Clearer in the Night

by Rebecca Croteau

  I tried to be subtle and play the whole ‘there’s something in my eye’ game, but a tissue was pressed into my hand before I could embarrass myself. I turned to say thank you. It took me a moment to recognize the open, soft face in front of me. The last time I’d seen her, she’d been pale from blood loss and misery. “Liz?” I said.

  She nodded, and when I pulled her into my arms, she went stiff. I swore at myself, then released her slowly. “Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t think.”

  She hesitated, then reached out and squeezed my hand. It felt like a gift that I didn’t deserve. “No worries. I’m okay.” She laughed. “Well, no, I’m not. But I’m getting there.”

  The choir was filing into the loft; we needed to sit down. “Have you been here before? Do you want to sit with us?”

  “Not today,” she said. “Another time.” She slipped away from me. Her smile was on crooked, and the wattage was dim and flickering, but she was alive. I was overwhelmed with warmth and suffused with light. I was going to burst out laughing, I was going to start to sing.

  I felt a light touch on my arm, and I turned towards Eli, his cold eyes warm, and I thought of kissing him—but no. No. He’d been clear about what his “type” was, and I was only hurting myself by forgetting every time I looked into his eyes. The light and the warmth faded away, and Mom was tugging me towards our pew.

  “We should talk,” he said, quietly.

  “Sorry,” I said, and I hoped he could feel the lie in his bones. “I have to go sit with my mom now.”

  “What is that about?” Mom whispered as we took bulletins from the ushers and went to the pew she’d been sitting in for two decades.

  “It doesn’t matter now,” I said. He watched me for several minutes, his eyes intense and still. I could feel the pressure of his gaze on my shoulders. Mom looked over at him, and then back at me, and I was incredibly glad that she couldn’t read my mind. At least, not as far as I knew.

  The sermon was about the parable of the prodigal son, and I tuned in and out as Pam talked about how difficult it was for the brother who was left behind, who had shouldered his sibling’s burden for all those years, being the dutiful child that his father deserved—and then to see his brother’s return so celebrated. She talked about how the celebration of the prodigal child was understood, but wasn’t it reasonable to moderate one’s excitement? Wasn’t the dutiful child right in expecting some appreciation of what they had endured through the years? I listened, but I mostly watched the dust motes in the sunlight, listened to my mother’s quiet breathing, and tried not to be overwhelmed by the smell of liquor tied up in her exhalations. I wasn’t sure if I was the only one smelling it, or if everyone else was just used to ignoring it. No really polite way to ask that question. “Hey, does my mom smell like booze to you? No? Great.”

  My mind wandered over to Liz. She watched the pulpit with an unwavering gaze. I wondered if she still thought about it. Worried about it. About what had happened, what he’d done to her. She had to be thinking about it. Something like that, something that all-encompassing. You didn’t just forget. It was a part of you forever. Right? I hoped she was okay. I mean, okay was probably a long freaking way away, but I hoped that she was better than she’d been when she decided to cut her wrists open and let the light in.

  Our pew was about halfway back on the left side of the sanctuary; she sat on the opposite side, but in the third pew back. I could watch her easily. When she sang, she gripped the hymnal with white knuckles, but she opened her mouth and let the sound flow like her soul depended on it. And maybe it did.

  My phone buzzed in my purse—thank God I’d turned the ringtone off—and Mom glared at it as I pulled it out to check who was trying to reach me. There was a little burst of fireworks under my sternum when I saw Wes’s number on the text. I thought she was going to skewer me with her eye lasers as I tapped out a quick, one handed reply to his question of “Where are you?” You’d think she’d be happy about “At church, later,” especially since I never even took my eyes off the pastor, but no dice. Surprise, surprise. If I tried to explain that I was replying in part because I thought he would keep sending messages until I did, I wouldn’t get anywhere.

  I couldn’t believe I’d been so wound up about him the other night. Pure silliness, I knew that now. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt me. Sure, I was in over my head, but that’s what love is, after all. And even if I wasn’t going to say the word out loud any time soon…I couldn’t think of a better one to describe the rush of eager warmth that suffused me whenever I thought of him. He was a good guy, I believed that, and it would be foolish to let my fears about commitment scare me away from him. He might be the best thing that ever happened to me.

  There was a little voice in the back of my head, sounding an awful lot like my best friend’s. Whispering to be careful, whispering that it wasn’t worth leaping for no reason. I ignored it as firmly as I could.

  The last hymn was The Old Rugged Cross, a melody I’d always found haunting, even when the words didn’t resonate with me. I stood and sang, and when Mom’s fingers wove into mine, I held on without comment.

  Afterward, there was coffee and cookies and more conversation. I tried to think of ways to ask if anyone knew anything about my dad, and I wanted to talk to Liz as well, but before I could get up to where she had been sitting, I saw Mrs. Dennis move up the aisle to her. She knelt down next to Liz, who was staring up at the cross like she could see her personal Lord and Savior reaching down to her from the white painted wood. Mrs. Dennis took her hand, and as Liz turned towards the older woman, I could see tear tracks lining her cheeks. I saw her take Mrs. Dennis’ hand and let herself be led out of the sanctuary, down towards the offices.

  “She’ll be okay,” Eli said into my ear.

  I cursed myself for letting him sneak up on me. “I hope so,” I said. “She needs a therapist, not just God.”

  He nodded. “It’s covered. Promise.” His hand rested on my arm, and I took a deep breath to steady the shivers of excitement. “I’d really like to speak to you for a minute.”

  My phone buzzed again in my purse. “Excuse me a second,” I said, moving ever so slightly out of his grasp. His nostrils flared for a moment, but he didn’t say anything. “I’m outside,” the text read. “Meet me.”

  I looked at Eli, at his eyes the color of a cold blue ocean, and the hand that hovered just over my arm. Where did he want to take me, what did he want to tell me? More about how I was a slut and crazy? Yeah, I had time for that. There was something about his chill calm, and I wanted to believe it would be different this time, he would have words that I wanted to hear—but there was no point. That had been proven again and again.

  But Wes tugged at me like he had a fishhook in my spine. My phone felt like a lead weight in my purse as I dropped it back into its spot. “Sorry,” I lied again. “There’s someplace I have to be.”

  I don’t know if Mom looked my way or not. I don’t know if there were whispers behind hands—or out in the open—as I walked away from Eli’s outstretched hand. I saw his fingers close on air, saw his mouth tighten and his eyes lose their cold remoteness for a moment. And then I was running, flying down the stairs so fast that the only thing keeping me upright was my forward motion, darting to Wes’s ridiculous, extravagant, unnecessary car, and I was laughing, boiling over with joy at his hand on my knee, knowing that it was only a matter of time until he was kissing me again.

  MONDAY, AUGUST 5

  The rest of Sunday passed in a delirium. We were constantly in his bed, or sleeping, or tangled together, or calling out for more food and then tumbling back to bed before the food even got cold.

  By Monday afternoon, I had to send him out for more condoms before I totally lost my mind and said I didn’t care if he used one or not. Plus, I was sleepy, and I needed a shower. I needed a moment to eat. And coffee.

  He kissed me a dozen times while he got his clothes on, a dozen times more while he walked out the door. I laughed an
d smacked his ass to get him moving. He stuck his tongue out at me. Very suave.

  Once he was gone, I slid into a t-shirt and a pair of his boxers. With his dark eyes not staring at me, I could feel that he’d finally made me sore; the silk fabric slid between my thighs in a way that highlighted the ache and still made me want more.

  I checked my phone. There was a message from Sarah, asking if I was okay. I made a mental note to call her later. I had a funny feeling, though, that I wouldn’t.

  I made a face at his shower. It wasn’t disgusting, but it hadn’t been thoroughly cleaned in a long time. And bar soap. Who used bar soap anymore, seriously? Still, I could rinse myself off, and that would be better than nothing.

  Once I was cleaner, I was hungry, the kind of body-sundering hunger that only comes when every other need is thoroughly sated. In his clothes, I poked through the kitchen. I found Oreos, and frozen burritos, and empty takeout containers that could have done double duty as science experiments. What we’d ordered for dinner last night was eaten, and there was no coffee. Why was I here again?

  There was something blank about the place. It was cluttered, but there was nothing personal. Junk mail, and take out containers, and empty water bottles. A computer. A small table. A television.

  The bedroom was lavish, though. Satin sheets and a down comforter and the most comfortable mattress and pillows I’d ever slept on. He’d given me the impression that he’d just blown into town, and that this was barely more than a squat for him, but this bedroom was posh. This was his heart. The bureau and closet were filled with clothes, and nice clothes, brands that didn’t turn up in Vermont, unless you lucked out at an upscale thrift store.

  I’d spent most of the last twenty-four hours stretched out on that bed, doing things that made my cheeks heat up. And it wasn’t the positions or the heat level that made me blush to think of it—no, it was the things he’d whispered, the words he’d used to describe my body, my movements, and the way he felt about me. It made me almost dizzy to think about it now. I hadn’t brought myself to answer him, even though he’d left a little space after every declaration that I could have filled in kind. He was watching me, waiting for me to say it. Maybe he knew it would just be a matter of time.

  I’d told him that I loved him in the park. I’d never told a guy that I loved him before. That phrase always seemed foolish, attached to a picket fence life that wasn’t mine, wouldn’t ever be mine. But in his silences, it seemed like something I might be able to say again. It wasn’t just that when he sank into me, it felt like he was touching something that neighbored my soul. It wasn’t just that he swore he would help me see this monster thing through to the end. It wasn’t just that looking at him made me want him so much that I was damp and needy even through the ache.

  It was the look in his eyes as he held me, the vulnerability as he rushed over that emotional cliff, his urgency dragging me along after him, no matter how recently he’d brought me over as well. It was the way I was reflected on his face in the between times, the gentleness as he stroked my hair back from my forehead, the delicacy of his smile. How could I not love him back? Even if I couldn’t say the words.

  I heard the apartment door open, but I was still surprised when his arms tightened around me, pinning my arms down. “Did I say you could get dressed?” he asked, his tone not entirely flirty.

  I grinned over my shoulder. “I didn’t know I needed to ask your permission.”

  He growled and picked me up, carrying me into the bedroom and tossing me face first onto the bed before I had time to brace myself against him. I laughed, and before I could roll over, his weight was on my thighs, and he was bending my hands behind my back. It didn’t hurt, but it danced at the edge of comfortable. This was Shan’s kind of play, not mine.

  I turned my head to the side so that I wasn’t breathing feathers. “Let me up.”

  He wrenched my arms up higher. A month ago I would have screamed. Now, there was a sense of straining muscles and ligaments, but I was okay. “What if I say no?” It wasn’t a sexy tone of voice; it stopped just this side of a snarl.

  A tight curl of panic twisted through my guts. I was sure—mostly—that I could fight him off if it was really necessary, but there were too many times when that had not been the truth. When I’d prayed that my wits and my laugh would be enough to get me out of a nasty situation. “Let me go. Please?” The thin whine of pleading and fear that layered my tone made me sick, but it was what he needed to hear, apparently. He laughed, and his weight fell to the side. I rolled over, curling my knees up. Not quite to my chest—that would just provoke him again, I was sure of that—but I wasn’t open.

  He kept running his fingers through my hair. “Sorry,” he said, but it sounded like the sorry you say when your parents order you to apologize to the neighbor’s kid. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “That’s not my scene,” I said, keeping my voice from shaking with a significant amount of effort. “Even as a joke.” The wolf begged to differ, though. She wanted him to bite her neck and growl, hold her down. She wanted to bare her throat and her belly to him, show him that she followed him. She’d filled my brain for the past day, and I wasn’t entirely sure why I could think right now, but I wanted to take advantage of it.

  “Tell me about your grandfather,” I said. It was the most me-ish question I could think of.

  He rolled his eyes and sighed. “This again?”

  “I don’t know anything about you. Who you are, where you’re from. You keep saying you love me, but you have no idea who I am.”

  “I know enough. I know that you’re beautiful, and brilliant. I know that you have dimples. I know that you light me on fire.” He tugged at my hips, and I let him pull me close, starting up that flame again with a quiet, practiced movement of his fingers. I tried to hang on to the feeling of exposure and fear from just moments before, but it was evaporating under the flame. I tried to remember that there were things I needed to know, before I was submerged again inside my own mind.

  “How did you turn up, right as everything went crazy? How did you find me?” But the answers didn’t matter, just his body against mine, in its primal and subtle rhythm.

  Eventually, we slept.

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 7

  It was pitch black when I woke up, but I could see him easily, without straining my eyes. He lay on his side, stroking his fingers down my cheek. After days of sex and food and abandon, we’d slept, finally.

  “Will it hurt?” We both jumped, startled by my voice. “When the wolf takes over and I change.”

  He was silent for a long time, and I listened as his heartbeat sped up and slowed down while he decided what to say. “I have been told that it is like losing control. If you fight, it can be more painful than you can imagine. If you can accept the change, be one with the creature, then it’s swift and sharp, like cutting yourself with a knife.”

  “How do you know?”

  Another long silence. Then, “My grandfather.”

  “Was he…?”

  “Yes. But he controlled the wolf and kept his humanity, even when he changed. He hunted animals, not people.” His dark eyes seemed brilliant in the darkness, glowing with a fervent light that should have lit the room.

  “How did he die?”

  He watched me for a long time, then simply laid his head down on the pillow and closed his eyes. The conversation was clearly done.

  Why did he inspire so much trust in me, but refuse to share any of it in turn?

  When I woke up again, it was light out. Birds were singing, big fluffy clouds were drifting across the sky, and I was lying in a patch of bone-baking sunlight. I could smell bacon sizzling. I could hear Wes singing tunelessly to himself in the kitchen.

  I thought of doing that move from a dozen chick-flicks where the girl wraps herself up in a bed sheet and wanders out to the kitchen. But no, that was idiotic. So what did a person do when she reeked of sex and had terrible bedhead for the second time in a hand
ful of days? Putting on my actual clothes seemed foolish, especially since my shirt wasn’t going to button anymore. Possibly never again. I was fairly sure I’d heard some fabric ripping, along with the buttons popping. After an internal debate that took a lot longer than was reasonable, I put his boxers and t-shirt back on. For now, anyway. I ran my fingers through my hair to get it in some vague attempt at order, and went out to the kitchen.

  He was wearing gray jersey pajama bottoms and no shirt. The flex and pull of his shoulder muscles as he reached for the spatula and poked at the bacon made my knees go weak. He jostled the pan like a chef—and the grease burst into flame, somehow. He cursed and threw it into the sink. I saw him reach for the faucet, and I started to scream, and then he realized, grabbed a pan lid off the counter, and smothered the small fire before it got any more exciting.

  “Fuck,” he said to the wall.

  “Agreed.”

  He spun, his shoulders tight and back, his hands raised—and then he laughed. His shoulders came down, but his eyes stayed distant. “You snuck up on me.”

  “Turnabout’s fair play.” I sounded like a grandmother. Go me. “Weren’t you making me breakfast?”

  His smile was sideways, just this side of a smirk. “Until I caught the bacon grease on fire, yes, that was the plan. How did you sleep? Any dreams?”

  “No, actually.” It had been pleasant, waking up without feeling like I’d run for miles. I felt sleepy, but rested, and only sore in pleasant ways. And that was minor, given how sore I should have been. If there was any sense to the universe, I would be walking like a cowboy for a month. “Why do you think that is?”

  He shrugged, turning back to his fridge. “If the wolf got what she wanted when you were awake, she’s less likely to take over your dreams. The more you can work with her instead of against her, the easier things will be for you.”

  “You talk about it like it’s a separate entity.” I moved a pile of paper so that I could sit on one of his kitchen chairs.