by Abigail Haas
I pulled away and caught my breath. ‘Oliver came to see me,’ I started, watching Ethan’s expression. ‘He said you talked to him.’
‘About the other week? Yeah.’ Ethan nodded, leaning back. He traced idle circles along my ribcage, and I felt his touch, shivering through my shirt. ‘I told you, he can be annoying sometimes. Did he apologize?’
‘Kind of,’ I replied, wondering how much Oliver had told him.
‘Let me guess, it didn’t sound much like an apology?’ Ethan rolled his eyes. ‘Sorry, he can be a dick about that stuff.’
‘It’s fine.’ I paused, sitting up. ‘So, is he going to be sticking around? What happened about college?’
‘He won’t go into it, says he’s done.’ Ethan shrugged, his fingers slipping up higher under my shirt.
‘You guys aren’t close.’ It was a statement, not a question. I watched him carefully, catching the flicker of tension in his jaw and the way he dropped his hand from my body.
‘I guess.’ Ethan looked evasive. ‘I mean, he was older and always off at school.’
They were so different, I couldn’t imagine how they’d both grown up in the same home.
‘He was in boarding schools, right?’ I pressed. ‘Why didn’t you go too?’
‘There wasn’t the money.’ Ethan sat up then. ‘He was the smart one,’ he explained, matter of fact. ‘Mom was always going on about his potential, how he needed to be challenged, so they found a way for him to go.’
I could tell he didn’t want to talk about it, but still, that didn’t stop me. ‘It must have been weird, watching him get all the attention.’
Ethan shrugged again, looking away. ‘I don’t know, I got the easier break, Mom was so overprotective of him. He was her favourite,’ he added. ‘She wouldn’t let him out of her sight when we were kids. I just got to do my own thing.’
‘Still, having him back must be strange,’ I said, trying to picture them as kids. Ethan was easy, he would have been happy and easily entertained, but I couldn’t see Oliver. That careful, knowing gazedidn’t belong in a child’s eyes; even now, it seemed years too old for him. ‘Are you closer now?’
‘I guess. I don’t know. Why are we even talking about him?’ Ethan looked confused.
‘Because he’s your family,’ I laughed. ‘And we’ve done enough talking about mine to last a lifetime.’
‘So don’t talk.’ Ethan gripped my hips, suddenly rolling me beneath him. I caught my breath at the movement, reaching up for more, but instead, he propped himself on his arms, waiting above me, his lips inches from mine.
‘Are you telling me to shut up?’ I teased.
‘No ma’am,’ Ethan smiled softly, brushing back my hair. ‘I’d never do that.’
He kissed me softly. Too soft. I could feel the pull of lust again, snaking through my body, mingling with the deep, aching sadness I’d been battling all day. I could tell him about Crystal – he would listen, and murmur sympathy, and say all the right things. But that wasn’t what I wanted; I wanted to feel something. Anything but this . . . defeat.
Frustration rose in my chest. I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him down to me, hungry, needing something more. Ethan tried to hold back, but I didn’t let him, demanding, and soon he was caught up again in tongues and hands and grinding bodies.
I reached between us for his belt.
‘Here?’ Ethan tried to detangle himself. He was breathless, his body hard against me, but still, he tried to hold back. ‘It’s OK, we don’t have to.’
‘I know.’ I reached for him again. ‘I just want to be close to you.’
Ethan smiled, relaxing against me. ‘If you’re sure . . . ’ He kissed me again, slow. Sweet. Like he meant it.
When I closed my eyes again, I saw Oliver staring back at me.
Crystal Keller died at eight thirty-two p.m., six days after the crash. She’d been non-responsive since they brought her in; her brain activity was negligible, she showed no signs of breathing on her own.
Her mom turned off the ventilator.
I heard the news just before my first class at Rossmore College; I was already seated in the cramped, windowless room when the call came in. I’d asked the nurse on duty to keep me updated, and now I was stuck, sitting at the tiny half-desk in a room full of students as the professor began his introductory talk, writing his name up in big letters on the board.
‘Call me Ashton,’ he joked. ‘Not Ishmael.’
There were a few low titters, but most of the class didn’t understand what he meant.
Crystal was dead.
I stared blankly at my notebook, tuning out the professor’s voice. It didn’t make any sense to me, that she was here, and then, gone.
No more late-night eyeliner and stops at the diner. No new job, or first apartment; no husband or kids one day. No getting to California, getting out of this town at all.
She was just gone.
I didn’t notice class was over until the scrape of chairs and sound of chatter broke through my thoughts. I looked up; the room was emptying fast, and there were notes on the board: our first assignment. I quickly scribbled it down, grabbing my things and joining the exodus to the front of the room.
My classes ran two nights a week, and I’d managed to get a financial aid package that dulled the cost. Still, it hurt. While my old classmates posted photos of freshman parties and excited status updates about lectures and trips, I would be driving an hour on the freeway after work, to go and sit in a cramped room in an anonymous concrete block and take notes from an ancient projectioner; the other students dozing, bored, around me.
Still, I told myself, I was lucky to be there.
Lucky to be alive at all.
‘Excuse me.’ I lingered at the front of the room as it emptied. The professor, Ashton, turned. He was young, early thirties maybe, with neatly-gelled black hair and wire-rimmed glasses.
‘What can I do for you?’ He smiled at me.
I shifted my books in my arms. ‘I was wondering, if you had any more reading lists, ones that were, um . . . ’ I tried to think of a way to phrase it without seeming rude. ‘More advanced?’
His eyes swept over me a split-second. ‘Sure, I can dig something out. You are . . . ?’
‘Chloe. Chloe Bennett.’
He paused a moment, then brightened. ‘Oh, right, I saw your transcripts. You know, we don’t usually let people start mid-semester, but I figured someone like you would be able to catch up.’
‘Oh, thanks.’ I blushed.
‘If you hang on a minute, I could grab you something now?’ he checked.
I nodded. ‘I’m not in a hurry.’
‘Great.’ Ashton finished tidying his papers into a leather messenger bag, which he slung across his body. ‘I can print you some of the next-level assignment lists. I figured I should start these guys off easy,’ he added with a rueful look. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many of them drop out after just a few weeks of study.’
He ushered me out of the room and turned off the lights behind us. ‘Teacher lounge is – that way,’ he decided after a moment, pointing down the empty, after-hours hallway. ‘Sorry, I’m still figuring my way around. It’s kind of a maze here. You deferred for a year, right?’ he asked.
‘Yes. I have . . . family commitments,’ I answered carefully. ‘I’m needed at home right now.’
‘Tough break,’ he said, sympathetic. ‘I’m kind of in the same boat. I was all lined up for an adjunct position in Philadelphia, but it fell through. My girlfriend’s got family here, so . . . ’
He opened the door to the lounge, set with a few faded armchairs and bookcases. He went over to the huge printer in the corner and pulled a laptop from his bag, clicking through until the printer whirred to life.
‘You know, I can email, if it’s easier,’ he offered.
I shook my head. ‘Our internet’s been acting up,’ I lied. The truth was, we didn’t have internet any more – it was an unnecessary expense when I could c
heck email at the sherriff’s office.
‘No problem.’ Ashton drummed his fingers against the table as the printer sounded in fits and starts. ‘Jesus, when was this thing made – the eighties?’ He met my eyes. ‘Not exactly the Ivy League, huh?’
‘Not exactly,’ I agreed.
‘So are you planning on an English major?’ Ashton asked, bending to click some more files on his computer. ‘Because I teach a Wednesday morning American Lit class – you might like it. More discussion, a lot of the classics, but new stuff too. Franzen, Lorrie Moore, Updike.’
‘Sounds great,’ I replied, with a pang of regret. ‘But, I have a full-time job. Night school is the only way I could make this work.’
‘Too bad,’ Ashton said. ‘Well, I’ll throw in the syllabus for that one too, in case you change your mind. And if you feel like tackling any of the assignments, just send them my way and I’ll take a look.’
‘Thanks,’ I replied, surprised. ‘You don’t have to do that.’
‘Hey, it’s my job, isn’t it? Instilling a love of literature in the youth of America,’ Ashton joked. ‘Besides, between you and me, you’ve shown more interest in the last five minutes than ninety percent of my students here. Community college isn’t really a hive of academic ambition.’
He finished printing the reading lists for me then walked me out. It was dark and the parking lot was empty – everyone else long gone. Ashton looked around and frowned. ‘Do you have a ride coming? This is a pretty sketchy neighbourhood after dark.’
‘No, I drove. Thanks for this though.’ I stuffed the papers in my bag. ‘I really appreciate it.’
‘Anytime. See you next week!’
I hurried to my car and threw my books inside. Ashton tooted his horn and waved as he drove past, turning out of the lot towards the highway.
I got inside and slammed the door, shivering but upbeat. I hadn’t known whether Rossmore would be worth it, if I was just kidding myself that I could stay on track for college; but today had been a pleasant surprise. Ashton seemed like a good teacher: engaged, and willing to help me out.
Maybe it wasn’t such a loss after all.
I turned the ignition.
Nothing.
I tried again. There was a sputtering sound, the faint hope of life, and then it faded away – along with all happy traces of my brief good mood.
‘Fuck!’ I slammed the steering wheel. The parking lot was deserted, empty in the dark. Anger suddenly welled up in my chest, sharp and hopeless. ‘Fucking piece of shit!’
It had been on the brink of quitting on me for weeks, but I didn’t want to take it in to a mechanic, we didn’t have the money. And now I was stuck, way too late for the bus, or any way home.
I fumbled in my bag for my cellphone, and hit redial on the only number I ever used these days.
‘Hello?’
‘The car gave out on me,’ I sighed, slumping back in the driver’s seat. ‘I’m stuck at Rossmore. Can you come get me?’
‘Sure thing, sweetheart.’
I sat up. It wasn’t Ethan’s voice on the other end of the line.
‘Oliver?’ I asked slowly.
‘That’s right.’ His amused drawl came, clear. ‘You’ve got yourself in quite a pickle, haven’t you?’
I caught my breath. ‘Where’s Ethan?’
‘He had to overnight with Dad, they’re looking at land down south. Didn’t he call you? Oh, that’s right, he left his phone behind.’
I clenched my jaw. ‘Fine. Sorry I bothered you.’
Oliver sighed. ‘Look, I’ll come get you. Where did you say you are?’
‘No thanks,’ I replied shortly.
‘Seriously?’ Oliver laughed. ‘What are you going to do, walk home? Come on, don’t be like this. Baby brother would never forgive me if I left his girl all alone in the dark.’
I hesitated. I didn’t want to see him, or worse still, owe him, but I didn’t have a choice.
‘Fine,’ I replied at last. I gave him my address and hung up, snuggling deeper in my jacket as I settled in the cold car to wait. I had nothing else to do, so I found my notes from class and the assignment for next week. I had the book with me, so I read through the first chapters, making notes as I went, until lights shone through the night. The Reznicks’ black BMW cruised slowly around the parking lot and came to a stop in front of me, engine running. The window lowered, Oliver leaned out.
‘Come along, Chloe,’ he called, beckoning. ‘Time to stop playing damsel in distress.’
I grabbed my bag and locked up the car; hurrying over to slide into the passenger seat. I hoped that Oliver would give his usual acerbic wit a break, but instead, he regarded me with amusement. ‘Your chariot awaits. Just call me your knight in shining armour.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, reluctant.
‘Don’t go crazy with gratitude,’ Oliver smirked. He drove away, turning down the dark streets towards the highway. ‘And what did we learn today?’
‘Just leave it,’ I replied, gazing out at the lights blurring by.
‘Leave what?’
‘This. The smirky comments and all your bullshit. Not tonight, OK?’
There was a pause.
‘What happened?’ Oliver’s voice was quiet. I glanced over. His expression was open, no sarcasm in sight, and, despite myself, I felt my defences slip.
I swallowed, feeling it all well up again. ‘A girl died. A friend of mine. No,’ I corrected myself. ‘We weren’t friends, but I knew her. She was getting out of this place, she didn’t deserve . . . She didn’t deserve to just be gone. She was a good person. And I know you’re about to say there’s no such thing as good, or evil,’ I added fiercely. ‘But there is. Crystal never hurt anyone, she deserved better than this.’
There was silence for a moment, then Oliver’s voice came, clear beside me. ‘Aren’t you good too?’
I stopped for a moment, weighing the question. What I should say? Ethan thought I was good. He told me all the time, how kind I was, how sweet. ‘I’ve got a good one,’ he’d say, like I was a prize he’d won at ring-toss at the county fair. The truth was, his compliments just made me feel guilty, like he was blind to the flashes of anger and bitterness that rose to the surface, too often these days.
‘No,’ I admitted quietly, resignation ringing hollow in my chest. ‘No, I’m not.’
I braced myself, waiting for a glib response, but Oliver didn’t reply. The miles slipped past, until he turned in at a rest stop gas station. ‘Wait here,’ he told me, stopping the car.
I watched him walk up to the store, a dark figure in the neon lights. He went to the counter inside and chatted with the clerk for a moment before emerging with a brown paper sack. He passed it to me and started the engine again.
I looked inside. A six-pack of imported beer and a bottle of whiskey.
‘I don’t drink,’ I told him, confused.
‘You don’t, or you haven’t?’ Oliver countered. ‘Pass me the M&Ms.’
I did as he asked and he ripped open the packet with his teeth, driving again, too fast, out on highway back roads until I didn’t know where we were any more.
I didn’t care. Home was nothing but a new bundle of frustrations. The further we went, the less I had to think about: cocooned in the warm car with the headlights cutting through the night, the music playing something dark and sweet. Oliver didn’t ask me anything, didn’t make a single demand, just stayed there, silent in the driver’s seat, taking me away from everything.
At last, he turned on to a gravel road, slowing to ease the car over the bumpy ground. He drove a while, snaking through shadows and vast piles of rubble, until finally he came to a stop at the edge of a huge quarry.
‘What is this place?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’ Oliver reached over and took the bag from me, then got out, walking around to hitch himself up on the hood of the car.
I paused a moment, watching as he took a swig from the whiskey bottle. I got out too.
The night was clear and crisp, my breath fogging in the air. The quarry stretched in front of us, several football fields in size, the carved edges disappearing down who knew how far into the dark. There were some buildings visible on the far side, with lights shining weakly in the dark, but, aside from their pale glow and the distant flash of cars on the freeway, we were completely alone.
I took a deep breath, feeling the cold chill me from the inside out.
I climbed up on the hood next to him and held my hand out. Oliver raised an eyebrow again in that now-familiar smirk, but he passed the bottle.
I took a sip, almost choking, but forcing the burning liquid down. ‘Why do you drink this?’ I spluttered.
‘Wait for it,’ Oliver told me and, a moment later, I felt the warmth slipping through my bloodstream, the deep burn.
I took another sip.
The silence stretched. I snuck a sideways look at him. Oliver was leaning back on his elbows, looking at the stars. His coat had fallen open, revealing a thin white T-shirt and his usual skinny black jeans. He wore dress shoes, I noticed, and a leather-banded wristwatch. He wasn’t as built as Ethan, who had broad shoulders and a solid, muscular torso; Oliver was tauter, lithe.
He turned his head and caught me watching him. I glanced away and took another drink.
Oliver sat up. ‘Chloe, Chloe . . . ’ He said it sing-song and my skin prickled. I didn’t like the way I was on edge with him, not knowing what he thought, or how he felt.
‘Quit that,’ I told him, tensing.
‘What?’ Oliver sounded innocent.
‘You know what.’ I stared out at the dark quarry, the endless black night. A whole world out there and I was still right here. ‘Why did you come back?’ I asked him. ‘You could be anywhere, doing anything. Why would you choose this?’
‘I’m not here to stay.’ Oliver took the bottle back from me and lifted it to his lips in a long swig. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Just a month or two, I’ll figure something out.’
I paused. ‘You don’t know how lucky you are.’
There was silence for a moment and then Oliver’s voice came, clear in the night. ‘You don’t belong here.’