by David Kummer
What kind of music would Bruce have made? I wondered. Such an introspective, curious guy. Just a guy with a guitar. An interesting old man. Even a good one, I might dare.
A small piece of me, somewhere inside, wondered if I put too much into this idea. That I had built my house on unreliable ground. It could split any moment and swallow me alive. But for the time being, such thoughts were buried under good food, intellectual conversation, and a future so much brighter than the past.
The moon hung in the sky, a full orb. I stared for just a moment, car keys in hand, my back to the still-warm engine. And appreciated that I was, for now, happy.
6
Willow
I curled my bare toes so tight that it hurt, feeling the carpet underneath and between them. My eyes were straight down, blank. I could barely hear the shower running just down the hall. It had been something like twenty minutes now. Longer than Mason ever took. Then again, nothing about this felt normal.
With a loose sweatshirt and running shorts that felt too tight now, I remained in that position for almost an hour once we’d finished. My arms crossed, head down. My skin felt gross, like a layer of sweat dried over everything, even though the room itself couldn’t be warmer than 65 degrees. The curtains were drawn, the sky outside pitch black. I longed for any inch of sunlight to stream in, to touch my skin.
Every time, I thought about it, I squirmed uncomfortably, felt myself on the verge of tears. But I wouldn’t cry, not here. I would just manage.
Goddamn it, Mason. I couldn’t quite distinguish the feelings in my body, just like I couldn’t exactly remember what’d happened. Alcohol does that, I guess. He’d been more drunk than me. Not that it was an excuse. Not for something like this.
The emotions coursing through me were some godawful mixture. Anger. I’d never been this angry at Mason. Also regret, even remorse. And just a general disgust. At myself, at him, at the two of us for letting this happen. But especially right now, especially the summer before our senior year.
God, those images in my mind. How would this change everything? What about senior prom? Even graduation itself? Not like this. Please, not like this. I didn’t need this right now.
I didn’t know anything for sure. It could all be an overreaction, I told myself. Just a scare. But something inside of me said otherwise. A sort of instinctual punch to the gut. A cringe. That’s the right word for what I felt. An hour-long cringe.
Even after the stream of water died, Mason took his sweet time coming back to the room. Thirty minutes, at least. He smelled of shampoo and body wash. Wore new clothes, fresh ones, while I sat here in filth.
“Hey, sorry about that,” he said, strolling into the room bare-chested, towel-drying his hair.
Sorry about what, I wanted to ask. The long shower or the fact that I could be fucking pregnant?
“It’s fine.” I stood from the bed, refusing to meet his eye. “Gonna shower.”
He didn’t respond. I didn’t want him to. I trudged down the hallway, toward the bathroom. Never in my entire life had I felt so awful after sex. Not a single time. Not even the very first one, as awkward as it’d been. No, this sensation would never be topped. Could never, ever be beaten.
I hadn’t even brought clothes to his house. I realized this with my hand on the bathroom doorknob. Even if I managed to scrub my body clean and rid myself of this bile, I would have to slip into the same underwear, the same shorts.
Nevertheless, I marched inside and locked the door behind me. The air still thick with steam and the odor of his body wash. I gagged for a moment and thought I would puke. I opened the toilet lid, just in case, and closed my eyes.
Images flooded me. Pregnant at family Thanksgiving and Christmas. How would I explain this to my mom? To my brother?
Pregnant in a prom dress. Would I even be able to wear one?
Would I be still pregnant at graduation or a real mom by that point?
Oh, god.
Then I did puke, over and over again into the toilet. I thought, for a moment, how ironic. Would morning sickness be like this? Did that even really happen? I kept my eyes closed the whole time, not eager to see the disgusting pool just below me. On my knees, elbows on the seat, shaking my head back and forth.
Mason didn’t have to deal with this. Maybe he didn’t even know. Hadn’t realized yet. The dumbass would be too hungover to talk in the morning. Too stubborn. He might not even remember.
A condom. That’s all it would’ve taken. Just a condom. Just one of us remembering.
“Fuck!” I screamed as loud as I could. The word echoed back to me. I drowned it with more vomit. Induced by alcohol or panic, this went on for another few minutes. With each time, I grew more thankful that his parents weren’t home and wouldn’t be for a day or two. That I could shout to my heart’s content, knowing nobody would hear me. Even for hours and hours on end.
Mason would hear me. And he would have no idea what to do, say, or think. I hoped it bothered him. I hope it fucking ate him alive.
Once I’d started the shower and felt it scorching my hand, I stood in front of the mirror, completely naked now. Eyeing myself, I noticed the hickeys just below my right cheekbone and gritted my teeth. My eyes dropped to my stomach. They stayed there for a moment.
I covered my mouth with both hands so that he wouldn’t hear me crying. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to start this. But I couldn’t stop, and once the sobs had begun, they wouldn’t ever end.
For an hour, I sat in Mason’s shower and cried. The scalding hot water turned my shoulders and back bright red. My hair hung like a mop curtain around my crumbling frame. Mason didn’t have to deal with this. No, he wouldn’t ever understand. Not really.
It’s impossible to explain why, in those moments, my thoughts turned where they did. Maybe it was the text from him, the brutal honesty. Or something about those words that I connected with. I’m not okay.
Hudson. If anybody would talk, or at least be honest with me, he would.
I didn’t want to make the effort. I didn’t want to start this. No, I just wanted the aching to be gone.
The shower beat down on my head, relentless. My body started shaking, and I threw up again. I watched as it swirled down the drain and imagined myself doing the same. Just… gone.
7
Little Rush
(The Robbers)
Curtis shoved his notepad in the glovebox and slammed it shut, not terribly hard but enough to get Randy’s attention. When the man turned with an expression that could start a fire, Curtis folded his arms and slouched deeper in the passenger’s seat.
“How come I ain’t get to drive? Always you!”
Randy rolled his eyes and turned away once more. He leaned forward until his chin almost touched the top of the steering wheel. Curtis observed for a moment, then groaned. Reluctantly, he focused his own attention on the house up the street.
They were parked on the side of a country road. A thick, expansive corn field lay to their right, and Curtis’s door would’ve stuck on the stalks if he tried to open it. The front half of their car lined up with a curve in the road so that they could peer around the bend without the target noticing them. Randy had spent five minutes positioning the car, gritting his teeth the whole time. Methodical placing, even genius if you asked him.
“Think he’s seen us yet?” Curtis asked, voice cracking.
Randy shook his head but didn’t grant a verbal answer. He pointed at something straight ahead, near the house they were watching. Curtis leaned near him for a better view.
Bruce Michaels stood in the shade behind his house, facing the brick wall. He paced back and forth, from one corner to the other, occasionally touching his forehead.
Almost like them praying nuns, Curtis thought to himself with a chuckle.
Hunched at the shoulders, his hair wild and unruly, Bruce Michaels behaved like a man with an ungodly hangover. This explanation didn’t fit, though, because he willingly stood outside where the heat
and sunlight would worsen such a condition. Perhaps, then, he was merely a man who’d lost all control. His scampering eyes, darting from brick to grass to sky; his heaving chest. That analysis fit slightly better, in Curtis’s opinion.
“So… which one’a us ‘as to… to go in the back way?” Curtis asked, face oddly pale.
Randy raised an eyebrow. “Neither of us. That’s June’s job.”
Curtis clicked his tongue and nodded. “Got’cha.”
They observed for another minute. Bruce lashed out at the wall, swinging his foot like a furious pendulum. As soon as his shoe struck brick, he winced, hopping backward. Curtis and Randy shared a chuckle over this. For all his wealth and his undeniable fame, Bruce Michaels didn’t look like a rich Hollywood actor. Nevertheless, the plan was the plan, and they had to execute it perfectly. These scouting trips —this being their second of three planned— would be vital to the outcome.
June had given them specific instructions on what to look for and jot down in their notebooks. Curtis’ remained in the glovebox, rarely used. Randy scribbled on his from time to time. For the most part, their reports were delivered verbally and half-serious, often during a late-night baseball game. This irritated June to no end, but Curtis didn’t see the issue. They weren’t the brains of the operation. Although, to be honest, they weren’t the brawn either.
“Oh, shit.” Randy stretched, raising his hindquarters from the seat an inch, and rummaged in his pocket. He furrowed his brow in concentration, finally extracting the buzzing cell. With a serious, shut-up glance at Curtis, he put the phone on speaker. “Hey there, June. About to call you.”
Curtis sighed and went back to staring at the cornfield only a foot away. Leaning against the glass, he peered into the endless depths and dreamed of a day when he wouldn’t have to live so close to corn. When he could have a real nice place, maybe even his own house. And he and Randy would stay near each other and have fancy dinners together from time to time. This pleased him, so he went on dreaming.
June snapped over the speaker, “How ‘bout you get your ass back here. It’s past time.”
“We’re just… getting real good stuff here. Didn’t wanna leave.” Randy bit his lip, and Curtis felt the same anxiety as she received their lie.
“Whatever.” She sighed, exasperated. Sounded on edge, in his opinion. “Just hurry up. We need to discuss a day. Few weeks from now.”
“Few weeks!” Randy exclaimed.
At this, Curtis gaped, his jaw hanging open. Almost comical if not for the gravity of what she’d said.
“Yeah. I’m gonna move it up to three from now. I’m tired of sitting around. We gotta act sooner.” June cleared her throat, maybe to mask some anxiety of her own. “Point is, we need’a get going. Just hurry back.”
“You got it.”
Randy moved to hang up the call, but before he could, Curtis yelled out, “This guy’s a real whack-o, June! You sure he’s got money?”
Randy shot fire at Curtis as they waited for June’s response.
“He does,” she promised.
“Just looks unstable, you know? Even dangerous.”
June paused for a moment. Static filled the line. Then she asked, “Randy, is this true?”
Randy gulped and took the chance to hit Curtis hard on the shoulder. The bigger man squealed and pressed himself as far away as possible from the assailant.
“Yeah, he’s not looking right,” Randy answered. He mumbled, “Probably could kill this fucking—”
“Doesn’t matter,” June interrupted him. “Doesn’t matter. He can have guns for all I care. Won’t matter to me.”
Curtis raised an eyebrow. The almost-insult had flown over his head.
Randy stared at the phone before sputtering, “What?”
“What, you think we’re going in unarmed?” June laughed, a ruthless sound. “I’m not afraid to spill some Hollywood blood. Maybe see if it sparkles, huh?”
Again, that joyless sound. It turned their blood cold.
8
Hudson
Everything moved so quickly over the next few days, I couldn’t process what happened with my parents. My father moved back into the house as if he’d just been away to see family. After only two nights away, he returned home, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder and sheepish grin on his face. I just happened to be in the kitchen when he arrived. Dad opened the door and poked his head inside, looking around.
Our eyes met. He grunted in surprise and asked, “Your mom… here?”
I shook my head and leant against the counter. The microwave next to me counted down, that faint whirring sound from the motor filling our empty spaces. “You staying at the Coopers’ again?”
Dad shook his head and opened his mouth, but it snapped shut just as fast. “I’ll explain later. Gotta... talk with your mom.”
For another moment, he stood halfway inside, watching me. I didn’t feel much like talking. There was no room for it. I only felt bitterness, a general disliking. While he watched me, I tried to remain as expressionless as possible. I didn’t want him to know how I truly felt. That I couldn’t stand him at the moment. If he did deserve to know, he would come and ask, talk man-to-man. This, I knew, would never happen.
“I’ll just call her.” He sort of nodded and then backed outside again.
The microwave beeped and I took out my popcorn. From the kitchen window, eating my dinner, I observed him. He paced for a minute, phone to his ear, before jumping into his truck and speeding away. Leaving me alone once again. I wanted to know where he’d gone but didn’t care to ask.
Over the next few days, my parents behaved like nothing had changed. Around me, they were their old, happy, carefree selves. Dad, stressing over payments for the farm and new chickens, rarely spoke to me. Not that Mom did either. But she had an air about her, a certain peppiness, that showed just how glad she felt about his return. They clearly held their own catalog of conversations, ones I wasn’t privy to. Whatever they discussed over those few days, it did the trick. Things returned to a sort of normal, whatever that meant.
While my parents’ relationship blossomed anew, I felt more and more alone. Their reunion didn’t affect how I felt, but I also couldn’t ignore the coincidence. Each time they glanced at each other from across the living room or I caught my mom snuggling into his chest on the couch, I saw myself more estranged. On an island, perhaps, that had broken off from the mainland. Now, the ocean between grew with each day.
Mason and Willow hadn’t spoken to me since that morning when I visited the cabin. I’d texted him, once I had plans with Bruce for dinner. Besides that response —Sucks you can’t make it, man. Next time!— no word from those two reached me. Not even a call, a text, a tag on an Instagram post.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true.
One particularly miserable night, when my parents were gone on a “date,” I’d finished off the bottle of vodka in my underwear drawer. There had been just enough to get me drunk. With Netflix droning in the background of my life, I got a wave of inspiration.
The weather outside, being a typically perfect July night, lent itself to my plans. I slid the bedroom window open, as much as possible, and then flicked off my room light. Unsteadily and over the course of a minute, I climbed onto my windowsill and sat there. Feet dangling over a two-story drop, leaning out so I could feel the breeze on my head. I’d chugged the rest of the bottle right there. Without thinking, I chucked it as far as I could. The empty plastic container, snatched by the wind, carried to the corner of the house. It dropped in a bush. I told myself I’d fetch it later.
Just as I thought, I need to text Mason and get alcohol from his plug, my phone chirped. I’d forgotten all about it, laying beside me in darkness, until the screen lit up and blinded me.
I expected a text from Mason. It would’ve been another weird coincidence in this weird week. Instead, the message came from Willow.
Willow: hey, i don’t really know why i’m texting you. i was jus
t… i’ve been worried about you, since your message on Tuesday. if you ever need to talk, Hudson, i’m here for you. just want you to know that.
I read the message twice more, the words slightly fuzzy in my drunken stupor. The phone light, even at its lowest level, hurt my brain. Without thought, I stored the phone away for a different time.
Willow texted me twice more that week, each on different days. On the third occurrence, I finally messaged her back and said I didn’t feel like talking, that it had just been an awful night. I would be okay, I promised, and thanked her for being “a really good friend,” bullshit to make her feel better. I certainly didn’t tell her that I thought about killing myself once or twice a week. I didn’t mention that the night of my text, I’d honest-to-god gotten in my truck and intended to never return.
This type of honesty… people just couldn’t handle it.
I often considered a visit to Bruce’s house. He would have advice about this whole situation, for sure. Especially the part with Mason. Bruce definitely had wild, douchey, unreliable friends in the past. Ones even worse than mine, probably a lot of them.
The parts of Mason that irked me had grown more intense that summer. For whatever reason, I started to hate the way he talked to and about Willow. I’d never known somebody so eager to bring up his sexual prowess. And in the most gag-worthy of ways. The Mason I’d known all through high school had been a bit cocky, sure, but more on my level. He thought the same things, asked the same questions. Like our late-night, philosophical conversations in the bed of my truck, surrounded by beer bottles. Those days were long gone and so was that version of my best friend.
Apparently, he’d decided that senior year Mason would be wildly different. Would really lean into the douche stereotype he’d resisted for years, despite his genetically good looks and toned body. This new version stood up to and became the bully. Mistreated his girlfriend, ignored his best friend. No, not ignored. He just didn’t care. He’d become entirely self-centered. That really bothered me. I figured that also caused the tension between him and Willow. Just a self-centered piece of shit.