Truly

by Carmel Rhodes

  At the time, his music was the most vulgar, rawest thing I’d ever heard. I could feel every emotion through those lyrics. It was thrilling, forbidden, melancholic, euphoric.

  My love of music was born in that basement.

  My love of spoken word was born there too.

  Graceland may not be steeped in the history of my people, but in a lot of ways, I found myself through Elvis’ music. It’s shaped me, and well, he has a freaking jungle room!

  “Waffle,” Noah says, dropping a plate in front of me the next morning.

  I stare down at the waffle, skeptically. “Is it poisoned?”

  “I don’t know why you think I’m trying to kill you.” Noah flips his chair around and plops down on it, his knees straddling either side. “You’re no use to me dead. I can’t fuck a corpse.”

  “You could.” I shrug. He probably would. Forks scrape against porcelain as the people around us enjoy their continental breakfast, completely unaware of the morbid sex talk going on at our table.

  Noah’s mouth drops open and he shakes his head. “And I’m the one with the skewed moral compass.”

  Last night, after we ate our weight in barbecue, we roamed the streets of Memphis until almost one in the morning. The city was alive with a frenetic energy that I hadn’t expected. Neon lights, music, and southern hospitality are ingrained in the core of this town. I can see why Momma loved it so much.

  Ethan drops a plate loaded high with eggs, bacon, and assorted pastries. “Can we make a rule that every hotel we stay at has free breakfast?” he asks around the bagel hanging in his mouth.

  I nod my agreement, drizzling syrup on my potentially poisoned waffle, and cut a piece off with my fork. It tastes like heaven, partly because it’s free and partly because Noah made it for me. I’m not taking advantage of his guilt for crashing my trip, per se, but I’m also not looking a gift horse in the mouth. Apologetic Noah is a lot better for my mental health than I want your innocence smeared on my cock Noah.

  Becca joins us, sipping on coffee. “Ugh, I am so not a morning person. Whose idea was it to wake up before noon?”

  “Breakfast is over at nine, babe,” Ethan says, lifting the fork to his lips. “And food tastes better when it’s free.”

  I point my fork at him. “I knew I liked you best for a reason,” Noah grunts, but doesn’t comment further. What he does do is drop a possessive hand on my thigh under the table.

  We eat in comfortable silence. Having the boys here isn’t how I envisioned this trip going, but it’s too late to do anything about it now, and me holding onto my attitude for a second day will only affect my experience, not theirs.

  While I’m not forgetting my anger, I’ve decided not to let it ruin my trip. I don’t know if it’s growth, naivety, or some mixture of the two, but either way, they’re here and I can either stew in my anger or make the best of it.

  After breakfast, we head to Graceland. The car comes to a stop and my heartbeat starts to pick up. I stare in awe at the white, wrought-iron archway that leads to the entrance.

  It’s real.

  This is real.

  I’m actually doing this.

  We make our way up the concrete ramp to the ticket counter. Large, colorful posters of Elvis are suspended in the air on either side. I can only imagine how Momma felt being here way back then. Excited, nervous, anxious?

  The magnitude of the moment hits me square in the chest. Tears cloud my vision, and I stop walking, as memories of my mother bombard me.

  Her love for Elvis ran deep. We used to spend Saturday mornings cleaning. It was our thing. She’d put on her cleaning mixtape, which was comprised of mostly 90’s rap and R&B, but occasionally, an Elvis song would pop up. Whenever it did, Momma’s face would light up and her eyes would twinkle with memories. Daddy would come and wrap his arms around her waist, and they’d sway together in their own little bubble until the song was over. Then they’d go back to cleaning.

  God, they were so in love. They had the kind of love people write songs about. A love so deep, he still hasn’t moved on. Maybe that’s why I lost myself in Devin, even though we were as different as night and day. I wanted a love like my parents had.

  A fat teardrop falls down my cheek. Then another one. Then another. I swipe angrily at the hot tears rolling down my face. “No…no not here,” I murmur to myself.

  The pain comes in waves, drowning me in it before we even cross the threshold. I move to the side, sucking in breath after breath, trying to calm myself down. This trip is supposed to be about celebrating my mother’s life. It isn’t supposed to be about sadness.

  I grip the rail, focusing on my breathing, when I feel someone behind me. Two feminine arms wrap around my waist as Becca hugs me from behind. “I know I’m not your favorite person right now,” she says, squeezing me so tightly it feels like she’s the only thing keeping me together, “but we are here to honor her. It’s okay to feel sad. It’s okay to miss her.”

  “I know.” My voice is thick, clogged with tears. “I’m fine.”

  She inhales. “But you don’t have to be. I’m here, I can be strong for both of us.” More tears fall, but I nod, turning in her arms. “I love you, deep, Tru. I know I fucked up, but I meant it when I said, nothing is going to change. We are here for you, so if you want to cry your way through a four-hour Elvis tour, then I brought waterproof mascara.”

  I giggle sadly, glancing into Becca’s blue eyes for the first time since we left Newton. “Deep, deep.”

  “Big deep.” She grins a toothy grin. “Now, let’s do this shit.

  About an hour into the tour, my emotions start to subside enough for me to relax. After being bussed over to the mansion, the four of us make our way through the house, guided by a tablet and headset.

  Noah digs his hand into the front pocket of my jeans, and tugs me to the wall, letting a group of Elvis revelers pass us by, not concerned with the two teenagers standing a little too close in the corner.

  I crane my neck to look up at him. His scent, soap mixed with sin, invades my nostrils. How can I be so attracted to someone who has done such terrible things to me?

  He pulls my headphones off. “Are you okay?” he asks. His brown eyes bore into mine with something that feels an awful lot like concern.

  “Yeah. I’m fine.” I blink, looking away from his intense gaze.

  His fingers slip into the belt loops of my jeans, pulling me closer still. “I don’t like seeing you cry.”

  I scoff, Noah has been the reason for my tears since graduation. “Your actions prove otherwise.”

  “It’s different when you’re crying for me.” His gaze lowers to my lips. I don’t know if it’s because he realizes how fucked up that sounds, or if he’s picturing me crying for him, and it’s turning him on.

  Pressing my palm to his chest, I say, “It hurts all the same.”

  “But I make you feel good, too.”

  “You do,” I reluctantly agree. I’m too emotionally exhausted to examine that truth any further, but I know my future therapist will have a field day with it.

  “I can make you feel good all the time, if you’ll let me.”

  “When has me letting you ever stopped you from doing something?” More people shuffle past, reminding me that we are having this conversation in a very public place. But that’s the Noah effect. He has a way of blocking out the rest of the world from my view, forcing my attention solely on him. I don’t know if it’s because he likes being the center of the universe or if he just needs to be the center of my universe.

  He smirks and tucks a few braids behind my ear. “Now, you’re learning.” He finishes by kissing me sweetly on the nose and tags my hand, lacing his fingers with mine.

  “Don’t pretend to be sweet,” I say trying to tug my hand free as we rejoin the tour.

  “I’m not pretending. You know who I am, probably better than anyone. I just like touching you, and since we’re in public and I can’t touch you the way I want, I’ve got to sett
le for this.” He brings our hands to his lips and presses a gentle kiss to my knuckles.

  “You know, most people ask for permission to touch another person.”

  He shrugs. “I’m not most people, and you’re not just another person.”

  I stare up at him, waiting for him to continue, but he doesn’t bother. I lift my camera and snap his picture. He shoots me a quizzical look. “What was that?”

  “Due diligence,” I say, looking back at the picture. “When I write my dissertation on psychopaths, I’ll need photographs of my test subject.”

  Noah bursts out laughing, leading me around a mom bending over, helping her toddler tie his shoe. “You call it psychosis, I say driven.”

  I snap another picture. “Whatever you say.”

  “I’m starting to think you actually do think I am a psychopath.”

  “Exhibit A, treehouse. Exhibit B, I don’t know anything about you, aside from the mask you wear for the world.” We visit the kitchen and dining room and learn that Elvis had fourteen TV’s, one in nearly every room.

  “What do you want to know?” he shocks me by asking.

  “I don’t know.” I think about it for a moment. The real questions I want to ask, I’m too afraid of the answer, so I play it safe. “What made you want to play basketball? I mean, your parents are loaded. The full ride to Jameson is nice and all, but it isn’t like you need it.”

  His gaze darkens and his jaw ticks at the mention of his parents. I expect him to shut down, but he surprises me again. “It’s not about needing it. It’s about loving it. My dad played ball. He had balls in our hands since before we could walk. I’d spend the weekends over there, and he’d have us in the driveway practicing for hours.”

  “You and Devin?” I clarify.

  “Yeah.” He nods. The tour stops at the infamous Jungle Room, and I make Noah pose with me for a picture.

  “I can’t believe Devin played basketball,” I say, snapping a few more shots of the green carpet and Polynesian-inspired furniture. “He hates organized sports.”

  “I can’t believe you don’t already know this. Weren’t you with him for like two years?” He says it genuinely, not mocking or malicious, even though his words sting a little. He’s right. This is basic information. Noah offered it up after me asking a throwaway question.

  I shrug, trying not to feel like an idiot for being so in love with a boy who never bothered sharing even the smallest parts of himself. “He never really liked to talk about your dad. Anyway, next question. What’s your favorite color?”

  “Easy, blue and gold.”

  “Jameson colors?” I arch a brow.

  “You better fucking believe it.” His mouth tips up into a smirk and I can’t help but laugh. We aren’t even officially Cadets yet, but I’d be willing to bet if I stabbed Noah, he’d bleed blue and gold. “It’s my turn to ask a question.” He takes the camera from my hand and snaps a picture of me.

  “Fine.”

  “What color panties do you have on?”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re a perv.”

  “That’s not an answer.” He snaps another picture.

  “Fine. Purple.” I take the camera back, and suck in a breath before I ask my next question. “Why are you so hell bent on us having sex?”

  Noah tucks his hands in his pockets. “Because I like sex and I like you and I think I’ll really like having sex with you.”

  “So, it isn’t about one upping Devin?”

  “No. I mean, I’m not gonna sit here and say that I don’t take joy in the fact that I get to have that with you and he doesn’t, but me wanting to fuck you is about me wanting to fuck you. Being able to rub it in my brother’s face is just a bonus.”

  “What if I said I didn’t want to have sex?” I whisper the words so quietly, I almost think he misses them.

  “You want me to fuck you, Truly. You just aren’t ready to admit it out loud. I don’t know if it’s because you’re still holding out hope for him, or if it’s because you’re afraid of what it will mean if you like it. Either way, us fucking isn’t a matter of if. It’s a matter of when.”

  I suck my bottom lip into my mouth but don’t respond further. The tour comes to an end and we spot Becca and Ethan waiting for us at the exit. We are bussed back to the main entrance, and Becca and I hit up the gift shop while the guys wait outside.

  “What are those?”

  She grins widely at me, slapping a pair of tacky gold aviators on her face. “I ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog.”

  I laugh hard. It feels good to laugh after today, hell after this month. I make a silent promise to myself to laugh more on this trip. Reaching over, I grab a pair for myself and throw them on. “Crying all the time.” We burst into a fit of giggles and grab two more pairs as we make our way to check out. I check my phone while we’re in line. I have a missed Instagram notification. New post from @Dare_Devin.

  I set up the alert back when we were dating because he posts so infrequently, I didn’t want to miss anything. I realize that sounds clingy, but it’s true. Morbid curiosity has me clicking on the picture of Devin with his arm around some girl I don’t recognize. They’re at the park. People who I thought were my friends are laughing in the background. There’s no caption, but then again, he really doesn’t need one. Message received loud and clear. We’re over!

  My heart sinks. She’s the reason he left you, my self-conscious chides, feeding on my insecurities. He left me to be with the cool chick with tattoos and pouty red lips. She doesn’t have to pretend to fit in with his friends. She belongs.

  I inhale, fighting tears that have no business falling. We broke up. I get that. And I also get I spent the day flirting with his brother, so I can’t really be that mad, but I am. I’m pissed. Against my better judgment, I take a screenshot of the post and text it to him, along with a message that reads: Did you ever love me?

  His reply is almost instant.

  Devin: You know I did.

  Me: Then why’d you break me?

  Devin: Because…

  Three gray dots dance on the screen for what feels like an eternity, then they’re just gone.

  The line moves, and I make up my mind to leave Devin and his drama back in Newton. Pocketing my phone, we pay for the glasses and head out to find the guys.

  “You’re trembling,” Noah whispers, lifting my chin with his thumb and index finger. His lips feather over mine. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m…fine,” I lie. “A little hangry is all.”

  “Let’s get you fed then.” Noah presses his mouth to mine, and I let him kiss away the pain.

  “Take the next exit,” I say, staring at the GPS app on my phone.

  Noah flicks on the right turn signal, merging into the slow lane, before bringing his hand to rest possessively on my thigh. A shiver runs down my spine, and goosebumps prickle my skin. His touch causes this weird rush of emotions, equal parts fear and excitement, like every day is the first day of school.

  “Your hands are shaking,” he comments, not taking his eyes off the road. I study his profile. His jaw is relaxed, his face half hidden behind a pair of black Ray-Bans. He’s wearing a Jameson t-shirt and a pair of black gym shorts. I’m quickly learning it’s his standard uniform.

  “You have that effect on me,” I tell him dryly. We got on the road right after breakfast. Despite another late night spent roaming the streets of downtown Memphis, we were all excited to get to New Orleans. “We’ll be on this road for a bit.” I slip my phone in the cup holder and glance in the back seat. Becca was out cold almost as soon as her seat belt clicked. Ethan’s got his earbuds in and is staring out the window.

  I decide to take advantage of the privacy and the long drive ahead to learn more about the boy who has my insides tied up in knots. “Have you ever tree housed anyone before me?” He pushes his glasses on top of his head and turns to examine me. “Eyes on the road,” I reprimand. I’d given everyone the no texting and driving speech last nigh
t after I caught Ethan checking the directions to the restaurant on his phone. Despite, or maybe because of, my slightly manic delivery, the guys jumped on board pretty quickly.

  He does as I ask, but his grip on my thigh tightens a fraction. “Where’d that come from?”

  I lift a shoulder. “I don’t know. I just...is it weird that I’m attracted to you? Because it feels weird as fuck, and I guess I’m trying to justify it in my mind.”

  “You are the only person I’ve ever tree housed,” he tells me. It dawns on me that he could be lying because he wants to fuck me, but I believe him. Noah is a lot of things, most of them bad, but he hasn’t lied to me yet. I don’t see why he’d start now.

  Brushing my thumb over his knuckles, I ask another question. “Have you declared a major?”

  He tilts his head from one side to the other. His posture straightening just a tiny bit. “No, much to my stepdad’s annoyance.”

  “Is he one of those dads who expects you to have your shit figured out right after graduation?”

  “He’s one of those dads who expects unwavering servitude. He and my mom never had kids; he can’t, thank God for small favors, so I’m the only heir. I was supposed to go to an Ivy and major in business. Instead, I chose to play ball at a top ten school. Needless to say, I’m not his favorite person.”

  “He looked proud of you when you signed your letter of intent.”

  He arches a cocky brow. “You watched?”

  “My dad watched. I happened to be in the room.”

  “Who’s the stalker now?”

  I smack his arm. “Asshole.”

  “He likes the good press and being able to parade his prized pony in front of his basketball loving clients, but don’t mistake that for pride.”

  “Will you go into the family business after college?” It feels weird calling the company that The Atlanta Journal Constitution named one of the biggest corporations in the state, a family business, but technically, that’s what it is.