Certainly now, in her bedroom, her having sex last night did not somehow make her problems disappear. It hadn’t eased the tension in her back and shoulders or erased the headache she felt coming on, and it definitely hadn’t made her feel any cooler or more relaxed about her current situation.
Getting dressed (she’d finally settled on the most boring outfit possible—jeans and a cream-colored T-shirt), April decided on what she would say to him: It was a mistake. We were both in a weird place. It was a one-time thing. But here she had to check herself, because had it been? Really? April, think back. April, be honest.
They had fallen asleep together on the living room sofa, yes, but in that weird window of half-consciousness just before they drifted off completely, with their bodies already pressed up tight against each other, had she not pulled herself even closer to his body so that she pinned him against the back of the sofa? Had she not started to grind slowly against him, placing her hands firmly on his back and buttocks, guiding him? He had already fallen asleep, she remembered. She actually woke him up by moving against him, and she had felt him grow hard. The first time, in the bedroom, had been fast and fevered and over quickly, but on the sofa, they had gone about it leisurely, almost sleepily. They had kept their clothes on and she’d felt like a dumb teenager in love, she and her boyfriend dry-humping noiselessly in her bedroom, careful not to wake her parents. And it had been really, really good.
What must he think of her, waking him up for more? For Paul, this must all have been a lark. No doubt, she was just another notch on his already well-marked belt. She must have come off like a suppressed, sex-deprived housewife, so overeager, so ravenous. Well, it didn’t matter now. Let him say what he liked to his friends. “Yeah, bro, she totally came back for round two.” Let him exaggerate and embellish or outright lie. “And then she sucked me off—swallowed, and everything!” She didn’t care. But why did she get the feeling he wouldn’t do that? Why did she get the feeling he would never breathe a word of this to another soul?
When she came out, Paul was in the living room sitting on the sofa, two plates of eggs and toast sitting on the coffee table in front of him. “You look pretty,” he said when she came into the room.
April felt herself begin to blush and took a quick, deep breath. “Paul,” she began, “what happened last night—”
“I know.” Paul cut her off and stood up. “I know what you’re going to say, so you don’t have to say it.”
“What was I going to say?”
“That what happened last night was a mistake, and we should both just try to pretend it never happened and move on.”
April nodded. A bit blunter than she would have put it, but more or less accurate. “So, you agree, then?”
Paul shook his head. “No. I like you, April. I don’t see why we have to pretend this was a bad thing.”
“You like me? Paul, you don’t know me. Not really. I don’t know you. And you’re …” She trailed off. You’re a boy. I’m almost twice your age.
Paul took a step closer. She realized again how good-looking he was. Better-looking than any of the boys she’d dated back in high school or college, better-looking than Ray even at his peak. None of them came close.
“April,” he said, “none of that shit matters.”
She swallowed and looked him in the eyes. If Paul were an animal, he’d be a dog—a big, sad, beautiful dog. A German shepherd, maybe, or a Siberian husky. Yeah, a husky because their eyes were so blue …
“April?”
“Paul, this won’t work. I have kids. I have a life. I teach kids math. I taught you math. You have your life. You must have things you need to do, don’t you?”
Paul grinned and shrugged. “Nothing comes to mind.”
“Who was that girl?” April asked suddenly.
“What girl?”
“That girl who was with you at the bar last night. Who was that?”
He paused for a moment. “Oh, Nicki? Nobody. Just a girl I knew from high school.”
April asked, although she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer. “Did you sleep with her?”
“What?”
“Have you ever slept with her?”
Paul sighed. “Yeah, once—twice, maybe. I’m not completely sure, to be honest. But it didn’t mean anything. It was a mistake.”
April felt dizzy. She put a hand to her temple and closed her eyes. “Just as this was a mistake.”
She felt a jerk and opened her eyes as Paul put his hands on her shoulders again. “No, April, not like this. That’s what I’m trying to tell you—this is different. I like you. I like being around you. I always have. Being around you is good for me. Look, I haven’t even taken my medication today, and I feel fine.”
“Your medication?”
“I have … mild anxiety issues, nothing really.”
“Oh.”
“And I understand that no one can know about us. I understand that we’d have to keep it a secret, but …”
“Shh,” April said. She’d heard a sound. Someone was opening the kitchen door.
Without a word, she grabbed his wrist and led him quickly back into her bedroom, closing the door softly and locking it behind her. He stood dumbly in the middle of the room, like an actor waiting for her to give him his next direction. She mouthed the words Go out the window and pointed frantically to the large window on the far wall, overlooking the backyard.
For a few horrible seconds, she thought he wasn’t going to obey, that she would be caught in her room with this boy, by whoever had come into the house. Then he came up to her and, in a voice that was barely a whisper, said, “Think about it. Give us a chance.” He kissed her. Then he turned and went over to the window, opening it wide with one giant heave. And he was gone.
April became aware of a voice calling her. “Mom? Mom?”
Just like that, she was somebody’s mother again.
She opened the door of her bedroom. Her daughter was standing in the living room, where Paul had been only ten minutes before. “I thought you were sick,” Laura said, looking at her mother curiously.
April swallowed. “I am sick.”
“It’s just that … you’re all dressed and everything.”
“I took a shower. I was thinking that maybe if I made myself look better, I’d feel better, too.”
“Did it work?”
“Not really.”
Laura gestured at the plates of eggs and toast on the coffee table. “Why are there two plates of food here?”
April looked at them dumbly. “They’re for you and Jason,” she answered at last.
“But we weren’t supposed to be back till later this evening.”
“Oh … well, I guess I forgot.”
April didn’t know whether her daughter was buying this, but she couldn’t say she cared all that much—her mind was still reeling from what Paul had said, her body still reeling from his kiss. She rubbed her arm and waited for Laura to stop staring at her, to go somewhere else.
“Mom, can I ask you something?”
Give us a chance—that was what he’d said. What did that even mean? That was what they said in the movies, where people had the luxury of second chances. She wasn’t that kind of person. Her life was fixed and not going anywhere.
“Mom?”
April started. Laura was looking at her with raised eyebrows. “Hmm? Yes, honey, what is it?”
“I wanted to ask you something.”
“So, go ahead, ask.” She couldn’t keep the irritation out of her voice. Why did her daughter have to pick today of all days to have a heart-to-heart? Usually, it was like pulling teeth trying to get this girl to open up.
Laura looked genuinely hurt. “Forget it. You obviously don’t feel like talking right now.”
“Laura, don’t be like that. I’m listening.�
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“Maybe I’ll call Dad.”
April couldn’t help it, she burst out laughing. It wasn’t the first time her daughter had made such a threat when they had a disagreement about something, but at this point, both of them knew it was an empty one. Ray tried his best—or at least what he would consider his best—to stay halfway involved in the lives of his children, but that still limited the talks on the phone to little more than the kids telling him how they were doing in school and him telling them about the new pickup truck he’d bought.
April would intermittently eavesdrop on these occasional conversations, listening from the kitchen as they talked in the living room, or stopping in the hallway outside their bedroom doors, and wince at their strained, forced quality. Still, if either of her kids ever asked to talk to their dad, April would always honor that desire, even if she knew, as in Laura’s case, that it was only meant to get a rise out of her. Now, however, after the night she’d had, after what she’d woken up to, it was just too much. April was doubled over in near hysterics, and when she finally got her breath back, she stood up straight and said, “Go ahead, honey. You have his number.”
Laura was looking at her as if she’d lost her mind. And maybe she had. “I don’t see what’s so funny. What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing. You should call your father. Really, I insist.”
“You think I’m joking? I’m not joking.”
“Me either. Call him.”
Laura’s mouth quivered, and she blinked twice. Then she turned and walked out of the room.
“Where are you going? The phone’s in here,” April couldn’t help calling after her. No answer, just the sound of the kitchen door opening and then slamming.
April stood alone in the living room, listening to the birds outside and the hum of the refrigerator in the next room. Then she went over to the sofa and sat down. She picked up one of the plates of breakfast Paul had made. By now the eggs were cold, but she ate them anyway.
LAURA
There’s nothing worse than feeling miserable on a beautiful day.
It was one of those days where the weather was so perfect it was almost painful, the sky a clean slate of blue, and the soft, warm breeze playing on my cheeks and through my hair as if to say, Come on, it’s not that bad.
I walked quickly down the street with my head down, determined to ignore all the pleasantness around me: the chirping birds on telephone lines, the kids shrieking and laughing under sprinklers on front lawns, the sun as it danced across my face.
I didn’t want to talk to my dad. What the hell would I say to him? And what the hell would I have said to my mom, for that matter? But I needed to talk to someone, and as I walked down the street, only one person came to mind. I stopped at the intersection of Grant and State and turned left.
I’d never been in Ian’s house, but I’d seen where he lived when we rode in his car to the park that first night of summer vacation. It seemed like so long ago now. On the far edge of town, past the apartment complex and on the other side of the river. It was a long walk, and I was hot and tired by the time I reached his place: a low-slung white house in dire need of a paint job. Someone needed to take a Weed Eater to that front lawn soon, too.
I rang the doorbell, waited, then rang again. I was about to turn away when the door opened and a guy who looked an awful lot like Ian, only a little older and with longer hair, stood in the doorway, looking at me with tired, disinterested eyes. “Yeah?” he said impatiently.
“Hi, I’m looking for Ian?”
He turned around without a word, leaving the door open. I hesitated a second, then followed him inside, closing the door behind me. After the brightness of the afternoon, my eyes had to adjust to the dim light. All the window shades were pulled down, and no lights were on. There was a stale smell in the house. The boy led me through the kitchen and into the living room, where he flopped down on the sofa in front of a TV blaring MythBusters.
I stood in the middle of the room, wondering what to do, until he reached for his can of Budweiser on the table and, as if surprised to see me still standing there, said, “Ian’s upstairs, I think, in his room.”
“Oh, okay,” I said, “Where …?”
He pointed vaguely to his left and turned back to the TV. I wandered into the next room and found the stairwell.
I knew it was Ian’s room by the music blaring out from behind the closed door. I had to pound on the door to be heard.
“Yeah?”
When I came in, he was lying on his bed, looking at his laptop. His room was dark and small and looked even smaller because of the dozens of posters hanging on the walls—so many it almost made me dizzy. Weird creatures, bands I’d never heard of, with names like the Cramps and the Dead Kennedys. Ian’s music—a singer chanting over a heavily distorted guitar about how much he hated everything—was blaring from a set of large speakers plugged into his laptop. When he saw me standing in the doorway, he turned it down slightly and raised his eyebrows.
“Hey,” I said. I felt suddenly awkward and intrusive and wondered why I had thought coming to his house without any notice was a good idea. I hardly knew Ian.
He sat up on his bed. “Come in.” It was more a command than an invitation.
I took a step into the room.
“Shut the door,” he said.
I shut the door.
Ian studied me from his spot on the bed, his eyes roving over my body in a mixture of curiosity, bemusement, and something else I had yet to find a name for. It was the first time a boy had ever looked at me in that way.
I felt my face grow red, and I blurted, “Nola’s such a bitch.”
Ian nodded. “Yeah.”
I was surprised. I had expected a challenge. “I thought you two were really good friends.”
“Sure. ‘Really good friends’ is exactly what we are.”
“I just don’t know why she’s spending all this time at church. Does she have no life? Is she that bored, or does she just really hate me?”
Ian shook his head. “I don’t think it has anything to do with you, Laura. I think it has to do with the preacher’s daughter.”
“Bethany? But I don’t get why she wants to be around Nola so much. They’re total opposites, and—”
“Jesus, Laura.” Ian cut me off with a groan and rubbed his hands over his face. “I thought you would have figured it out by now. Nola’s into your friend, okay?”
“Into her?” I repeated dumbly.
“She first told me she had a crush on Bethany weeks ago, before they even started hanging out.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say. I stood there gaping like a dying fish. Though in that moment, I wasn’t thinking about Nola or about Bethany, but about how stupid and sheltered Ian must have thought me. How had I not seen this? I said slowly, “Okay, but she knows, right, that Bethany isn’t into girls, that Bethany isn’t into her?”
Ian smirked. “You sure about that?”
“She would have told me if she liked Nola that way. She wouldn’t have kept something like that from me. We tell each other everything.”
Ian shrugged. “Whatever you say.” Then he laughed and patted the space beside him on the bed. “You look like you need to sit down, kid.”
I sat down next to Ian. I felt as if I might cry. I couldn’t let him see me cry. I covered my face with my hands and groaned loudly, stupidly, to push back the tears. “I’m so stupid,” I said into my hands. “How was I this stupid?”
I heard Ian chuckle. “Hey, it’s okay. Honestly, it took me longer than it should have to figure out Nola’s tastes. Don’t beat yourself up.”
I rubbed my eyes and looked at Ian. “I don’t like your friend,” he said. “She’s fake and self-involved.” He placed a hand on my lap. “You’re okay, though, Laura. You don’t pretend. I like that.”
I
’d always imagined kissing as an out-of-body experience. You’d float above reality—the details and particulars—in some pink bubble of romance and elation. Kissing Ian, I was aware of everything: how his lips felt against mine; how I had to turn my body clumsily to the side, hurting my neck; how his breath, while not exactly bad, was also not completely fresh; the angry music as it pulsed above and around me. And then there were the incessant, maddening questions in my own head: Was I doing this right? Did my breath smell? Should I move my body into a better position? Did kissing Ian make me a slut? Was he kissing me only because, for some reason, he felt sorry for me?
After a few minutes, Ian pulled away from me, his face flushed and his eyes hard. Whatever my qualms, he was enjoying himself. “We should smoke some weed,” he said.
I started. Why was his immediate reaction to get high after kissing me? I didn’t want to smoke. It hurt my throat and reminded me of Nola, and I didn’t want to think of her, especially right now. But Ian had jumped off the bed and was digging through his top drawer. He came up with a plastic bag of weed.
“Actually, do you have any alcohol?” I asked, brushing a loose strand of hair out of my eyes and trying to sound casual. “I’d rather be drunk.” As if I’d been drunk so many times before.
Ian turned and looked at me. “Sure,” he answered after a moment. “Just give me a second.” He rushed out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
The instant I was alone, I leaped off the bed and rushed to the mirror on Ian’s dresser and inspected myself. I looked better than I’d expected—the dim light of the room flattered my face, and my hair was messy but in a way that felt appropriate. I took a step back and tried to examine my body, but the mirror was too small. I settled for brushing off my shirt and jeans. Then I went back and sat down on the bed, trying to take slow, deep breaths. I studied the posters on the walls. Strung-out musicians and strange satanic creatures looked down at me as if in judgment.
Another Life Page 16