Bad Romance

by Heather Demetrios

  Nat turns to me. “Don’t think what he’s doing here is romantic—it’s possessive and controlling and rude.”

  Lys nods. “Word.”

  I sigh and slip on my Doc Martens. “I’ll be back in ten. Promise.”

  I walk across the grass and immediately realize I should have put a sweatshirt on. It’s freezing out here. I can see my breath in the air.

  You’re leaning against the hood of your car, arms crossed. A streetlight streams down on you like we’re onstage. The houses all around us have Christmas lights and blow-up Santas. It’d be kinda romantic if you didn’t look so pissed off.

  “What’s wrong?” I say. “What happened?”

  It’s been weird since that night in the mall parking lot. We’re not fighting, but things are tense between us.

  “Nothing. I needed to see you. What was that shit with Natalie?”

  “I promised her it would be just us girls tonight. Remember?”

  “She didn’t have to be such a bitch.”

  “She’s not a bitch,” I say, my voice hard. “She’s my best friend.”

  “Look, I tried calling you, like, ten times, but it went straight to voice mail. There was no other way to get in touch with you.”

  “Girl’s Night is sacred,” I say. “And you didn’t have to be such a dick to her.”

  “She wasn’t going to let me see you!”

  I stand there and just look at you until you roll your eyes and say, “Fine. I’m sorry.”

  You notice me shivering and you shrug off your jacket and put it over my shoulders. It’s warm and smells like you.

  You take my hands and pull me closer. “Don’t be mad. I love you.”

  I keep hearing my best friends tell me to break up with you. The word slut plays through my mind, looping over and over. I take my hands out of yours.

  “I told the girls what happened the other night—when I was at work.” I bite my lip. “They’re pretty pissed about it. That might have something to do with Natalie being less than welcoming.”

  You stare at me. “Why are you talking about that shit with them? That’s private—it’s only our business.”

  “Because it happened and even though we’ve made up or whatever, I’m still upset. You called me a slut, Gav. I can’t just forget that.”

  “I didn’t mean it,” you say. “I told you that. I was angry.” You reach out and draw me closer. “Come on, don’t hold that against me forever.”

  My eyes meet yours. “If you ever talk to me like that again, I’m gone. Okay?”

  You swallow. “Yeah.”

  You look so sad and repentant that I can’t help but cup your face in my hands and press my lips to yours.

  “Are we good now?” you say, your eyes pleading.

  “Yeah, we’re good.” I tilt your fedora back so I can see your eyes better. “Why are you even here?”

  “I know you’re having a Girls Night and everything, but I was hoping I could steal you away—just for a couple hours. I’ll bring you back, promise.”

  “Gav … I’m not gonna just leave them. We have very important girly things to do.”

  You give me your sexy half smile. “You sure? My parents aren’t home, there’s mistletoe in the house … I even wrote you a sexy Christmas song.”

  I lean forward and kiss your nose. “Don’t tempt me, you evil man.”

  Your grip tightens and the little spark that was in your eyes disappears. “Grace, I’ve hardly seen you at all this week. It’s just a few hours. You see them every day at school—I’m sure they’ll understand.”

  “I’m sure they won’t. I love you, but I have to go back in there, not least because it’s cold as balls out here.”

  “Did you just say cold as balls?”

  “I did.”

  You shake your head, laugh softly. “Such a dirty mouth.”

  Relief surges through me—that laugh means we’re not getting into a fight.

  My lips turn up. “I think you know exactly how dirty my mouth is.”

  There’s a scraping noise behind me and I turn just as Nat whisper-yells down from her bedroom.

  “Time’s up!” she says.

  You lift your finger and flip her off.

  I hit your arm. “Gavin!”

  And Natalie—good, pure, old-lady Natalie—she returns the gesture.

  Then, as if to prove to her that you’ve won, you pull me against you, but instead of a crushing kiss, you softly kiss the corner of my mouth, the tip of my nose, my eyelids as they flutter shut. You whisper-sing bits of “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” Then you take your jacket and let go of me and I stumble back, drunk on you once more. The streetlight rains gold dust on you and with your film noir hat and leather jacket you look like a boy up to something delicious, something no good.

  “From now on your weekends are mine except for very special circumstances,” you say. “And don’t put your phone on silent.”

  “Don’t boss me around, Gavin Andrew Davis.”

  Your lips turn up. “I love you, Grace Marie Carter.” I turn around, but I’ve only taken one step when you grab my hand. “Call me before you go to sleep.”

  When I get back inside, Nat and Lys are sitting cross-legged like two Buddhas, waiting for me.

  “What did he want?” Lys asks.

  “For me to ditch you guys and come hang out with him for a few hours.”

  “And you said no,” Nat says. “Right?”

  “Of course I did. What kind of friend do you take me for?” I grab a tree-shaped Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup from our pile of candy. “Were you guys talking behind my back while I was gone?”

  “Hell yes, we were,” Lys says.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t apply to NYU,” Nat says. She reaches for one of the stuffed bears on her bed and hugs it to her.

  “I love him. We’re practically engaged,” I say. “I don’t want to be on the other side of the country for four years.”

  “Are you forgetting the part where he called you a slut? Oh, yeah, and a bitch, too, if I remember correctly,” Nat says, pursing her lips.

  “He feels really bad. About everything. I promise.”

  “That’s what you said last time,” Lys says softly.

  “I’m sorry to say, he’s lost the best friends’ stamp of approval,” Nat says.

  “Please don’t hate my boyfriend. It would so suck if you guys didn’t get along.”

  Lys throws an arm around my shoulder. “Then he better not give us another reason to.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  I don’t quite know how bad things are between my mom and The Giant until the beginning of February. Something fucked-up is going on, but I only get hints of it, like I’m watching their relationship between the slats in a wooden fence.

  I rarely see them in the same room together and most nights he comes home late from work, snarling.

  I swear to God, Jean, you nag me about fixing the van one more time …

  Fine, leave me. Let’s see how well you do in the real world.

  Maybe it’s time your fat ass got a job.

  One night I throw my history book down in disgust and march out to the living room.

  “Don’t talk to her like that,” I say, my voice trembling.

  I can’t watch him whittle down my mom so that she’s nothing but Silent and Subservient Wife.

  The Giant turns around, the drink in his hand sloshing over the side. The lamp by the couch throws his shadow on the wall by the fireplace. He looms over us. Fee fi fo fum.

  “Shut the fuck up, Grace.”

  I glance at my mom, but she just stands there, her eyes shifting to a picture on the mantel, ignoring me. In it, Beth, Mom, and I are jumping on a trampoline, our mouths wide open with laughter. A pre-Giant day.

  “Mom…,” I say. She looks at me and just shakes her head.

  Sam starts crying and I pick him up, holding him to me. I take him back to my room, away from the arguing.

  It seems lik
e every night there are raised voices behind shut doors, the sound of breaking glass. Twice now I’ve caught my mom organizing the kitchen cupboards in the middle of the night. Last week it was the garage—a complete makeover that she began on a Wednesday at midnight when she was trying to find her sewing kit. She doesn’t get up early in the morning anymore—sometimes she’s still in bed when I get home from school. One minute she’ll be smiling, the corners of her mouth pulled tightly across her face (Roy bought me flowers—isn’t that sweet?). But the next, there are shadows under her eyes and she moves around the house like an old woman (I’m just tired, that’s all).

  It’s a Saturday afternoon and I have to go to work, but I can’t leave my brother alone. My mom has been in the bathroom for over an hour.

  “Mom?”

  I knock softly on the bathroom door. Nothing.

  I knock again, louder this time. “Mom? I have to get going.”

  I press my ear against the door. The shower is still running.

  I open the door a crack. “Mom?”

  I can see her blurred outline in the frosted glass door of the shower.

  “Mom.” Now I’m annoyed. “I have to get to work. I already fed Sam lunch and—”

  Then I hear it above the water—sobbing. I don’t think. I yank open the shower door, panicked, thinking of you and razors and blood. My mom’s sitting on the tiled floor, huddled in a corner, her knees drawn up against her chest, her long hair plastered to her head. She looks up, her face distorted, eyes red.

  “What happened?” I ask. “Are you okay?”

  She just shakes her head, lowering her forehead to her knees. Her sobs push her shoulder blades together, as though she’s trying to fly without wings.

  I’m already dressed for work, but I don’t care. I step into the shower and crouch in front of her. I’m soaked through in seconds. The hot water must have run out forever ago. The sharp stream rushing out of the showerhead is freezing and I reach up to turn it off. In the sudden silence her breathing is ragged. She’s shivering uncontrollably—even her teeth are chattering. They sound like pearls being rubbed together.

  “Hey,” I say, gentle. I forget all the times she’s called my own sobs overdramatic. I forget that I’ve been punished for my tears. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

  I reach out and place my hands on her elbows. Her skin is cold, refrigerated.

  I’ve only seen her like this once before. When I was ten, there was this brief period when my mom and dad were maybe going to get back together. He was sleeping over every night and taking us out to dinner. Then one day he was gone. So was the can of money my mom had been putting cash into for months. We were trying to save up to go to Sea World.

  She’s mumbling something over and over.

  “What?” I say, leaning in.

  “I give up,” she says softly.

  The words fall out of her mouth, heavy and dead. Tears spring to my eyes.

  “No you don’t,” I murmur. “You never give up.”

  I think about Mom before The Giant, before he smashed our world to smithereens. The way she’d throw overdue bills in the trash and take us to McDonald’s, or how she cheerfully marched my sister and me a mile after our car ran out of gas. We sang Christmas carols even though it was April.

  My hand reaches toward her without my permission and I run my fingers through the strands of her hair, dark brown like mine. I don’t let myself think about how just a few days ago she pulled my hair, hard. I’m tired of your attitude, Grace Marie. I don’t even remember what she was so mad about. I forgot to take out the trash, something like that.

  “Mom.” I shake her a little and she lifts her head.

  “He’s angry no matter what I do,” she says, not to me but to herself. Fee, fi, fo, fum.

  Her face crumples and she starts crying again. I wish Beth were here. She’d know what to do. I look at her, helpless.

  “What did he do?”

  She shakes her head. I reach over and grab a towel off the rack.

  “Let’s get you dried off.”

  Her mascara and eyeliner have bled over her skin so that it looks like she has two black eyes. She struggles to stand, as though her legs are too weak to hold her up. I put my arm across her shoulders while she wraps the towel around her body. She can’t seem to stop shivering.

  Once she’s out of the shower she looks at me.

  “Don’t you have work?”

  I nod, then look down at my soaked uniform. I’m going to be late. I feel like I need to stay with my mom, but I can’t call in, since I’m the closer.

  “I’m gonna change,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”

  She nods and I go to my room and peel off my wet clothes, then grab yesterday’s work clothes out of the laundry basket. Sam is still taking his nap and The Giant is golfing, so the house is silent. When I’m done changing, I head back to her bathroom.

  Mom’s wearing a robe now, her hair twisted up in a towel. I remember Beth and me pooling our money together to buy her the thick terry-cloth robe for Mother’s Day a few years ago.

  “Sorry about that,” she says, gesturing vaguely toward the shower. She’s looking in the mirror, taking off her eye makeup.

  It’s been a long time since my mom and I talked openly about anything, but I decide to press my luck.

  “Mom, why don’t you just leave him? He’s, like, the worst. You deserve better. We both do.”

  She doesn’t look at me. Her eyes are glued to the mirror.

  “It’s not as easy as all that,” she says.

  “But—”

  “Can I borrow twenty bucks?” she asks. Her eyes find mine in the glass. “I won’t be getting any more money from Roy until the end of the week.”

  The Giant gives her an allowance. Like she’s a kid. He controls everything.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Sure.”

  She will never pay it back. In fact, she will pretend this conversation—and the shower before it—never happened. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  “I love him,” she says. “When you’re older, you’ll understand.”

  How could I possibly understand? What kind of person would put up with this shit?

  “If he hits you, I swear to God, I’m calling the police, Mom.”

  I haven’t seen him do it, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he did.

  She smiles, sad. “Roy doesn’t hit. He doesn’t need to.”

  And I remember something he said a few nights ago: Go, then. But there’s no way in hell you’ll get custody. She will never leave him—not until Sam’s out of school, anyway.

  I think about you—about the way you hold me like I’m something precious and rare, the little gifts you’re always sneaking me, the way you sing me to sleep over the phone at night. And I suddenly feel desperately sad for my mother. Maybe she’s never had what we have. Maybe she never will.

  I swallow the lump in my throat. “I’ll go get the money.”

  I give her two twenties, then walk to work, the cold February wind slicing through my layers, numbing me. I don’t think about how I’m just barely going to make rent this month.

  When I get to work, Matt throws me a concerned glance as he puts fresh cookies onto the trays.

  “What’s wrong, chica?”

  I make it to the back of the store before I burst into tears. He rushes toward me, ignoring the customers that have just walked up. Without a word, he pulls me into a tight hug. I hold on to him, grateful. He smells like sugar and the musky cologne he always wears.

  “You want me to stay here and close?” he asks. “Go home if you need to.”

  “That’s the last place I want to be,” I mumble into his shoulder.

  “You want to talk about it?”

  I shake my head. He holds me tighter for a second, then lets go. A soft smile plays on his face.

  “You’re even pretty when you cry, you know that?”

  A smile sneaks onto my face. “Shut up.”

 
; “Grace?”

  I look up and there you are, standing in the doorframe between the kitchen and the shop. Your arms are crossed and you do not look happy.

  I turn to Matt. “Can you give us a minute?”

  He nods. “Sure. Come out whenever you’re ready.”

  You walk in and brush past Matt without a glance while the door swings shut behind you.

  “He was all over you” is the first thing you say to me after Matt’s back out front. “What the hell?”

  “I was upset,” I say. I’m pissed that you don’t seem to care. I thought it was only The Giant who ignored my tears. “He was just being nice.”

  “That didn’t look like nice,” you say. Your eyes are a storm-tossed sea, your lips just a slash in your skin.

  I think of my naked mother, the way her face crumpled like tissue paper, and I lose my temper.

  “You know what? I don’t care what it looked like. If you haven’t noticed, I’m crying. I’m having a fucking terrible day and you’re being a jealous idiot.”

  We stare at each other for a moment and then you cross the kitchen in seconds and wrap your arms around me.

  “You’re right,” you say. “I’m sorry.”

  I sigh and breathe you in. I haven’t seen you in days and the smell of you is like coming home, in a good way.

  “What happened?” you murmur against my hair.

  I shake my head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Something at home?”

  “Yeah.”

  Your fingers run down my spine, like you’re playing guitar, easing the tension out of me.

  “On a scale of one to ten,” you say, “how much do you like this job?”

  “I guess six. Sometimes seven or eight. Why?”

  “I was thinking maybe you could come work at Guitar Center with me.”

  I smile, looking up at you. “I don’t know anything about guitars.”

  “I’ll teach you.”

  “I’d distract you. We’d both be fired.” I pull out of your arms and grab my apron. “Besides, I have seniority here. They work with my schedule when I have shows. I like everyone—”

  “I don’t want you working here anymore,” you say softly. “Okay?”