A Terrible Love

by Eros, Marata

  “Hell girlfriend, aren't you in a titty clamp today!” Carlie cackles as she carefully inspects the tapering at the sides of the square tips. When I don't respond immediately, her eyes raise over the talons of her nails and meet mine. I don't even have the heart to laugh and I fight squirming.

  “So... what's the deal with La Hunk?”

  “The deal is he still wants me.”

  “And you're boinking Cas?” Carlie laughs, rubbing her hands gleefully together as she tears through her nightstand drawer. When she finds what she's looking for she lifts it in the air triumphantly.

  Condoms. “Look,” she waves it around, the dual colored box blurring, “a color for each guy! Damn, girl!” she continues, utterly immune to my gaping mouth, “when you decide to ditch celibacy you do it in style!”

  Her grin slips when she sees my face.

  “God, Jess... I'm sorry!” she runs over and hugs me. “I want two studs to breed me baby! Tell Carlie all about it.”

  So I do.

  I endanger Carlie's life with the truth and we're never the same again.

  We sit silently until a text buzzes and Carlie looks down, expertly tapping out her response with her long nails, they've worn the keys’ colors off now. She refuses to get a smart phone; she fears her nails will wreck the screen.

  Beauty is pain.

  “That was Amber,” Carlie says, her eyes searching mine. “We have time.”

  We look at each other.

  Finally Carlie says, “I feel like my bullshit meter just got busted.”

  “Nope.”

  “You're the Presidential candidate's daughter?” Her eyes bug then she adds, “The one that has been missing for the last two years?”

  I nod.

  She studies me. “I guess I can see it... but here you were, under my nose and I never knew. I mean...” she looks at me again and I flinch at the accusation there. “You could've told me. I mean, hell!” She slaps her hand on the nightstand, the small cosmetic items rattling on the surface. “I'm your friend, Jess.” I watch as the lipstick teeters on the edge then falls on the floor, making a loud clunk.

  “Faith was my friend too,” I say and the first tear climbs out of my eye and runs down my face. It trembles on my chin and wets my hand when it falls. “She was my friend too,” I whisper.

  “Oh, baby... come here,” Carlie says and hauls me against her.

  I cry for a long time and Carlie holds me and I let her because I'm selfish.

  And for the first time in two years I really begin to live. The secret has been killing me. Taking small chunks out of who I am until I wasn't me anymore.

  I was nothing.

  Carlie pulled away. “Jewell Macleod.”

  I nod, swiping the hot trail of sadness away with my hand.

  “Jess... Mackey.” Carlie cocks her head.

  “It's my nickname.”

  “Mackey...” Carlie tries it. Then nods her head, her curly hair bouncing on her shoulders. “Jess just didn't work.”

  I rolled my eyes and she laughed. “You didn't know!” I say and she smiles.

  “Mackey works and I can call you that and no one will be the wiser, right?”

  I deliberate. “Yeah, it should be okay.”

  Then she asks me the worst thing, “Who was Faith?”

  When my lip trembles she throws her hands up in reassurance. “You don't have to...”

  I gulp back the lump in my throat. “No. I want to.” We stare at each other. “Faith deserves it.”

  I tell her and watch as she absorbs the murder of my friend, my hands twisting into knots, loosening then twisting again.

  When the last word drops from my mouth like a time-delay bomb I realize that Carlie will go to the authorities and tell them that I let my best friend die, that I hastened her death through my inaction. That it's time for the MacLeods to reclaim me like a lost prize.

  But she does none of that.

  Carlie is more like Faith than I realize. She clasps my hands to her chest and I feel her heart beat against our twined fingers.

  “She knew, Jess... she knew when she came the risk it could be. You warned her and she came anyway,” Carlie says, her expression full of emotions I can't assimilate, can't own.

  “I knew she would,” I say in a hoarse shout that makes Carlie wince, my grief a raw and untrained thing. My throat convulses from the sheer effort to punish myself by withholding tears that need release.

  “Knowing and doing are two different things, girlfriend,” she says softly, cupping the side of my face with her hand.

  “You need to stop hiding,” she continues, her voice a fierce thing whipping me. “Go to the police, tell them what happened, what you heard.”

  “They let Thad go.”

  Carlie looks at me.

  “I didn't see anything... I just heard, I heard...” I can’t finish, the panic attack had come and set up camp. I tear my hands out of Carlie's and fall to the floor, the breaths wheezing in and out of my tortured chest, my airway a tight tube without a hole.

  “Jesus Jess! What the fuck is it?” Carlie's hands fluttered around me like helpless birds in a cage.

  I count, my palms smacking the wooden floor then I close my eyes, concentrating on my breathing. I count backwards while Carlie tries to give me mouth to mouth and I bat her away.

  “Panic...” I gasp and she lifts her mouth off mine.

  “What?” she screams.

  “Attack...” I say.

  “Oh... you scared the piss out of me. That was a fun little slice,” Carlie says. She sits back on her haunches, hands quaking while her dark eyes regard me, wide and tense in her expressive face.

  I lie there for a second then finally... slowly sit up, taking a deep, lungful as soon as I'm upright.

  “Why?”

  “I don't know... when I think about...”

  “Faith's death,” Carlie says the words I can't.

  I nod. “That night... I can't breathe.”

  “Well, the more we talk about it, the less that's gonna happen, right?”

  I think about it. I don't know. I've never told before.

  Carlie gives me a fierce hug then sets me away from her. “Tell me the rest.”

  I take several calming deep inhales; Carlie does it with me like we're at a labor class for expectant mothers.

  Then I tell the rest.

  I don't have another attack, though I do take several breaks to move through my fear.

  My grief.

  My secrets.

  13

  Our tears soak our mingled hair, dark chestnut spiral curls against my fake dark blonde. When the last of my sadness has echoed in her tight quarters Carlie leans away and we sit there in diminished silence, both feeling wrung out.

  “Well that's a ball-buster,” Carlie says.

  I raise my hand and she gives a wan smile. “Yes, Mackey?” Her brows rise, trying for coy and not quite making it after the heaviness of my revelations.

  “I don't have testicles,” I say in a deadpan voice.

  We bark out laughing and Amber walks in.

  “What'd I miss?” she asks, slamming the door with a hip and flopping on the floor, crossing her legs.

  “Nothing,” I say too quickly and Carlie gives me a sharp look.

  I wonder if she'll tell.

  She doesn't.

  “I was just saying I didn't have a nutsack...” I let the words trail off.

  “Huh,” Amber says, pursing her lips. “I thought you'd stay classy Jess... but you've been hanging around us for too long and you're sliding down the slippery slope of Potty Mouth.”

  “Potty mouth?” I ask.

  Amber begins to expound and Carlie puts up her palm, stopping her mid-comment. “You don't wanna know.”

  “Stay classy, that's all I'm saying!” Amber qualifies.

  “Girls!” I yell and they look at me. “Let's talk about more important matters.”

  “'Let's talk about more important matters',” Amber
parrots me. “What are ya, my mother?”

  “No... but we don't have to talk about balls if we don't want to.”

  “I want to,” Amber says and we laugh.

  And it's alright for now.

  *

  It's been days since I've seen Cas, he came to my “rescue” then disappeared.

  It makes me vaguely uneasy. Where does he go for these mini-vacations? Of course, that falls under Intimacy.

  A thing we've agreed not to exchange.

  One minute he's protecting me and the next he's a ghost.

  I give up, telling myself it's perfect that he doesn't fill my cell with his texts. His declarations of concern, love... romance.

  Questions I don't want to answer. Can't answer.

  I grump through the halls, swinging my backpack out of the way as I travel through the horde of other, zombie-like students. It's almost Friday and we all feel ready for the weekend.

  A bright spot clouds my vision.

  I'd know that dark longish hair anywhere. The broad back faces me, jeans tight in all the right places, worn from use rather than money and I glide quietly up behind Mitch.

  I hear him say something that gives me pause, my steps faltering.

  “No, she's not remotely suspicious...” He nods into the cell.

  Is he talking about me? Or is that my arrogance speaking?

  Then he huffs out a sigh, raking a hand through his hair.

  A habit I found endearing that now makes me think it's more about nerves.

  When anxiety is at its height, people tend to manifest it physically.

  Like my fun little panic attacks when my mind tries to circle that last memory of Faith... and Thad.

  He nods tersely, answering in the affirmative when the caller can't see him. Another hand rakes through his hair. “Soon... I told you, it's not time yet- Chill bro.”

  Mitch lowers his voice. “I know you want it perfect. Me too. How come you think I waited this long...”

  There's a pause as he listens to the caller.

  “Yeah,” Mitch answers. “Stop calling... text instead.”

  He looks at his cell, giving an exasperated shake of his head with a disgusted snort.

  Mitch punches the touchscreen on his smartphone and it falls to inky deadness. He shoves it into his pocket and I instantly try to arrange my features into neutrality. Never an easy thing.

  Mitch's eyes widen when he sees me. A shadow of some emotion I can't name flashes through them and then is gone.

  “Hey Jess,” he says, his smile lighting up his pale eyes with warmth. I can almost see his internal monologue: did she hear that conversation? Or maybe I'm imagining too much.

  “Hey,” I say hesitantly. He comes toward me, wrapping me against him. “I was just going to text you.”

  “Yeah?” I ask, a little breathless, knowing I heard something I shouldn't have. I can't banish the thought that it might be about me.

  Maybe it wasn't. I can't ask, I'd look like a loser with a capital L. One of those nosy chicks that no guy wants to be with.

  “I got something important to do, you want to come with me?”

  I say, “Sure,” before thinking about what it might be.

  We slip out of the campus hand in hand, my bitterness over an aloof Devin Castile slipping away with Mitch's warm hand in mine.

  We get to his car and I drop inside, kicking off my shoes and throwing my feet up on the dash. I curl my sore toes by reflex, always happy to be out of the confines of footwear.

  Mitch slides in, gives a small frown and I lower my legs. “Got to treat the girl with respect,” he says as a joke, but I know he means it. I watch as he gives the dash a stroke with a lover's hand.

  I stay quiet over his weirdness about the car. I guess some guys are touchy with that.

  His strong hand goes to the gearshift and turns the key, the powerful low drone of the engine thrums through the interior of the car. Heat pours from the old venting system. It bathes my feet in liquid warmth and I sigh, curling my toes in spontaneous pleasure for the second time in minutes.

  “They hurt?” Mitch asks when he sees my expression.

  I nod then think of something. While he's backing out I say, “I need to be back by three thirty for dance practice.”

  “Ballet,” he seems to correct me and I give him a puzzled look, the way he says it reminds me of something, a wisp-like memory that slyly evades me; the harder I chase it, the thinner it becomes until I can't find it, though it felt important.

  I huff and sit back against the seat, kinda miffed at myself and my muddled brain.

  Kinda pent up. I can't help but think of Cas and what he could do to ease me and I smile a secret smile. In another man's car. As if Mitch knows I'm thinking of Castile he tears out of the parking lot in a spray of gravel and dirt, my hand automatically latches onto the side handle on the interior door. Mitch grips the wheel, spinning it with expert ease and I watch those long tapered fingers work with finesse, wearing his car instead of driving it.

  “What's going on, Mitch?” I ask. What I really want to ask stays stuck in my throat.

  What 'she' had he been talking about? Why is he pissed and driving like a maniac?

  “You'll see,” he says cryptically and I do.

  In a matter of minutes a cemetery rises up in front of us like the ground vomited it out.

  I think of the last grave I visited. It's like a trigger and I swallow my memories and emotions like the bitter pill they are.

  He can't have known. Mitch has another reason for bringing me here.

  I'm dying to find out.

  We pull into a long black ribbon of asphalt, it twists and twines without end and finally we pull up to a small knoll. He shuts off the car and we get out.

  Round sprays of flowers garishly display themselves as we slowly weave our way to a fresh grave.

  He pauses in front of it, jamming his hands in his pockets.

  My eyes travel to the headstone which reads:

  Tawny Simon

  1990-2012

  Beloved sister

  Beloved daughter

  Interrupted destiny

  It is so painful, so acute, I have to turn away. I grit my teeth against it and turn to watch Mitch, his brows drawn low across those light eyes, the arch of them a perfect picture frame. He looks like a dark angel standing there, the gray Seattle skies perfectly showcasing his coloring while his gaze broods into nowhere and his hands flex inside the denim as if trapped.

  “Who is she?” I ask.

  He turns that blazing gaze on me and I take a step back. “My sister.”

  Mitch turns away and I think about how much it would take to bring me out here to her fresh graveside. The pain that he's kept buried.

  He was trusting me with his sorrow.

  I turn to him and put my arms around his waist. After a moment's hesitation, he puts his around me.

  “She was my half-sister,” he says against my hair.

  I lean back, still safe in his embrace, searching his face so I'll say the right thing. The words that would soothe and affirm rather than harm.

  But he speaks first, “She was whole to me.” His fists clench against my back and he gives a hate filled stare at me.

  Not for me, at me. It's different.

  “She was one of the first last year...”

  The murders.

  That was why he'd been so over the top about getting into my room, why he was so overprotective.

  He takes his arms from around me and grasps my hands.

  Looking into my eyes, Mitch watches me assimilate the intimate confidence. He puts our knotted hands against his chest. “Now you see why I am the way I am?”

  I do.

  It makes me feel even more torn. I have no right to question this man who has just survived the tragedy of his sister getting killed so viciously.

  He gives a small, self-conscious lift of his shoulders and says, “I wanted you to know.”

  I let my head fal
l forward against his chest and he presses my face against the warmth of him. “I'm glad. Thank you for trusting me.”

  We kiss over his sister's grave, his tongue pushing past the barrier of my lips. He's expert, insistent and perfect with his method. A small tingle starts up where my heat lies in wait for the right match to strike.

  It's not enough.

  This man that wants me, he's extended his trust but can't flip that invisible switch.

  I mourn that. Cas isn't right for me but he's the only one that can scratch that unique itch.

  He sure isn't sharing his life's happenings with me.

  It deepens my indecision instead of clarifying my choices.

  And soon it will be a choice. It doesn't matter that Mitch will share me, and Castile won't. One will have to go to make room for the other.

  The kiss breaks like a brittle stick and we walk hand in hand to the car.

  Mitch walks around to the driver's side and slides in. I glance behind me once, expecting to commit to memory the sight of Mitch's lost sibling’s grave.

  Instead, I see Cas standing like a black statue, piercing all the gray around him, an ominous ebony stripe against the pewter sky. I leave the door standing open and run to him.

  “Jess!” I hear Mitch yell and I turn to him. “I'll be right back!” I scream back.

  That prick! How dare he ignore me for days after what we'd done then he reappears when I'm out with his competition? And excuse me! Zero class! He shows up at the graveside of Mitch's sister....

  My opinion of Cas drops further and of course, the one of myself.

  When I turn back to give him a piece of my mind, he's gone.

  I move to where he'd been and see depressions of footprints but nothing else.

  Mitch rushes up next to me. “What is it?” he asks frantically, thinking the sky is falling or we're in mortal danger.

  “I thought I saw someone...” I say as my voice trails off.

  “Who?” Mitch asks with deserved irritation running through his voice.

  “Nobody,” I say and walk away.

  I guess there were such things as ghosts.

  But this ghost was going to give me answers, golden dick or not.