Not Looking for Love: Episode 3 (6 page)

Cold is snaking into the car since my door is still open, and maybe I should just leave too. What am I going to tell Dad? He's not dumb, he's going to know something's wrong, and if he asks me, I'll probably just blurt it all out, because that's what I do under pressure. But I need fresh clothes, otherwise I'll get an infection.
 

I open the car door all the way and step outside before I can change my mind. "Alright, I'll just be a second."

"Call me," Scott says and puts the car in drive.

My hands are shaking so hard, I drop the keys twice before I can unlock the door. The house smells like stale cigarette smoke and rotten food. Dad is smoking again, and drinking, and not taking out the trash.

"Dad, are you home?" I yell into the silent house. None comes. I call again and wait a bit before walking down the hall past the kitchen and living room. A nearly empty bottle of whiskey is sitting next to an overflowing ashtray on the dining room table.

I walk up the stairs slowly, but the exertion still sends the walls spinning around me, and cramps shooting through my belly. The door of my mom's room is shut, but I can see her lying dead on the bed, her sightless, gleaming eyes staring at the ceiling on the other side of the door. My entire chest melts into an oozing dark mess, and tears are flowing down my cheeks hot and thick. Will I ever be able to remember my mom alive?
 

I rush into my room, and stuff some clothes into a backpack, not even caring what I'm packing. I mostly just left old jeans and t-shirts here, a few dresses I never wear, and some old underwear, because I didn't plan on coming back for a very long time. The blood stained trench coat is still hanging over a chair in my room, and I take it. Under the sink, I find a full pack of pads and I pack that too.
 

I'm back in the driveway inside of ten minutes, calling Scott, afraid my dad will come home at any moment.
 

The car is warm again now. "My dad wasn't home."

"OK, but maybe you should call him anyway," Scott suggests.

"Later," I mumble. "He thinks I'm at school, and it's probably best."

But I should tell Phillipa where I am, or she might get worried. I take out my phone and text her saying I went home for a while.

Scott's looking at me from the corner of his eye, but not asking any questions.
 

He takes the backpack from me when we return to his home, checking its weight. "You think you packed enough stuff, Gail?"

I shrug and walk past him to the door. The feeling that he wants me to leave is growing again, but I can't do that, so I won't acknowledge it.

Once we're upstairs, I take my backpack from him and disappear into the bathroom. The hot water is washing away the blood flowing down my legs, and I'm on the beach again, desperately hoping the waves will return my Sarah safe and alive at any moment now. But they won't, ever, because I killed her. I slide down and sit on the floor, clutching my face, hoping Scott can't hear my wails.

I gasp and scramble away as an icy cold jet hits my back.

My eyes are red and puffy, and my hair will be a frizzy mess when it dries since I have no product to put in it, but there's nothing for it. I change into an old pair of sweats I've owned since the eight grade and finally emerge from the bathroom. The cold air hits me like a slap.

Scott's drinking coffee at the kitchen table. There's a pile of freshly laundered clothes next to him, along with a couple of Tupperware food containers.
 

"Want some of this?" he asks, and points to the food.

"What is it?" I ask in a whisper, my throat still swollen from the crying.
 

He shrugs and opens one of the containers. "Lasagna, I think. Or maybe that eggplant thing."

I want to sit in his lap, but I take the empty chair at the side of the table anyway. This morning seems years away, like it hasn't happened yet. He wants me to go, I know he does. But I can't.

"Where did the food come from?" I ask. Steam is rising from the containers, and my stomach rumbles.
 

"Ava brought it over with the laundry while you were in the shower," he says like that explains everything.

"Is she another of your girlfriends?" I ask, harsh like I have any right to mind.

His eyes flash to mine. In this light they're the color of frozen, dirty snow. "No, Ava is Janine's mom."

He stands up and gets a couple of forks and plates from the kitchen.

It's been almost two days since I've eaten, and suddenly it's all I can do. It's lasagna and it's the best I ever tasted.

"Janine's mom does your laundry?" I ask between bites, because I want to forestall the moment he tells me flat out to leave.

He nods. "I told her she doesn't have to, but she does my dad's and says she doesn't mind. She just retired and doesn't really have much else to do."

"So her and your dad are…?"

"No, not really. Though they've been living like an old married couple for years now. But my dad never got over my mom."

A piece of lasagna sticks in my throat, making me cough. That's how it is with love, it ruins you forever when it's over, and I should leave, because why ask for it? But each cough sends a sharp pain through my belly, and I know I can't face that pain alone, not ever.

"I hope my dad will get his life back in order," I mutter, but his drinking and the smoking makes that so hard to believe.
 

"I'm sure he will. My dad's just weird that way," Scott says. "Time passes and things get better, right?"

I nod, because deep down I've always believed that too. And I want to believe it now.

"Do you want me to go?" I ask, because his eyes are still icy cold and there's no hint of a smile anywhere around him.

"Do you want to stay?" he asks, his eyes softening a little but not by much.
 

I stare at him, willing that ice in his eyes to melt all the way. Because all I want is to sit in his lap and talk, maybe sleep. But not if he's looking at me with those cold eyes. Somehow it works, and icy grey turns into the blue of a calm ocean in summer, sunlight glinting off the surface.

It's like an invitation, and I rise, shuffling over to sit in his lap. He lets me, wrapping his arms over mine, which are still around my stomach.

"I do want to stay," I whisper. "But only if we can go steady."

The words aren't actually coming from any place my logical brain controls.

He chuckles. "What, no sex with anyone else?"

"That's right, no Swedish girlfriends."

"What about escorts?" he ask.

I gasp and glare up at him, not even sure if he's joking or not.
 

"There were a couple of those, while you were away," he explains sheepishly. "And an ex-girlfriend."

"You told Janine you didn't see her?" I say, heat rising in my cheeks.

"You heard all that? How long were you awake for?" he asks.

I'm just opening and closing my mouth, anger and jealousy turning my blood to slush.

"I lied to Janine. She'd have a fit if I told her about Marissa."

"Any more?" I finally choke out.

"Why do you care so much?" he asks. "You didn't return any of my calls."

"I told you this morning," I mutter, feeling myself grow stiff. I should get up and go sit in my own chair, or leave, but he's still holding me, so maybe I really shouldn't.
 

"Everything you said is still true, Gail," he says. "You can still change your mind."

"I don't have any guarantees to give," I mutter.

He laughs like I just told a joke. "You're so—"
 

"So what?" I whip my head to face him and droplets of water fly off my wet hair. "Crazy?"

This was such a bad idea. I shouldn't be here, I shouldn't have called him. He's never going to forgive me for any of it, ever. And why should he? I probably wouldn't.

He narrows his eyes at me, but his lips are curled up into a smile. "I was actually going to say confident. But I'm gonna go with bossy now."

He laughs at his own joke, but I'm not finding it very funny.
 

"So, what you're actually saying is that yes, you want me to get lost?" I ask.
 

He grins, and wraps his arms tighter around me. "It would probably be for the best."

I grab his wrist with the idea of prying his arms off me and getting up, but I don't do it, because the way he's looking at me is making my lips throb in anticipation of a kiss.

"But then again," he says, and the sensations retreat like they never were.

"Then again what?" I sigh.

"Then again, maybe we could give it a try," he says and smiles. "I mean, we're already starting from like almost the bottom, so maybe it won't get any worse."

"Things can always get worse," I whisper, seeing my mom's glistening, dead eyes staring at the ceiling.

His leg tenses under me. "They don't have to, though." He's staring past me as he says it, like he's talking to our reflection in the window.
 

"No they don't," I say.

"Let's try it then," he says, and looks down into my eyes. And I'm not even seeing any color, just a vast snowy plain, a hut in the distance, white smoke rising from the chimney.

He leans over and kisses me, his lips soft and warm against mine. I close my eyes, until the fuzzy warmth spreading from my lips, down my chest and into my belly is all there is and all I know. I let go of my stomach and run my palm along his side, feeling the hard, taut muscles. He's cupping my breast now, his fingers playing with my nipple through my shirt. His tongue is not even all the way in my mouth, just barely over my lips, and I meet it there, wrap mine around it. I'm so warm now, so secure, and even the cramps in my stomach are distant, like some other Gail is feeling them, and she's not even in the room with us.

I don't know how long we spend kissing, because time stopped and the world is still. I'm certain everyone everywhere is just frozen in place waiting for us to finish.

But then he pulls away, and cold rushes into the space between us like an avalanche.
 

He checks my watch. It's almost eight. "I should go out for a bit."

"Now?" I ask. I'm already picturing him going to see his Swedish girlfriend, because he's hard and obviously he can't fuck me.

"I have to go return the car," he says and grins at me, like he knows what I'm thinking. "I'm sure not gonna feel like doing it later. You can come, if you want. But it's a bit of a walk back."

My belly still feels like someone kicked me hard.

"No, but hurry back," I say.
 

He kisses me again, softly with no tongue, then I'm standing and he's putting on his jacket.

At the window, I watch him emerge from the alleyway, making a call. After he drives away I lie down on the bed, wrapping the blanket around myself tightly because the apartment is so chilly when he's not in it.

CHAPTER EIGHT

When I wake up, the apartment is silent and dark. Yellow light spills in from the street below, and the wind is whistling around the corners of the building, like a huge storm is coming. But stars are twinkling in the part of the sky I can see, in the gaps between the buildings opposite.
 

Scott is lying beside me on his back, with his arms tucked under his head.
 

I flip over so I'm facing him. His eyes are closed, but he's not breathing evenly.

"Are you awake?" I whisper, but get no reply.

 
I lie back down on my side, close enough so that our legs are touching. If he'd just extend his arm down he'd be hugging me. But he's still pretending to sleep, and I can feel a draft along my back, urging me to get up and leave.

He's only wearing a thin t-shirt, and his nipples are erect and pushing through the fabric. I'd love to feel them between my lips, but instead I reach for the blanket, which is only draped across his stomach and legs and pull it up, not wanting him to be cold. He opens his eyes as my hand grazes his stomach, and I snatch my hand away, feeling like I'd just done something very wrong.

"Sorry," I mutter. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"I wasn't asleep," he says, and a cold weight drops into my stomach, settling there.

"You just didn't want to talk," I say and flip over so I'm staring at the ceiling too. This is how my mom lay after she died, only she saw nothing, felt nothing. A car passes in the street below, and the light stabs across the ceiling, then recedes back into the shadows.
 

The room isn't supposed to be this cold, not with Scott back. But it's like I'm still alone, even though his leg is pressed against mine, and I can hear him breathing. A tear trickles out the side of my eye, cold like it had been waiting awhile to spill.
 

"I'll leave in the morning, if you want me to?" I whisper, a sob racking through me. It's what he wants, I'm sure of it.
 

"That's not gonna solve anything," he says finally. "Maybe if you never came in the first place."

"I thought you said we'd give it a try," I whisper and shudder, tears spilling out of my eyes fast now. I knew those kisses before wouldn't last, because they couldn't.

The bed wobbles and he turns to his side. He's looking at me now, leaning against one elbow. His eyes are like black crystal balls, white smokey mists twirling inside them.

"Sarah, you say?" he asks.
 

I whimper again and nod, tasting my salty tears.
 

"How long did you know for?"
 

I look back up at the ceiling, because I can't face his eyes, the dark emptiness there. "I only found out for sure on Monday. But I suspected before."

"That was a quick decision."
 

"I should have told you before." It seems so clear now, what I should have done then.

"Would it change anything?" he says. "You didn't want it, so you didn't keep it."

"Would you ask me to keep it?" I ask, glancing at him from the corner of my eye. He's staring past me through the window. The silence drags, and I close my eyes, but all I see is the dark beach, raging waves slamming into the shore, Sarah's lifeless little body tossed to and fro, so I open them again.