Drowning in You Read online

  “Tomorrow. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I call, ripping open the door. When the screen door makes a pitiful clank against the doorjamb, I’m disappointed. I wish we had the money for an expensive door so I could have slammed it and walked away like a hero.

  Mom’s still working at the hospital so my only choice is to walk. Twenty seconds into my escape, the first raindrop splatters on my eyelid. I shake it off and tip my head to the sky. Bloated, gray clouds hog the space above. I can’t remember it being blue in so long. This Melbourne winter isn’t much better than when I was a kid in Chicago. But we don’t even get snow here. It’s just freezing.

  Freezing. The word escapes and I feel it. My bones are rattling. Looking down, I remember I put on my holey jeans and my black shirt with the rolled sleeves at my elbows. If I could do over my pitiful walk out of Dad’s and my argument, I would have grabbed my hoodie.

  And that’s when everything gets fucked up. I give myself a handshake, tap my cheeks. Nope, I’m hot still. Not cold at all. Which means…I don’t want it to be true but—

  I’m holding my fingers in front of my face. I stop at the corner of our street, a car vrooming past, another coming up, but I don’t hear them because it’s become quiet in my world. I feel my fingers trembling before I see them quiver and blur as my vision falters.

  This is karma, I bet. I’m having a hypo attack ‘cause I’m diabetic, by which I’m essentially…what’s the word… What am I…?

  My mind is looping already. It’s bad, I know. I was so wrung up arguing with Dad I didn’t notice it, but now I do. Trembling when his face came near had nothing to do with being scared.

  I need sugar quick, like I do with every hypo. I pat my pockets down but I only feel my leg through the material, because, of course, I hate carrying my candy on me in case someone sees and asks what it is for.

  Fuck my diabetes. I’m my own worst enemy. My body can’t even sustain itself. My blood sugar level is dropping, and it’s making my steps wobbly.

  One of the cars approaching slows. Noises come from chatter inside. I refuse to look and give those shitheads the time of day since I know exactly what they’re looking for. But when I hear a snicker I start. I swear I know that voice. If I had to guess, I’d say it belongs to Robby. I haven’t seen him since before the Mason’s ski accident mess when he used to talk and hang with me in the group.

  Lucky I decide to turn after all because an egg, followed by another, tumbles in the air in a direct line for me. I duck and they sail just over my hairline.

  When another car slows, I’m ready to fucking lose it, even if it only backs up my new reputation as a killer. But my words are stumbling, smooshed, and not coming out of my mouth right thanks to my severely depleted blood-sugar level and the fact that my body’s in survival mode.

  Then out of the window pops Darcy May’s head. I know that kid. He’s Charlee’s little bro.

  Just my luck. That her mom was the only one to die at Mason’s. I’ve been wanting to kiss this girl since before I got my first tattoo, or my eyebrow ring. Before seeing her at the opposite end of the occasional party. All things considered, a rich, beautiful, kind-looking girl like Charlee would never bring home a guy like me. I’ve never spoken to her the way I want to. Why take the risk of getting rejected by the only girl I’ve ever really wanted? And even if she did want me, would she see me or me as the person as what I’ve done to her parents?

  I know Charlee’s read the papers; she couldn’t have missed it.

  Dexter Hollingworth was on shift as a lift operator when the overhead wires snapped on one of the lifts at Mason’s Ski Resort. No charges have been laid.

  Charlee’s Audi hatchback stops beside me. Darcy pops his head back in and chucks a thumb at me then turns to whisper something to Charlee.

  I take these rare moments when I still see her around to imagine her letting her blonde hair down and shaking it out across her face. About getting a hand into that hair and holding her to my chest with the other. I want to know what she smells like.

  It’s as close as I deserve to get.

  I sort of topple as she leans down to peer through the window and says, “Dexter? You okay out there?”

  Oh, right. Fair question. It’s spitting rain on a Wednesday afternoon at 5:30 pm and I’m stumbling on the sidewalk.

  “Hey, Charlee,” I say, gripping the car door because I need to stand tall and steady. I lean down, so I’m at Darcy’s and her eye level. “I’m all right. But…thanks.”

  She looks like her mind’s in another world for a moment, staring at me. She’s not looking at my eyes, but through me. She grins, but she turns before I can see it light up her face. Her hair covers her expression as she tucks her chin away. What on earth has she got to be embarrassed about?

  “Hang on a sec,” Charlee says to me. She steps out of her car, into the drizzle. She tucks some wild hair blowing in the wind behind her ear and I still see it. That grin. But she’s trying to desperately to hide it.

  Maybe I’m already in? No, Dex, no. There’s no way that fucking angel is in any way “in” with you. Or that you deserve her or any reward.

  Thinking of this makes my head spin, reminding me I absolutely need sugar right now because I’m not sure this stupid body can walk itself back home, argue with Dad for ten minutes and then manage to sneak into the pantry for sugar before completely collapsing.

  I hate this all-too-familiar sensation—the wobbling, separating from my thoughts, as if this isn’t my body and I’m stuck in this useless thing that won’t do as I say.

  “Dex!” Charlee has my arm. She has my arm—my arm that’s rigid from pleasure, from her touch—in her little fingers. She holds my other one, too and she’s right there, that sweet candy perfume stripping the rest of the strength from my body, and it escapes in a soft, breathy sigh.

  Having her sweet candy scent in my head is going to be hell from now on.

  “Here, get in my car. It’s pouring!”

  Now I notice the rain. Was it like that earlier? Maybe it was always raining this hard. All I know is if I can make out the two melons of her breasts through her loose top, the rain must be coming down. And I must be out of it to not have realized the weather before.

  It would be so easy to slip into her car. I’d make her laugh again, so she’d do that thing where she would grin and tuck her chin into her chest, yet she couldn’t wipe me from her mind, and then I could brush my fingers over her cheeks to behind her neck where I could pull her to me. I know she’d like that. All girls do.

  But this can’t happen. I killed her mom. I’m responsible for her dad’s life hanging in the balance—which I hear about daily, thanks to mom’s updates. I deserve punishment. Why am I allowed to live my life as if nothing happened? I hate being let off without resolution. As much as I didn’t want to lose my friends, as much as I hate the stares, the egg-throwing and mass public hate, it gives me something to feel. I should be hated for ruining Charlee’s family. She should hate me.

  Right now, all I know when I see her grin at me, and grip my arm and look like an angel is that I do not deserve this. I don’t deserve any pleasure from Charlee when I’m the one responsible for taking away all her pleasure in life.

  What I really deserve is to watch her slip away. It would be the only real thing I’d feel when I’m confused and hating myself. It would hurt so bad that it would have to be real compared to the nightmare I now live.

  But that means using her as a prop in my punishment, and that’s worse.

  We share the same look for a moment, her eyes on my face and mine on hers. This moment is ours. My hand is so close to her hip that I could…

  “Is he coming, Charlee?” Darcy yells over the rumble of the rain.

  Charlee says, “Coming back now. Don’t worry.”

  I can’t stop myself from wondering if her bra is black or gray.

  She gives me a weird look so maybe she caught me. Good. Maybe now she’ll go and leave me—but then she does somethin
g really stupid and says, “You’re absolutely coming with me, Dexter. It’s pouring and you look like you’re going to faint.”

  “Actually,” I say, and I’m grinning from ear to ear, like a total douche, “I think…”

  My cell goes off. Saved by the bell. My crotch hates this moment, but my head knows I’ll look back and remember this as the best possible interruption.

  “One sec,” I say, and then, “Yep. Hi, Raych.” It’s Rachael, I mouth, as if Charlee is meant to know who she is. “Yep, still on. Cool. See ya in a few.”

  Snapping my cell shut, I both hate this moment and am thankful at the same time, because someone like Charlee deserves to have someone day in, day out. A guy she can trust. Someone like me shouldn’t go near her because it doesn’t matter what anyone else says, I was operating the ski lift when her mom was killed and her dad broke a dozen bones and ruptured half his insides. Yet this girl with flowing blonde hair and a mouth that can’t help but smile at someone dangerous like me wants to help me. I don’t know why. I don’t deserve her.

  My trembles haven’t subsided, they’re taking over all of me, so everything I am is this separated body where the words come out as a square and my mouth is a triangle and they don’t feel like my words anymore. My head feels like it’s wobbling off my neck, backward and forward, but I’ve gotten so good at trying to focus that I don’t think I’ll crash into her.

  “My buddy Raych is coming by—” and it’s funny how easily I can lie “—to hang.”

  “Oh.” That grin she couldn’t wipe away is gone.

  I can just as easily give her something as I can take it, I think.

  “But next time.”

  I’ve fucked it this time. I know it and she knows it. I can’t stop smirking with one corner of my mouth and my arms are tensing around my chest, mostly so she can’t see how pathetically my diabetic body is shaking, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t know I was looking bulked up like this.

  “Yeah.” She tucks her hair behind her ear again and wipes the rain from her eyelashes. “Absolutely. Yeah!”

  “I’m sorry for…well, yeah.” What the hell are you thinking? You can’t talk about her dead Mom! “Hope you’re well.”

  Something takes over her expression and all of the color disappears from her face. Then she blushes, smiles a goodbye type of thing, and dashes back to her car.

  Darcy waves at me, and she sort of waves while trying to hide her face, and I want to run after her.

  But I can’t.

  I wobble and slump into the gutter and slap my hands on the concrete. The coolness is calming because I’m sweating in this rain and all I want to do is close my eyes but I can’t because if I do that, I won’t wake up.

  I’m so damn hungry right now. I need food and I start imagining shoving mushy chocolate cake in my mouth, and ice cream and everything else. I close my eyes and slump my head on my shoulder to allow myself just this bit of rest when—

  Beep!

  “Dexy!” Raych calls, screeching to a stop.

  I grab her hips and kiss her on the cheek, but I’ve slammed my cheek into hers and I’m sure it hurt her although I can’t feel a thing.

  She rolls her eyes. “You’re fucked again, aren’t you?”

  She thinks I’m a druggie. I’m that much of a coward that I can’t tell this girl I fuck that I have diabetes and so she hears me slur Rayyyccch and sees me stumble to her car and hop into the passenger seat, and makes up her own mind. Of course she thinks I’m a druggie.

  I’m scavenging for anything, throwing empty paper bags from McDonald’s takeout over the backseat, cigarette packets up in the air and eventually find a stick of Mentos. They’re mints but I know this brand isn’t sugar free and so I rip it open. They scatter all over the carpet floor but I finger around, trying hard not to pass out while fumbling with the candy and pop three, four, five, more, into my mouth.

  After two minutes I can feel it—reality—coming back. My fingers are frozen from the cold temperature outside, and embarrassment is settling in as it always does. Did I look that out of it? How close was I to falling into a coma?

  “Got the munchies, huh?” Raych says, and doesn’t hide her smirk.

  “Oh, yeah!” and then I have an urge to clamp my mouth shut because this is not what she meant and this looks very, very bad. “I mean, no. No.”

  “Dexter, please don’t do that. My mom doesn’t like it when you come over whacked.”

  “Sorry, babe.” I finger her top because I’m riding the high after the hypo and my mind is still re-attaching to my body and by the time I realize what I’m doing Raych’s top rides up, and I’m feeling for her bra but she doesn’t have one on today. Instead my finger touches the softest, roundest things I can ever imagine.

  It’s like this—I was slurring, stumbling, falling and now I’m hardening and sharpening and pressing my lips into a thin line. I’m buzzing and these breasts—breasts, just the word gets me hard—are everything I need right now because I’m back in control of this body and I won’t hurt Charlee by touching her. Instead, I pull Raych’s hips up over her seat and down on me.

  I can’t go back home ‘cause Dad’ll probably beat me. Or my stuff might be on the street already ‘cause Mom won’t be there to stop him and if I have nothing else to do, nowhere else to go, I might call Charlee.

  I pick Raych up by the hips again and push her up, down, up, down on my jeans and we can both feel me and she’s moaning, which makes me groan, too.

  “Oh, fuck, baby!” she cries. “Wait.”

  Raych leans over and feels for her car keys, yanks them out of the ignition and chucks them somewhere, I don’t know where, because her lips are pressing on mine, and then they’re sucking on mine, and then she’s already at my neck, sucking me into her lips.

  “Here?” I say. She knows what I mean.

  “Right here, baby,” she moans, thrusting on me again, now all of a sudden topless, like that, with her boobs on each side of my nose. It feels so good like this because it isn’t complicated with her. We know what we want, what to expect, and I don’t have to worry about disappointing her or screwing up.

  “You fucking think of leaving and I’ll snap you,” and she presses down on me so suddenly this motion really hurts, “right off.”

  Hyper alert, I realize just how bright it still is for this time of the night, even in winter. Old ladies would have a heart attack seeing a topless girl straddling me in this seat.

  Raych’s anger makes me somehow remember the baby hairs of Dad’s nose touching mine, not enough of a gap for air to pass. Just the wrath of his threat.

  I want to forget the bad memory that is my life.

  Raych goes on kissing down my collarbone and it feels so hot but I can’t keep my mind in this moment, which is rare.

  I remember what Dad’s words really meant: If he makes this.

  He’s talking about Walter May. The guy is in a hospital bed, barely alive.

  But still. Walter May is alive, and now it makes sense why Dad emphasized Right, but Walter did not die back in the kitchen.

  I don’t think Dad’s happy Walter made it.

  3. Love the Drug(gie)

  Charlee

  As I work through my swimming training, I want to keep grabbing at the water in front of me, pulling my body through the weight of it. Never come up for air. Never. Breathe. Again.

  Then something tugs at my feet and suddenly I’m half-weightless, half pushing against the wall of white water.

  “Darcy!” I cry. I cup some water, throw it at him, and repeat this until he splutters, enough, enough! and we separate again. I do forty laps, a mix of backstroke and freestyle, because when I’m like this it’s really hard to do anything but sing, and I need that after running into Dexter.

  Lyrics come to me, or I invent them, and my body is this rhythmic beat where I’m literally floating in this water and nothing is dragging me down.

  I haven’t trained in so long and my arms burn. I love tha
t feeling. Burn. For my mom and dad and Dexter. Because I’m stupid for still wanting him. Still, I melt at his touch, words. Pretty much anything and everything about him.

  That’s when the tears come and now I cannot swim because my arms are strips of lead, my legs trunks of coal. And it hurts. Two miles in a training session is a slow one and I’ve only swum under a mile and my chest heaves as I scoop through the water, but now I’m sure I must be going backwards.

  And then I know. It’s because of the tears. I can swim six miles and recover better than this. But now?

  Slowly, I crawl up the steps, more of a zombie than anything human. I think Darcy is calling me, asking where I’m going, but it’s too late to check because I’ve stepped out of the pool house and into the main living area. My towel is on the deck chair by the pool and I want to wrap it around my shoulders, but instead I fall to a heap on the floor.

  I know Darcy is fine in there. Like I was at his age, he’s one of the state’s top swimmers for ten- to eleven-year-olds, so there’s no way he’d need me to watch him anyway.

  It must be five minutes before I realize I’m curled in the fetal position. I prop myself up on one hand and see the gray-cream outline of where my wet body has darkened that bit of the carpet.

  That’s all I am. A shadow of who I used to be.

  Naturally, I fumble for my cell and Facebook message Rosa who’s in some country where it’s sweltering, and the sand at the beach is white hot.

  One day, I send her.

  Don’t do this again, hon, she replies before I’ve managed to wipe the tracks of tears from my cheeks, you know I’d have let that plane take off without me if we knew the accident would happen when it did.

  Dexter couldn’t have done it.

  Well, I dunno. Maybe. However, any guy with those crafted muscles, hair that flicks off his eyebrows, that sexy eyebrow ring just below, and that damn V-line is a saint. That’s a V-Line to O-heaven, if you get me, Charlee. Heh, heh. ;)

  And then, But you know this all better than me so why are you asking, Rosa replies. Something happen?