okay. But we can’t be out here all day, Bennett. I’m sure Gabe has other things to do.”
He did not, as a matter of fact, unless you counted cleaning up after the old man and arguing with him over what to watch on the television. Andy was working until closing, and Gabe had promised to pick him up, but that was hours away. He wasn’t going to tell her that, though.
“I need to set up the cans again, right?” The kid looked at Gabe. Without being told, Bennett made sure the gun was both unloaded and had the safety on before setting it on the card table and running across the clearing toward the railing.
When he was out of earshot, Janelle turned. “I mean it, Gabe. You’re a good teacher. You’re patient, and you know what you’re doing.” She paused, tilting her head to look him over. He hadn’t seen that expression in a long, long time, but he recalled it all too well. “Remember the day you took me out here?”
Gabe busied himself with arranging the ammunition on the table. “Yeah.”
Janelle stepped around the table and pressed her fingertips on the edge of it. “You showed me all those things that you just showed Bennett. It was a long time ago, but I remember a lot of it.”
He looked up at her. “You want to take a crack at it?”
Her slight smile didn’t fool him. She was still looking at him as if she could see right through him. “No, that’s okay.”
The kid was certainly taking his time setting up the next round of cans and bottles, pulling them from the box where everyone dumped their empties, and inspecting each thoroughly before setting it on the railing.
“C’mon, kid, you’re not decorating out there. Set ’em up so you can knock ’em down!”
“Gabe,” Janelle said quietly. “I was thinking about that time when you showed me how to shoot. I’ve been thinking about a lot of things....”
He didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to talk about it. Most of all, he didn’t want her to think about it.
“C’mon, kid! I’ve got stuff to do!”
Bennett turned from his careful arrangements. With a grin, he ran back toward them, slipping in the mud onto one knee. Janelle let out a low groan.
“Bennett. Your clothes...”
“Boys get dirty,” Gabe said. “That’s what they do.”
Janelle looked at him again. This time, she didn’t smile. “Yes. I guess they do.”
FORTY-TWO
Then
MOST OF THE time, Gabe moves like a cat—sleek and silent and sort of ripply. As if he’s full of coiled energy that could burst out at any time. Janelle’s seen him running, fists and feet pumping, and that was what she thinks it might be like if Gabe ever lets himself really go. But not quite.
Mostly, he moves smoothly, but not today. He jitters and paces and jiggles his foot restlessly when he does finally manage to sit on the couch next to her. He shakes it so much the couch’s wooden feet squeak on the floor. At last, she can’t stand it anymore and puts a hand on his knee, pressing his foot down.
“Enough.”
He goes still. Silent and motionless, his gaze fixed on the crappy TV’s snowy picture. She’d only been pretending to watch while she waited for him to push her back against the cushions. Janelle lets her hand travel a little higher on his thigh, her fingers squeezing muscle. She watches his profile, his unblinking stare and the curved-down corner of his mouth. She takes her hand away.
“What the hell’s going on with you, Gabe?”
There’d been that small graduation party at her house. Nothing for Gabe; his dad was such an asshole she’d bet he didn’t even care. She knew what that was like—no matter how much you thought you’d get used to it, you never really could. And even though Nan had made sure Gabe had his own cake, with his name on it, Janelle knew it wasn’t the same.
In a softer, gentler voice, she says, “Are you okay?”
He kisses her.
All the times they’ve fooled around, he’s never kissed her. Janelle’s imagined his mouth on hers a thousand times, maybe more than that. Soft, sweet, slow, hard, fierce, fumbling...a thousand different ways he would kiss her for the first time, and this is nothing like any of them. Gabe takes her face in his hands, holding her still. His lips slide against hers, parting them with his tongue—or maybe she’d gasped with surprise and her mouth was already open. She can’t tell. All she can do is kiss him back.
She’s on his lap before she knows it, straddling him. Her fingers dig into his shoulders. He hasn’t let go of her face. She can’t move away, but doesn’t care, not even when his kiss becomes bruising. She rocks against him, wanting to feel him get hard, and that’s when he breaks the kiss.
Breathing hard, Gabe looks into her eyes. His mouth is wet and open. When he slides his tongue across his lower lip, she imagines him tasting her. The thought is huge and sudden and powerful. They’ve been fooling around for months. He’s made her come, and she’s done the same for him. But this feeling is somehow adult and terrifying.
Janelle pushes back from him a little, but Gabe lets go of her face to grab her upper arms instead, holding her in place. “Hey!”
“Janelle.” His fingers tighten.
Something is so wrong about all of this...and yet it’s Gabe. Gabe, who Janelle thinks loves her, though they’ve never even gone on a date. He has to love her—why else would he look at her the way he does when he thinks she doesn’t see? The way he looks now? She could lose herself in those blue eyes and never find her way out, because Gabe Tierney is nothing if not made of secrets.
She stops struggling. She puts her hands on his face, mirroring him, though her touch is more of a caress. Her thumbs stroke along the edge of his cheekbones. She leans in to kiss him, and at the last second, he turns his face just enough that she’d end up kissing the corner of his mouth if she kept on. She stops. His breath fans over her lips. She doesn’t move away, and when she speaks, her mouth brushes his. It’s nothing like a kiss.
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
He pushes her away, too hard. He goes to the dresser, pulls out a pack of cigarettes. Fumbles with his lighter. Watching him, Janelle thinks she should get up and get out of this room, because whatever’s going on is bad.
Really bad.
His lighter sputters but won’t flame. Gabe mutters a curse. He throws it, just a cheap plastic thing, onto the floor, so hard it cracks and breaks. He grips the dresser, his head down.
Janelle crosses to him, but stands out of his reach. She’s cold, suddenly, in front of the open window, despite a warm spring breeze. Her arms hump with goose pimples, and she rubs them. She says nothing.
Eventually, he turns, still gripping the dresser, to look at her. “Go away.”
“No. Not until you tell me what’s going on.”
Gabe shakes his head. He lets go of the dresser and stalks toward her, but he’s aiming for the bed, not her. He tosses back the pillows and covers, searching. Muttering a curse, he yanks open the nightstand drawer so hard it flies off its rails and the contents scatter on the floor. Coins, miscellaneous junk. No lighter. Gabe curses louder and pounds his fist against the nightstand hard enough to rock the lamp.
She’s seen him angry before. When he and his dad go at it, it’s like watching two bears in a ring, circling, ready to attack. To the jerks at school Gabe always shows a different face, colder and somehow scarier because of that. He doesn’t even have to throw a punch to make people run away. And of course, with his brothers he’s mocking, snide and sneering. A condescending big brother who grabs them in headlocks and rubs their hair to make it stand on end.
Janelle’s never seen him cry, and she thinks that’s what he’s doing when he sinks onto the bed and puts his head in his hands. All she can do is shift from foot to foot and rub at her bare, cold arms. If she takes a step away, will he look up at her? She doesn’t want to see tears. She’s not sure what to think or do or say, or how to feel about the fact that Gabe might really...
need her.
So when she sits beside him, puts her arm around his shoulders, and he turns to press his face into the curve of her neck, Janelle doesn’t think about what to say. Or what to think. She just holds him, and she strokes his hair. When he shudders against her, his face wet and hot, she lets him push her back onto the pillows and climb on top of her.
She lets him kiss her. She lets him touch her. She lets him scrape his teeth along her throat, and that makes her arch up against him in response.
When his mouth finds hers again, the kissing is still so new it shocks her. Kissing, kissing, she pulls his shirt off over his head. Her hands move over his body, exploring the ridges and curves of all the places she’s always admired but never given herself permission to learn. His hand slides over her belly, into her jeans. She undoes the button and the zipper and tips her hips to urge him to move beneath her panties. She unbuckles his belt.
They are naked, arms and legs tangled. All of it feels so good she wants to cry with it, even the pain when he pushes inside her for the first time. When she makes a noise, half startled yelp and half groan, Gabe stops. His hair hangs in front of his face. His arms are corded with muscle as he pushes himself up.
They’re connected. He’s inside her. This is it, this is sex, unexpected and uncomfortable and perfect, because it’s with him. She pulls him closer, makes him kiss her. She hooks her heels over the backs of his thighs and makes him move. It’s nothing like she thought it would be. She thought she wouldn’t like it as much as she does.
He’s still kissing her when he shudders again, though this time not with grief. Her name sighs out against her mouth. She never imagined she might have an orgasm the first time, but that pleasure explodes through her at the sound of him saying her name, because that means something. It means he’s with her, not some random girl. He’s with her. She let him start this, but they finish it together.
Breathing hard, not sure what to say, Janelle stares at the ceiling when Gabe rolls off to lie beside her. Their heads are very close on the pillow. He’s not twitching or jittering anymore. Gabe’s gone smooth and silent again.
Janelle links their fingers. She’s not cold anymore. She fits next to him just right, the hollow of her hip matched perfectly to the jut of his. She doesn’t look at him, but studies the ceiling. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
After another minute, he sits and bends to fumble with the mess on the floor, cursing again when he finds no lighter. Janelle gets up, finds her inside-out jeans. She pulls her father’s Zippo from her pocket and hands it to Gabe. He lights his cigarette and offers her one, but she shakes her head. When he tries to hand her back the lighter, Janelle curls his fingers around it. She cups both her hands over his. Giving it to him.
They sit that way for a minute, before Gabe says, “I can’t ask you. I was going to, I thought it would work, it would be the right thing. But I can’t—”
She stops his words with a kiss. “Ask me.”
He shakes his head. She kisses him again, longer this time. When she breaks it, she looks into his eyes.
“Ask me, Gabe.”
“I can’t.”
“What is it? A favor?”
“Yes.” It’s not, it’s so much more than that, but she won’t know that until later.
Janelle rests her head on his shoulder. “Whatever it is, are you afraid I’ll say no?”
Gabe shakes his head. “I’m afraid you’ll say yes.”
Which of course, she does.
FORTY-THREE
NAN FOUGHT SLEEP the way Bennett had as a toddler. First, she called out for a new book, complaining she didn’t like the one she had. Then she wanted a drink of water. Next, the toilet, which was better than if she’d been unable to make it, but meant Janelle had to haul her up and out of bed, and walk her to the bathroom, then wait while she finished. Then Nan wanted to see if the mail had arrived, and if there were any bills that needed to be paid. If the newspaper had been delivered. She insisted on heading for the living room to check the front door.
Janelle said, exasperated, “Nan, if you don’t want to take a nap, nobody says you have to.”
Her grandmother turned, shuffling, her shoulders hunched. “No?”
“No.” Janelle shook her head and shrugged. “If you’re tired, you should sleep. If you’re not tired...don’t sleep.”
Nan blinked rapidly, her lower lip trembling. “But I am tired, honey. I’m so tired.”
That made sense, since she’d been up several times last night. Janelle was tired, too. She sighed and gestured toward the hall. “So...sleep.”
“But I—” Nan broke off and gave an embarrassed laugh. “I’m being a cranky old fool. That’s all.”
Janelle found a smile beyond her own need for a nap and the ache in her back and shoulder, beyond the creeping edge of anxiety about the three loads of laundry she needed to get to, and the fact that Bennett hadn’t brought home his last math test. Beyond even the unpaid bills she hadn’t shown Nan because they would only get her worked up about the cost of electricity.
The soft thump of the newspaper being delivered at the front door caught Nan’s attention. “Ricky?”
Janelle froze. “What?”
Nan shook her head and pressed a hand to her eyes. “Oh. No, never mind, honey. I was thinking about something else, that’s all. About your dad.”
“What about him?” Janelle went to her grandmother to hook a hand beneath her elbow. “C’mon. If you don’t want to go to bed, at least come sit on the couch.”
In the family room, settled not on the couch but in the recliner, with her feet up and the remote close by, her legs covered with an afghan, Nan shook her head again. “He just came into my mind, that’s all.”
Janelle had faced her grandmother while high on pot and more than a little drunk, after sneaking out of a boy’s room where she’d spent hours using her hands and mouth to give him pleasure. Thinking about how she’d blocked her dad’s number, she felt guiltier now than she ever had any of those times. But he deserved it, she thought fiercely. Just as Nan did not deserve to be disappointed once again by her prodigal son.
“He was a terrible father,” Nan said.
Janelle coughed into her fist. “Nan.”
“It’s true. No matter what I did, no matter how I raised him, he never quite got the hang of it. That’s all. I think he wanted to,” Nan said thoughtfully. “I’m sure he did. But he never really managed.”
“No. He didn’t.” Janelle took a shallow breath, old anger sweeping over her though she tried to push it aside.
“I’m going to watch a program now.”
“Okay, Nan.” Janelle made sure the volume was set to the right level, and went into the kitchen to pour herself a mug of coffee. She needed the caffeine.
Then
“Nectar of the gods, Janny.” Her father’s voice is gruff, his eyes smeary with sleep, his hair a mess. He stinks like smoke and BO. He holds up the mug, sloshing the black liquid, and shows her how to add a lot of sugar and some cream. “Here.”
He pours a little into her mug, and Janelle sips it cautiously. The smell is good. The taste, not so much. She’d have preferred a soda, but when the waitress came, her dad ordered her a coffee. Eggs, toast, pancakes, bacon. Orange juice. You don’t drink soda for breakfast, anyway. Janelle sips again, letting the flavor flow over her tongue.
“You don’t like it now, but you will.” Her dad holds up his mug for her to clink against in a toast.
The fourth or fifth sip goes down much nicer. By the time the eggs and toast come, Janelle holds out her mug for a refill, and her dad laughs, shaking his head, but he gives her one. He winks and smiles at the waitress, who doesn’t seem to like him very much. Janelle understands. Dad thinks he’s being charming and funny, but he looks kind of like a bum.
“Coffee ain’t good for kids,” the waitress says in a flat voice, her eyes skimming over Janelle’s
mismatched clothes, all she had left that was clean. Over her bushy, uncombed hair. The waitress puts the check on the table, facedown, close to Daddy, then goes away.
“You drink up, Janny,” her dad says.
Later, when she feels every color is too bright, all the noises too loud, when everything is sharp and clear and there’s a ringing in her head and her stomach’s sort of sick, her dad laughs and watches her jump from the couch to the chair to the couch again. He laughs and laughs until she underestimates the distance and leaps, arms and legs spread, mouth wide open in a victory yell, but misses. Goes down. Her leg is cut open, blood everywhere, requiring a trip to the emergency room for stitches.
Her dad takes her, leg all bandaged, to a local carnival, where he gives her dime after dime to try and win a goldfish, a glass plate, a mug in the ring toss. He buys her the wristband so she can ride the rides, although after the first spinny one her head hurts too bad and she can’t ride anymore. Then her dad gets mad because he wasted the money, and he takes her back to her mom two days early.
* * *
That was the price she’d paid for her dad being her friend instead of her parent. She still had the scar, though it had faded over time. Not all of them had.
She moved through the house, clearing clutter. Tidying. She found Bennett’s backpack, still overflowing with miscellaneous garbage and papers, though most of them were corralled inside an accordion folder. She found a handful of test papers, emblazoned with red, and pulled them out, already gritting her teeth. Ready to bring the hammer down.
They were math tests, yes, but each had been given a B, with extra credit problems on the back applied to his overall grade. He wasn’t going to finish the year with a math grade higher than a C, even with these tests, but at least he was improving. The question was, why hadn’t he shown her the work, the way they’d both agreed?
She peeked in on Nan, who was finally dozing. From upstairs she heard the faint noise of Bennett’s video game. Lots of shooting and screaming. She’d checked it out ahead of time, of course, so either she was the best mom ever for letting him get it, or the worst. She climbed the stairs, pausing in the doorway to watch him. Her golden-haired son. Though getting him to do his homework was still a struggle, the tests in her hand proved he was at least making more of an effort. He’d been invited to a birthday party and had invited that same friend over to work on a school project, two occasions Janelle had let pass without more than the briefest comment, aware of how he might react if she made too much of it. Too aware of how he’d accused her of not wanting him to grow up, of never trusting him. Of being too strict.