Honeysuckle Love

by S. Walden

  ***

  Evan stayed late into the night. Beatrice went to bed earlier, exhausted from the constant exhilaration of new presents. There weren’t that many, but they were thoughtful gifts from Clara and Evan that made her happy. Too happy. She couldn’t keep up with the high from her happiness and eventually passed out on the couch. Evan carried her to bed and tucked her in, then joined Clara once more in the living room.

  “Did you have a nice Christmas, Clara?” he asked putting his arm around her. She nestled closely, resting her head on his shoulder.

  “Mmhmm,” she said lazily. She felt tired and content. “You?”

  “Well, any Christmas I get to spend with you is bound to be nice,” Evan replied. He kissed the top of her head. “More than nice.”

  “I feel guilty for taking you away from your family this evening,” Clara said softly.

  “Why? Our Christmas is usually over by four anyway. I told you that.”

  “I know, but still. It was an all-day affair in our house. We spent the entire day together,” Clara said. “Well, before . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  Evan kissed her again and rested his cheek on her head.

  “Did you really like my cooking?” Clara asked after a moment. She turned her face to nuzzle his neck.

  “Oh, I didn’t tell you I was packing you up with me when I go to college? Because I am. You’re going to cook for me while I’m there,” he said.

  She giggled into his neck experiencing a sense of security she had not felt for a long time. And then it was over in an instant as a new thought occurred to her.

  “Where are you going to college?” she asked.

  “I really don’t know,” was his reply. “How about we not worry about that.” He didn’t pose it as a question.

  She stared into the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree, dotting the back of her eyes and confusing her focus. Everything turned yellow, a disorienting glow, and her vision blurred.

  “You’re going to go away, aren’t you?” she asked, the sob catching in her throat. She cursed silently, unaware that the sob was there until it was too late.

  “Clara,” Evan said gently. He tried to pull her away from him to make her look at his face, but she buried her face in his neck, shaking her head back and forth.

  He truly didn’t know what his future held, but he knew he wanted her in it. He couldn’t promise her that it wouldn’t be difficult for them, but he thought for now he should lie to her, make her believe that it would be easy. He knew three people who had already left her. Three people who meant the world to her, and while he didn’t dare kid himself that she thought of him that way, he hoped she did. She needed to hear him say it, that he wouldn’t go away. Even if he knew he would.

  “I’m not going anywhere, Clara.” He heard the lie slip out of his mouth. It tasted like mild wickedness, a little kind of evil that appears insignificant at the moment, but grows into something monstrous in the future, a great big wrecking ball of betrayal. He thought he should only say such a bad thing on a holiday like Halloween and not Christmas. “Will you look at me?”

  Clara lifted her face reluctantly, and he stared down into her watery eyes. He didn’t know what to do, so he kissed her. She drew back, but he only pressed his lips to her harder. He wanted to erase what he said, thought that he could wipe the lie from his mouth with her lips. And then he panicked that she would swallow it, that it would plant an evil seed inside of her, and she would hate him forever. He wrenched himself away from her at the frightening thought.

  She sat confused for only a moment. And then she lunged at him. She kissed him feverishly, desperately, and he knew the lie had already latched itself deep inside her belly, turning her into a little wicked flame. She burned his lips with that flame, the force of her kiss, and he knew she meant to make him pay for putting the lie in her, tricking her into believing it, if only for a moment.

  She trembled as she climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, sucking his lips hard, squirming to get herself inside of him. He twisted his fingers in her hair, trying to get some form of control over her, trying to pull her back to tell her he was sorry. She gave him an opening as she stilled, her lips gently pressed to his but no longer kissing him.

  “I’m sorry!” he blurted. “I won’t do it again.”

  His words reverberated in her mouth, and she swallowed them.

  “Don’t ever put your lies in me, Evan,” Clara said. “Or if you do, make them believable.”

  Chapter 17

  Christmas seemed like a faraway dream, a distant, fading jingle into black night. Silence descended as thick white dust, spreading and blanketing the earth, muting even the birds in the trees that no longer had a song to sing. Clara tried to conjure Beatrice’s Switzerland tune; she thought she could teach the birds and give them their music back, but she couldn’t remember it. It slid out of her once the chill set in.

  She trudged through the thick snow, her boots making squish squash sounds all the way to the front door. She held the envelope in her gloved hand, afraid to open it but knowing she had no choice. She stood on the porch staring at the door. She couldn’t go in until she rearranged her face, plastered the smile and widened her eyes to a cheery hopefulness. She had to do that for Beatrice.

  She took off her right glove and stared at her hand. She watched it move to the door handle, then grip it hard, feeling the shock of cold shoot into her fingers. They begged her to let go, but she needed to punish herself a little longer. She felt the cold travel angrily up her arm, through her chest and into her face. It made the back of her eyes ache, and then she felt it in her nose before the liquid began to ooze.

  I should wipe my nose, she thought. But she didn’t. It wasn’t important.

  She pushed through the door and felt the instant warmth. She almost thought it was too warm and turned to Beatrice who was sitting at the kitchen table to ask if she adjusted the heat.

  “No, Clara,” Beatrice said. “And your nose is running.”

  “Is it?” Clara plopped her bags on the floor and walked to the kitchen. She had a stupid smile slapped across her face and wondered if Beatrice was clever enough to realize it was fake. She dropped the mail on the counter and searched for a letter opener.

  “Clara, your nose is still running,” Beatrice observed. She had been watching her sister the whole time.

  “Well, get me a tissue.”

  Beatrice disappeared to the bathroom and returned with a wadded bit of toilet paper.

  “Thank you,” Clara said, and finally wiped her nose. “Where’s the letter opener?”

  Beatrice looked at her perplexed. “Huh?”

  “You know, the letter opener. It looks like a small sword,” Clara explained, still smiling.

  “Clara, we’ve never had a letter opener. You just use your fingers,” Beatrice replied. She eyed her sister warily, wishing she would stop smiling that way.

  “I’d like one,” Clara said. She continued rifling through the drawers.

  “Why do you need a letter opener, Clara?”

  Clara stopped rifling and turned to her sister. “Isn’t it obvious, Beatrice? I’d like to open the mail with it,” she said, the smile gone.

  And then the murky sludge sloshing about in the bottom of her heart bubbled over, threatening to coat all of her insides with meanness and madness.

  “I don’t understand why we just can’t have a fucking letter opener in this fucking house so that I can open the fucking mail!” She looked at Beatrice. “You know what I’m saying? I’m just asking for a fucking letter opener. Is that too fucking much to ask for? A fucking letter opener? Because I don’t think it’s too much. But what the fuck do I know?”

  “I’ll find it for you, Clara,” Beatrice said carefully. “Go take your coat and gloves and stuff off, and I’ll find you the letter opener.”

  She watched as Clara went to the front closet and hung her coat. It seemed a laborious task for her, every movement in slow motion, and Beatri
ce thought it was a good time to call. She could leave Clara alone at the closet knowing Clara would still be there taking off her winter gear when she returned.

  She snuck into the laundry room and closed the door.

  “Hi Evan,” Beatrice whispered into her cell phone. “Are you busy? Do you think you could come over?”

  ***

  “I’m fine,” Clara snapped, and then looked at her sister. She tried again. “Bea, I’m fine,” she said gently.

  Evan sat beside his girlfriend thoroughly assessing her. She was visibly agitated, sitting with her body closed up tightly, arms and legs wrapped in what looked like a leftover holiday present that somebody decided not to give because it was a bad one. He tried to open her carefully with sweet soothing words, but her arms stayed wrapped up like the ribbons secured with knots that can’t be untied but require scissors instead.

  “Are you, Clara?” he asked. He didn’t believe her for a second.

  Clara waved it off with a forced chuckle. “I had a freak-out moment. Doesn’t everyone? I was just tired from work. I’ve been working so much lately.” She looked at Beatrice again. “Bea, I’m so sorry. I should have never said that word in front of you.”

  “It’s okay, Clara,” Beatrice said. She was relieved that Evan was there and hoped he would stay the night. She didn’t trust being alone with Clara, a feeling that frightened her more than Clara’s bizarre behavior.

  “Would you like me to make you tea or something?” Evan asked.

  Clara laughed coldly. “We don’t have tea.”

  “Well, I could warm up some milk for you,” he replied, and thought it was the dumbest suggestion he’d ever made.

  Clara looked at him flatly. “I don’t need warm milk. I’m not two. What I do need is a hot shower and my bed.”

  She jumped up from the couch and stood over Evan, waiting for him to leave.

  “I think I’ll just hang out here tonight,” he said casually.

  “Well, I don’t mind if you don’t mind,” Beatrice said. Hope dripped from her words.

  “Completely inappropriate,” Clara said. “And your parents would go crazy.”

  “They think I’m staying over at Chris’s house,” Evan replied.

  “Please, let’s have Evan stay over, Clara!” Beatrice pleaded. “We can pop popcorn and watch a movie!” And she wanted to add, “And I won’t have to be here alone with you.”

  “It’s a school night,” Clara said.

  Beatrice looked over at Evan. “Clara, it’s Friday night.”

  Clara tensed. She quickly thought back through the day and realized that Beatrice was right. It was Friday. She remembered Meredith’s words, how Fridays were the best because the weekend stretched out in front of you waiting with all kinds of promise. It was the beginning, she said. The beginning of something special. But all of the days were starting to meld together for Clara, no one more significant than the other. No rest, no carefree weekends. Always work or school.

  “I’m going to take a shower,” Clara said. She decided the best thing was to ignore the fact that she had forgotten which day it was. She walked into the bathroom and closed the door.

  She knew Beatrice and Evan were talking about her. That’s what people do when someone around them starts to crack up—they talk about it. They want to be helpful, but they mostly want to gossip about it because it’s new and exciting and scary. And people love a good story. Clara imagined the conversation as she stripped her clothes.

  “Your sister has gone crazy,” Evan said.

  “Does this mean you’re breaking up with her?” Beatrice asked.

  “Oh, no no,” Evan replied quickly, thinking he’d never had sex with a lunatic and that he’d like to give it a try.

  Clara snorted with laughter, and she heard a tiny, tentative knock on the bathroom door.

  “Are you okay, Clara?” Beatrice asked. Clara could hear the other statement underlining the question: “Please don’t use the razor to slit your wrists. I should have taken it before you locked the door.”

  “Beatrice, I’m absolutely fine,” Clara said. She clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle another loud laugh.

  There was a pause.

  “We’re going to start the movie when you get out,” Beatrice said through the door.

  “No no,” Clara replied. “Just start it now. It’ll take me awhile anyway. I’ve got to shave.”

  She could hear the sharp intake of Beatrice’s breath. Or she thought she could.

  “Okay, Clara,” and Clara was left alone.

  She turned on the shower and waited for the water to reach a hot, steamy temperature before getting in. Her body broke into goose bumps as it slowly acclimated to the heat. She stood with her head lowered, letting the water soak her hair, drawing it forward around her face in heavy clumps of seaweed.

  She thought about cutting her hair. Then she wouldn’t have to deal with the mass of it. She thought about a pixie cut like Katy’s, but then she wouldn’t know how to style it right. And she might end up looking like a boy. What would it be like to be a boy?

  She thought about Evan just yards away from her. He’d already seen her naked, but she still felt weird taking a shower with him in the next room. She knew he wasn’t thinking one sexual thought about her. He was more concerned about the letter opener. Why did she have to freak out over a letter opener? It was so important at the time, she was sure of it, but now it seemed silly. She would pretend it never happened.

  She thought she heard a voice on the other side of the shower curtain and froze. The shampoo ran down into her eyes, but she didn’t dare wipe at it. She strained hard to listen. More voices, and they were having a conversation about her.

  I guess she’ll go stay at that children’s home on the north side of town.

  They’ve been wanting to move that thing. No one wants an orphanage near their million dollar houses. Can’t trust those kids.

  They have problems, but can you blame them?

  Perhaps her sister will fare better and get into an actual foster home.

  She deserves to. She’s cute and sweet, unlike the other one.

  “Stop talking about me,” Clara hissed as she pulled back the shower curtain. The room was empty, but she heard them. She knew they had been there. They must have left quickly, and she wondered if they locked the door behind them.

  She went back to washing her hair. Maybe they were here, in her head instead, and she scrubbed vigorously, hurting her scalp, trying to erase the sound of the voices with her fingertips. She rinsed her hair and convinced herself that they ran out of her head and down the drain, disappearing forever. She paused and listened, but she heard nothing. Just the constant stream of water shooting from the showerhead.

  She walked to her bedroom wrapped in a towel. She threw it carelessly on the floor once she closed the door and stood over the vent feeling the heat run up her legs and in between them. She thought it felt odd and delicious and warm and wanted to keep feeling the heat tease her body. Her nipples grew hard and she felt a little ashamed letting her body be a plaything for the central heating unit. She wondered what was wrong with her, unable to move from her spot even when she heard a knock at the door.

  “Who is it?” she called huskily.

  “It’s Evan. Are you dressed?”

  Clara looked down at her nude form.

  “Yes. Come in,” she heard herself say. Did she mean it?

  Evan walked in, then quickly closed the door and locked it once he saw her standing naked.

  “Clara!” he gasped. “You said you were dressed!” He went about searching for something to give her to wear.

  Clara giggled. “Don’t you like what you see?”

  Evan opened a drawer and found a T-shirt.

  “Yes, I do,” he said not looking at her. “But your sister is out in the living room.” A new fear pierced his heart. Something was definitely wrong with her. It didn’t make him want to run from her, but if he stayed, he knew he was powe
rless to help her.

  “Put this on,” he said, handing her the T-shirt. He found a pair of flannel pajama bottoms in another drawer.

  “Why don’t you kiss me,” she said tossing the T-shirt on the floor. The heat continued to stroke her, growing the sexual desire that curled and ached in her lower abdomen.

  Evan patiently retrieved the T-shirt and placed it over her head. He helped her arms through and then pulled it down. She trapped his wrist with her fingers, and with a wicked grin, guided his hand in between her legs. He drew in a sharp breath at the feel of her slipperiness. She leaned in close, eyes looking up at him through long thick lashes. Her hair was tousled, and she looked like a brazen temptress. He wondered if she would bite him; he secretly hoped she would as he bent down to listen to her whisper in his ear.

  “Finger me.”

  Evan paused for a moment. He looked at Clara and then at the door. And then he ignored his conscience and backed her up against the wall, pushing apart her legs with his knee. He slipped a finger into her and listened to her moan softly. He remembered they weren’t alone and placed his other hand over Clara’s mouth. He stroked her softly, eliciting muffled cries, and watched her vacant eyes go wide when he slipped another finger into her. His fingers left her for a moment only to touch her again, somewhere different. A small place on her that ached and throbbed, and she could do nothing but moan into his hand and push herself against his rotating fingers.

  He felt guilt and desire. She wasn’t well, and he was taking advantage of it. This wasn’t Clara with her back against the wall. This was some other person in Clara’s skin, moaning and trembling at the touch of his hand. He didn’t recognize her but was drawn to her lust, her aggressiveness. He thought she would make him crazy—this imposter—and his fingers stroked the depths of her once more searching for his Clara.