Lengths

by Liz Reinhardt; Steph Campbell

  “So don’t sleep here.” She slurps another sip of coffee, and, when the caffeine takes a better hold over her ravaged brain, she gives me the sorry eyes over the rim. “Sorry. I’m such an awful human in the mornings. It’s no excuse, but I am sorry. And thank you for the coffee. Did I mention you make the most amazing coffee?” She smiles hopefully.

  I tweak her cute little nose. “Stop with the flattery. We both know you’re just charming me so I keep doing your bidding.”

  She finishes the coffee and heads to the shower. She’ll gather her stuff for school, drop a kiss on my forehead, and head out the door. I have my own key to her place. I examine it right now, running a finger over its bumpy teeth. She handed it to me like it was no big thing.

  “Just in case I leave before you, you need to lock up. Get that look off your face, Deo. It isn’t a promise ring. It’s safety. You’re afraid of ceiling fans, I’m afraid of psycho killers coming in and slitting my throat.” Her words were all tough, but her palms were clammy when she slid the key my way.

  And I stay here. Most nights. Sometimes I take some time to hang with Gramps, but he’s like a damn pioneer. He’s the kind of guy who’d prefer if he could pump his own water and keep his own cows and live by candlelight. Except then he wouldn’t get the UFC fights on his 72” LED. It’s his one modern obsession, that TV, and he treasures his time with it and his beer and pistachios.

  I stay here with Whit, but we’re definitely not together. Not in any way, shape, or form. The foot rub a few weeks before was the most intimate thing that’s happened between us.

  Other than the snuggling.

  I told her I was a hardcore snuggler, but she didn’t believe me. But I know it was the snuggling that clinched her decision to basically move me in. Whit is scared shitless to be alone in the dark. She’s never given me a shred of a clue about why. That’s off limits, and we just don’t go there. When the lights are on, we’re jesting, sarcastic, friendly assholes guzzling beer, playing poker, and hitting the beach and various cheap area restaurants to satisfy her desire for pizza or fish tacos or whatever other weird craving she might have. We stay that way right up until we walk into her bedroom. She changes in a little huddled mass with her back to me or in the bathroom, and we both sternly establish that there’s a line we don’t cross in the middle of her too-small full bed.

  Then I flick the light off and settle on the bed. In the shadows of her room, she wordlessly turns to me, and I wrap my arms around her. Her back curves against my chest, her ass nestles painfully close to my dick, and her smooth, long legs twine around mine, her toes brushing up and down the length of my calf. I run my hands over her without saying a thing. I trace my fingers from the rounded curve of her shoulder, down the long line of her upper arm, around the pointed curve of her elbow. She always lies on her left side, and her right elbow has a puckered bump. In the light, I can see that’s it’s from a pretty gnarly scar, but I don’t ask about it. What happens in the night doesn’t get talked about during the day. That’s the way it works with us.

  Usually when I’m running my hands over every sweet curve and soft length of a girl’s body, it’s because I want to hear her gasping for breath, sighing my name, begging me for more, and moaning with body-shaking satisfaction.

  With Whit, I want the opposite.

  I want to be the one who takes all the stiff-limbed panic from her, who eases her out of the tense-muscled pre-sleep ball she curls herself into and lets her have a few minutes of sweet, relaxed sleep. Once she’s asleep, there’s nothing I can do to ease the rest of the night for her, and some of those nights are beyond brutal. She kicks and flails, grits her teeth, whimpers, sobs, opens her eyes and looks at me without seeing a single thing, sometimes wailing indecipherable things, sometimes just choking on her tears.

  When her upset thrashing wakes me up, I curve her back into snuggle position and run my hands over her damp hair, put my mouth close to her ear and whisper sweet, quiet things, pull my arm tight around her waist to anchor her to the calm reality I try to provide.

  Sometimes it works.

  Other times it’s like she’s a DVD that has a deep scratch and we keep watching the same painful scene over and over on repeat. In the morning, we both wake up spent and grouchy, and all the menace of the night swirls between us, unacknowledged and heavy as a fucking ton of cement on our shoulders.

  I’m scared as hell to push anything further. I want to help her work through all her shit, but she won’t let me touch it. And, as unsatisfying as it is to be so close to her but closed off, I’m glad for what I’ve got and won’t run the risk of losing it entirely. Soon enough she’ll meet some fuckwad who’ll take my place, and they’ll be more than just friends and snuggle buddies.

  That thought makes me see fucking red, so I try not to think it. I just take lots of long, self-satisfying showers, like I’m in eighth grade all over again, and I try to enjoy ever second I get with her.

  I’m on my way to meet Cohen at the beach after seeing her to class on a normal Tuesday when I hear the beep of her answering machine. She’s old school, so she still keeps a landline, and I can’t help but overhear the message.

  “Ms. Conrad, this is Louise McKellan from Imperial Coast College. I’m afraid we weren’t able to process the second check you sent. Unfortunately, you won’t be able to get your grades at the end of the semester if this doesn’t come through. It also puts your application for study abroad in jeopardy, as your financial accounts must be current in order for your application to be considered. Your student ID is on temporary suspension, so all facilities are off-limits until this is cleared. Please call me as soon as you’re able, and we’ll get this all straightened out.”

  Her strangely jolly voice is followed by an ear-splitting beep, and I resist the urge to smash the fucking answering machine into fifty fucking pieces. Seriously? Whit can’t get her grades? She’ll lose a place in this study-abroad thing she wants to do? Her ID is suspended? How the fuck does fucking Louise think Whit is going to figure this all out?

  I know exactly what’s going to happen. She’s going to come home after a full day of classes, studying, and work, and she’s going to be exhausted after the hellishly sleepless night she had the other night. She’s going to fucking crack. Whit, who seemed tough as nails and so fucking put together before I really got to know her, has revealed herself as a wounded fighter barely juggling all the shit she has up in the air.

  This is not what she needs right now.

  Even though she’s usually Ms. Secret, Take Care of It All Herself, I’m taking one giant step over the quickly receding friend-line and getting all into this business. I can do this. Fixing sticky situations and charming people is what I was brought up to do.

  I flip open my cell. “Cohen? You have a suit I can borrow?”

  Cohen meets me at the beach with the suit, sans socks. “Socks kinda pull the whole thing together,” I gripe.

  “Go see your grandpa. He’ll hook you up. So, what’s worth getting suited up for?” He takes a lint roller off his passenger seat. Thank God for responsible fucking Cohen. I love this guy.

  “Whit.” I don’t say anything else as he rolls my sleeves and back lint-free.

  Cohen nods, opens his mouth, closes it, and finally just comes out and says his piece. “Look, man. Whit is hot as hell. And smart. Too smart for you. And she’s gonna grow up to be a real adult who buys groceries and has health insurance and all that. So if you can hook up with her, you have my blessing. But if you’re just fun and games for her…don’t do that, okay? I know you don’t have the fucking job and degree and all that, but you’ve got your good qualities. Okay? Don’t waste time with her if she doesn’t know that.” Cohen gives me a half smile, and I clap my hand on his back.

  “Advice taken, man. And I swear to you, I will not wind up on your couch crying and playing video games for months if she does break my heart.” I tug on my tie and slip my feet into my beat-up Vans before I pull out, leaving Cohen lookin
g like he’s predicting my imminent doom.

  Maybe his predictions will be dead on. But she’s worth the gamble. Whatever time I get with her, whatever it winds up meaning, she’s worth it.

  I pull into my Grandfather’s driveway. He limps out of the garden and I glare his way. “When did you get so old? You need a walker?”

  “I need a cane so I can smack you upside the fucking head with it!” he calls back. “What’s your ugly mug doing back here? I thought you were shacked up with that pretty little thing with those miles of legs, staying out of my damn hair. Why don’t you bring her over, by the way? Afraid she’ll leave you for a real man when she sees me?”

  He pokes his lined, tanned face into the truck, and my smile fades when I see how bleary his eyes look and how buckled over his back is. Is it just that I’m noticing this stuff now because I’ve been away for a few weeks? Or is he doing worse?

  “You doing okay?” I ask.

  “No. I need you to come home and tuck me in at night,” he growls. “What do you need?”

  “Dress socks. And shoes, if you have them.” I smile at the look of outrage that spreads over his wrinkled face.

  “What man doesn’t have dress socks and shoes?” he asks pointedly. “You wanna grow up to be a hobo?”

  “Yep. Just like my grandpa.” He turns away, chuckling, and I follow him into the house where I head to my room while he gets the shoes and socks, muttering about my stupidity. I slide under my bed, careful to keep my white shirt out of the dust. I find a box in the back and wipe the top clean.

  It’s been a long time. A long time. I honestly never think about any of this shit, because it just amounts to a bum’s pipe-dreams. I slide the lid open and the gold coins wink up at me, bright as fucking pirate’s treasure.

  I run my fingers over the bumps and grooves. I just checked the stats on them. I only need to pawn a few and, no matter what Whit owes, it will take care of it. Part of me wants to sell the whole fucking lot, just for spite. And waste it. Maybe on a bright yellow Mustang. Something that would irritate my father because of how showy and everyday it is. Because these coins aren’t for bullshit. They’re part of a vow I made with my dad when I was too young to realize he talks so much bullshit, even he can’t keep track of it all.

  Every time he got the chance, had someone in a tight spot, found a rare coin for a ridiculously good price, he’d snatch it up and send it home to me. We had enough under my bed for everyone to live in a fucking mansion, but Mom and Grandpa wouldn’t touch them. And I was under strict orders to keep my grubby paws off of them until I was ready to invest them. My dad wanted them to go to a set-up for treasuring hunting. Real fucking treasure-hunting, months or years on end on a boat, cruising dangerous waters, racing other idiots for a piece of huge deposits, sunk to the bottom of the ocean and waiting.

  Waiting for me and my scumbag dad to get our shit together and come scoop it up.

  Of course, Mom and Grandpa don’t believe that horseshit anymore. But they do expect me to do something amazing with the coins. Set myself up. They don’t care if it’s a fucking dairy farm or a pottery studio; they just want me to do what I love.

  And right now, what I love is Whit.

  I almost choke on a dust bunny I sucked into my lung too quickly.

  Love? Love Whit?

  That was a little…what I meant was…I was trying to say…

  I’m a fucking dumbass.

  What I was trying to say is that I love her.

  I love Whit, love the nights I spend getting my ass kicked in her bed, love the way she smells like grapefruits and girl and feels like sand-rubbed, sun-kissed skin, love talking to her, love the scratch of her key in the door. I love her enough to steal from the only dream I’ve ever had, even if it is a fucking pathetic, little-kid, stupid dream. As long as I had these coins, I was invested in. Practically a trust fund baby. But I’m tired of living that what-if dream. I need to take care of the girl I love right now, and accept that fact that my fucking dream is a day late and a motherfucking dollar short.

  I grab the three I know I will cover what I need, slip them in my pocket, thank my grandfather for the shoes and socks, and ignore his look. The look that says he knows exactly what I’m about to do, but can’t believe I’d actually betray this promise to my vague dream that I’ve held onto my entire life.

  I know the pawn shop to go to, and only get marginally ripped off. I follow the road to Whit’s college and attract the attention of every lady there with my suit. And my business card, stolen from the pawnshop lobby. I’m Joseph Morgenstern, Attorney. Smiling, handsome attorney in charge of Whitley Conrad’s financial accounts and so, so sorry to have caused so many problems for these lovely women, who already have enough on their plates everyday.

  Thirty minutes, no ID check, very few questions, a good chunk of change, and several flirty smiles later, I leave the offices and have paid Whit’s semester and the downpayment on her semester abroad. My phone has three messages when I take it off silent.

  Whit. And the messages freak me the hell out.

  I drive to her place with the gas pedal sunk to the floorboard, not giving a single fuck about red lights or cops. I run up the stairs and into her apartment, and she’s sitting on the floor, her head in her hands, sobbing.

  I kneel down next to her, take her shoulders in my hands. “Whit. Whit. Stop crying, baby. Stop.” She lets me unfold her and take her clumsily in my arms.

  “Deo, I’m fucked! I’m so screwed! My parents need that money, they need it! I can’t ask. And I thought some financial aid was coming through, but it’s been denied. I didn’t know they could say they’d give it, then not do it, but they can. They can! And I’ll have to leave. I’ll have to leave California and go back home, and I’ll be a loser! I’ll be a huge fucking disappointment. What am I going to do? I couldn’t get anyone at the financial aid office to pick up the goddamn phone! Oh, Deo! What the fuck am I going to do?” Her sobs are harsh, and it hurts to listen to them.

  I wipe her tears away with my thumbs. “Listen to me. Listen. I fixed it.”

  Her head snaps up. There are dark rings of mascara under her eyes. Her hair is stuck to her cheeks with tears and sweat. The tip of her nose is bright red, and her lips look swollen. She wrinkles her forehead when she looks at my suit and tie. “What did you do?”

  “I worked some Deo magic.” I try to keep my voice light, but her night terrors mixed with this new, extreme sadness are kind of freaking me out. “All settled. By the way, when were you going to tell me about your study abroad in Italy? Did I ever tell you I love spaghetti? And the David? And passionate women with awesome accents? You were just gonna leave me to rot in this shithole? Not cool.”

  “How did you fix it?” she asks carefully, and I’m still not sure she’s going to be okay with my explanation, but I just have to stop being a puss and tell her.

  “Don’t be pissed, okay?” I know that’s almost like asking for her to be pissed at me and throw a hissy fit. But I decide on telling the truth and trusting Whit to get it. For once. Even if it’s so not our thing.

  So I start with my sorry-ass childhood, looking up to my loser father like he was some kind of god, and that box under the bed that was so full of pipe-dream possibilities I never bothered to make good on, because as long as it was under my bed, there was still this potential for me to be amazing, but the minute I started to use it was the minute I had to admit that I might make huge fuck-up failure-based decisions. And how I’d never wanted to use any of it, not a single coin, ever. Half because, fuck my father, and half because I’d show everyone with my awesome whatever-the-fuck-I-was-going-to-do-with-it-one-day. But all that took a back burner when I heard Mrs. Red Tape Asshole leave her chipper-ass message, and it felt good to finally be able to make something right in my long, loserish existence.

  It’s a long-ass, rambly-ass story, and Whit winds up getting me a beer and one for herself, kicking off her shoes, wiping her eyes, and settling down to just listen
and sip her brew while I wah-wahed through my story.

  When I come to the end and give her my fake business card, her face is unreadable, and I’m betting on the fact that I’ll be kicked out of her apartment at any second for interfering in a huge way. Forget crossing lines. I’ve hacked through so many, it’s unbelievable and irreparable. I’ve finally dragged us out of no man’s land, and I might take a bullet in the head for it.

  “You did this all for me?” Her voice is cracked.

  “Of course. We’re homies forever, right?” I attempt to joke.

  Her eyes tear over me. “You got a disguise? You stole an identity? You flirted with those awful business ladies? You pawned your booty?”

  “You’re making it sound way tawdrier than it really was.” I wink at her. “I’m good at being a liar. And a flirt. And a pawn star. Wow, that sounds wrong.”

  Then Whit does something I don’t expect at all. She puts her beer down and climbs on my lap. “You’re not a liar. You’re amazing. You are so goddamn amazing, and I can’t believe I’m lucky enough to have you in my life.” The tears slide down her face silently. I sop them up with the cuff of my shirt. “I will pay back every cent, Deo. Every single cent, I swear to you. Thank you.” Her lips come down on mine.

  I squeeze her around the hips and try not to pass out from pure shock. Whit, sweet, soft, ready Whit is on top of me and kissing me with such hungry, nipping kisses, I can hardly focus. When I get my thoughts straight, I pull back.

  “Wait. Wait a second. This is not why I did that.” I pick her up by the hips and move her to the cushion next to me, no matter how much I fucking wish I’d just shut my brain off and give in to what she started. “I did what I did because I lo—care about you. I care about you.” I watch her eyes go perfectly round when she realizes what I really meant to say. I rush to cover my tracks. “And I’m collecting every penny back, with interest. That sad little stack of coins is all I got to my name. You? You’ll be rich as Midas one day. Maybe I’ll mop the gold-tiled floors in your thousand-story office building. Don’t laugh. I’ll gladly work in your shadow.”