by Callie Hart
“Yeah, poor bastard. Don’t know what I’d do if I ever lost your mom. God, it doesn’t even bear thinking about.”
Normal, everyday statements like this have already begun to take on much deeper meanings for me, and I fucking hate it. I despise that I've been put in this position. My father has no idea how close he is…or was…to losing Mom. Not to a car crash, though. To a guy named Dan, her boss, who has sat at our dining table with his wife and eaten dinner with us more times that I can remember.
Does Dan’s wife know anything about the fact that her husband’s been fucking my mother? And what would Dad actually do if he did find out? A part of me thinks he’d leave her. Another part of me suspects that he’d stay, though, try and save their marriage, because that’s just the kind of guy he is, and that just breaks my fucking heart for him.
He'd be crushed. He'd be in pain, and yet he'd stay, for Max and for me, and for all the years he and Mom have shared together, but every time he looked at her, he'd see it all in his head, imagining every last little kiss and caress that was shared between them, and it would eat him alive.
“Sil? Earth to Silver? What’s wrong? You look like you’re about to burst into tears. My cooking really isn’t that bad.”
“Oh, I know. I—it’s just—it’s my sinuses, that’s all.” I scrub at my eyes with the backs of my hands, glad I caught myself in time before I actually started crying. “The onions probably aren’t helping. My head feels like it’s about to explode.”
“Joking aside, why don’t you go back up to bed, honey? I can bring this up to you when it’s ready. You probably should rest.”
I want to be able to stay here with him, listening to his dumb jibes and laughing at how absolutely lame he is in the best possible way, but I honestly can’t trust myself. I feel like I’m going to dissolve into a puddle of misery, and that would be really, really bad. “Thanks, Dad. You’re the best.”
I get up and head for the stairs. It’s stupid and feels a little too obvious, but I pause at the foot of the first step, glancing back at him over my shoulder. “Hey, Dad?”
“What’s up, kiddo?”
“I love you.”
His eyes round out, as big as silver dollars. “Shit, Silver. You really must be sick.”
I’m slipping into my bedroom when I hear him yell up the stairs after me. “But I love you, too, sweetheart!”
Mom and Max get back from the movies around five. I don't go down for dinner. I just…I can't force myself to convincingly sit there and pretend. I would fail. Snap at her or something, and Dad would lose his shit. No way would he be okay with me giving Mom attitude when, as far as he's concerned, she's grieving over the death of her best fucking friend.
If I’m being fair, she is grieving over her friend. She’s just also feeling guilty as fuck because she feels responsible for the accident that killed Gail, and she’s been revealed to be an adulterous monster at the same time. I can appreciate what a head fuck that must be at least.
She goes to bed ridiculously early, shutting herself away in their bedroom. At nine, I head downstairs and knock on Dad’s office door, knowing he’ll still be at his desk, working hard.
“Enter at your own peril,” he calls.
Inside his office, he rubs at his eyes, the light from his computer screen casting a blue glow over his face. “Feeling better, kiddo?” he asks.
“Mostly.”
“Well, if you want money, it had better be for something good. Beer. A handgun. A brick of coke.”
He’s joking, because he trusts me implicitly, and he knows I’d never have anything to do with illegal firearms or hard drugs. Shame cuts at me, a cold, unforgiving knife under my skin. I’m exactly the good girl he believes me to be now, but that hasn’t always been the case. Far from it. He’d have a heart attack if he had any idea the shit I used to get roped into with Kacey. “I don’t need money, Dad. My savings account is looking pretty healthy as a matter of fact. I wanted to ask for something else.”
He peers at me, sitting back in his chair. “Sounds ominous.”
“I want to go spend the night at Alex’s place.” I blush furiously as soon as the words are out. God, this was a bad idea. What the hell was I thinking, blurting it out like that? My father looks like he’s having trouble swallowing.
“I’m sorry? Alex? Your guitar student? The one with the motorcycle and all the prison ink?”
“It’s not priso—never mind. Yes, the guy who came here the other day. He and I…we’re together now.”
“Aaaand…” He shakes his head, puffing out his cheeks. “You tell me this on the back of a request to go and spend the night at his house?”
“Yes. I know. I’m insane.”
He laughs, but I can tell he’s uneasy. “How long have you been seeing him?”
“Not long. A few days.”
“God, Silver. Come on, what do you expect me to do here? You really think I’m going to agree t—”
“He lives at Salton Ash Park. By himself. In a trailer.”
“Jesus fucking—”
“He’s had a couple of run-ins with the law. But nothing bad. Nothing terrible.”
“Silver, if you are trying to make your request sound any less crazy, then you are heading in the wroooong direction.”
“Just laying all the cards on the table, Dad. Giving you all the information, no matter how damaging, seems like the smartest option. It’s a radical approach, I’m aware. I’m just hoping you’ll appreciate the honesty and trust that I know what I’m doing.”
He gives me a troubled, torn look, bordering on annoyance. “Fuck, Sil. Can’t you just lie to me like any normal teenager? Ignorance is bliss sometimes.”
This hits me like a ten-ton weight. Ignorance is bliss sometimes. Would he still say that if he knew what Mom's been up to? I have no idea. Am I so candid with him now because I've forced Mom to lie to him and I'm feeling guilty as fuck, though? Absolutely, one hundred percent, yes.
“Seemed like I owed you an honest explanation,” I murmur.
“And if I say no? Are you gonna be plotting some great escape and clambering down the trellis at three in the morning? ’Cause I don’t wanna have to worry about setting up some makeshift perimeter alarm this late in the evening.”
“No, Dad. Jeez. I'm not that limber, and you know it.”
He huffs, giving me a scowl. “This is some kind of karmic kick in the ass because of all the shit me and your mom got up to when we were in high school, isn’t it?”
“I bet you weren’t asking Nona and Gramps for their permission.”
He laughs. “No, I was not, and neither was your mom. We were ninjas, Silver. Ninjas. They never suspected a thing.”
“At least you’ll know exactly where I am,” I say, shrugging weakly. He wants to say no. He really wants to be the strict, firm dad, who wraps his daughter in cotton wool and triple bolts his front door at night, trying to keep the Big Bad World out for as long as he possibly can. Poor guy; he looks like he’s aged ten years in the last ten minutes. I’m honestly surprised when he sighs and throws up his hands.
“All right. All right, you can go.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes! But…Jesus, Silver. You know as well as I do, the picture you just painted of the guy doesn’t look good. If he starts getting handsy, if he starts acting pushy, if he so much as looks at you the wrong way or scares you, you call me immediately and I’ll be down at that trailer park in a heartbeat with a goddamn sledgehammer in my hand.”
He's so serious, he means every word. His eyes have grown distant—I can tell that he’s imagining how that would play out, the drive over to Salton Ash, the weight of the weapon in his hands, how it would feel to swing it up over his head and break the knees of the boy who made me cry.
Little does he know, he’s already nine months too late for any of that.
It was a boy with a clean record, a winning smile and a glorious halo who broke me. Ironically, it’s the boy with the ra
p sheet, a body full of ink and the dangerous glint in his eye who’s putting me back together.
27
SILVER
I’ve driven by Salton Ash plenty of times, but I’ve never actually taken the exit and entered the trailer park’s grounds before. In seventeen years, this is the first time I’ve ever known anyone to live here, and I’m surprised by how well kept and pretty the grounds are. My nerves feel like they’re going to get the better of me as I drive slowly down the wide, paved road, scanning the numbers on the trailers, searching for the trailer that belongs to Alex. Eventually, I see his motorcycle and know I’ve found the right place.
Unlike some of the other trailers, there are no potted flowers, plastic windmills or little gnomes sitting on the front steps in front of his trailer. The small grass patch to the right of the front door looks like it’s actually been mown, though, and the exterior looks clean and well-maintained, even in the dark.
There are lights on inside. I get out of the Nova, slamming the door behind me before I can heed the anxious voice in the back of my head that’s telling me this is a dumb idea and I should go home. I can barely stand still as I wait at the top of the steps, trying to gather the confidence required to knock on the door. The music inside dips suddenly, though, and I hear movement on the other side of the door.
Alex’s voice—a little muffled, though perfectly audible—is a little teasing when he speaks. “Come on, Argento. You’ve made it this far.”
“You’re seriously going to make me knock?”
“Only polite.”
“Jerk,” I groan. “Open the door.”
The door swings inward, revealing Alex in a pair of black jeans and a plain black t-shirt. His dark hair is swept straight back, highlighting the shaved sides of his head. God, the longer, usually wavy strands are wet. He looks so, so unbelievably sexy. A fresh, clean smell hits me, stronger than ever, and I realize that he must have just gotten out of the shower.
I’m woefully unprepared to deal with this kind of shit. Next level ‘Alex-Moretti-is the-finest-fucking-thing-to-walk-the-face-of-the-earth’ shit. I’ve never been one to succumb to hormones or lose my head over a handsome guy, but with him standing in front of me now, the side of his face bathed in the warm glow coming from inside the trailer, I discover what it means to be rendered speechless by the mere sight of someone.
He smirks, mouth open a little, the tip of his tongue pressing against his front teeth, and my traitorous knees nearly go out. “Get your ass in here before one of my neighbors steals you,” he says, placing a hand on my hip, pulling me up the last step into the trailer.
I formed a pretty clear picture of what his place was going to be like on the way over here, but, stepping into his home, I learn just how wrong I was. The place doesn't reek of dirty socks, for starters. It smells clean, just like him. The living room I've stepped into isn't a bomb site, cluttered with clothes, empty take out cartons, and dirty dishes. There are no posters of half-naked women draped over motorcycles on the walls, either. A large sectional couch fits along the wall and into the far corner of the room, and on my left, there's a shelf, stacked with row upon row of tatty, worn, well-read books.
The music I heard playing from outside is coming from a record player on a side table underneath the window, underneath which is a staggering amount of vinyl. The television isn't as big as I would have thought. A collection of photos, framed and mounted beside it, take up most of the real estate on the largest wall. I'd prepared myself for a ratty, sticky carpet, riddled with cigarette burns, but there are polished hardwood floorboards beneath my feet instead—and they look like they've been freshly swept and cleaned.
“No need to look so surprised,” Alex whispers into my ear. I didn't even notice that he'd crept up so quietly behind me.
“I’m not surprised. I just, well…okay. All right. I’m surprised. But can you blame me? A guy’s parents go away for the weekend and the place ends up destroyed. You live on your own permanently. I figured your place would be…”
“Disgusting?”
“Yeah. I did. I thought it was gonna be disgusting.” It’s a relief to laugh. It kills the tension that’s been climbing up my spine since I got out of the Nova. Alex spins me around, wrapping his arms around me.
“The kitchen can get turned upside down,” he admits. “But don’t worry. I cleaned out all the dead flies and rat shit in honor of your visit.”
“You are not serious.”
“No. I’m not.” Hesitantly, he leans down and places a gentle kiss against my mouth. “I’m just fucking with you,” he murmurs. “The park doesn’t have rats. And Oscar catches and eats all the flies.”
“Oscar?”
“The cat.”
“You have a cat?”
“No. He’s the cat, not my cat.”
“What’s the difference?”
Alex shrugs. “Sometimes he lives here, with me. Sometimes he lives at one of the other trailers. He's a cat slut, keeping his options open. Come on. I'll show you where everything is.”
The kitchen isn't quite spotless, but it's damn near close. The counters are clean, and there are no dishes in the sink. Small, spiny cactuses sit on the window sill over the sink, and my brain nearly melts. Even a cactus requires some level of attention, and I just can't wrap my head around Alex Moretti caring for something like that.
The bathroom's small, but the grout in the shower isn't black with mold, the mirror isn't streaked with watermarks and flecked with toothpaste, and the actual toilet bowl is glowing white.
Alex pauses, faltering in front of the last remaining unopened door in the trailer. “My room is…uhhh…” He rubs at the back of his neck—the very first sign that he might be suffering from a few nerves himself. “I don't sleep in here much. It's not exactly palatial.” He opens the door and enters, bracing himself like he's stepping into a room full of angry wasps. He hits the lights, and I follow after him.
The room's a decent size. Probably the same size as my room at home. The walls are bare. Dark grey curtains at the windows. A shelf on the wall displays a series of framed pictures, drawings actually, hand sketched in pencil. The same woman features in all of the drawings—dark hair, dark, soulful, wounded-looking eyes, pouting mouth. She looks heartbreakingly beautiful and heartbreakingly sad at the same time. Her resemblance to Alex leaps out of the drawings and grabs me by the shoulders, shaking me, leaving no doubt in my mind that she is his mother.
A large, king bed dominates the room. The duvet cover is plain white, as are the sheets and pillowcases beneath it. “Bought the covers this afternoon,” Alex says awkwardly. “I didn't know what color to get, so I said fuck it and got white. The woman in the store said it'd look clean. Maybe I should have gone with black. Or red.”
“White's good, Alex,” I whisper. Suddenly, the bed feels very big and very intimidating. I've already slept with him. I know what his body feels like against mine. I've had him inside me…but I suddenly find it very hard not to feel shy when confronted with such a large bed. My palms are sweating like crazy. I turn away from it, moving to stand in front of the drawings, studying each one of them closely, trying to calm my racing heart.
“My father drew them. Before I was born,” Alex says behind me.
“Where is he now?” After the harrowing story of his mother’s suicide, I’m almost afraid to ask.
Alex grunts. “Who knows. Prison, probably. He skipped out on us after Ben was born. I hardly remember him. He wasn’t around much in the first place.”
I brush my fingers against the closest drawing, a heavy sadness tugging at me. My dad's always been there, no matter what. I can't imagine what it would have been like to grow up without him. Without knowing that he always had my back. “Not many people can draw like this. He was very talented,” I say.
“His only real talent was letting people down. I barely remember him. I look at these pictures, and I see her, not him.”
“You miss her,” I say softly.
28
ALEX
I’ve had plenty of girls want to come hang out at the trailer, but I've never let any of them inside. I've never even given anyone my address before, so having someone here now is really strange. Monty came here with me the day he gave me the keys, but apart from that I've kept this place to myself. Quiet. Private. Mine.
Silver moves around the kitchen, opening the drawers, taking mugs out of the cupboard, putting water into the kettle and prepping the coffee filter, and I lean against the kitchen wall, watching her like a hawk, chewing on my thumbnail. She looks like she belongs here. She has no idea where anything is, but she looks so damn right searching through my stuff in my kitchen that every beat of my heart feels labored and fucking painful.
This is so damn confusing.
I've guarded this place so fiercely that I'm not sure what to do now that she's here and I want her to stay. She doctors my coffee, heaping four teaspoons of sugar into my mug, then pouring in a healthy splash of milk and handing it off to me.
“Thank you.” Jeez, even saying fucking thank you to her feels weird. I’ve had to fight so hard to earn or accomplish anything in this life that I’m usually very reluctant to be polite about it when I win. I can’t remember the last time someone did something as simple as make me a coffee, though, and the gratitude I’m hit with is genuine. Pathetic, but I don’t know how to fucking handle it.