Family Drama 3-in-1 Box Set: String Bridge, The Book, Bitter Like Orange Peel

by Jessica Bell

  “Well, there is something that I’d like,” Brian says, putting his arm around Ivy’s shoulders and pulling her close to his side.

  Ivy’s body goes limp, giving in to his touch despite every inner voice yelling at her to pull back. She watches condensed water vapour swim through his mouth as he speaks.

  “Anything. What is it?” Ivy says, her voice hovering through the fog, feeling as though she’s been possessed by another woman.

  “For you to come home with me tonight?”

  Ivy stiffens. Brian turns her around and kisses her forehead. Ivy shivers and looks up at him with raised eyebrows.

  All this because he wants sex? Seriously?

  “I’d just like you to come see where I live,” Brian continues. “No naughty stuff, I promise. Unless of course”—he winks and lifts Ivy’s chin—“you’d like some.”

  Normally Ivy would consider these as off signs, and run. But there’s something different about this man she can’t put her finger on. The inner voices are yelling even louder now, but she chooses to ignore them. There’s a reason they have been brought together. She knows it.

  “Hug me?” Ivy asks, shivering a little more on purpose.

  “Sorry?”

  “Can you hug me?”

  Brian shrugs a yes and opens his coat. Ivy leans into him, and he wraps his coat and arms around her. He squeezes her tight enough for their chests to press together. She doesn’t want to get warm. She wants time to think, to get a sense of who Brian is beneath his agreeable and almost “too Mr. Nice Guy” exterior.

  Ivy puts her ear to Brian’s chest and his heart beat slows. It slows. Perhaps she relaxes him? Perhaps he needs her as much as she needs him?

  Just go. You’ve got nothing to lose.

  Ivy lifts her head so her nose is touching Brian’s chin. “I’d love to come home with you,” she whispers. She kisses him, shallowly slipping in her tongue.

  I can’t believe I’m doing this.

  Oh.

  Soft lips.

  Brian pulls back. His eyes widen, and a huge grin transforms his face from attractive to … oh-so-yummy.

  Ivy returns the smile as she cups his cold face in her hands.

  “Come on,” Brian says with a flick of his head. “Let’s hail a cab.”

  Brian

  Brian opens the door to his small yet cozy open-plan studio apartment, hoping Ivy doesn’t freak out over the number of candles scattered all over the joint.

  “Wow, this is colourful.” Ivy takes her hat and gloves off, and puts them into her coat pockets. Brian chuckles, picking up a pair of elephant-decorated boxers and a moldy coffee mug from the floor by his bed. Ivy slides to the stereo and CD collection. “Where are your New Pornographers CDs?” she asks. “I need some more beats.”

  “I don’t have any,” Brian utters quickly while contemplating where to put the mug. In the sink? He throws it in the trash. He rolls his boxers into a ball and shoots them into the hamper by his bed like a basketball into a net.

  “What?” Ivy shrieks, dropping her jaw.

  “I just remembered seeing an ad for the concert in Seattle Sound when you mentioned them the other night.”

  “That’s cheeky.”

  I know. “No. Just clever.” Just do it. She wants you. You know it.

  Ivy turns around shaking her head and mumbles something to herself as she inspects the shelf of CDs. Brian wipes his sweaty hands on his thighs and approaches Ivy from behind. He wraps his arms around her, trapping her arms against her body. Ivy loosens in his embrace. Just. Do. It. He slips his right hand beneath her sweater and rests his hand on her smooth, flat stomach. The tips of his fingers tease the opening of her pants. Erect and aroused, he bites her ear. Hesitation in Ivy’s slight gasp indicates it might have hurt, but doesn’t want it to seem so.

  “Don’t you want any beats?” Ivy asks, bordering breathlessness.

  “You are my beat,” Brian replies, twisting Ivy around to face him and thrusting his tongue into her mouth with a groan. Her tongue is hot and thick and soft like a rose petal. He imagines his penis inside her mouth and groans again.

  Ivy undoes Brian’s belt buckle with one hand and reaches urgently into his pants, moving his erection so that it pokes through his zipper. They scratch tenderly yet urgently at each other until they are naked and spread out on his bed. Brian presses his groin into Ivy’s crotch without slipping himself inside, teasing, licking and nibbling at her nipples. As Brian penetrates her, she moans in what seems like relief. He loses himself in her smell, her soft, sweet jasmine perfume corrupting all rationale. He wants to tell her how much he is in love with her right this very second, but he can’t. I won’t. He couldn’t. I love you. Could he?

  Ivy’s cell rings. Don’t answer it. Don’t answer it. Ivy ignores it. It rings out. But it starts again. She fumbles blindly in her bag on the ground by the bed and pulls it out, glancing briefly at the screen with one open eye while gently biting Brian’s tongue.

  “It’s my mother,” she pants and slips out from beneath him. “I have to get it.” She stands. “Just gimme a minute.”

  Brian admires her slender and indulgent figure, her ivory skin, her succulent curves. The slight curl at the ends of her wispy locks caress her shoulders as she walks into his bathroom. Brian turns onto his back and massages his erection so it doesn’t turn limp. Ivy’s voice rises.

  “I haven’t said anything to Ailish. What are you talking about? Well, just go and visit her if she doesn’t pick up the phone. Why do you always have to accuse me? No, wait. Don’t hang—”

  The flick of Ivy’s phone closing infiltrates the frosted glass door. She exits the bathroom flinging her head back and mouths something Brian can’t make out. Ivy throws her cell back into her bag and climbs on top of Brian. She inserts him, moves up and down like a robot, directing her stare at the headboard instead of his face, distant, emotionless. Brian stares at the blankness, aroused by Ivy’s rapid, powerful pounding as he gets closer and closer to ejaculating. But he is emotionally lost, stranded, confused, afraid to ask her to stop, afraid to wish her to continue. I want more. But not like this. Keep going. Don’t stop. Together, they come, allowing only the slightest of sound to part their lips.

  Ivy falls limp on top of Brian’s body, her face nuzzled in his neck. “I’m sorry,” she mumbles. Her breath is hot against his skin. Brian runs his fingers through her hair, wondering what the hell just happened.

  “Sure. It doesn’t matter,” he replies, wishing he had the nerve to say it did.

  Kit

  As Kit tries to open the jammed front gate to her yard, she spots Sein, sitting on his porch step, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, legs spread, elbows on knees, watching her with a distant gaze. He snaps out of his trance and bolts to the dividing fence. He flings his whole body over at once, balancing himself with one hand.

  “Just needs a little nudge, that’s all.” Sein opens the gate from the inside. He smiles, standing in Kit’s path, white teeth glowing in the twilight.

  “Yeah. Thanks. Do you mind?” Kit clenches her jaw, narrows her eyes. She wishes the crickets would shut the hell up and Sein would piss off. She’s had enough crap to deal with and wants to be left alone. On the other hand, if Sein could finally summon the balls to initiate it, she wouldn’t object to a good mind-numbing fuck to forget about her family.

  Sein steps aside, barely, and Kit squeezes through the gate, banging her upper arm against his chest by accident. His thin white over-worn T-shirt is damp with odorless sweat. The scent is almost pathetic. But attractive nonetheless. She can’t deny that.

  Sein is still holding the gate open and staring at her when Kit unlocks the front door.

  “Well, you wanna come in or are you just gonna stand there like a bloody guard dog?”

  “Yeah, I’ll come in.” Sein shakes his head. He closes the gate and leaps over a flower bed to get to the door, instead of following the gravel path.

  Inside, Kit throws her
bag on the couch, slams her keys on the kitchen counter, and gazes out the window at the setting sun. An orange drops to the ground before her eyes. One by one they’re going to rot, until there’s nothing left but empty branches and dry leaves. If Mum thinks I’m gonna pick and save all those oranges myself, then she can bloody think twice.

  Ailish still hasn’t come home. Kit hopes she doesn’t. She hopes she spends one of those sleepless nights in her office assessing monotonous essays, and beats herself up over her pathetic lies.

  After all I’ve done for you, you fuck.

  I love you.

  “What’s wrong?” Sein asks, sitting on the stool by the kitchen counter. Close, but not too close. Kit switches her attention from the orange tree to Sein’s face. “Have you been at Uni the whole day?” Sein cranes his neck forward in disbelief.

  “No. I went to see a friend at work.”

  “Who?”

  “And why is that any of your fucking business?” Kit opens the fridge and pulls out a small bottle of water.

  “Sorry.” Sein raises his eyebrows sarcastically. He grabs an orange from the fruit bowl and begins to peel it.

  “Her name’s Eydie. Happy?” Kit downs half the bottle of water in one go, and Sein continues to peel the orange, dropping the skin on the counter. Kit looks at the peel, and then at Sein, wondering if he is just going to leave it there and expect her to clean it up. His lazy expression briefly reminds her of Ivy’s ex-husband, Amir, a man she would prefer not to associate with Sein, the one and only guy she has ever been attracted to, but too proud to admit. What a cliché. Falling for the boy next door.

  “Did you and your mum have a fight again or something?” Sein focuses on his orange.

  Kit tries to catch her breath from gulping down the water. “Why haven’t you ever tried to kiss me all these years?”

  Sein, having begun to chew a slice of orange, laughs with a hoarse throat and a little waver. He splutters juice on the counter. Quickly chewing what he has left in his mouth, with an expression of disbelief, he swallows, and rests the remainder of the fruit on the peeled skin.

  “You’re kidding, right? Why have you been so mean to me all these years?”

  “I haven’t been mean to you.”

  “Yeah, you have.”

  “Okay, maybe I have. A bit. But don’t you men find that appealing?”

  Sein guffaws. “Not where I come from.”

  Kit puts the half-empty bottle of water back in the fridge, shrugs, and walks out of the room toward the stairs.

  “What did I say?” Sein asks, defensiveness gurgling in his throat. “Where are you going?”

  “My room,” Kit calls, already halfway up the stairs.

  She lies on her bed and stares at the ceiling. Kit hears the front door slam shut. The windows rattle. She can hear Sein kick the gravel. And then a rock. She gets up and opens her window, sticks her head through it, and calls out for him to wait. Sein turns around, looks up toward Kit, and lifts his arms in question. They fall back down, slapping on his faded ripped jeans.

  “Why? You’re just going to push me away again. You wanna know why I’ve never tried to kiss you? Because you’re cold, cruel, and you don’t give a shit about anyone but yourself. Why would I want to kiss a girl like that? A girl that has no …”

  Stunned, Kit closes the window to shut out his voice, and turns her back to it.

  A wave of overwhelming despair flushes through her, head to toe. Years of frustration and pressure to keep her emotions under control during Ailish’s ordeal with cancer and then uncertain remission come gushing out in thick silent tears, causing her body to quake and drop to the floor. “I hate you, Mum! I fucking hate you!” she screams toward the ceiling.

  Kit can hear Sein reenter the house and come running up the stairs. Kit pounces to lock her bedroom door, ashamed at herself and what she has become. You’re an adult, for God’s sake. She sits on the floor in front of her door, holding her knees to her chest. Sein pounds at it, twists the handle up and down.

  “Leave me alone,” Kit cries. “I’m not worth it. Really.”

  “Kit, I’m sorry. Can you please let me in?” Sein’s voice is calm, smooth, sympathetic.

  Kit monitors the gap under the door, where she can see the white soles of Sein’s sneakers. They disappear. She panics that she has driven him away for good, and unlocks it, opens it. Sein is halfway down the stairs, looking up, with one hand holding on to the railing. He walks to the top again and stands in the doorway, smiling the peacemaker smile—the only thing that has stopped Sein and Kit from hating each other all these years. Even as small children they’d fought like brother and sister.

  Sein leans his shoulder against the door frame and crosses one leg over the other. Kit looks at the floor and steps aside to let Sein come in, but he doesn’t. Instead he takes Kit’s hands and lifts them up against his own; he is her reflection. He slips his fingers in between hers and pulls her close, then wraps her arms around his neck. Body heat penetrates their clothes, begging to be let loose, pleading to be given the freedom to roam each other’s naked skin, naked hearts, naked souls, without the need to have sex.

  “I’ve wanted to kiss you ever since I saw one in the movies,” Sein whispers, his lips almost touching hers. “Can I kiss you now?”

  Kit nods and softens in Sein’s warmth.

  Ailish

  A sharp beam of sunlight wakes her. Her teeth are furry and eyes swollen from an unbearable night of incessant crying. Her underarms are sweaty and in need of a shave. She sits up in the beanbag that cradled her through the night, wishing she could just disappear into it, like Alice in Wonderland down the rabbit hole.

  She stands and straightens out her skirt, fingers spread, and gathers her hair into a twist. Holding it together with one hand, she collects her hairpins off the floor, one by one, and secures her hair with them. It’s just like riding a bike.

  From her desk drawer, she pulls out what she likes to call her bible—Marilynn Robinson’s Housekeeping—which she’s read cover to cover so many times she has lost count. Roger gave it to her as a gift for being the only student to get a perfect score on a thesis, hers being: “Broken Eyes and Buoyant Hair: An Exploration of Gwen Harwood’s Pseudonymous Poetry.” She holds Housekeeping to her nose, breathing it in as if its smell might soothe sorrow.

  She opens it to a random page and reads the very first sentence her eyes land on: And she would feel that sharp loneliness she had felt every long evening since she was a child. It was the kind of loneliness that made clocks seem slow and loud and made voices sound like voices across water.

  Tears stream down her cheeks and stain the porous page with nostalgia for those precious moments she’d had with Roger. She flips to the back inside cover, where Roger has written: I salute you. Forever yours.

  Interrupted by a knock at her door, she closes the book and places it back in her drawer. After using her thumb knuckles to quickly wipe away her tears, she rubs below her eyes to remove the possibility of smudged mascara.

  “Come in,” she says in as bright a tone as possible.

  Harold enters.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Ailish. It actually hadn’t occurred to me that you might be in this early. I was about to slip this under your door.” Harold hands Ailish an envelope. She nods a thank you and places it on the already-built-up pile of mail.

  “May I ask if everything is all right?”

  “Of course. Why would you think otherwise?”

  Do I really look that dreadful?

  Harold puts his hands in his pockets and smiles like a psychiatrist. “No particular reason. But you would let me know if there was anything the matter, would you not?”

  “Of course.” Ailish puts on her happy face, switches on her computer, and pretends to search for something in her handbag as if she has just arrived.

  “Would you like me to fetch you a coffee?” Harold asks, rapping the door with his pen.

  “That would be delightful
. Thank you.” Ailish puts on her glasses.

  “Black, yes?”

  “Yes, thanks. And in my—.

  “Live Love Write mug. Yes, I’m familiar with that mug.” Harold taps the side of his nose as he exits her office and closes the door gently behind him.

  Ailish spots Harold’s handwriting on the front of the envelope and realizes it’s not regular mail. She opens it. It reads:

  Allie,

  I’m terribly sorry you felt the need to send your daughter to fetch a number for Roger. There’s no need to be ashamed of wanting to speak to him again. It has been a very long time. Perhaps he has changed? Please do know that I am always available to confide in if the desire should arise.

  Harry

  The room caves in on Ailish’s head. She empties the contents of her wastepaper basket onto the floor, and scrambles on all fours for the scrunched-up paper bag from yesterday’s lunch. She flattens it out, sits up straight, her feet under her behind, and places the paper bag over her mouth and nose. Holding the sides firmly to her cheeks, she breathes in, vacuuming all the air out of the paper bag and into her chest.

  In.

  Out.

  In.

  Out.

  Dizziness takes hold, her stomach a hurricane. She bends over to vomit on the carpet, but all that escapes is air and spit—spit slippery with fear—fear that she will soon be left with nothing. Nothing and no one.

  Nothing.

  No one.

  Kit

  It’s almost dark outside, and the crickets are making a racket. Sein has been lying naked on Kit’s bed all day, listening to her go on and on about calling Constance without the slightest hint of being bored. He’s eaten all the icy poles. Maybe that’s a sign. He even made some juice from the oranges he picked. He drank most of it, but that’s beside the point.

  A breeze has picked up, and Kit stands by the open window to take advantage of the cool air. “I’m gonna call Constance today.”