by Lisa Sorbe
“Come on. It’ll be fun. Take this one, for instance.” He glances down and reads verbatim, “’Number five: Kiss Ross Thomlinson’.” Pausing, he presses his lips together, shoulders shaking. “And then, in parenthesis, ‘with tongue’. Well.” West looks up at me, his eyes dancing. “That one is obviously yours.”
I march over and snag the paper from his hands, my eyes flicking down the numbers and see that, yep, I actually did work the lame little crush I had on Ross Thomlinson into our bucket list. “Well,” I say, my eyes stopping on number twenty-two, “what about this one? Go to Alden Beach.” I fold my arms and wait. “That was obviously your idea.”
West shrugs. “So what? What’s so wrong with wanting to go to a beach?”
I sigh. “Alden, from what I recall, is a nude beach.”
West feigns innocence. “Really? Huh.” He rubs his thumb and forefinger over the scruff of his chin, brows drawn as if lost in thought. “Well, it’s decided. We should definitely finish this now.”
Turning my back to him, I ball up the piece of paper and toss it at his chest. “I don’t have time to mess around with some childish to-do list. I’m an adult, and I have a life to get back to. Which I’d rather do sooner rather than later.”
“Funny,” West drawls. And though his voice is casual, his words are anything but. “I thought having a life was what you’ve been trying to avoid all these years.”
I twist around, my mouth dropping. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” His eyes flash as he looks up at me, finally reflecting his true feelings: the hate and the anger and the bitterness that have been building, building, building all these years. Every bit of it directed at me; every bit of it my doing.
I’m the only one who’s ever hurt him. I’m the only thing that’s never gone his way.
And that just makes me angry. Because if being rejected by one silly teenage girl is the biggest catastrophe he’s ever had to deal with in life, then boo-fucking-hoo.
“I have a life, for your information. A very fine life, thank you very much. And one you couldn’t even begin to understand, what with,” I shake my head derisively, “having never actually ventured much outside of your goddamned hometown. I mean, college down in Minneapolis? Way to get out of your comfort zone, Weston.” My voice is eerily calm, but inside I’m shaking so hard I’m surprised the tremble doesn’t ricochet through my speech.
West says nothing, just challenges me with his gaze.
“You know,” I continue, on a roll, “you really should get out in the world a bit, Weston. Open your mind, expand your horizons. Then you wouldn’t have the attitude of some small-town hick who wanted to get married at eighteen and start popping out kids right after high school.”
West continues to stare, though now his full lips are pressed into a thin line and his jaw is tight. He takes a deep breath, his nostrils flaring and, in one swift movement, rises from the couch. His looming presence is intimidating—granite features twisted in anger—and I have to force myself to remain where I am, my head tilting back more and more the closer he gets.
And he’s close. So close. If I dropped my head, my nose would probably brush the soft skin between his collar bone.
My chest feels like it’s about to explode, yet I can barely breathe.
West bends down, just a bit, so his lips are even with my ear. A chill skitters over my skin, racing down my neck and coming to rest just below my stomach. And when he speaks, I close my eyes and stop breathing altogether.
“Who keeps you warm at night, Laney?”
My lips part—what sort of sexist question is that?—but whatever has stolen my breath has also seized my voice.
He moves closer; so close that, when he speaks, his body brushes against mine.
I should move. Push my palms against his chest and throw him right
out
of
this
damn
house.
“Who,” he asks, inching closer still and sliding a large hand up my arm, “holds you after a bad day?”
Brent. I should say Brent. But that would be a lie, because Brent is hardly touchy feely. And though there have been a few times over the years when I could’ve used a hug or maybe a touch from someone who cared, I never expected him to be the one to dole it out. Because I know. I know who he is and who he isn’t.
“I don’t need a man in order to have a life.” I say this instead, because despite what Brent may or may not be, despite how being this close to West makes my heart race, it’s the truth.
It may not be what my mother believed.
But it’s what I believe.
West shakes his head and moves his hand up and over my shoulder. “I’m not talking about a man.”
I frown, unsure of where he’s going with this. “You mean a woman? I don’t exactly swing that way, West…”
The tension that flared just moments before flickers, the flame retreating beneath the surface long enough for West to chuckle. He whispers my name, drawing it out in long breath, like he enjoys the taste of it. “I’m not talking about a relationship that’s defined. Not in the traditional sense. Romantic, friendship, platonic or non-platonic, it doesn’t matter. What I mean is here,” he says, skating his palm down my chest and resting it over my heart. “Who do you hold in here?”
I know what he’s doing. What he’s trying to get at. And it needs to stop.
But even as I open my mouth to respond, my body proves me wrong. I ache for his touch. Ache to feel the comfort of his arms, the warmth of his embrace. Because the thing is, I know how it feels to be wrapped up in West. I know exactly how it feels.
“I don’t need anyone,” I say firmly, relieved to hear the the strength back in my voice. I cling to that, grasp on tight and order it through my body, stiffening my stance and squaring my shoulders.
West hangs his head for a beat before backing up and looking down at me, his eyes sad. “Everyone needs someone, Laney.”
I don’t believe him. Or maybe I just don’t want to. Either way, I’ve made it abundantly clear that he’s not my someone, so I don’t stop him when he walks away.
I doubt he expected me to, anyway.
Time gets away from us.
In the beginning, I didn’t mean to stay away for so long. At first, the excuses not to return home were purely innocent: I’d taken on a heavy class load, had a scholarship to maintain, decided to pursue a double major half way into my sophomore year, opted to spend my summers doing something productive like taking extra classes and working for a law firm in Tempe rather than getting drunk with old high school friends and fighting for a job at one of the local fast food restaurants in Wolf Lake.
But the months passed and passed, turning to years in the blink of an eye, and the longer I stayed away, the harder it was to even think about coming back.
I thought I’d be immune to the pull of memories. To the pull of West.
I was wrong.
I watch the roll of his muscles under his t-shirt as he shoves the old console television we heaved out of the basement into the back of his truck. It’s like I’m a teenager again, complete with raging hormones and a newly developed crush on my best friend.
But I’m not a teenager, and while I have to admit that West is gorgeous, he’s really not my type. The man is basically a lumberjack, a blonde Paul Bunyan who probably doesn’t even own a suit. And the biggie? He has no ambition. No desire to grow outside of our hometown.
And if that’s how he wants to live, fine. To each their own. I don’t hold it against him for succumbing to the simple life. A lot of people chose to live that way.
Slow. Simple. Boring.
West treads water, and I want to make waves.
“You know,” West says, referring to the forty-year old set, “you could put this on Craig’s List and make a small fortune.”
I’m glad I’m wearing sunglasses, because I was so busy enjoying his backside that, when he turned around, I wasn’t able to
snap my eyes away quick enough. “The thing doesn’t even work.” It died twenty years ago and inevitably became the stand for our new television set—which is still ancient and next in line to follow this one out the door to the Goodwill.
West hops out of the truck, landing a few feet away from where I’m standing. His shadow falls over me, cooling the heat burning beneath my skin that, even after twelve years away, flares whenever he’s close. “I’m sure some hipster down in the Cities would snap it up in a heartbeat.”
I just shake my head, turning to head back into the house. “I don’t want to deal with the mess of trying to sell it.” I wave my hand back at the truck. “I just want it gone.”
We’ve been overly polite since our little rift earlier this afternoon, lugging furniture from the basement and out to West’s truck. At five o’clock, this is the second load, and aside from grunting and groaning due to all the heavy lifting, we haven’t said more than a handful of words to each other.
Twenty minutes later, we’ve managed to fill the bed of his truck with more junk from the basement: an old set of golf clubs, a threadbare recliner, a boxy space heater, giant stereo speakers straight out of the eighties, and the newer-old TV that almost broke my back as we lugged it up the stairs to the front door.
None of this stuff holds any real value; it’s junk people will buy in order to throw some nostalgic flare in their otherwise modern décor. Yet I can’t help but feel a pinch in my gut when I watch West drive away with it all: the old television console we watched cartoons on as kids; the replacement TV we watched movies on as teens; the golf clubs my dad would practice swinging in the backyard yet never find the time or inclination to actually take them to the golf course; the gigantic speakers that used to be attached to the old stereo system that belted out my parents’ favorite songs from the seventies and eighties.
I sit down on the porch steps, draw my knees to my chest, and plop my chin on my forearms. My dad would sit out here for hours during the summer, either a cold can of pop or a bottle of Old Milwaukee perched next to his hip. Sometimes Mike and I would join him, and he’d tell us stories about his old neighborhood and how he met my mom, who happened to live just down the street from the house he grew up in. I adored this story the best and requested it often, loving the sentimental smile he’d wear while telling us how he returned her beloved Collie home after it had run away and how she repaid him with chocolate chip cookies that were so hard he almost broke a tooth. “I’d never seen anything like her before,” he’d say, staring off into the distance and chuckling softly. “She was a firecracker back then, your mom, and my life hasn’t been the same since.”
My parents were ten when they met, when the ground shook beneath their feet and their lives changed forever.
And as for me? I’ve never known life without West. Even these last twelve years away have been tainted by his absence. By the distance between us, in miles if not in thought. He slips into my dreams as easily as the sun slips below the horizon, leaving me alone when I wake, the sense of loss as tangible as the day I left.
Is it possible to be haunted by someone who’s still alive?
Yes. Yes, it is.
The screech of metal on metal interrupts the silence as, next door, Corrine bangs her way onto her front porch. She lights a cigarette, sucks on the tip, and tilts her head back as she exhales. A hint of smoke drifts over on the lazy breeze, and I wrinkle my nose as I breathe it in. She glances over, dipping her chin to study me over her bifocals. Judging, I’m sure, at the fact that I’m wearing a skimpy tank top that doubles as a sports bra and leggings that hit just below my knees and fit like a second skin. But unlike the last couple of days, today is hotter than mutha, and I’ve been lifting heavy furniture for the last few hours—not to mention sweating out last night’s drinks. And who is she to judge anyway? Sucking on a cancer stick, her smoke polluting my lungs?
I scowl back at her.
“And how are you doing, missy?”
“I’m just fine, Corrine. How are you?”
She purses her lips in answer. Her green cardigan hangs down to the knees of her peach polyester pants, and the gold chain linking her glasses around her neck tightens as they slip further down her nose. “I see you’re clearing out the house. Getting rid of your mom’s stuff.”
I nod. Obviously, I want to say. But I press my lips together in a cordial smile and remain silent.
“You got the place on the market yet?”
I shake my head. “Not yet.”
Corrine nods, lifts her cigarette to her mouth, and sucks. “Well,” she says as she exhales. “Be careful who you sell it to.” Tendrils of smoke whirl around her head for a moment, obscuring her from view. “Make sure you don’t sell it to someone who’s gonna rent it out.” The smoke clears, her pinched expression revealing disapproval at the very thought. “We don’t want renters in the neighborhood. Things go downhill like that,” she snaps the fingers of her cigarette free hand for emphasis, “once renters move in.” Nodding once to stress her point, she bends down and stubs the cigarette out on the concrete porch before tossing it into what looks like a decorative plastic plant holder.
Who does she think she is, telling me who I can and can’t sell this place to? Like she gets a say… I’m selling to the first person who makes an offer. Wolf Lake is a small resort town an hour north of the Twin Cities. I doubt I’ll have many offers to choose from in the first place.
And then I remember something. “The Brooks rent out their place,” I say, waving my hand toward West’s childhood home, “and the neighborhood seems to be surviving just fine.” I say this sweetly, though I’m sure Corrine senses the challenge underlying my words. She always has.
“That’s because Weston is a good landlord. He makes sure to rent to decent folks, not just anybody who comes callin’. Then again, he knows how to respect his roots.”
My first instinct is to screw up my face and channel my inner Jan Brady by griping, West, West, West! What’s so great about West?
Everything, responds a little voice in my head. Absolutely everything.
“Of course, now that he’s living there again, there’s no need to worry. Most folks find their way back home eventually.” She tosses me a scolding look.
So West actually lives across the street? I assumed he was only there to do maintenance, like general upkeep between tenants or something. Interesting…
Corrine mistakes my silence for submission and wags a finger at me. “You should put some clothes on,” she says, clucking her tongue like a damn chicken. “It’s not very ladylike to go gallivantin’ around in your underthings, you know. You’ll invite the wrong kind of attention looking like that.”
I automatically glance down at my attire and resist the urge to flip her the finger. Yep, greasy hair and pit stains and the ripe scent of B.O. That’ll work all the men that cross my path into a frenzy. Letting my hands drop behind me, I rest them against the porch and lean back, pushing out my chest as I do. “Thanks for your concern, Corrine.”
She shoots me a dirty look and shakes her head, muttering something under her breath as she stomps back inside.
I bite back a smile as her screen door bangs shut.
By the time West returns from the Goodwill, I’ve rinsed off in the shower and have wound my wet locks into a loose braid that dangles over my shoulder. It’s created a wet spot right over my boob, drenching the thin cotton fabric of my old Co-Ed Naked Softball t-shirt, but it’s just West so who cares? Since I vastly underestimated how much time I’d be spending back here, I’m also vastly under-packed. So I’ve had to improvise, digging into the boxes from my bedroom and pulling out the first summer garments I came across. I guess there can be some pride taken in that, at thirty, I can still fit into the clothes I wore in high school. Though if I keep eating all those heavy casseroles in the fridge and avoiding my workout list, someone is going to have to roll me out of this godforsaken town.
And speaking of food… I happen to be st
anding at the fridge, considering which casserole to dig into next, when West tromps into the house, bringing with him a breeze that ruffles the loose strands of hair around my face. He stops short on the stairs leading up from the landing when he sees me, his features growing soft, his mouth dropping into a little O. His eyes roam over my body so slowly I can feel the pressure from his gaze, my skin tingling as he drags his attention all the way up from my bare feet to my freshly scrubbed face. When he finally meets my questioning stare, his eyes narrow and his lips turn down at the corners.
“Cute,” he says, smirking as he nudges me aside and reaches into the fridge, grabbing my last root beer.
“Hey! I was going to drink that!”
West shrugs, twists off the metal cap, and lifts the bottle to his lips. He watches me as he chugs the entire thing, then waggles the empty bottle when he’s finished. “Cheers.”
I cross my arms and turn away, refocusing my attention on a large dish of cheesy potatoes. “You’re so immature.”
“And you,” he says, brushing past me and tossing the botte into the recycle bin beneath the sink, “are such a fun hater.” Crossing his arms over his chest, he turns and leans back against the counter.
He’s trying to get a rise out of you, Elena. Just ignore him. Still, even as I think this, I quip back, “I am not. You are.”
West laughs. There’s nothing he loves more than getting under my skin. “Prove it, then,” he says, reaching into his pocket and drawing out a rumpled piece of paper. With raised brows, he holds it out.
I roll my eyes as I shut the refrigerator door, acting as immature as I’m accusing him of being. “I don’t need to prove anything to you.” I frown as I study his outstretched hand. It may look like a little white flag, but I know better. “And give it a rest with that stupid list. I already told you…I’m not doing it.”
But West is incorrigible. Shaking the paper open, he begins to read. “Number one. Tee-pee Amber Oakley’s house.” He peers at me over the edge of the paper, the crinkles around his eyes deepening with his grin.
