It takes me a minute to realize that Michaela really wasn’t kidding. When I do, it interrupts my silent fuming so entirely that it’s like whiplash. She’s seriously taken over my room. The purple bedspread is joined by fuzzy pillows and at least a dozen stuffed animals, including one that I’m pretty sure is a taco in the form of a cat. My books have
been pushed aside for Pop! figurines and the top of my dresser is covered with her hair accessories. It’s not like I’m mad or anything. It’s just jarring. I made the choice to move to the dorms, and how long has she been warning me what would happen if I didn’t come back home?
Still, I sink onto the bed—the same bed I’d had the memory of Sky on before—and feel like something small but fundamental has been pulled out of me.
The outburst with my mom wasn’t exactly unusual. Although the other kids had willingly seen their birth parents when Mom organized it, I’d refused. The idea of letting that kind of toxicity into my life was unappealing—scary, if I was being honest. Why open the door to someone who effectively threw me out? Hamilton was right about that. My mom saw me as garbage. Easily disposable. Why would I want to foster any kind of relationship with someone who thought of me like that? How could that be healthy?
I move to sit in the soft fuzzy chair by the window. There’s a streetlight outside that made this corner perfect for reading after dark. For weeks I’d huddle in the corner, reading books before passing out on a pile of blankets. Mom obviously decided if I was going to fall asleep while reading, I could at least do it in a comfortable chair. It wasn’t as though we had bedtimes or anything. Mom believed in the body’s natural rhythms. If Brayden wanted to go to bed at three a.m. on a school night, no big deal. If Micha fell asleep on the way home from school in Debbie’s car, fine.
Again, maybe Hamilton was right. We’re feral.
That’s the third time I’ve thought about him tonight—probably more, if I’m being honest. Also, if I’m being honest, Hamilton Bates has been on my mind for a long time, way before the last week or even the last year. On a whim I jump up and go to my closet, pushing up on my toes to reach for the shoe box I kept in the top corner. I grab the edge, and pull it toward me, catching it before it tips. Carrying it back to the chair, I sit, crisscrossing my legs and settling it in my lap. I take a deep breath before opening the dusty lid.
Inside are what I used to call my treasures. It’s mostly swim-related; a rainbow array of ribbons, awards, and certificates. There are a few abstract things—mementos from important races, a rock I think I found after winning a big race, the napkin from the diner downtown near the natatorium that has the best milkshakes. I search until I find what I’m looking for—what I think is in this box. It’s possible I made the moment up, but I don’t think so. In my mind, there’s a photograph. Proof. I sort through a stack of pictures until—
Yes! It’s real.
It’s a picture, taken during one of my mom’s intense phases with photography. Sometimes she gets a whim and decides to document nearly every moment of our lives. The phases don’t usually last long, so there are certain points in our childhoods that have a borderline obsessive photographic record. Actual photographs can be hard to come by—digital is easier and also easier to wipe away, to pretend never existed. But the picture in my hand is scarily tangible, as are the subjects; me and Hamilton.
We’d both spent a month practicing long-course racing, essentially flipping the lanes on their sides, doubling the distance. The races are slower, a bit more tedious. Pacing is important, because if a swimmer starts with a burst of speed, they’ll flame out quickly, making it hard to complete the race. It was the summer before the twins came home, before Hamilton knew the truth about us all. We’d spent the training period egging each other on, trying to best one another. But we’d also relied on one another. Cheering for better times, a perfected flip-turn, a well-executed dive. We were teammates, not enemies. Back then I was just Gwen—or Gwendolyn. He always called me by my full first name. He was just Hamilton, the funny kid with a bright smile. That’s who I see in the photograph I’m holding. Gwendolyn and Hamilton—happy. Gold medals of accomplishment hanging around our necks, arms wrapped around one another.
When I think back on the downy nostalgia of childhood, these are the moments that make it golden. These were the moments I was happiest.
I stare at the photo for a long time, trying to reconcile the broadly grinning Hamilton in the photo with the one I know today. The boy who hates me. Torments me. Ignores me. How strange to think, back then, that I thought I knew enough of Hamilton to be so sure of his character. And then again, later on, to have placed him so easily into the role of a monster. Now, he’s the boy who won’t stop kissing me.
If I thought his prior mindfucks were top-tier, then I was wrong.
This shit takes the cake.
Unbelievably, it’s the second kiss that bothers me most. There was something about the way it started—gentle, almost sweet—that makes me want to turn away from the memory. It was an uncomfortable earnestness, as if we were just two regular, equal people, and I wanted it. I liked it. But the whole thing was dishonest in its honesty.
And that’s the thing about kissing Hamilton Bates; every kiss brings out warring emotions. Guilt, desire, betrayal, want.
Is that his plan? To confuse me?
I lean back and stare at the ceiling, letting my eyes flutter shut.
I don’t like him, and I really don’t trust him, but his mouth? His hands? After seeing him play the cello, I shouldn’t be surprised at the accuracy of his touch or why I’d want more. I wonder what it would be like to really have his hands on my body. Would it feel as good as his mouth does on mine?
No.
My eyes pop open, narrowed.
No, I am not going down this road or entertaining this one bit more. He was drunk. He’s a dick who’s trying to manipulate me, and acting as if it could ever be anything more isn’t just doing my family disservice. It’s doing me a disservice.
Closing the lid, I stand and return the box to the closet, sliding it, and my conflicted feelings about Hamilton, back where they belong—hidden and in the past.
10
Hamilton
“Ham—are you even listening to me?”
“Huh?” My eyes dart down to Reagan’s. Her hand, clasped around my neck, tugs me to face her. I answer, “Yeah, I’m listening.”
Obviously, I’m not listening.
I try to now, angling my face to hers, but it’s such a struggle. Every time she opens her mouth, it’s blah blah blah. The girl is just dull as dirt. If she’s not trying to find out where I’ve been, where I’m going, or what I’m going to do with her, it’s just the most basic ass gossip imaginable. I do actually have a life.