by James, Ella
I rub my eyes. “C’mon, E. You want some coffee?”
“Sure.” The word is too pert. “If you want to make me some, I’ll drink it.”
I get a mug down for her, load it up with creamer and sugar as she stands there by me, still and quiet before she turns on her heel and heads toward the bedroom.
I can barely make the coffee, knowing that she’s in my cabin. I just touched her…kissed her…tasted her. Elise. She put her hands on my face, smoothed my hair back, just the way she used to. Like she has in my damn dreams for longer than I’d ever admit.
But…the things I did admit. Jesus fucking Christ, what made me say those things? I hold my throbbing forehead, telling myself to lock all this away before she comes back.
I can feel the inferno kindling in my chest…but that’s for later.
She comes back dressed, with her hair back up in the tie, looking like a miracle of time and wealth and education. She looks poised and perfect, even in her down coat and those sleep pants. She hands me a pair of boxer-briefs and my long-sleeved 10k shirt, plus some olive green long johns I packed in my weekend bag.
“It’s too cold for no clothes,” she says simply.
I turn sort of sideways to pull on my clothes. I don’t know if she’s watching. I tell myself it doesn’t fucking matter. When I turn back toward her, she’s got her arms folded around herself.
“I’m going to go now, I guess.”
I nod. Now’s the time to send her off strong. “Do you want my number, if you need me?”
“Like…your landline?”
I nod. “Or the other.”
“I’ll take the landline number, to this cabin. Thank you.”
“Hey, you saved me.” I force a small smile as she gets her cell phone out.
“No. I would have, but you wouldn’t let me get too close, remember?”
It’s such an apt representation of our history that I don’t know what to say.
“Thank you,” I manage.
She nods. “I’m glad I was out there. Even though I’m sure it wasn’t a complete accident.”
I grab a scrap of paper and a pencil from a nearby drawer and jot my number down, plus my cell, because I’m fucked up.
Then I close the space between us. I know I shouldn’t, but I want to hug her one more time. When I get close, though, I can’t do it. I don’t want to be that guy, trampling her boundaries and clinging to dead shit. I reach out and touch her shoulder, which is weird enough.
She gives me a long look and then blinks. Her mouth moves like the echo of a smile.
“Bye, Elise.”
“Goodbye, Luca.”
Finally, she goes.
17
Elise
There’s this memory I have. It’s just this sequence of a minute or two—minutes that would probably have been forgotten, like so many are, except that over the years, this memory reel became one I re-play often. Because it’s near-prescient.
Luca and I are sitting in the field in the middle of the high school track. I remember that the track was wild, the grass always too high; the “field” part of our school’s athletics program had—for reasons I can’t recall—set up shop a little closer to the river.
The sky is blue, and he’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt. The sunlight is such that I can see him in crisp technicolor: his glossy dark hair and the pink of his lips, all the colors of that black eye he had. His face is so expressive, always with these little smirks and twists of his lips. An audacious mouth, almost too much for his face, which was already so striking, with stark cheekbones and dark brows and those gemstone blue eyes.
So I can see that—I can see his face—and also his lean body underneath what must have been a thin T-shirt. I can see the veins in his hands and his long eyelashes. The way he squinted. I can see him swallow. A little later, I would figure out where he most liked for me to bite that throat. How biting his lip would trigger a lovely seismic event in his lovely Luca body. But that day, I remember that I didn’t know him well. And so I asked him if he was a nice guy.
That’s not what I actually said. I said something like, “Are you a good guy, or a bad guy? I can’t tell.”
He thought it was funny. But he quickly turned thoughtful. For a moment, he seemed almost sad and then just earnest. And he told me he wasn’t a nice guy. I can’t remember the percentages he gave me, but I’m pretty sure he kept recalibrating for a while. Eventually, he settled on sixty percent bad, forty percent good. Or something like that.
And I remember that I didn’t believe he was a bad guy. He seemed so much like a good guy, like the hero. He was always taking care of me…always there. But he was also reluctant. I guess you could say he was a reluctant hero. Until the moment that he couldn’t be a hero anymore, and he turned.
For years and years, I thought about the turning. What was it like? Who was involved? Why did he forsake me when he always claimed I meant so much to him? And if I didn’t really, how was he so compelling? Was he simply a great actor?
How did I hand my heart to a villain? How did I mistake such a villain for the hero? What was wrong with my judgment?
And so, I learned as much as one can learn about the way judgments are made. What is good and bad, and what is right and wrong, and how are villains punished? I looked outside myself for answers I could never find within.
While I was on my journey, Luca was endeavoring one of his own. While I became a lawyer, he became…the opposite. So much the opposite that everyone who saw him at my after-party on the night I was elected was aghast that he would dare to come.
I think of my quandary as I drive to downtown Saranac Lake. How, for years, I’ve classed him as “bad.” I’ve locked him into that colorless two-dimensional role—until today, when he broke free, reminding me that humans are too complex to fit into the confines of a right-wrong binary, that he especially is just…so much more. My judgment of him—as a bad guy—is no more suitable than his judgment of himself so long ago as “mostly bad.”
The world is shades of gray. I always knew. But I thrash in those murky waters now—as I stop by the bakery, the pizza place, the mom and pop electronics store, and finally, a tiny women’s clothing boutique. Every second I spend on my errands makes my heart pound harder.
Finally, I’m back at the cabin. I’m cleaning up, I’m showering. I’m opening the thing I bought, setting it up, slipping it into the soft, insulated fabric cooler. I dress in the new clothes I washed and dried while I was showering and tidying up. Then I step into the bathroom with the one item of makeup I brought along: my lipstick.
* * *
Luca
In the dream, I’m walking toward the yacht. Lamberto’s. It’s a dark night—really dark, I notice—but the stars are bright. They look like diamonds shining in the sky. I’m walking down the dock, my eyes fixed on the too-bright stars, and I feel really damn good.
I don’t know if she’s beside me, but she’s around. Elise is somewhere near here, and we’re going somewhere.
We’re going somewhere—it’s a long trip—but I can’t find her. Everything is dark inside the yacht. The only thing I can see is the gun, because there’s moonlight shining on it. As soon as I see it shining, I feel sick. It’s creepy how it’s lit up, like a signal to me.
Grab it, that light says. And I don’t want to. It’s funny—people think I like guns. I don’t, so I start walking away, back toward the stairs that lead up onto the deck. And then the fucking thing is right in front of me.
This shit is weird. It’s like a video game. Pick up the gun, Luca. Pick me up. It’s floating. I don’t want to touch it—I don’t want to hear a gun’s BOOM, ever again—but I can’t move without it blocking my view. It even blocks my path, so I can’t move without bumping into it. So I pick it up. It’s a grab right out of thin air. As my hand closes around its cool handle, I feel a jolting sense of déjà vu.
Then I’m looking at my dad. He’s taped to the chair. I don’t understand why. What the
fuck did he do? I don’t like this. I think how it’s ironic that I’m always worried he’ll come home with a gun. For once, our roles are reversed. But who put him in that chair? I look around, but everything is dark. I look back at him, and my hand jerks.
BOOM!
Time freezes. I don’t understand what’s going on, so I step closer, and that’s when I see his head. I’m screaming. There’s blood on my shoes. I’m running. I can hear it splat against the floor and then I’m outside and everyone is screaming. My dad is dead. My dad’s head is all over the floor.
I run through the house—it’s Max’s house—and I can’t find her. I can’t find her.
I wake screaming.
Where am I?
“Oh fuck!”
I don’t even have a chance to crawl to the side of the bed before I start dry heaving. Turns out it’s a good thing I’ve had nothing since that coffee this morning.
I change the bedding, pull a long-sleeved shirt over my head since I’m sweating bullets and it’s fucking cold. There’s a wood stove in the living room. I keep a stack of firewood just outside the back door, on a chair in the screened porch. Better get that started.
My head’s fuzzy. I check my phone, finding that she’s still next door, and have some water and another cup of coffee—which pretty stale now. Then I shower, trying not to think of what went down in this room earlier.
That turns out to be a losing proposition. Every second I’m not on the phone with Alesso, who’s been waiting to hear from me, or capturing a spider that hitched a ride inside the cabin on a log, I’m replaying this morning with Elise.
I try not to think about that moment in the shower—when she trailed her fingertip over my skin. Or the first bit in the bedroom. What I tell myself to focus on is how she asked if I’d stolen the cabin. How she called me “thirty-something,” like she doesn’t remember my birthday. I can still feel her eyes on me as I stood at the kitchen counter, making coffee so she wouldn’t see how much it fucks me up to talk about my dad and what all happened after.
Even now, I get this nauseated, roller-coaster feeling when I remember telling her I loved her. Honestly, that shit is classic. Always with my heart taped to my fucking sleeve. I hate how I’m like that.
Still, the way her mouth felt on my cock, the way she looked when I’d glance up from worshipping her pussy—that stuff’s going in my jerk-off vault forever.
After I get a fire going, I sit on the couch in the same spot where I was with her. I lean my head against the couch’s spine and try to summon the feeling of Elise moving on my lap. The way her arms felt as she wrapped them around my neck. The way her warm cheek nuzzled mine.
“Now I see you. I’ve been near you, and you’re not that different.”
“It’s okay, cuore.”
“I would have done everything I could have done to save you. Every single thing.”
God, it’s…fucking crazy. That she said that shit to me. Elise was right here, on this very couch, and she was hugging me. She said she would have saved me.
Would have. But it’s enough. It’s more than enough. It doesn’t matter if it fucks me up, remembering the feel of her, the taste of her, the smell of her. I don’t care how much it hurts. I want it. I would fall through frozen ice over and over if I knew it would lead to seeing her. And touching her. Even hearing her voice.
I can feel her hand in my hair. I can feel her soft, warm cheek against mine. I can feel her mouth around my dick. So good.
I shut my eyes and let my mind make a collage of moments.
“You twisted me up. And I’m still twisted.”
“You still smell the same. Isn’t that weird?”
“I think regret is our thing, don’t you?”
I let myself remember how it felt to hold her. I can feel her mouth kissing my throat, and I’m hard in my black sleep pants. I stroke myself a time or two, and suddenly I can’t keep sitting here. It’s that same feeling I had earlier this morning, right before I snapped the blades onto my boots.
I pace around until I feel like I can breathe. Then I tell myself I need to eat. I rifle through the pantry, finding that the only things I’ve got are Vienna Sausage, olives in a jar, and some frozen salmon. The damn salmon looks freezer-burned.
I lean my hip against the counter, rubbing my temples, and that’s when I hear a creak. I’m at the dining table in a heartbeat, reaching under the ball cap I keep on a placemat, which hides a small revolver. My eyes lock onto the rear door, which has a very insecure cube of four small windows. I hear someone opening the screen door—jeez, they’re being fucking loud—and wrap my hand around the gun’s grip, cursing myself for not replacing these windowed doors when I purchased this place a few years back.
Then a cloaked figure moves into view. She lifts her head and…it’s Elise.
She looks up, through the window, her coat’s hood falling further down her forehead. I see the moment she sees me. Her eyes widen, and she makes a funny little face where her mouth opens—like hi Luca, I’m here. She looks…maybe nervous.
My hand can barely manage to turn the doorknob. Then the door is open, and she’s standing there in her wine red coat and tall, fur-trimmed boots. Her cheeks are red, there’s snow on her eyelashes, and she’s holding a plush, rectangular bag that’s got a fruit pattern.
“Hi.” Her eyes widen as she twists her mouth into a smile, and I realize she’s got on lipstick.
“Hi there,” I hear myself say.
She laughs, and I realize I should step back, let her step in. As soon as she’s in, I smell the perfume. Fucking shit, it fills my head and takes me back.
“So…” She’s laughing again as she holds the fruit bag out. “This is a cooler. I brought lemon cake. And pizza. Also, spiked cider. Because it’s cold, and when it’s cold, I like spiked cider.”
Holy shit, she’s red in the cheeks. Her eyes lock onto mine, and then her face goes slack and maybe even slightly pale.
I take the cooler from her, waiting for her to say more, but she just blinks up at me, looking stricken, and I want to touch her so bad—but I’m holding the bag. I hold it up more.
“I like lemon cake and pizza,” I say, making sure my voice sounds light and teasing. “Did you bring these things for me?”
I grin, almost laughing as she looks up at me with her still-wide brown eyes and a tentative smile.
“Yes,” she whispers. “They’re for you. Or…us.” She swallows. “I invited myself here for dinner. And a movie. E.T. is in the bottom of the cooler. It’s on VHS, and that’s all I could find.”
She looks into the living area, her eyes widening as she notices the flatscreen. “But maybe I don’t need to worry about that. You’ve updated more than I have.”
“I moved that little TV with the built-in VHS into the bedroom.”
“Was it in there?” She frowns. “I didn’t even notice.”
I lift my eyebrows, and she cups a hand around her face. I can see her suck a breath in, blow it out. She moves her hand and blinks up at me. “I’m at your house.” Her voice is a raspy whisper, and her cheeks are blazing red again.
“It’s not my house,” I cut in, smiling—because my heart’s sort of pounding.
“Summer house.”
“Just an old cabin.” My lips twitch.
“I’m at your cabin,” she whispers—she gets another big, deep breath—“because I couldn’t stay at mine.” Her eyes well as her gaze holds mine. “I wanted to see you. Again. And…I know it’s risky. I don’t even know if I can trust you…really.” Her lips tremble. “But I want to. It’s not logical. Nothing about this is. But this is the one chance I have to…be around you.” Her eyes tear up so much, I think she’s gonna cry, but her mouth does something—she presses her lips flat—and she doesn’t. “I thought how you got that quiet cabin you used to say you wanted. And there is no one here to see us.” She nods at my couch. “We could sit under a blanket. No parents would ask where our hands are.”
I
put one of mine on her shoulder. “You know I’m okay, right? I’m fine.”
She nods, looking teary.
“You know you don’t have to trust me. Don’t trust anybody, tesoro. Questo è il modo più sicuro.”
She nods, so I know she understood my warning. “What is the point of tonight, for you, when tomorrow you can never see me again,” I ask in a whisper.
She replies, “Stasera è abbastanza.” Tonight is enough.
“No, non è abbastanza.”
I can see her eyes asking their questions—do I really mean that?—so I step toward her, wrap an arm around her back, and gently close the space between us. Just one arm, but it’s a hard hug—firm, undoubting. Just so that she understands it’s not really a risk to be here. If she wants to be here, I won’t have her worried, feeling like she’s taking chances.
“Anche un mostro può essere un angelo per una notte.”
She hugs me tight. “I don’t think you are a monster.”
I hug her back, and go on speaking in Italian. It feels somehow less direct than English. “Why is there no one else for the beautiful angel?” I ask, lightly clutching her chin so her brown eyes are forced to find mine. “Such a perfect angel, and she wants to dine with me?”
I’m trying to tease her, trying to make her smile or laugh—one of the awkward little laughs I saw her do sometimes on her campaign trail. Instead she bites down on her lower lip, and I can tell she’s half an inch from crying.
“Nessuna tristezza, bellissimo angelo.” I lean down and kiss her soft cheek. “No more tears. You want to eat pizza with me, and I want to have some lemon cake with you. No more tears, and no parents.” I arch a brow, and she looks unsure, so I help her out of her coat.
“No parents,” she murmurs as I hang it on a hook by the door.
My mom’s been dead three years. She had a long run with the cancer, and a long remission. She died happy, married to a good dude she met when her cat escaped and ran across the street, through his front door.