Against the Wall

by Jill Sorenson

  “Oh my God, Noah. He didn’t take advantage of me.”

  “You’ve been through a lot lately. You’re vulnerable.”

  “I’m not vulnerable! I’m in love with him!”

  Noah’s brow furrows with a mixture of concern and horror. “You can’t be. You just broke up with Chip.”

  My stomach plummets at this reminder. I don’t want to tell Noah what happened between me and Chip. The memory of the abuse makes me feel sick, and small, and scared. But facing your fears is the grown-up thing to do. I can never be a counselor or a psychologist if I can’t talk about my own problems.

  “He hit me,” I say quietly, staring at my shoes.

  “Eric hit you? I’ll kill him.”

  “Chip hit me.” I raise my chin to meet his eyes. “Chip, not Eric.”

  “When?”

  “The night we broke up.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that all he did?”

  “He tore up the apartment in a rage. Then he held me down and wouldn’t let me leave. I snuck away after he fell asleep.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I shake my head, unable to answer.

  “Did it happen more than once?”

  “No, but he’d been getting more and more aggressive. More possessive. The day he met Eric, he bruised my arm right here in the front yard.”

  “Motherfucker,” he says, clenching his hands into fists.

  “Don’t,” I say, touching his arm. I can’t take any more yelling or male anger.

  “You didn’t report it?”

  “I just wanted to move on. I still do. Please respect that.”

  He sits down on the curb, framing his head with his hands. “I feel like…I’ve failed you completely.”

  I take a seat next to him. “What do you mean?”

  “Mom and Dad were counting on me to protect you.”

  “I’m an adult, Noah. I might be a huge fuckup, but I’m an adult. I’m responsible for myself.”

  “You’re not a fuckup.”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do after I graduate.”

  His jaw drops open. “You’re applying to grad school. Aren’t you?”

  “How can I, when I’m so…”

  “So what?”

  “So…all over the place. I can’t remember to use protection or lock my car. I date losers and fall in love with criminals. I’m the least together person I know. How am I supposed to help other people with their problems?”

  He closes his mouth abruptly.

  “See?”

  “You don’t have to be perfect to help others, Meg. If you did, every cop would be out of a job, myself included.”

  “You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

  “No. I think that’s your gift.”

  “Really?”

  He nods. “I was proud of you at the hospital the other day. That’s why I said you seemed all grown up. Matthew was hurting and I didn’t know what to do. But you did. You helped him, without hesitation.”

  “I did, didn’t I?”

  He puts his arm around my shoulders and brings me closer, pressing his lips to the top of my head. “You might want to work on that ‘falling in love with criminals’ thing. Otherwise, you’re doing okay.”

  “He’s a good person,” I whisper.

  Noah squeezes my arm and releases me, seeming unconvinced. “He’s a talented artist. I’ll give him that.”

  “That talent could save him.”

  “He has to save himself.”

  I look across the street, contemplative. Noah is right. Eric’s incredible potential as an artist is a lifeline, but it’s up to him to reach out and grab it. He has to capitalize on the opportunities he’s been given, not squander them.

  “I know he’s in some kind of trouble,” Noah says.

  “How?”

  He shrugs. “Cop instinct. It’s one of the reasons I don’t want him around.”

  I think his cop instinct has gone a little overboard. He’s crossed the line from hyper-alert cop and protective brother to crazy first-time father. “You have to let me make my own decisions. Maybe you had everything figured out when you were my age, and you knew exactly what you wanted to do with your life, but I don’t.”

  “I didn’t have everything figured out.”

  “You knew you wanted to be a cop.”

  “Yeah, but I wasn’t good at it.”

  “You weren’t?”

  “At twenty-two? Hell no. I came out of college with no practical experience. I’m lucky I didn’t shoot myself in the foot in police academy. I made a ton of mistakes as a rookie. They called me Blue Flame for years.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s a term for overenthusiastic new cops who think they can save the world.”

  I laugh at the apt description. Maybe I’m not so far off track, if he had trouble fitting in. Self-assurance isn’t the same as knowing what you’re doing. It’s normal to struggle when you’re first starting out.

  “I’m worried that you’ll get hurt,” Noah says, returning to the original subject.

  “I’m worried that you’ll get shot.”

  He arches a brow. “Now you sound like April.”

  I stand up, offering him my hand. He takes it and lumbers to his feet. I wonder if he’ll be in the doghouse with her for a few days. April loves Eric to pieces and she’s not afraid to read Noah the riot act. As soon as we’re inside, he sinks to his knees at the foot of the couch and puts his arms around her. She threads her fingers through his hair. It’s a raw display of devotion, accepted instantly.

  My eyes grow misty at the sight. I continue to the kitchen to give them privacy. Jenny has stolen another donut from the box. She shoves the last piece into her mouth to get rid of the evidence. I grab a powdered sugar one and sit down next to her, eating my feelings.

  “Is Tío coming back?” she asks, hopeful.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What was the fight about?”

  I take another bite of donut, shrugging. I’m not sure how to explain such an adult situation to her.

  “Two boys at my school fought once,” she says. “They both got espended.”

  “Suspended.”

  “Is Eric suspended from the house?”

  “I guess you could say that.”

  “Then he’ll be back. There’s another word for when you get kicked out forever.”

  “Expelled.”

  “That’s it.”

  I eat another donut and stay quiet. I’m skeptical about Eric’s return. He never felt welcome here. This morning’s rude awakening gave him more than enough reason to leave, and Noah clearly wanted him gone.

  After breakfast, I get dressed to go visit Kelsea. She just got released from the hospital and she’s recovering at her dad’s bungalow in Ocean Beach. It’s only a few blocks from Sunset Cliffs, a famous surf spot. Kelsea and I have spent many afternoons there, watching the waves. Her little brother answers the door when I knock. I hadn’t noticed at the hospital, but now I realize he’s grown six inches since Kelsea’s birthday party in November. He mumbles hello and shuffles away. I can hear Kelsea and Matthew bickering in the bedroom.

  “Oh my God, Dad. I don’t want you in the bathroom with me.”

  “You’re going to slip and fall—”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  I knock on the door, which is ajar. Kelsea is standing by her bed, gripping the bedpost. Matthew looks exasperated.

  “I’ll help her,” I say.

  “I can do it myself. I’m not dying.”

  Matthew flinches at her careless words. I’m sure she didn’t mean to reference her mother’s death. She doesn’t always think before she speaks. He backs away from her, palms raised, and exits the room.

  “Shit,” she says, under her breath.

  “Stay right there,” I tell Kelsea, and follow Matthew to the kitchen.

  He opens t
he fridge and stares at the empty shelves, as if the solution to his difficult relationship with Kelsea might be hidden in there. “I need to go to the grocery store,” he says. “There’s nothing to eat.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll take care of Kelsea while you’re gone.”

  “Do you think she’ll let you?”

  “Yes.”

  He nods curtly, dragging a hand down his face. He doesn’t seem to understand why he butts heads with Kelsea.

  “It’s because you’re so much alike,” I say.

  “Excuse me?”

  “She’s just like you. That’s why you don’t get along easily.”

  “What am I like? An asshole?”

  I smile, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. He’s stubborn and demanding—but self-aware enough to joke about it. And pretty hot, for an old guy.

  He grabs his keys on the way out. “Thank you. You’re a good friend to her.”

  I sniffle at the compliment, which means a lot to me. When I return to Kelsea’s room, she’s holding the bedpost in a white-knuckled grip. Her hair is a mess and her face is pale, but her blue eyes blaze with determination. It must be killing her to have restricted movement. She’s not the type to sit still.

  “Do you want to go to the bathroom or rest?” I ask.

  “I want to pee in private.”

  “I’ve seen you pee before. I wasn’t impressed.”

  “Don’t lie. You had vagina envy.”

  I lean against the doorjamb, smiling. “I wouldn’t mind seeing your dad pee.”

  This gets her. She doubles over and laughs weakly. “You’re sick.”

  I move closer and put my arm around her. “You’re sick. Or are you just pretending? What an attention whore.”

  She lets me take her to the bathroom. When she’s finished, we hobble out together. She says she’s tired of sleeping, so we play videogames with her little brother. At least there’s movement onscreen, and she can work the controls. I stay at her house for most of the day. We sit outside and enjoy the parade of surfers heading to and from the beach. Later, in her room, I ask her about the man in the shadows. “Did you see his face?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t remember anything after you left.”

  “You don’t remember me calling you?”

  “No.”

  “That’s weird.”

  “The doctor says it’s normal with head injuries.” She gives me a sidelong glance. “What do you think he was doing?”

  “Waiting for you.”

  She shudders visibly. “Good thing you were there.”

  I’m on the fence about it. I feel sort of responsible for her accident, but maybe I averted something worse.

  “So what’s new with Eric?”

  “We hooked up again.”

  “Details,” she demands.

  I tell her all about the mural and our tawdry outdoor encounter, sans protection.

  “Why didn’t you stop him?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t want him to stop.”

  “Was it better that way? Like, dirtier?”

  I stretch out on my back on her bed, staring up at the ceiling. “Maybe. It was really fast, and hot.”

  Kelsea groans at this description. Then I give her the scoop on the morning-after pill and the morning-after rumble. She listens with interest. “I can’t believe your brother went off on him. Were they shirtless?”

  I roll my eyes at her question. “No.”

  “Where’s Eric going to live?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You have to find him before he does something crazy.”

  “You think he will?”

  “What does he have to lose?”

  Disturbed by the thought, I scoot off the bed and study my reflection in the wall mirror. I’m wearing a short flower-print dress with a belt and sandals. There are circles under my eyes and I look washed out, so I dab on some of Kelsea’s lip color.

  “I’ll come over tomorrow and help you shower,” I say.

  “Okay, lesbian. Just don’t fall in love.”

  “Do you want me to pick up some stuff from your dorm?”

  “I guess. I can’t imagine going back there.”

  “You don’t have to go back.”

  She sighs, touching the staples on her head. There’s a little strip of bare skin where they shaved away the hair. “I won’t feel safe on campus until he’s caught.”

  I fall silent, anxious for her. Noah already told me that the first forty-eight hours are crucial. After that timeframe, the likelihood of an arrest reduces drastically. The surveillance cameras didn’t catch the vandalism or Kelsea’s fall. There’s some footage of a man in a hooded sweatshirt walking away from the scene, but no witnesses, other than me.

  Police consider the case a low priority because the vandal didn’t destroy any property this time. He didn’t even touch Kelsea. His identity could remain a mystery forever.

  “Be careful,” she says.

  “With Eric, you mean?”

  “With everything.”

  Chapter 28

  Eric

  After I leave Club Suave, I walk three blocks to the sporting goods store.

  There’s a vendor on the way serving street tacos al pastor. My stomach growls and I sit down for a plate. This type of taco isn’t easy to find north of the border. The pork is cooked on a stand-up rotisserie and carved off in thin slices. It’s served on corn tortillas with onion, cilantro, salsa, and grilled pineapple.

  I wolf down three in about three minutes. Then I order three more.

  When I’ve had my fill, I continue to the sporting goods store. I realize that I’m going to have to be a lot more conservative about spending my money. After careful deliberation, I select a basic red sleeping bag and a flashlight that looks like a lantern. I also check out the camp stoves and cooking supplies. There are packages of freeze-dried meals that require boiling water. If I can’t get the electricity going in the trailer, I’ll have another option.

  The bikes are too expensive for my shoestring budget. I might be able to find a decent ten-speed at a thrift shop. Although my car is almost finished, I can’t drive her without attracting attention. Word will get out to Omar and he’ll come to collect. It’s a catch-22. I’ve spent weeks on the repairs. I can’t wait to hear the engine purr again. But why bother with the final touches, just to hand her over?

  By the time I reach the junkyard, it’s almost dark. Scrappy’s gone. There’s a note stuck to the front gate:

  Brown Field

  Just like before

  Tomorrow at sunset

  I crush the paper into a ball and shove it in my pocket. I have a brief, Christine-inspired fantasy about my Chevelle running down a group of Eastside members on the street. Barrio Christine. Then I take out the keys and unlock the gate, my pulse pounding. Fuck Omar and his bullshit summons. I’ll be there, but I won’t give him my car. I’ve thought of a backup plan—and I doubt he’ll like it.

  Too fucking bad.

  I’m about to relock the gate when Meghan’s compact car rounds the corner. My heart leaps at the sight, pumping hard in my chest. She pulls up to the entrance and lets the engine idle. I know I should send her away. Until I take care of this issue with Omar, everyone around me is in danger. But I don’t want to send her away. I can’t bring myself to reject her again. I need her.

  If that makes me weak…fuck it. I’m weak.

  I wave her through and secure the gate behind her. Then I get in the passenger seat. “How’s April?”

  “She’s fine.”

  I clear my throat, uncomfortable. “And the baby?”

  “The baby is surrounded by amniotic fluid and completely unaffected by a minor fall. April rested for ten minutes and got up.”

  I’m relieved by this common sense explanation, but still ashamed of my behavior. I wasn’t thinking this morning when I decided to throw down with her brother. I wasn’t thinking when I ravaged Meghan like a beast on the hood of
her car, either. I have to do a better job of staying in control.

  “How’s your face?”

  I touch my eyebrow, which still feels tender. Then I drop my hand, shrugging.

  “Are you going camping?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Where at?”

  I point her toward the trailer I claimed. She parks next to it and we get out. She’s wearing a dark blue dress that looks sort of quirky and old-fashioned, if not for the abbreviated length. My eyes travel up her long, smooth legs as she climbs into the trailer. I fumble with my flashlight and follow her inside. At least it’s clean.

  “Is this your new place?”

  “For now.”

  “Where will you sleep?”

  I gesture to the sleeping nook in the back. Then I give her the flashlight and drag in the mattress, which is still a bit damp. I shove it into place on the wooden platform and open up my sleeping bag, laying it nylon-side down. The other side is a cozy flannel plaid. I don’t have any pillows, but I don’t mind. I’m used to going without.

  “I talked to Noah.”

  I lean against the counter, uneasy. I care what Noah thinks of me. I care because he’s her brother and April’s husband.

  He’s…family.

  “What did he say?”

  “Just that he knows you’re in trouble, and he’s worried I’ll get hurt.”

  I look away, feeling sucker-punched.

  “I told him about Chip, too.”

  “You did?”

  She nods. “He was upset, but I’m glad we talked about it.”

  I study her face again, struck by a wave of intense longing. Not just for her, but for the bond she has with her brother. I miss my brother and my dad. Even though they were both losers, I loved them.

  “Kelsea got released from the hospital this morning.”

  “How is she?”

  “Much better. She’s not the best patient, though. She doesn’t like resting.”

  I picture her jumping up and down at Fine Ink, squealing over my posters. Then I remember her lively hands on me when I was dancing with Meghan. The memory makes me feel guilty and excited at the same time.

  There’s something wrong with me, some hitch in my wiring. I can go straight and stay clean, but I can’t be soft. I can’t be normal. I can’t stop getting turned on by risk and danger. I like being bad, especially in bed.