Closer (Closer #1)

by Mary Elizabeth

  “You don’t need that shit,” he says, leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom. A beer bottle dripping with condensation hangs from between his pointer and middle finger at his side.

  “We’re going to be in public. With other people.” I make clear as I pour my makeup bag onto the small counter. Concealer and tubes of lipstick clutter the tiled surface.

  “It’s dark, and everyone’s high in Venice, anyway. You’ll blend in.”

  I breathe flames after every sip from the small bottle of peppery liquor. The tips of my fingers go numb, and my skin tingles wonderfully as the warm liquid sits in my stomach. A sense of weightlessness has me light on my feet and cheerful beyond control as Teller leads me toward the beach by my hand, past boys on long boards, girls with temporary tattoos, and cops on bicycles.

  The sticky salty air smells like marijuana and shoddy cigarettes. A thin cloud of smoke hovers above the orange-lit boardwalk. Street performers earn dollar bills by hammering drumbeats on the bottoms of buckets and juggling fire. Another man walks on broken glass, and a young homeless girl plays a harmonica.

  “Give her some money,” I say, tugging on Teller’s plain white T-shirt when I make eye contact with the music maker.

  He drops a few bucks into her guitar case lined with purple velvet and guides me swiftly past the other entertainers before I give away his fortune. We run past masterpieces painted on the sides of buildings, through the palm trees and grass, onto the sand where the ocean sings a calming lullaby as small whitecaps crash onto the shore. Teller kicks off his shoes and helps me with mine as it becomes very apparent he handles booze better than I do.

  “Are you drunk?” he asks, folding the hem of my jeans up toward my knees.

  I stumble back, grabbing his shoulders to keep from falling on my bottom. “No.”

  Barefoot and ankle deep in the cold sand, Teller unscrews the bottle of whiskey and tilts the brim of smooth glass to my lips. Moonlight reflects off his eyes, and I can’t look away as thick liquid pools in my mouth. It doesn’t burn as much as it did the first, second, and third time. I swallow without flinching, but not without a drop trickling down my chin.

  Teller licks it off.

  He takes a swig from the bottle, drinking more in one gulp than I have since he cracked the seal. With liquor-wet lips and booze-brave sureness, bad intentions holds me against his body and lowers his face close to mine. The woodsy aroma of malt from our mingled breath has me spinning, and the awareness of our hearts beating so close together fades the rest of the world to black.

  “Are you going to kiss me?” I ask, turning my gaze to his lips.

  “Yeah,” he breathes.

  Heavy eyelids slowly shut as he leans in, holding me tighter, causing a blast of warmth to explode through my body, returning sensation to my unfeeling fingertips and balance to my unsteady legs.

  But numbness and unsteadiness return with a vengeance as Teller’s eyes suddenly shoot wide open and he jumps back, kicking sand, scaring me, and angering our party crasher. The black and white pest crawls between our feet with its tail up, already emitting the stomach-turning scent of garlic and sulfur.

  “Don’t make any sudden movements,” Teller says as he takes a tentative step away. His hands are up in surrender, like the skunk gives a shit about compliance.

  “Since when are there skunks on the beach?” I hiss through gritted teeth. The animal’s tail brushes along my bare ankle.

  I’m a statue. I’m marble. I’m titanium.

  Teller chuckles, steadily putting distance between us. “Since the beginning of time.”

  “This is why I don’t leave my apartment.” My heartbeat slows as the beast wobbles by. I don’t move a muscle until it’s a foot away. “All I wanted to do tonight is watch a movie and—”

  “Ella, stay still!” Teller yells, but it’s too late for me.

  The skunk showers me in spray, and I fracture the night with my anguish.

  “Just … stay there.” Teller covers his nose in the bend of his elbow while hovering outside the bathroom door.

  “Should I turn the water on?” I ask, standing in the middle of the empty bathtub. Alligator tears leave my face tacky, and my teeth chatter. “It’ll wash off, right?”

  Teller does his best to stand straight, resting his hands on his hips like the odor staining my skin doesn’t burn his sinuses. I watch his green eyes turn glassy and his face go red from lack of oxygen. Left with no other choice but to inhale, he loses all composure and gags, doubling over.

  “No, we need something stronger.” He coughs, concealing his nose and mouth again before darting away. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Where are you going?” I call out. My voice echoes off the shower walls.

  I can hear him as he opens and closes cabinets and drawers in the kitchen while I strip off contaminated clothes, throwing them on the floor with every intention of sacrificing them to the fire gods later. After the skunk showered my feet and ankles in spray, I ran to the ocean looking for relief between the waves. But polluted saltwater only intensified the dank smell, leaving me wet, reeking, and with sand in my underwear.

  “There’s a reason no one goes in that water,” Teller said as he maintained at least six feet between us on the walk back to my place.

  Under the dim yellow light from an exposed light bulb above the bathroom mirror, I avoid my reflection and weep in a pair of black underwear and mismatching white bra. Goose bumps kiss my exposed flesh, and I stink so badly, my own stomach begins to turn.

  “What is that smell, Gabriella?” Emerson appears in the doorway, falling back and pulling the neck of his shirt over his nose after he’s taken a whiff of me.

  “Oh my God,” Nicolette mimics my brother.

  “Don’t worry,” Teller says, pushing past them. “Husher got sprayed by a skunk when we were in high school. I know what to do.”

  “Oh, thank God,” I rejoice.

  “You’ll thank me for this later,” he says, stepping into the bathroom with one hand behind his back.

  “What are you going to do?” I know by the curve of his lips I’m going to be sorry I wanted to know.

  I’m right.

  Only when Teller finally shows me what he’s hiding, there’s no time to be sorry. There’s no time to scream, or run, or duck for cover. There’s nothing more I can do but stand in the tub as thick red tomato sauce sails from the tin can in Teller’s hand through the three feet of space between us. I lift my arms up to protect my face, but it splatters across my chest, neck, and face, and seeps into my mouth.

  “What the hell!” I shriek, coated in sauciness.

  “Calm down, Smella.” Teller laughs at the clever name he’s given me.

  “The skunk didn’t spray me in the face, asshole.” I spit the bitterness out of my mouth.

  “You’re right.” He turns toward my brother and Nicolette. “We’re going to need more tomato sauce.”

  Now

  “Come on. I don’t want to fight with Joe tonight,” I whisper with a smile, attempting to push Teller back with no such luck. “You know how he gets.”

  Caged between his arms on this sultry summer night in Echo Park, under city-dim stars and a full moon, white light gleams off his licked wet lips and drunk-hooded green eyes. Teller’s cool breath smells like brew and peppermint as it drifts across my face, competing with the woodsy smell of his cologne lingering on his shirt, deepened by the humidity in the air, for my undivided attention.

  “My house. My girl. My way. Joe can fuck off,” drunk and disorderly says. He dips down and brushes his nose along my jaw. “We need to talk tonight.”

  I surrender to the pleasant tightness in my chest for a moment and lean against the brown stucco, inhaling until my lungs object. Like a drug, I’m weightless. Like a drug, I’m riddled with guilt. “I’m not your girl, Tell.”

  He groans against the pulse point at my throat and pushes himself away from the house, away from me. My heart reaches for him with gr
abby hands and desperation to beat that heavy drum it only thumps for Teller Reddy, but I keep my feet planted and my back against the wall. Seven years have passed since the day we met—eighty-four months of breaking boundaries; two thousand five hundred fifty-five days of trying to crisp blurred lines; eight thousand seven hundred sixty hours of disorderly conduct to finally realize we’re better as friends—but the blaze between us remains the same.

  This spark.

  This live wire.

  This slow burn.

  “Not my girl,” Teller repeats the words unbelievably. He steps to the right and reaches into the ice bucket that sits beside the massive sliding glass window and retrieves a cold beer. He offers it to me, but I’ve had enough. After shaking the excess water from the bottle, he pops the top and takes a long swig. “You’ll never not be mine, Ella.”

  Behind him, inside the house Teller bought a year ago, draped by pale yellow light from the kitchen and safe from this midsummer’s heat, are our family and friends on each side of the long wooden table playing beer pong. It’s Friday night, and like most Fridays after a long week, we come together to decompress, get drunk, and catch up. Most of the time it’s uneventful and predictable, but some of the time the situation between the homeowner and me gets … complicated.

  With a drink in his hand and an arm slung over Nicolette’s shoulders, my brother narrows his eyes, searching for me past the glare the kitchen lights reflect off the glass. I turn away before he can see me and realize this evening might turn out like those complex ones. Emerson’s witnessed countless complexes between Teller and me. Now he can tell by the look on our faces when things are about to go bad. They all can.

  “Can we not do this? Joe and Kristy are in there…”

  “Kristy wants to move in,” Teller says before I can finish.

  Bent over the table, ready to jet a ping-pong ball toward the beer-filled cups at the opposite end, is his girlfriend, Kristi Reinhart. Her sand-colored hair sweeps along her exposed lower back, and when she makes her shot, she jumps up and down in delight.

  He met the big-busted, tall blonde a year ago while he pumped gas in my G-Wagen. She was at the pump beside ours and couldn’t figure out how to get the gas cap open, helpless as she was. While I sat in the passenger seat of my Mercedes, stirring over whatever we were fighting about that day, Teller introduced himself to the next girl he’d fall in love with.

  There was nothing I could do. I was already with Joseph.

  “What did you say?” Anger stiffens my tone, intensified by alcohol thinning my blood.

  “I told her I needed to think about it.”

  “Really?” I push away from the house, unsteady on my feet after drinking three beers on an empty stomach. “That’s something you need to think about?”

  Tall palm trees rustle in the slight California breeze, and water spilling from the hot tub to the pool trickles above the sound of crickets in the bushes bordering the backyard. Echoes of exhilaration flourish from the house; Maby’s voice is an octave higher than everyone else’s when the song changes to one she loves. She dances alone, drunk in love with the hypnotizing beat and blues-like lyrics.

  Her happiness means nothing to me as I zero in on Teller. A temper only this person and our history can rouse simmers beneath my skin, roasting to a boil. I shove his arm, and the beer bottle falls from his grip, shattering on the slate flooring.

  “Are you ready to do this now?” He turns to me. The loaded question thickens the air between us until I choke on his words and look away. “I didn’t fucking think so, because anytime I want to talk about us, Gabriella, you shut down. It’s been this way for the last seven years.”

  “That’s not true,” I argue, tasting the bitter lie in my mouth.

  Teller closes the distance between us and cradles my face between his hands. Our bodies press together, leaving no space for more than erratic heartbeats and unsure exhales. His thumbs caress the curve of my cheekbones, and his eyes are absorbed on my lips. I lick them, hoping the intensity of his stare has a taste.

  “Tell me not to let her move in. Say the words and we’ll figure out the rest later. Say it, Ella.” He rests his forehead against mine and blinks slowly.

  I grip his wrists and lift onto my toes, forever trying to get through the barriers of skin and bones and gravity and relativity, hoping to find answers by crawling inside of him and mending our everythings. Teller pushes back until I’m against the wall once more and all it would take is the tilt of my head for our lips to touch.

  “Come on, Smella,” he says playfully, breathlessly. “Say it.”

  Releasing my hold on his wrists, I take the front of his shirt in my fist, like I’ve done so many times before in both rage and fascination, and urge him closer. Everything tingles, from the very tips of my ears to my bare feet, and the world melts away when the scent of ginger and nicotine is this near. A blanket of warmth envelops me, moving through my body like a slow wave, and pressure that should not belong to him builds between my legs. It makes it easy to forget how bad we are together. It makes it easy to wish for history to repeat itself.

  The words he wants teeter on the tip of my tongue when the back door suddenly slides open and Teller’s sister clears her throat, propelling us back into the real world.

  “Why is there glass everywhere?” She bends down to pick up the biggest pieces, placing them carefully in the cup of her hand. “You guys might want to get inside before someone comes out here and sees this.”

  Teller doesn’t move right away, but when I let go of his shirt and drop my hands to my sides, he pushes himself back and winks condescendingly before turning toward the house.

  “Leave it, Maby,” he says, crushing glass beneath his shoes as he walks by.

  With a handful of dark-colored shards, turmoil’s sister motions for me to step around unseen splinters of glass to come inside. She follows behind. “Is everything okay?”

  “I need a drink,” I reply.

  A direct contrast from the temperature outside, ice-cold processed air bites my hot skin, giving me goose bumps and cooling sweat that’s dampened my hairline. I can smell the heat on my skin and on my clothes, a mixture of chlorine and sweat and day old dry shampoo. Walking directly to the kitchen bar, I pour myself a shot of tequila and shoot it, not bothering with a chaser. I’m pouring a second, cutting Teller’s throat with my sharp glare as Kristi hugs him from behind, kissing his neck, when Joe takes the golden liquid from my hand.

  “Are you ready to go?” The Brooklyn born boy drops my shot glass into the sink, so I pick up the bottle and bring it to my lips.

  Joe.

  Joseph.

  Dr. West.

  Stumbling in love with him was an accident, but not completely unwelcome. Teller introduced me to his reserved, curly-haired classmate during a time when my life and relationships were whirling completely out of control. Everything felt like pandemonium, but Joe was harmony. When I thought I was going to lose my mind between school and the are-we, aren’t-we with Teller, the New York kid with the New York swagger offered solace. Being around him quieted the chaos to a low hum. It was so addicting, I found myself seeking him out when I needed a break from the noise.

  Teller must have felt the same way, because an unlikely friendship formed between the two and survived the hit it suffered when we started dating. They went through medical school together, and now they’re doing their residency at the same hospital I work at. Joe wants to break into oncology, while Teller sticks with emergency medicine.

  “Joe, it’s not even midnight.” I attempt to take another drink, but he confiscates the bottle.

  “Don’t you have to be at the hospital tomorrow, Nurse Mason?” he teases, leading me away from the bar. He sits on a chair and pulls me onto his lap.

  “Please, don’t remind me.” I drop my head back to his shoulder and close my eyes as fiery liquid spreads from my stomach to my limbs. I’ve given him a hundred reasons to leave me in the two years since we’ve m
ade it official, but kindness continues to stand by me for some reason, writing love letters and surprising me with flowers. I don’t hate him for it.

  The rise and fall of his chest against my back is spellbinding. Searching for enchantment’s pulse, I turn my head into his neck until my lips find what they’re searching for at the base of his throat. The steady rhythm of his heart pumping blood to the rest of his body calms my erratic beat, and slowly, one muscle at a time, I relax in his arms as the bare tips of my toes brush across the tile floor.

  Lazily blinking, I look at Joe from under my long lashes and smile when I find him looking back with eyes that I’ve always thought were a little too big for his face. His curly hair is a mop on top of his head and overgrown around his ears. And his lips, perfectly proportioned above a small chin, have done wonders on every inch of my body.

  “Let’s go,” I whisper. The thought of crawling in bed beside him sounds better than tequila.

  The sudden rush of conversation, laughter, and music hits me as I sit up. Husher somehow lost the last ping-pong ball, so now no one can play, to my brother’s and Nicolette’s dismay. Maby’s still dancing in the corner with a red cup in her hand and the lyrics on her lips, and Teller pops open what he announces is the last beer.

  “What do we have left?” my brother asks, approaching the bar.

  Teller lifts the half bottle of tequila I drank from and says, “This is it.”

  Emerson searches his pockets for car keys, turning around to search counter and tabletops when he comes up empty. “I can go for a beer run, but does anyone know where my keys are?”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Nicolette says, swinging the keys to his Jeep from her pointer finger before capturing them in her hand and shoving them into her back pocket. “You’ve had way too much to drink.”

  My brother’s about to protest when Husher presents his set of keys. “I’ve only had a couple. I can go.”