by M. C. Cerny
Brit popped the glove compartment, riffling through until she found the secure box that held the extra pen I kept for Taylor Jane. “Do you really need to keep Tara’s EpiPen in your truck?” The question brought me back to the moment with a flare of anger.
I grabbed it from her and placed it between us, safely on the seat. My hand tapped the top of the medical pack I kept it in reverently. I probably shouldn’t keep something like the pen in the truck all the time, but it was an old habit to break when we spent so much time in each other’s company years before. I flipped it open to look at the pen, briefly holding it up to the light while I drove, and although expired by a few months it wasn’t cloudy. It was clear and still apparently in good use.
“Taylor Jane, not Tara. Her name is Taylor Jane, and yes I do.” My teeth grinded together barely holding my annoyance and temper in check.
“She sounds pretty careless if her allergy thing is for real.” Tonight was going to be one of those nights where Brit pissed me off me until my cock turtled back up inside my jeans and I drove her home instead of the movie. We weren’t far away, but I would rather turn around now than dread not being able to at least screw this girl who had no designs on me other than my house, my money, and a ring on her finger. My sarcasm ran rampant with this one.
Attempting to explain her behavior wasn’t going to prove a point. Brit already had her mind made up and that was fine, but I felt a need to protect my best friend. “It was a foolish mistake made by a young girl with a heavy crush for the first time. Haven’t you ever done anything foolish for love before?” I forgot how exhausting Brittany could be when she was in a snit over something or didn’t get her way.
“No. Never. Because when I see something, I just go for it. I don’t act like an idiot.” Maybe not, but she was giving me those stage five clinger vibes that told me I needed to cut her loose before things got crazy. If we hit a major gift giving holiday she was likely to think this was way more serious than I wanted it to be.
The last argument we had was over not liking her social media accounts. I didn’t have time for that nonsense, and who gave a crap if her three thousand followers knew her status or not? That was the last thing on my mind when I was busy balancing the books for my company into the wee hours of the night. Hiring Kristen as my accountant was a fleeting thought, although I wasn’t desperate for that kind of entanglement between friends.
“Can we just go to the movie like we planned? I don’t feel up to arguing.”
Brittany never buckled her seat belt and scooted closer to me in the truck, rubbing her body against my own.
“Or… we could go back to your place instead?” She wasn’t particularly coy, which I appreciated when the time was right, but not right now. Soft breasts and octopus hands were drawing me in, but the incessant chatter coming from her mouth ruined any chance of getting off without some serious foreplay for me.
“Let’s go to your place.” I suggested, pushing her back. I grabbed the belt and buckled her into her seat.
She wiggled it loose, practically sitting in my lap. I didn’t feel like washing sheets again this week and I would have to if I wanted to get Brittany’s expensive perfume smell out of my bed. I preferred something cleaner and simpler.
“Better than a movie.” Growling, she grabbed my shirt roughly and pulled me in for a kiss, her other hand snaking down to my dick through my jeans. Our lips touched, the corner of my mouth to hers, but the spark of attraction for her brassy blond hair and pale blue eyes I might have felt the first time wasn’t there any longer. I didn’t treat girls like toys, but Brittany definitely lost her luster after the encounter with Taylor Jane. She was rude and aggressive when I thought about it. I wasn’t sure how much thought I wanted to devote to this. Brittany warmed my bed even though Taylor Jane warmed my heart in that untouchable kind of way. Mixing the two worlds was not going to work if this kept up.
Touching Brit was a distraction at best because she was definitely not soul mate material and I hated Kristen for making me think otherwise. My phone beeped with an incoming text message and I pulled out my vibrating phone to see what it was about.
Damien: SOS
I was closer to the movie theater when I saw my cousin’s message, so I pulled over to answer him. I clicked on the picture message. It was a photo of Taylor Jane’s backside and Kristen, though I only had eyes for one. My decision was easily made when I spoke to her next.
“Brit, let me drive you home. Damien has the shits or something and I need to go pick him up.” I figured there was no harm in throwing the idiot under the bus.
“Seriously, Hunter.” Her finely drawn twin eyebrows arched and I didn’t care if she believed me or not. I was so over this night.
“Seriously.”
“Fine.” She moved back to her side of the truck, and I carefully texted him back.
Fucking delete that photo.
Damien: Aw, come on, it’s half hot.
It didn’t matter if I agreed with him or not. He had no business taking shots of the girls like that.
And you can be half dead when I see you next.
I tossed the phone into my console and drove Brit home, dropping her off. Without so much as a kiss goodbye or a promise to hook up another time she left my truck in a snit. Me, well, I drove my ass home, alone and smiling thinking about punching Damien so hard he would shit himself next time I saw his smarmy ass.
8
Hunter
Tenth Grade - January
“Hunter! Did you hear what happened?” Damien rushed into the garage where I was whittling a small squirrel to keep my mind busy. The little face looked back slightly animated and almost hungry, its empty hands reaching for a nut. I’d gotten quite skilled at these things. I made one final shave of the wood over the tail, turning it over in my palm. It was nearly finished looking it over. Its belly was a lighter shade and the olive oil I used to grease the wood darkened the rest of his knife carved fur.
“No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.” I used a small knife to shape the edges of its face. Small nose, tiny indents for eyes, and nicks in the wood built the ears. My focus was intent so I didn’t cut my finger or chop this thing in half like the dozen or so scraps littering the box of wood to be burned. This was Uncle Henry’s version of therapy—busy hands, quiet mind—but all I had to show for it until now was a bunch of half decapitated woodland creatures. It was a good thing I had quit therapy because Dr. Tom would have had a field day with my collection of creepy wood animals.
“Taylor’s mom died yesterday.” Damien sat down next to me on the wood bench, and I paused before resuming my nicks and cuts a little deeper now. I made sure each movement was calculated and matched my breathing.
Damien’s eyes followed my hands and the knife as he spoke. “Mom just came in to tell me, and I thought maybe you’d want to know.” Standing, I took the borrowed tools and placed them on the table in my uncle’s garage. My hands braced the table and I leaned forward looking out the window, life continued to go on, but my chest had this vice grip slowly squeezing itself tighter the more I pushed and pulled away from my past. Part of me couldn’t imagine what Taylor Jane was feeling right then, and then part of me, the part I hadn’t cut off completely knew exactly the kind of pain she was feeling losing a parent you loved deeply.
I remembered her mom made the best cookies and thick pies, always leaving out a little extra for us kids when Damien dragged me over there to tease Kristen or help Taylor Jane with a history project. Taylor Jane’s house was a gathering place of sorts and her mother… Jolene mothered everyone with just the right amount of love you seemed to need. She is—was—amazing.
“How….” My voice threatened to break and I slammed the door shut on my emotions, getting control over myself leaning further over the bench table. “What happened?”
“Mom said she went to the hospital for something minor, appendicitis I think, and got sick real quick with some kind of infection and fever.” That explai
ned why I hadn’t seen her in school this week. I was sure Kristen told me about it during lunch or study hall, but I pressed myself to remember and I couldn’t. It was like I blocked out any unpleasant news from the moment it touched me.
I pressed the heel of my hand into my eye that started twitching as I spoke to my cousin.
“We should go see her. Make sure she’s all right.” The carved squirrel was still in my free hand like an extension of me, and I thought that maybe I should give it to her. I remembered my parents’ funeral service and the cloying scent of flowers. The scent reminded me of rotting, decaying things and I hated it. I don’t know, the carving seemed stupid, but it was something and it wouldn’t die like flowers do.
Walking inside the house, I smelled the food my aunt made, some kind of casserole dish, maybe lasagna? She probably needed something to keep her busy. Grown-ups are always doing busy shit when someone dies. I knew she played Bunco from time to time with Mrs. Bryant. She handed it to Damien, and we made the short walk across the street to Taylor Jane’s house, the silence stretched between us. I’d only been there a handful of times, but enough to know that her dad was pretty overprotective, and while Kristen could walk through the door unannounced, I doubted us boys could do the same.
“Knock on the door, Hunter, my hands are full. Mom must have loaded this thing with bricks and it’s hot as shit.”
I glanced over at the foil covered dish. Turns out it was a chicken parmesan casserole, so it was probably the cheeses and sauce that made it weigh so much. A silly thought to have when my best friend’s mom died, but there it was. I raised my hand up and knocked on the door. Taylor Jane’s dad answered it looking haggard and ten years older that when I saw him last.
“Boys.” He nodded to us and opened the door to let us in. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a few days and his dress shirt was wrinkled with the sleeves rolled up. I had only ever seen her father wear crisp suits. Today he looked emotionally homeless.
“My mom thought you would be hungry.” Damien handed Mr. Bryant the casserole dish, and he stared at it a moment, shaking his head.
“Please tell Ginny I appreciate it.”
We were all nodding and not saying anything, which made me agitated. Why did this always happen, this non-verbal bullshit? We all felt like crap and we were all hurting, but we said nothing, did nothing, standing there like idiots.
“Is Taylor Jane home?” Impulsively I asked, and both Damien and Mr. Bryant looked at me like I spoke Spanish or something unexpected.
Her father dipped his head and looked up the stairs.
“She’s in her bedroom with Kristen. Go on up, I’ll just put this in the kitchen.”
I bounded up the stairs, pausing on the landing to look at the family photos one by one. Happy images of Taylor Jane and her parents, an only child obviously loved and cherished filled the wall to bursting with pictures. Most were in black and white with a few pops of color photography. I was jealous, but not in a hurtful way, cataloging her childhood from birth to present day in a reverse chronological order as we went up the staircase. I stopped in front of one that showed Taylor Jane about seven with her mother smiling holding a bouquet of bright sunflowers, blond hair, and bright happy blue eyes.
I wished my childhood had been as happy. It wasn’t and that was the hard truth. I might have been miserable, but Taylor Jane didn’t deserve this. If I could have taken the pain for her I would have already knowing I was capable of bearing it. I didn’t know if she could, better still, I didn’t want her too.
“Come on, Hunt.” Damien moved to go ahead of me, but I held him back, my fingers gripping his arm in a bruising clutch.
Turning, I stared at him hard and whispered so no one could hear us. “You’re like a fucking bull in a china shop. Slow down.” I walked ahead, measuring my footsteps to a respectable pace or what I thought sounded respectable in a house full of morning and grief. Somehow I knew running up the steps wouldn’t be welcome. I reached the door to Taylor Jane’s bedroom and stopped short as Damien bumped into me.
“Seriously?” I asked, eying him over my shoulder, and he shrugged. I swore my cousin barely used the executive functioning side of his brain.
Taylor Jane’s room was something to behold. I’d never been in here before. Sure, we’d all sat downstairs in her large family room to watch our favorite movies sitting on separate couches while her mom made us snacks, but a girl’s bedroom was an entirely different sort of thing. It was a sacred thing and every boy knew that a girl’s father would beat the tar out of him for crossing the threshold, which was exactly why I hesitated at the entry.
Standing in the doorway, I watched Kristen sit next to her on the bed, rubbing her back, and felt a funny lump in my throat thinking that maybe I wished it were me there doing that for her. Afraid to cross inside, I saw her room was painted a pale orange color or maybe it was peach? I didn’t know shit about colors, but I did know it felt warm and pretty, something that obviously reflected Taylor Jane’s personality. Everything else was white. White lace curtains covered the windows and white furniture filled her bedroom. As I took everything in I realized Kristen must have stood up and walked over to where Damien and I hovered inside the doorway.
“Thanks for coming.” Both Kristen and I looked back at our friend, who sat silently on her bed, staring out the window. Her hair had been braided a tight weave of flaxen gold hair and I wondered if it hurt looking so tightly wound together. I wanted to pull on the rubber band holding the end and let the hair out so it rested free and waved down her back.
I clenched my fists, pissed that the world would take this sweet girl’s mother. She didn’t deserve to have a loss like that giving her a gaping hole in her heart. I could survive death, I had survived it, but I wondered how she would and remain unchanged by it.
Kristen touched my hand that burned from being held so tightly and whispered again close to me. “She needs us.”
“There’s a casserole downstairs,” Damien interjected, attempting to be helpful.
I gave him credit for trying and to Kristen for not killing him on the spot for his sublime awkwardness. She brushed past us but not before pinching Damien’s side.
“She’s not hungry right now.” Kristen muttered leaving.
“Ow! Geez, Pebbles!” Hissing, he rubbed his waist and followed Kristen down the stairs presumably to the kitchen.
It took me a moment to process everything again and take a deep breath. She didn’t move when I sat down on her bed next to her. The mattress was fluffy and my hulking frame caused me to sink in, forcing her to roll into me unexpectedly. I used my hands to steady her, but she scooted closer and instead rested her head against my chest feather light with the barest hint of pressure.
“Taylor Jane?” My arms were out, unsure of what to do. We didn’t touch like that. We’d never touched like that. I glanced back and saw her bedroom door was wide-open and I thought her father would probably kill me if he came up there.
“He hasn’t touched me since she died.” Her voice was broken, wobbly and I leaned in even closer to hear what she was saying.
“What do you mean?” I heard her swallow and begin again, her hand touching my arm.
“My father. He hasn’t hugged me since my mother died.”
And that right there broke me. I felt my heart shatter into a million jagged fragments ready to slice me open all over again like the windshield of my parents’ crashing car when she said that. I did the only thing I could whether it was right or wrong. I pulled her against me hard and hugged her tightly, enough to squeeze the breath out of her because I wasn’t sure who needed it more. No one had hugged me since my parents’ deaths because I wouldn’t let anyone touch me that way, but Taylor Jane was used to love and affection and to be suddenly denied something out of no fault of her own was wrong on a level I had no words to describe.
Whispering against her hair, I held her like she was my lifeline. “I’ll hug you, Taylor Jane. I’ll do it. Whenever you
need it.”
We clutched onto each other, seeking comfort, and I rubbed her back the way Kristen did and pulled on her hair until I reached that damn rubber band, pulling it out to free her too tight braid. Once I was done letting the locks unravel she cried broken tears and I did what my mother did to me when I cried as a little boy. I rocked her back and forth gently until the tears subsided. It was an exercise in emotional strength because physically I could have held her for hours. It was my heart I couldn’t depend on to keep me going. I didn’t realize how wet my own face had become in surrendering to the feelings. It was raw and it sucked. I didn’t understand what was happening, but my best friend needed me and I needed her. I vowed to hold her together and hug her anytime she needed it even if it killed me.
“Does it, does it ever get better? The hole in your heart when you wonder if they might just walk in the door and this was all a bad dream?”
I wanted to tell her it got better, but I had my own doubts because it hadn’t gotten better for me, not yet anyway. I still had nightmares and woke up choking in my own fear and sweat with blankets twisted on the floor.
“Some days are better than others, but some just knock you down real hard on your ass and you have to fight to get back up.” I let my face rest against her head, smelling her clean hair and feeling her softness.
“I miss her. I just want my mom.”
“I know you do. I’m not going to tell you it gets easier, it doesn’t really, but the pain changes over time, less raw. That much I do know.”