Beneath the Shine

by Lisa Sorbe

  Everything made it into the bowl, except for a few splatters that landed on my shoes. I knew my mother was going to kill me for wearing them, but I just couldn’t find it in myself to care. Getting everything out of my system did seem to clear my head, if only slightly, and as I splashed icy water from the bathroom sink on my face and reached for a towel, I almost felt normal.

  That was a lie.

  I didn’t feel normal.

  And I doubted I ever would again.

  Some nightmares stay hidden when you wake, burrowing deep into the crinkles of your gray matter as soon as your eyes flicker open. You know the dream happened—you can still feel the sweat clinging to your skin, feel the buzz of fear as it spreads goosebumps across your flesh—but you can’t remember exactly what it was about. But the taste, that rancid taste, lingers long after your head leaves the pillow, and no amount of brushing or flossing can erase the funk of helplessness and vulnerability and sheer terror. If it was a really bad dream, the flavor can sour in your stomach, staying with you for most of the morning, even bleeding over into the afternoon. Usually by dinner time, though, you’re safe. You’ve forgotten all about it, your mind lulled into a false sense of security from the events of the day. But tendrils of the nightmare wait, hovering close enough to the surface of your subconsciousness so that when you climb into bed that night, the trepidation returns. The threat of visiting that dreaded dreamscape—even if you can’t remember what it looks like, not really—is enough to make you toss and turn for hours, too scared to go to sleep.

  The scent of chlorine has been burning my nose all morning.

  I can still feel the remnants of last night’s dream now, like the past hijacked my mind and turned back the years so that, instead of thirty, I’m a traumatized fourteen-year-old with nowhere to turn. My hand trembles a little as I adjust the pint of beer I’m photographing, and when my phone rings, I jerk so badly I almost tip the glass.

  I take a deep breath and close my eyes for a moment before straightening and retrieving my phone from my back pocket. I know by the generic ring tone that it’s probably Clint, since he’s the only person I haven’t assigned a dedicated tune. And it’s nothing personal—I never make the effort to personalize the ring tones of the guys I date.

  I’m sure Adair would just love that bit of intel.

  My eyes flicker his way as I answer, taking in his profile as he jokes with one of his employees while they work behind the counter. His laugh bellows across the tap room, and like a magnet his eyes find mine. He lifts his chin my way, the laugh still dancing on his lips.

  “Hey,” I say, tucking my chin into my neck and twisting away. Outside, one of our friends, Miles, is plowing the parking lot, and I watch the snow curl under the plow’s blade, rolling like a foamy wave over the black asphalt. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing much. Just calling to check in.” He’s quiet, and I suppose I should say something to fill the hollow space between us, but I’m too focused on the plow scooping wave after wave of rolling snow. It’s mesmerizing, the motion soothing in the way it helps dislodge the feeling of powerlessness from last night’s dream.

  Clint sighs, a lazy exhale that sounds anything but. “So,” he drawls, and I can just picture him kicking his feet up on the coffee table and leaning back against the couch, meaty arms crushing his mother’s throw pillows. “How are things at old Scotty’s? Heard you guys have been getting a ton of snow this week.”

  The image reminds me of my throw pillows, which were trashed long before the pipe burst and turned them into mush, and frown. “Yeah. It finally stopped snowing late yesterday. Today’s the first day we’ve been able to even leave the house.”

  “Shit.” It’s all he says.

  “Yep.”

  This has been the most turbulent winter Cedar Hills has seen in years, maybe even decades. I can’t remember a time when snow kept people stuck in their homes for more than a day or two. But the blizzard that hit Christmas night kept on raging for three whole days, shutting the city down and stranding visiting families from out of town well past their departure dates. I, for the most part, spent the time learning my new camera, updating my website, and browsing Youtube tutorials to brush up on photography skills that have sorely suffered from lack of use. When I wasn’t busy studying photography, Adair and I pieced together a Mr. T puzzle (that I bought him two years ago for Christmas and he still hadn’t touched—imagine?!), binged all the Harry Potter movies (for me) and Lord of the Rings movies (for him), and built an army of snowmen that are so snow-packed they’ll probably still be standing come summer.

  So, yeah. The last couple of days have been extremely…uneventful.

  The plow scoops the last of the snow, and I watch as Miles parks his truck and hops out of the cab. He’s wearing a battered Carhartt coat over his mechanic coveralls, with a trucker hat pulled low over his brow. He tucks his hands into his pockets and lowers his head, hunching his shoulders against the wind as he heads for the door. I give him a wave as he steps inside, which he returns with a quick two-fingered salute before heading to the bar.

  “How’s Minnesota?” I ask, stretching out the “o” in jest.

  “Har, har. And Minnesota is fine. Boring as shit, since everyone left right after Christmas. Might head back early. Maybe make it for New Year’s Eve tomorrow. What do you think?”

  “Yeah,” I say slowly. At the bar, Adair pushes a mug of coffee across the counter, and Miles blows on his hands before grabbing the drink and taking a sip. When Adair’s eyes slide my way, I drop my gaze to my camera and pretend to study the settings.

  Nothing more has happened between us since Christmas—as in there haven’t been any more almost kisses or fiery arguments or bloated moments filled with the declarations of things we aren’t saying.

  And frankly, I don’t think there is anything left to say. To declare. It was a momentary slip, just a tiny little blip in our friendship, probably brought on by the heat of our argument and all the emotions swirling around that night, mirroring the blustery flakes of snow catching in the wind. The holiday, the blizzard, the energy that’s been building up, up, up in me like a balloon that’s ready to burst… Poor Adair was probably just trying to shut me up any way he could. And pressing his lips to mine would have definitely done the trick.

  Besides… What is a kiss to Adair? To him, they’re a dime a dozen. I mean, I saw him slap a wet one on Miles last summer after Miles hit a homer and crossed home plate, breaking the tie that won them the league’s championship game.

  So yeah. The kiss—the almost kiss—didn’t mean a damn thing.

  “Yo, Betsy?” Clint’s voice, tinged with annoyance, crackles as the reception falters.

  “Hmm?” I realize he’s waiting for me to say something, and I have no idea how to respond because I haven’t been listening. “Oh, yeah. You totally cut out.” I smile as I lie, knowing it will make the untruth harder to detect. “Thought I lost you.”

  “Reception is shit here. So, anyway. What do you think?” The irritation that touched on his earlier words is gone.

  “About what?”

  He sighs. The Clint isn’t used to being ignored. “About coming to Walsh’s New Year’s Eve party with me if I come back.”

  Ugh. The wannabe frat house that smells like feet? No thank you.

  “Yeah, I don’t know.” I fall into a seat at the table, pull close the beer I’m supposed to be photographing for Adair’s website, and take a sip. “I told Adair that I’d help him with his party here. And since I didn’t think you’d be in town…” I let my voice trail off.

  And this is the part where I “should” invite him.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose. “You’re welcome to come here, if you want…”

  Clint snorts. “Yeah, babe. Welcome my ass.” He sighs, and it sound sad, dejected. I hear movement in the background followed by what sounds like the television clicking on.

  Sports Center.

  The sportscaste
r’s voice vibrates in my ear, and the familiar hum immediately makes me feel guilty. My mind conjures up an image of a sad little boy bullied by his father and older brothers, trying his hardest to be tough, to gain their respect, yet never fully achieving it.

  “Look,” I say, “maybe I can hang here for a bit and then meet up with you before midnight. If you make it back, that is. We’re supposed to get hit with another snowstorm sometime tomorrow afternoon.” I inject a sufficient amount of worry into my tone, enough so it might deter him from attempting the trip.

  Because despite the sad image that’s tugging on my heartstrings right now, I don’t want him to come back. I don’t want to spend New Year’s Eve with him. I don’t want to spend the start of the new year in a place I hate, filled with people I don’t like, and attached to a man I have no romantic feelings for, if only to save face.

  And this is how I realize, truly realize, what Adair meant when he said that I become whatever that person needs at that moment.

  Clint needs to feel wanted, desired? I give that to him, ignoring my own wants and needs completely.

  The thing is, I’m not sure I know how to be any other way.

  He perks up a bit. “That could work. And, hey,” he says, getting into the idea, “bring a bag and hang with me for a couple days. It’ll give you a break from Scotty’s place. I know you’re not a fan of that stuck up bitch he’s dating, am I right?”

  My smile is wooden. “Adair,” I say, enunciating his name, “actually broke up with…um…with whatever her name was. So it’s pretty peaceful over there, actually. And,” I add, “do you even have a room where you’re staying? I thought you were couch surfing.”

  Clint reminds me that the roll out couch is in the basement, so it’s like he has the biggest room in the house. I’m about to remind him that the basement is party central and how the heck can he get any privacy when people are doing keg stands next to his bed, but I bite my tongue. I don’t feel like getting into it.

  “Well, I should actually get going. I’m in the middle of taking photos for Adair’s new website and want to get it done before it gets too busy. And it’s taking longer than I thought it would because I’m still learning my way around this new camera.”

  “New camera?”

  “Um, yeah.” I take another sip from my glass. “Adair got me a flipping 5D for Christmas. Can you believe it? Now I can really get things going with my business. It’s so…”

  “Wait. What?” he interrupts. “The dude got a you a fucking camera? Those are pretty spendy, aren’t they?”

  “Well, yeah. But…”

  Clint’s laugh is rich with sarcasm. “Mother fucking asshole.”

  “Excuse me?” My voice is clipped.

  He rambles on. “And I’m sure you were all like, Oh gee, Adair, I love it and I love you and you’re just the best!”

  “No, actually. I tried to tell him it was too expensive, but he refused to take it back.” I realize I sound defensive, so I clear my throat and focus on my breathing. Because if I do anything else, I’m going to tell The Clint where to shove it.

  “I bet he did.”

  “Are you serious right now? You’re mad because my best friend bought me a gift? Because he cares enough to buy me the very thing I needed to get my photography business up and running?”

  “No, Betsy. I’m mad because he doesn’t care. He didn’t buy that fucking camera for you. He bought it for himself. Shit, that guy will never try to stop getting into your pants.”

  Clint huffs, mutters mother fucking asshole again, and I’m just sitting here with this beer in my hand and I can’t believe the turn this conversation has taken.

  “So you’re saying he had an ulterior motive for getting me a gift? That he only did it because—Lord, this is ridiculous—he thought it would make me want to sleep with him? That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?” The questions come out shaky, like I’m riding in a car that’s traveling over rough terrain and the bouncing is making my voice all choppy.

  The questions are also pointless, because Clint is absolutely right. Opening Adair’s gift really did make me want to, uh, thank him in very, extremely, completely inappropriate ways.

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  Now it’s my turn to scoff. “And I suppose that’s what your gift was too, then? Huh? Just something shiny to get you into my pants?” Then a thought hits me, and I spit it out before I can stop myself. “Or to keep a free roof over your head? Hmm?”

  The silence that stretches between us says more than words ever could. For a moment, I wonder if he actually hung up on me. Disconnected the call, calling me a bitch while tossing his phone aside. But then I remind myself that if anyone should be swiping end on this conversation, it’s me.

  Clint sputters, an incoherent jumble of sounds, none of them forming actual words that deny my accusation. He croaks like he was caught off guard and is struggling to come up with a response that doesn’t land his ass in hot water.

  “Well, that answers that question.” I grip the edge of the table for support. And though my tone is sharp, relief floods through me with my next words. “I think you’d better find yourself another place to stay when you get back.”

  I end the call.

  Fourth of July – 14 Years Old

  I was as quiet as a mouse as I crept down the hallway on legs that didn’t feel like mine. My stained Tretorns were cushioning someone else’s toes. Toes that were connected to someone else’s feet hinged to someone else’s legs that held up someone else’s body.

  These were not my toes, my feet, my legs.

  Because this was not my body.

  It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be and I didn’t want it to be and so it wasn’t.

  The plush carpet in the hall, the darkness that hung over my creeping form like a shroud, the music coming from the stereo in the living room—

  Kurt Cobain, singing his heart out, he knows about pain, he does

  —made me invisible.

  And maybe I was, because I felt like I was wasting away into nothing.

  Disintegrating. Evaporating.

  Gone, gone, gone.

  Miles sips his coffee and I sip my beer and all the while I can’t get the conversation with Clint out of my head.

  “I can actually hear your gears turning.” Miles taps his temple. “What’s up?”

  The sun is shining, and it pierces the window next to our table, bouncing off the glass and making me squint. I scoot my chair a little to the left. “Why do you think something’s up?”

  “Because I know you.” Miles shrugs like it’s that simple. And it is. Because he’s my oldest friend; he does know me. And he’s blunt.

  I don’t ask him to elaborate. “I just got off the phone with Clint. I think we broke up.”

  Miles nods. Studies me for moment. He always chooses his words carefully, and I’m reminded that being with him is sort of like floating down a slow-moving stream on a plush raft that’s softer than a feather bed and lighter than a cloud. He’s Zen, and not at all like most people, who are so go-go-go all the time that they’re too busy planning their responses to listen to your questions, their tongues so bloated with their own words that they’re not actually listening to yours.

  I wait, drink more of my beer, and find my eyes straying to the bar, where Adair is chatting it up with two stiff-looking guys in business suits who look like they’re not quite sure how they got here. Adair says something—I recognize the smirk on his face—and the men’s stoic demeanors crack as easy as eggs against the side of a bowl. One takes his jacket off and is rolling up his sleeves and whatever Adair just said is making him laugh so hard he’s turning red. The other chuckles quietly, shoulders shaking, and they decide to stay, sliding onto matching barstools and leaning their elbows against the counter.

  That man can shoot the shit with anyone, I swear.

  Miles catches me staring. He lifts the mug to his lips, flashing me a knowing grin as he does. “But that
’s not what this is about, is it?”

  I roll my eyes. Miles is the only person who knows about my pathetic little crush on Adair. He’s known since day one, when he dragged us all to that haunted house and watched me get all googly-eyed over our new Scottish friend. Miles isn’t like most people, the ones who spend their lives performing for some invisible audience. Miles doesn’t give damn what people think.

  He doesn’t perform. He observes.

  And he’s spent the last six years watching that ridiculous crush morph into something I refuse to name and won’t even admit to myself.

  I drain what’s left of my drink, set the glass on the table, and tap my camera. “This is what Adair got me for Christmas.”

  Miles sips his coffee and nods, waiting for me to continue. With him, there’s never any rush. He knows I have more to say, and I do.

  “Clint said Adair only gave me this because he thought it would make me want to sleep with him. I mean, can you believe it? But he was totally furious about the whole thing. He even had the audacity to insinuate that sleeping with Adair was something I’d actually do. And when I accused him of getting me this”—I reach under my sweater and pull out my heart necklace— “only to keep a roof over his head, he didn’t even deny it.”

  I end my rant in a huff, and Miles sets his mug down with dull thunk, and all around us the buzz of conversation and the clinking of glasses only succeeds in irritating me more. The song crooning over the tap room’s speakers wails about lost love in the most forlorn way, the singer’s voice so gruff with feigned regret it makes me want to barf. Or cry. Or rage, bellow, and scream.

  “Well,” Miles muses, “I can’t speak for Adair. But as for me? I wouldn’t drop that much on a gift for you.” He smirks. “No offense.”

  “That’s because your fiancé would have your balls in a vise if you spent that much on another woman.”