Screw It

by Nicki DeStasi

  He doesn’t even flinch, but instead, he chuckles.

  I keep my bitch mask in place, but internally, my mouth pops open, and I think, Seriously? He’s chuckling at me?

  He cups my jaw and says so tenderly that my teeth ache, “You don’t have to put that hard front up for me. We’re meant for each other.”

  Meant for each other?

  I gawk at him like he’s lost his ever-lovin’ mind—because he has. This has to be a joke. There’s no other explanation. A giggle bubbles up and slips past my lips. This conversation is asinine, and I’m exhausted. Once the seal is broken, I can’t hold back. Another snicker blurts out, and before long, my whole body is shaking.

  His smile falls, and his eyes narrow. Finally, he loosens his arms, and I slide off him. Shaking my head, I walk around my studio apartment and gather my clothes.

  “Why are you laughing? This isn’t funny. I’m serious.”

  My laughter dies, and I turn to him. Without caring about my stark-ass naked body, I glare at him. My hand lands on my hip. “Listen, Ryan—”

  “For God’s sake, it’s Brian.”

  I do remember his name, but I’m pushing him. I flip my hand in the air and keep my tone severe. “I’m not broken, and I don’t need to be fixed. I don’t need a knight in shining fucking armor riding in to save me. I’m not a damsel in distress.”

  He stands. “I—”

  “I like orgasms, and if I wasn’t afraid of spraining my wrist to fuck myself, I probably wouldn’t bother with men at all. I don’t know you, and you sure as shit don’t know me. You may have noticed a few things, but that means nothing.” I chuck his clothes at him, but they fall on the floor at his feet. I pull on my yoga pants. “The rules are clear, and you broke them. We’re done. Get out.”

  He winces. “Becca, you don’t mean that. You’re scared, and I get that, but you can’t tell me our relationship means nothing to you.”

  This guy’s a few beers short of a six-pack.

  After I slip my shirt over my head, I run my palm down my face. I don’t have the energy to deal with his delusions. “I don’t know if you’re deaf or just plain crazy. I’m not interested in a relationship,” I spit the word out like it’s dirty. “When we started this arrangement, I told you in no uncertain terms that there would be no attachment, no love, no anything. Just sex. You broke the rules. We’re done. Get that through your skull.”

  A pang sticks in my chest when his face crumples. I don’t want to hurt him. I’m not that mean, but I don’t have time to date, not now. I have worked too hard and too long to lose focus—again.

  I’m this close to having enough money to open my food truck, so I can make something of myself and prove all those assholes wrong. I have plans, big ones, and nothing will get in my way. I’m a soon-to-be successful, strong, independent woman who has complete control over what she does or doesn’t do.

  I am not my mother.

  His eyes rake over my face and body so long that I squirm inside. Outside, my hand is locked on my bent hip, my face void of anything but annoyance. Finally, he nods once and then heads to the bathroom. He returns, sans condom, and gathers his clothes without a word. Once he’s dressed, he turns to face me. His full lips are pressed thin with what looks like determination.

  He approaches slowly with his hands up as if I’m a cornered cat. I raise my eyebrows and cross my arms over my chest. Those blue eyes try and fail to burn into me as he walks closer. His strong jaw that is peppered with the stubble I love feeling between my legs is set in concrete.

  When he’s in my space, I tilt my head back. At five foot even, I have to tilt my head back a lot, but he’s at least a foot taller than me, maybe more. Lifting his hand, he trails his index finger along my jawline. I roll my eyes. When he bends to place a soft kiss on my forehead, I heave a sigh. It’s nearly three in the morning, and I have to be up in six hours.

  “Brian—”

  He cuts me off with a finger to my lips. Eyes flaring, my jaw tics.

  “Shh…I know you’re scared. I pushed you too hard tonight, and I’m sorry for that. I’ll give you some space to relax, but I’m not giving up on us.”

  He leans down to kiss me lightly on the lips. I let him because he’s agreed to leave, and arguing will only delay that.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he whispers half an inch from my mouth.

  Keeping my silence, I reach over and open the door. After he steps out, he turns around and opens his mouth, but I slam the door in his face.

  My blood still simmering in my veins, I walk to the bathroom to wash up. Between him ruining our arrangement and his implication that he knows me, my heart thumps to the beat of my frustration.

  Brian is a regular at Hole, the trendy dive bar where I work when I’m not waitressing at Mario’s. We’ve had a month of screwing. Simple and uncomplicated, it worked for me. He’d wait until the bar closed, and then he would walk me home in my shitty neighborhood. I’d get off. He’d go home. End of story.

  The sex keeps the loneliness at bay. Leaving out emotions and personal shit lets me stay focused on getting my business off the ground.

  I lost focus once.

  I will never forget my priorities again.

  Someday, I’d like to find love and happiness, but all my life I’ve heard that I’m destined to be a useless whore like my mother. Hearing those condemning words and feeling those condescending eyes day after day, year after year, drive me and give me an unbendable focus to prove everyone wrong.

  Though, in the moments when I think about the what-ifs, I gnaw on my bottom lip. I worry that I wouldn’t know love and happiness if they bit me on the ass.

  The only people I have in my life are Matt—the same cop who was there when my life exploded—and his wife and kids. There are times when I watch them, and my chest squeezes tighter and tighter. Missing my mom strangles me, making me yearn deep into my patchwork soul for the life I never had.

  I spit the toothpaste into the sink and stare at the woman with dark circles under her eyes. When I blink, it’s like my eyeballs are coated in sandpaper. With each scrape of my eyelids, my urge for friendship and love is peeled away.

  If I’m this tired now, what would happen if I dated?

  My arrangements will do for a few more years.

  Reminded that I need to find a new guy, my lips press together. The pulsing in my muscles returns, which annoys me more. I need my sleep.

  Brushing out my mass of red curls, I count to ten slowly. I imagine each of my muscles loosening, the tense sinewy fibers unraveling inch by inch. After shutting off all the lights, I climb into bed. Pulling the covers up to my neck, I burrow into my pillow. I continue my imagery until my whole body is Jell-O. Finally, my mind grows light as I drift into dreamland.

  The room is dark as I stare up at the bottom of the mattress of the top bunk. My heart has been torn out of my chest with a dull spoon. The gaping wound throbs. Three days have passed since my mom died, and I’m finally starting to accept the sad reality that my mom drowned in her own vomit.

  Abby, my roommate, pops her head over the side of the bunk bed to stare down at me. She’s a little older than me and really nice. She also knows the ins and outs of the halfway house where I now live. They call it the Sunny House.

  What a joke.

  Child services takes kids for one reason or another and plops us here overnight or for as long as six months until they can figure out what to do with us. There’s nothing sunny about it.

  Living here is really hard. I’m used to taking care of myself, my mom, and the house. Being told what to eat, when to eat, when to go to bed, what to clean, and when to do my homework is torture. I have no control over anything. I hate that my mom is gone, and I hate this house. I hate life for stripping me of everything.

  “You okay?” Abby asks.

  Another tear slips out. The shredded fragments of my chest rot and fester. I shake my head, unable to speak.

  Abby slips off the top bunk, join
s me in my bed, and wraps her arms around me. I mold myself to her, starving for comfort. The dam breaks. A sob claws up my throat, bursting out of me in a mangled cry. She holds me tightly as my tears fall onto her chest.

  When my tears slow, I sniff and pull back from her.

  Her smile is slight. “I’d tell you that it gets easier, but it doesn’t. But I will tell you, it gets easier to carry the loss.”

  I nod and pray that she’s right.

  “Thanks, Abby.”

  “No problem, Becca.” She squeezes me in her arms one more time.

  I open my mouth to thank her again when her short blonde hair morphs to red and grows longer, curlier. Her once blue eyes change to the same green as mine.

  Mama.

  My tattered heart knits together and soars. My lungs fill for the first time in days. I clutch her to me with all my strength. “Mama.”

  She kisses my head. “Pretty girl.”

  Snuggling into her warmth, I ask, “You’re back?”

  When she doesn’t answer, I peek at her, and the mood in the room shifts. It’s cold, and the air crackles with vile energy that makes my hair stand on end. An evil smile splits across her face. Ice runs through my veins, and goose bumps erupt across my skin. Her body floats from my bed, her once whole figure losing its solid form as she slowly fades. She cackles, the sound laced with menace, and it echoes through the room. With tear-filled wide eyes, I stare at her translucent hovering body.

  “Mama?” I whisper.

  “You’re going to end up just like me—a weak, useless whore,” she sneers, her body vanishing into thin air.

  A scream erupts from my chest and tears from my mouth before I remember where I am. I slap my hand over my mouth. The hairs on my skin stand so rigid that I could break them off like icicles. Air is nowhere to be found as I struggle to heave in oxygen. Wiping at the sweat carving a path down my temple, I count back from ten.

  Ten, nine, eight, seven…

  Breathe in, and breathe out.

  Six, five, four, three…

  Just a dream.

  A fissure cracks through my heart, matching the ones already there.

  When I think of my mom, it’s as if I’m being whipped around in a tornado, ripping me apart with clashing emotions. I think that’s why she turns evil in my dreams sometimes. I loved her, still love her, with my whole heart, but I resent her for raising me in such a shitty environment. I hate that she cared more about the bottle than pulling herself together. I hate that I’m judged constantly because of what she did. The venom I hold for her twists inside me, eating me alive and consuming me. It’s a disease. It’s why I fight so hard to be my own person.

  But I loathe that I hate anything about her. She was my mama, and she loved me like I was the sun and moon. She had me young and did what she had to do to take care of both of us. Although I hate the way she did it, she provided me with food in the fridge and a roof over my head—even though I was the one to cook and clean everything under that roof.

  Once I’m calm enough, I reach over to my nightstand. As carefully as I can, I pull out the most valuable thing I own—my one and only picture of my mama.

  With my other shaking hand, I turn on my bedside lamp. The dim light floods my apartment. The photo is yellowing, and the edges are tattered, but it’s priceless. I trace the contours of her beautiful face with my fingertip and let the image ease the stone in my lungs.

  It’s a picture of her and me when I was about ten. It was a Monday night, and we took a trip to the carnival. She didn’t work Mondays. I guess it was a slow night. We were flat broke, so I only got to ride the Ferris wheel once, but I didn’t care.

  My heart echoes the pure joy I felt. It’s like a phantom limb as I remember sitting beside my mama while we overlooked the city. I cling to every part of that memory, using it to help me through my dark times.

  My mom was tipsy as we walked around. I pointed out the clowns, and when I said they were creepy, she threw her head back, laughing. I memorized that look of happiness on her face. Even at ten, I knew that moment was special.

  I can still smell the buttery popcorn and hear the squeals of laughter. The bright swirling lights had me smiling from ear to ear. I loved every minute of that night.

  We made a pit stop into a photo booth, and this picture of two redheads with bright green eyes and smiling faces popped out.

  I miss her so damn much. Abby was right when she said the pain gets easier to handle but never eases. My heart aches as I look at my mother. She was so young, so full of potential. If only she were stronger…

  What would she look like now? Would she have gotten help? Would she have ever tried to get a nine-to-five?

  I have so many questions I’ll never have the answers to because she’s not here. She’s gone.

  I hate that, too. I know I shouldn’t hate her for an accidental death, but it’s hard not to. I hate her for leaving me all alone.

  A teardrop plops on the worn, old photograph. I swipe it off quickly, afraid that the moisture will damage the picture. Once it’s dry, I run my thumb against her face, the tightness easing from my body.

  I glance at the clock and realize it’s already nine in the morning. It’s time to get up and start my day. After giving my mom a kiss and mouthing, Love you, I carefully tuck the picture away.

  I head to my dresser to throw on my running gear, tuck my pepper spray into my sports bra, and stride out the door for my run. Not only is it my routine, but it also helps me sort out my head.

  As I take the first few steps, I’m thankful for my overbearing foster parents, Joe and Tammy. I hated living there. I loathed their regimented schedule and single-minded stubbornness. They were control freaks. But now that I’m older, I can admit their dictatorship benefited me in some ways. I was lucky. They might have kept a very tight rein, but they cared. They asked about my day and helped with my homework. Even though I could have done without Jeopardy, it was nice to watch TV with someone. They also made sure I went to therapy twice a week for nearly seven years. I sort of worked through the guilt, the anger, and the grief years ago. It was at least more so than I would have without therapy. Because of that, I’m not broken.

  That’s not exactly true. I’m terrified of ending up like my mom. I’m the daughter of a drunken prostitute, and I was raised in a rigid foster home, but I’m in complete control of my life. As far as I’m concerned, that’s an accomplishment. I might have moments of self-doubt, but I allow myself to have those. Letting out the moments of weakness prevents the emotions from building and eventually exploding.

  With each thud beneath my feet, the layers of grief and uncertainty melt off me. One by one, they slide off my skin, and they are left behind. I will take care of myself. I will succeed. I refuse to let anything—whether it is drugs, alcohol, or men—distract me.

  I am not my mother.

  With Run-DMC’s beat blasting in my ears, my feet pound the treadmill with my arms pumping while I take steady breaths—two in, two out.

  When the song ends, I hit the red button, stopping the treadmill, and I turn off the app playing the music. Snagging my T-shirt, I wipe the sweat off my face and then down my bare chest and abs before slinging it around my neck.

  I catch the eyes of a blonde, and she smiles, letting me know she likes what she sees. I get those eyes a lot. I’m six foot one with dark brown hair and light-brown eyes. I’m a regular at the gym, and it shows. I got my strong jaw and nose from my dad and my full lips from my mom. I look good, and I know it. Six years, I used to take advantage of my looks—a lot.

  Then, my brother was shot while protecting his woman.

  After, I took a step back and looked around, and I did not like what I saw—whole lot of pussy, whole lot of playing, but nothing real. So, I decided to find something real. I dated a lot of women, but I haven’t found one I like keeping around. For six years, I’ve been looking and coming up empty. It fucking sucks.

  I let my eyes scan over the woman smiling a
t me. She’s cute—toned, nice smile, bright blue eyes.

  Back in the day, I would have sauntered my ass over there and charmed her number out of her without another thought. Now, I have a blind date with my partner’s wife’s second cousin’s something, something tonight. These days, it’s one woman at a time, so I shoot the blonde a half smile and head to the showers.

  Before I get there, my cell rings, and it says, Matt Calling.

  I hit the screen and put it to my ear. “Yo.”

  “Hey. At the scene of a death. Looks like suicide, but we gotta make sure that’s what it is. Had to sedate the husband ’cause he’s the one who found her, and he lost his shit in a big way.”

  A low buzz hits my chest and pumps through my muscles.

  He goes on, “Did all I could at the scene. On my way back to the station. I’ll meet you there in fifteen and brief you.”

  “Right. See you in fifteen. Later.”

  “Later.”

  After I hit the screen, I stroll to the shower.

  Matt’s my partner. We were assigned to each other earlier this week, but this’ll be my first case. I’m fucking pumped. When we were getting to know each other, he shared about his wife and how they met later in life, and now, they have two little kids. I laid out that I hadn’t had the same luck. He’s felt the same frustration I’m feeling. He got where my head is at.

  He said, “Guys bullshit about not wanting a ball ’n’ chain until they pull their heads outta their asses and realize it’s good to come home to a smiling face and a warm body.”

  I didn’t ask him to, but he talked to his wife who just happened to know someone through someone, so now, I’ve got a date tonight.

  Showering the sweat off my body, I prepare my head for the day. The buzz flowing through my muscles hasn’t dimmed since I got my detective badge last week. I’ve wanted this job since I watched Die Hard with my dad as a kid. Ripping apart a puzzle and piecing it back together to tell the story is all me. It has been since I was a kid. Mom didn’t appreciate that too much when I broke the remote. She seriously didn’t appreciate that time in high school when some asshole stole the dorky kid’s coat, and I tracked the little shit down and beat his ass until he gave it back.