Love Is Strange (I Know... #2)

by Whitney Bianca

  That was what happened when I gave my mother free reign. The last time I'd done that was my high-school graduation party. It'd been so over the top, you might've though I'd graduated with a double phD from Harvard, instead of a run of the mill public high school. My quinceañera was huge as well, but I'd enjoyed it back then. I loved dressing up in a ridiculously expensive and frothy dress and having all the attention on me. I loved dancing with my father in the middle of a ballroom while everyone watched. I'd loved the whole thing. In fact, the pictures were encased in gilt frames and still displayed in the living room. I assumed that my wedding photos would take those hallowed spots on the mantle in a few weeks, and my smiling fifteen-year-old self would be retired to my mother's office or some other less prominent place.

  The pool was calm, as always. The water lapped at the sides, softly and it was comforting. It was hot that afternoon, so hot that sweat prickled on my brow as soon as I stepped out onto the patio. I shut the french doors behind me and the heat deterred anyone from following me, just like I knew it would. I kicked off one of my sandals and dipped my toes into the water, holding my arms out to keep my balance. The water was warm, but still cooler than the air. I told myself I would take a swim later, when everything was quiet again. I would do my laps and finally be able to think. Since I'd been in Dallas, I hadn't had a minute to truly think. There was always somewhere to be, something to do. I still hadn't had time to process Austin. I knew there had to be answers there, but I hadn't had time to figure it out.

  I needed more time, but time was what I never had.

  “Joan?” I heard the small voice call my name and I turned my head slowly, the woozy feeling the champagne had given me finally floating to the surface. The heat was exasperating the effects of the alcohol. I blinked slowly, surprised by who was standing in front of me.

  “Janet,” I said, recognizing Trace's mom immediately. Her hair was darker and she'd aged since I'd last seen her, but the mother of my former fiance was surely standing there in my parents' backyard, mere feet from the patio where her son had bled out. I wondered if she knew how close to the spot she was. She blinked a few times when I said her name then forced a strained smile.

  “You look well,” she said, watching as I pulled my foot out of the water and slid it back into my sandal. “Better than well, actually. You look stunning.” I suppressed the urge to wave her off. Around there, if a girl weighed a buck five and put on a designer dress, everyone thought she was a ten. It didn't matter what my mother put on me, I knew how ugly I was on the inside. My outside just hid it well.

  “I have an expensive dress to fit into,” I said with a laugh that was lighter than I felt. Janet was the last person I wanted to see, but she was here. I blamed my mother for that pity invitation. Worse, she obviously wanted to talk. I hadn't been very good to Trace. I'd almost gotten him killed and then I'd left him when he needed me most. But I'd had needs too. Being with Trace would've been the worst thing for him. Leaving him was the best thing I ever did. That was all that mattered. “I've been on a hell of a diet.”

  “You were always beautiful, Joan,” she said. “From the first time I saw you.” She was staring at me and I didn't like being under the microscope. Especially not under her microscope. “When Trace brought you home, I thought, yup. That's the one. He'd be a fool to let her go.”

  “How is he?” I asked, quickly, like ripping off a band-aid. I didn't want to know, but I also had to know. I didn't think about Trace often, but when I did, it was fondly. I wanted nothing but the best for him, even though Elliot had shattered that hope.

  “Do you care?” she asked, her eyes piercing through me. I felt a trickle of sweat make its way down the side of my face, but I didn't brush it away. I took a quick drink of the champagne and it was still cool. It soothed my throat, but the feeling didn't last.

  “Why would you ask me that,” I said after swallowing. “Of course I care.”

  “He still loved you, despite everything,” she said, taking a step closer.

  “Despite everything?” I asked and I heard my voice spike with emotion. This was not good, I told myself. But I couldn't stop. “I didn't ask for it to happen, Janet. I didn't ask for any of it to happen.”

  “Maybe. But after everything, you only cared about yourself,” she said, her voice shaking. “You didn't ask about him. You didn't call him. You left the goddamn state without telling him.”

  “Yes I did,” I agreed. There was no denying it. I'd been completely consumed in my emotions, my vengefulness, my need to make Elliot pay. Trace had been an afterthought, less than an afterthought. He'd been nothing. “But I had to.”

  “You don't know how long I've been waiting to see you again,” she said, shaking her head. She clasped her hands in front of her trim waist and I knew she was angry. She had a right to be. It was all my fault, after all. “I've thought about it so many times. I thought about how I would call you a heartless bitch to your face. I thought about how I would make you feel terrible for what you did to my boy.”

  “Did you think I would disagree with you?” I said. “Yell at you? Scream?”

  “I don't know.” She dropped her hands to her sides.

  “I think heartless bitch sums it up pretty well,” I said, finally swiping my hand across my forehead. “But I had to be.” I ran my hand through my hair, wishing I had a way to get it off of my neck. “For my own survival.”

  “I don't understand it,” she said but I could see some of the anger leave her face. I didn't care if she understood it. No one ever would, anyway. What had happened to me was something completely out of the realm of a lot of people's understanding. I still don't understand it sometimes and it's been years. “He would've done anything for you.”

  “I didn't want him to,” I said. Maybe the heat and the champagne was messing with my head, but I couldn't lie for once. I was being so honest with her, it was strange. I wasn't used to being honest with anybody. But here I was, in the backyard of my parents' house of all places, telling the truth. “Trace gave me enough. I didn't want anything else from him. I had to go be by myself, away from everybody who loved me. I had to get away from everybody looking at me like I was going to break. I had to heal myself. So I did.”

  “Do you think Trace wouldn't understand that? He of all people would understand,” she said, not able to give up her argument yet.

  “No,” I shook my head lightly. “He wouldn't.” I tossed back the last of the champagne, savoring the bubbly liquid on my tongue. “Right there,” I said, pointing to the spot on the patio. It had been sandblasted multiple times since the incident, but I swore I could still see the blood darkening the stones. I still swore I could see the blood in the cracks. “That's where he almost died.” She gasped and stared at the spot and I knew that she saw what I was seeing. She could see her son collapsed on the ground, blood covering him and splattered on his face, his eyes open wide and unseeing. I stepped closer to her, setting my hand lightly on her shoulder. “He was better off without me, Janet. Believe me.”

  “He would be so angry with me if he knew I was here,” she said, her eyes still glued to the spot. “He doesn't talk about you, ever.”

  “Good,” I said, squeezing her shoulder. I hoped he didn't think about me, either. I wanted her to understand that, even if she couldn't. For some reason, it was important. “How is he? Really?”

  “He's a lot better. He still can't play sports and run around like he used to, but it's a lot better than it was.” She smoothed her lips together and looked at me again. “He's had a girlfriend for a year or so. A cute girl from Waco. She's black.”

  “Oh,” I said, not knowing what, if anything, she wanted me to say to that.

  “They live together. Close to downtown. Far enough away that I can't bother them all the time.”

  “I'm glad for him. For them,” I said, and it was true. “He deserves someone who loves him like he deserves to be loved.” She glanced back at the spot and then back at me and I could tell
she was still shaken up. I didn't blame her. “He deserves to be happy.”

  “Are you happy, Joan?” she asked and it took me by surprise. Since I'd been engaged, no one had asked me that. They'd all just assumed. A ring on your finger and a smile on your face was enough proof. I looked at the pool, the longing for a swim rising in me again. The water was still, barely rippling. There was no wind, nothing to disturb the calm surface.

  “No,” I said, the word slipping out before I could stop it. “But I'm trying.” Janet looked at me and I wondered what, if anything, she was going to say to that. She didn't get the chance, though.

  “There you are!” My mother's voice sliced through the oppressive air. She stood in the doorway, a drink in her hand. Her cheeks were rosy and I could tell she was tipsy or on her way there. “It's almost time for presents, Joanie!” She waved us in, looking twenty years younger in her flowing peach-colored sundress and with her new haircut. Ever since I'd announced the engagement, she seemed to be aging backward. I didn't know if it was Botox or sheer joy. Either way, it was nice to see her smiling and carefree for once. “Janet, your hand looks empty. I think you need a drink,” she laughed, the tinkling sound echoing across the yard. We couldn't resist her urging and the beckoning of the air-conditioning, so we did as she asked. Janet and I didn't finish our conversation, but as I was surrounded later and ripping open present after present, I caught her watching me, her eyes not missing anything.

  I'd be lying if I said it didn't feel nice to have someone in on the secret.

  Just for once.

  Chapter Ten

  The heavy, sweet smell of alcohol hung in the air and it was making me sick. The bar was dark and the air was still and I could barely breathe. I rolled the cold empty glass between my hands, the ice clinking around with each pass. I shouldn't have been drinking and I knew that. When I drink, everything starts to get more dangerous. The world takes on a violent tint. But I was tired of being sober. I was tired of sitting in my shitty empty apartment at night, sober, and thinking about all the things I'd lost.

  It seemed like forever ago when I had something worth caring about. When I had something soft and warm and beautiful all to myself. She smelled good. She could read my mind, sometimes. And she liked me. Maybe she would've loved me eventually. But at that moment, none of that shit mattered. I'd been trying to forget her and most of the time I succeeded. During the days when I was busy on the fishing boats, there was no time to think of anything but the task at hand. But when I was on land, pissing around in my shitty rented room, there was no escape. When I lay on my hard twin bed, I couldn't help but think about being with her. Fucking her. Sleeping next to her. I had to stop myself from destroying every last piece of furniture in my shitty room when those feelings bombarded my brain.

  So I usually ended up at the bar down the block. Life wasn't too different than the way it was in Austin, in that respect. When I was bored or feeling antsy, I would always go down to the Mermaid. Life had been pretty good until the first time I saw her. Then I'd lost myself in bits and pieces. Or maybe this had always been me and she just forced my true self to the surface. Whichever the case, I was doing what came naturally. In Alaska, I found a new bar to frequent and I kept to myself, mostly. Sometimes I played darts with one of the natives that would come in but I wasn't interested in making friends. I was always good at blending in and not sticking out too much.

  The problem that night was that I didn't stop drinking.

  The bar was relatively crowded that night, because three huge ships were at dock. I saw some familiar faces as I stepped inside the bar and took my usual seat at the bar. A game was on the tube tv anchored to the corner and I stared at it but wasn't watching. I tossed back drink after drink, spending my meager paycheck, ignoring the others around me. Well, almost all the others.

  She bad bright, dyed red hair – that was what caught my eye at first. She was loud too, laughing and joking with the group of men she'd walked in with. I didn't notice her much beyond that for the first couple of hours. As the time passed and the bar emptied out and my drinking increased, I started noticing her more and more. I hated her hair, but she was wearing a tight, faded T-shirt and a pair of blue jeans. Her groups of friends was down to two men who were being louder than they were when they were five strong. She was making a show of herself, dancing to the Metallica and Bon Jovi that she played on the juke box. I pulled the cap down lower over my face as she got louder and more insistent.

  Now, it's not like I haven't looked at a woman since Joanie. Women are women and sometimes they look good and sometimes they don't, but I've been hung up on one evil woman for the last five years. There's no seeing past her, not for me. But that doesn't mean my dick doesn't get hard in the morning. That doesn't mean I don't wish for a warm body on top of me or wet mouth working hard at making me come. When I fall asleep at night with my hand wrapped around my cock, I think of her and only her. I try not to think about the bad times, but sometimes I do. Sometimes I think about the first time I fucked her, in that little bathroom at the Mermaid. I still like to think about her fear and how tight she was, even though I know I shouldn't. She wouldn't want me to think of her like that. But I can't help it.

  That cold, lonely night in Portsmouth, I was drunk, no doubt about it. I was trying to force myself to get my ass up off the barstool because my head was hammering. But I didn't want to go home, either. I still had another full day before I had to be back on the boat. The thought of waking up alone again and living that shitty life for another day was starting to fuck with my mind. The need wasn't always that bad. That night, though, the need was unbearable. I told myself to get up and take a piss and walk out the door. I dug in my back pocket and found the crumbled bills. I tossed the two twenties on the bar and then stood. I passed the loud girl and her two friends on the way the men's room but I didn't look at them. I wasn't thinking about them, except to get away from their loudness.

  The pockmarked wooden door to the restroom swung shut behind me and instantly, it's more quiet. The music and laughter was muted and the throbbing in my brain lessened. I stepped the urinal and relieved myself quickly, staring at the wall in front of me. It was painted a dingy, ancient blue but it's also covered with scribbles in markers and etched into the wall with pen knives or keys. My eyes skimmed over the markings, not really reading them or paying attention until my gaze stopped on one. It was a lopsided heart drawn around a hastily scribbled name. Colleen. Underneath was a phone number. I stared at the number for a second longer than I should've. Then I went to the sink and washed my hands quickly. I shoved open the door and stepped out into the dark hallway that lead back to the bar, completely intending to get in my car and leave.

  But I wasn't alone in the hallway.

  The red-haired girl was there too, heading toward me on her way to the ladies', no doubt. Time seemed to slow down. I watched her coming, her hips swinging and her thumb hitched in her belt loop. She has big tits, I realize. They're straining her T-shirt. Even in the shitty lighting, I can see how her body moves. For a split second, she's not a stranger anymore. In this lighting, her hair could be dark. Dark and long. She could be wearing a short jean skirt and blue cowboy boots. She could have long tanned legs and plump pink lips and bright brown eyes. She could be someone completely different. She could be from a different time, a ghost from the past, but live and in the flesh.

  I don't mean to do but I also can't stop myself. I push her into the wall, hard enough to surprise her and knock a bit of the wind out of her. I press my forearm against her throat but I don't apply as much pressure as I could. I just want to catch her off guard. Surprise her. But also, let her know who has the upper-hand. I'm taller than her by almost a head and her body feels different as I step into her. She's soft in different places than what I'm used to. She smelled like beer and the tangy scent of artificial apples, which is not what I was used to. I leaned in and sniffed her hair but it wasn't right. The rush that I got from the attack had already fa
ded. My heartbeat was still erratic, but it wasn't out of control. My breathing was fine and controlled. Normally, I would be happy about that. Being in control of my body would mean that I had conquered my first instincts. My grandpop would've said that I was becoming a better hunter and clap me on the back of the head.

  But the reality was that it was all wrong. If it had been the right kind of prey, my need would've taken over everything and it would've been impossible to stop. I would've craved the violence and the control and the pain and the dominance and everything else, like the heartless hunter that I can be. But on that frigid, lonely night in Portsmouth, I'd lost the bloodlust. I'd lost the passion for the hunt. I'd known for months that I'd lost the best prey, the one who was smarter than me and could evade my traps time and time again. The one who forced me to come up with new ways to win. The drunk girl that smelled like apples was a lamb. The one I really wanted was a wolf.

  I took a step back, dropping my hands to my sides. She scrambled away from me, coughing and holding her throat. “What the fuck, you fucking piece of shit?” she gasped. “Who do you think you are?” I didn't stick around to answer her. I knew I had to get out of there. So I turned and headed for the door, which is what I should've done in the first place. I don't bother kicking myself for acting out of instinct. There's no use in regretting it. The most important thing is that nothing really happened. Joanie would be proud of me, I think.

  I never have gotten used to the sting of the air outside, and that night was no exception. When I left the bar, the cold immediately seeped through my clothes and my skin and settled in my bones. I hunched my shoulders involuntarily and my mood plummeted even more. I hate the cold with every fiber of my being. The cold is a constant distraction and it makes me slow and sluggish. I never would've been blindsided by the punch if it hadn't been for the cold and the wind and the snow that was lightly falling. In Texas, no motherfucker ever would've gotten the heads up on me.