2
David
I’m engulfed by friends when I walk into Dan’s party.
“Welcome, Southern boy,” Dan says with a smile as he pushes a red solo cup into my hand. I try to give it back, but he doesn’t let me. I look down at the sloshing brown liquid and worry about becoming my father if I indulge. The Norstar’s are a line of aggressive alcoholics.
“You can’t stay if you don’t drink,” he smirks.
I hold on to the cup and walk around. The house is immense—something I could only dream of living in growing up. It smells like frankincense potpourri, a scent my mother used to love. The bass rattles the pictures of Dan’s family hanging on the walls. The music courses through my ears and excites my brain.
Through the sliding glass door, I see a large pool with a rock formation on one side. It spills water into the pool below, splashing upward and ricocheting off the surface. I watch the party-goers remove their clothes and hop into the pool. Only a few are wearing bathing suits. The rest strip down to their underwear, bras optional. My eyes widen slightly at the sight of such perfect, half-naked bodies.
I stare at the drink in my grasp for a moment before shrugging and downing it. The liquor burns my throat and threatens to come back up.
“Are you going to swim?” my friend, Garrett, asks. He comes up behind me and drapes his arm over my shoulder.
“I didn’t bring my bathing suit,” I tell him. I had no plans to swim tonight. The cool breeze outside doesn’t exactly feel inviting.
“Neither did most of these people. Let’s go,” he says as he thrusts another drink into my hand. He grabs my arm and drags me outside.
The cool spring air hits my face, a stark contrast to the overheated home. Garrett grabs the back of his shirt and pulls it over his head. His hips protrude slightly from above his jeans. I do the same, unbuckling the belt of my jeans and unzipping them before slipping them past my boxers. The hair on my legs stands up against the breeze.
“David, come in!” a classmate calls to me.
“Yeah, get in here!” another yells.
I walk to the edge of the pool and jump in. The warm water envelops me in a hug. I break the surface as I spring up from the bottom. I brush back my wet hair and wipe the water from my face with an equally drenched hand.
“Ladies,” I say with exaggerated southern twang. The girls laugh.
Garrett places my drink on the edge of the pool before slipping in more gracefully. The warmth of the liquor crawls within my body, and my inhibitions loosen. I grab the solo cup from the concrete lip and chug it.
Soon, one of the girls is on my lap, her thin panties against my thighs. She pulls her hair to the side and looks at me with flirty eyes. The alcohol in my blood bolsters my confidence, and I wrap my hand around her neck and pull her into me. I kiss her. She giggles against my mouth as she kisses me back. My intentions grow hungrier as my hands follow her slick, wet skin downward. I grasp the fabric of her panties and slip them past her ass. I’m not deterred by the screams and playfulness around me. It almost feeds me. I dig my fingers into the skin of her ass too hard, and the edges of her lips turn downward slightly. She reaches down and pulls her panties back up.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
She climbs off my lap and goes back to her friend. I turn and lift myself out of the pool, sitting with my feet in the water. Garrett brings me another drink and I down it without hesitation. The cool air calms the excitement between my legs.
Garrett sits beside me and looks around at the half-naked women, the motion of their hips driven by the sound of the music. It’s a sea of red solo cups and wet bodies.
“One day I’ll be throwing parties like this.” He smirks and lies back with his head on his hands.
“And I’ll be attending them, my friend,” I say as I lean back as well.
* * *
Emily
David goes to the party.I spend my weekend with my nose in my books, eyes scanning word after word of text about the Civil War. I don’t stop studying until I can replay the war verbatim in my head.
During the test, my pencil flies effortlessly across the paper, naming every relevant date, general, and battle locale. I look over and see David with his pencil down. He’s staring at the paper as if the answers might miraculously write themselves.
A few days later, we lie together on top of a warm, plaid blanket. We’re in the back of my dad’s old pickup truck in the yard.
“I failed my test, Emily.”
“Well, I stayed home, studied, and aced it.”
“You always do.” He smiles coyly, though the frustration is apparent on his face.
I fear for his future, even if he doesn’t. I can’t hold him back because I’m too afraid he’ll push me away. I don’t fit into his life, but he overlooks how out of place I am. I’m a puzzle piece that almost fits, but not quite.
We sit in silence as the sun begins to dip below the horizon. David is the only person I can sit with like this and just enjoy the sounds of our breath between us. But eventually, prodding thoughts invade my mind, and I try to break through David’s walled off exterior.
“You never talk about your family.”
“And I don’t plan on it.” He sits up and rubs the fabric of his jeans with his hands, as if brushing away the topic.
“Can you tell me about that scar?” I reach out and touch the line of firm, pink skin along the front of his throat.
“No.”
“Please?” I plead with him to open up to me as I have lain myself open to him time and time again.
“I’m not going to talk about it, Emily.”
“But—”
“I said no! Will you please just let it go? Why do you insist on making me revisit these memories?”
“I’m not trying to make you relive it. I just want to understand you and your life. You keep me this far from you.” I hold my arms out to show the distance I feel he keeps between us.
David leans into me and wraps his arm around me. His skin is warm despite the cool temperatures outside. He squeezes as if he can suffocate my curiosity. “Can we please just drop it for now?”
I nod in response, even though he is unable to smother the questions within my mind. How can I help him heal if he won’t tell me how he is hurt?
* * *
David
“Dad, no!”I scream as my father barrels through the doorway. He presses so firmly against the wooden frame that his hands are as white as paper.
“Come here!” he screams with crazed eyes. No matter how much distance I put between us, the smell of liquor wafts over me. His eyes are glassy and his words are slurred. “Come here, now!” he says as he stumbles closer.
I look around the room as he charges at me, steadfast and with hatred in his stare. I am pushed into a corner, the wall against my sweaty back. I reach for one of the knives on the kitchen counter, feeling blindly while keeping my eyes trained on him. My breath halts as I strain, my fingers gripping at the countertop.
Pain sears through my arm as he slams me against the doorframe of the kitchen. I hear a cracking sound. I can’t be sure if it’s my bones or the aging wood, but the fire ripping from my wrist to my shoulder tells me it’s probably both. I fall onto my side, my dad on top of me. I scream in agony as his weight crushes my arm further. The pain surges through the nerves and leaks into the muscles.
“Please!” I scream as I try to wiggle out from under him, but his frame is much larger and stronger than mine. “Why?” I plead for an answer, though there never is a tangible reason for his rages except for the maddening combo of liquor and cocaine.
“Your mother is dead because of you!” He breathes fire down at me, my face pressed into the laminate floor.
I hear the punch to my gut more than I feel it. The pain in my arm overtakes every other sense in my body. An intense and purposeful grunt emits from his throat as he hails his fists into my stomach. A faraway sound. I try to curl up and protect myself, but his weight is immovable. He grabs a fistful of my hair and slams the side of my head into the ground repeatedly as he continues to grunt, exhaling his frustration.
“Everything is your fault,” he hisses.
I push back the tears. Any sign of weakness will anger him further. The coffee pot sounds on the counter above us—a mundane noise in the center of chaos. He drops his fists to his side and clambers to his feet. His arms rest on his thighs as he leans over and catches his breath. He drags up mucus from his throat and spits at me. The liquid glob hits the floor beside my face, splattering against my skin.
I try to lift myself up, but the pain keeps my arm from responding. I roll onto my opposite side. I took more blows here, but at least this arm is functional. I exhale hard, spit falling from my lips as I try to climb to my knees. My dad’s steps recede and the front door slams. Aside from my rapid, shallow breathing, the house is washed in silence.
“Fuck you!” I scream at nothing. I look up at the ceiling, willing my mother to see me now—to understand that the pain I carry is not only my own, but hers as well.
* * *