The Night We Met

by Nikole Knight

  “Jethro’s never talked about a Sam before.” Rachel twirled a lock of blonde hair around her index finger. “Do you go to his school, too?”

  I took a swig of liquid courage, shaking my head. “No, I go to school in Baltimore, like your sisters.”

  “You’re in the medical program?”

  “Uh, nope. Social work.”

  “Wow, that’s so selfless.”

  Her dreamy expression frightened me, and I chugged at my beer, shifting my attention to Jethro’s father. “Jethro tells me you’re a white water rafting instructor. That sounds dangerous and exciting.”

  David chuckled, taking another beer from his wife. Before she could leave, he captured her hand and kissed her knuckles. Eleanor blushed like a teenager, snatching her hand away with feigned rebuke in her eyes. The exchange was sweet, yet entirely bizarre.

  My parents loved each other, but they hardly showed affection in front of me. I couldn’t remember the last time my dad made my mother blush.

  “It’s quite an adventure,” David said, immune to my inner ponderings. “There’s nothing like riding the rapids, the rush of surrendering to something powerful and uncontrollable.”

  “And one of these days, you’ll plunge into that water and never resurface.” Eleanor’s lips dipped in a frown as she lowered to sit on the arm of David’s recliner.

  “I’ll always come home, darlin’. Always.”

  A small body shifted in my peripheral, and I jolted as Ruth appeared in front of me. “Do you want to see my horse?”

  “What?”

  “God, Ruthie, Sam doesn’t want to see your horses!” Rachel waved her away like a pesky fly, and Ruth’s face fell, her big eyes watering.

  Jethro pinched Rachel’s arm with a harsh reprimand I missed as I caught Ruth’s attention. “Sure, I’d love to see your horse.”

  “Really?” Her eyes narrowed, and I nodded, nervous under the eight-year-old’s scrutiny. “Okay. Come on.”

  Apparently over her fear of me, she took my hand in her tiny one, and I stood from the couch and trailed after her. Eleanor watched us wistfully, and David laughed. Rachel pouted. The twins had disappeared somewhere in the depths of the small house.

  “It’s in my room. I have my own room now. Rachel took Mary and Miri’s old one. Do you have your own room?”

  “Um, yeah. I don’t have any siblings, so I always had my own room.”

  Ruth paused at the mouth of the hallway, a puzzled expression crinkling her sweet face. “You were all alone?”

  “Well, no. I had my parents and my abuela.”

  “What’s an abuela?”

  I chuckled. “It means, grandma, in Spanish.”

  After a moment, she nodded and her confusion turned to sadness. “But no brothers or sisters? That sounds lonely.”

  Speechless, I shrugged, and she tugged on my hand, guiding me down a narrow corridor. We passed a bathroom and a bedroom with lavender walls I assumed belonged to Rachel. Ruth led me into the second bedroom across the hall from the first, and I grinned at the pale pink walls.

  Her comforter was pink with purple flowers, and her walls were covered with posters of horses, kittens, and Disney princesses. Pausing at her bookshelf, she carefully wrapped her fingers around a black horse figurine, cradling the creature like something precious. She held it out to me like an offering, and I took it with the utmost care.

  “It’s a Friesian, my favorite. Jet got it for me for Christmas.”

  With hands clasped behind her back, she swayed, watching me expectantly. I lowered myself to one knee and made a show of studying every aspect of the horse before giving her a big smile.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  Her entire face lit like Christmas morning, eyes beaming with pride, and something warm trickled through my chest. I spent the next fifteen minutes exploring Ruth’s horse collection. She was quite knowledgeable on the subject for an eight-year-old, and I listened to her ramble about the different breeds and colors. I didn’t know a thing about the beasts, but I did my best to pay attention.

  “Well, I think this one is my favorite.” I plucked a horse from the group. “I like the spots.”

  “That’s a Pinto. Mary likes them best. Jet likes Clydesdales ’cause they’re strong.” Poking my bicep, she giggled. “Like you. You’ve got muscles like a Clydesdale.”

  A strangled sound scraped my throat as I handed the Pinto back. “Oh, well, that’s just… hmm.”

  “Are you Jet’s boyfriend?”

  At the question, my neck warmed afresh. “Um, no. No, I’m not.”

  “Why? Don’t you like him?”

  How the hell was I supposed to have this conversation with a child? Damn Jethro and his adorably happy family.

  “Well, yes, but as friends. We’re just friends.”

  I was instantly guilty for lying, seeing as we were barely acquaintances. Hell, I was counting down the hours until I could escape him and return to the bridge. Somehow, I didn’t think that was the right thing to divulge.

  “He likes you, or else he wouldn’t have brought you here,” she stated matter-of-factly. “You should like him. He’s nice and funny and strong, too. He plays with me when Rachel doesn’t want to. Mama says he’s a good boyfriend, but he cares too much. She says people take ab-adb-adbantage of him.”

  “He is really nice,” I conceded, shifting on the floor to ease my discomfort at our topic of conversation.

  She nodded in agreement. “You should like him. He’d be good at being your boyfriend.”

  “Okay, I’ll, um, think about it.” I rubbed the back of my neck, trying not to laugh.

  Like we’d reached a perfectly sensible agreement, Ruth nodded, smiling shyly. “You want to see my Polly Pockets?”

  “Ruthie, I think Mom’s making some pudding. You better get some before Miri eats it all.” Jethro’s voice scared me, and I jumped an inch off the carpet, rubbernecking to find him standing in the doorway. “I’m here to rescue you,” he whispered, and I chuckled.

  “Thanks for showing me your horses.” I stood and brushed my jeans with my palms.

  “You’re welcome.” Ruthie snatched the Pinto horse off the carpet and offered it to me. “Here, this is for you.”

  Shaking my head, I inched toward the door. “Oh, no I couldn’t take one of your horses.”

  “But I want you to have it.” Her little face fell, her lower lip quivering. “Friends give each other things. Aren’t we friends?”

  I didn’t know why her offer of friendship stabbed me through the heart, but I physically rubbed my chest over the offending organ to ease the ache. “Yeah, Ruthie, we’re, uh, we’re friends.”

  “Well, I want you to have it. And now, whenever you see it, you’ll think of me.” She shoved the figurine at me, and I took it, if only to ensure she didn’t drop and break it.

  “Thanks, Ruthie.” I swallowed the frog in my throat as she smiled up at me, dimples carving in her tiny cheeks. “I don’t have a present for you.”

  “That’s okay.” She waved off my regret as she scampered from the room. “Bring me a present next time you visit.”

  She was gone before I could even contemplate correcting her.

  Jethro stood at the door, hands in his pockets, the oddest smile stretching his lips. “Well, I guess I’ll be bringing you back here. Ruthie gets pretty serious about presents.”

  With an awkward chuckle, I waved the spotted horse. “Yeah, apparently. What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?”

  “Keep it,” he said. “And whenever you look at it, think of my baby sister who loved you after five minutes of knowing you.”

  I rolled my eyes and moved to pass him, pressing the horse into his chest. “I know what you’re trying to do. Once she forgets about me, put this back in her room.”

  Escaping to the bathroom, I took my time peeing and washing my hands. I splashed cold water on my face and stared at the swirling water spinning down the drain. For some strange reason, tears burned m
y eyes. I dried my face with a low growl.

  “It was just a fucking horse,” I snarled at my reflection, my brown eyes wide and bloodshot, panicked.

  Apparently, hiding in the bathroom was even more detrimental than spending time with a too-sweet eight-year-old, and I hauled ass out of the tiny restroom, almost barrelling Jethro over in the process. “Shit! What are you doing?”

  Jethro side-stepped to avoid the collision, and he shrugged, nonchalant even as his cheeks pinked. “Nothing. Just waiting for you.”

  “Standing guard in case I slit my wrists with your father’s razor?” My tone was too biting to communicate jest, and Jethro physically winced. Shockingly, I felt guilty for my flippant words. “Sorry.”

  “It’s cool. I just didn’t want Rachel hiding in wait to pounce on you the moment you were alone.” His smile was sheepish, and my irrational annoyance dissolved as I chuckled.

  “In that case, thanks. I’m not really into fifteen-year-old girls.”

  “Good.” He pointed to a door near the living room where several feminine voices argued incoherently. “Wanna hide for a bit? I’m pretty sure I have a bottle of brandy down there somewhere.”

  I followed the direction of his finger, eyeing him with feigned distrust. “Where? In your Buffalo Bill basement? Is that the real reason you pulled me from that bridge? You didn’t wanna waste my skin for your people-suit?”

  Shoving my shoulder hard, he brushed past me and clomped down the stairs. “Guess you’ll have to follow me and find out,” he threw over his shoulder, and I scoffed but shadowed him down the steps.

  The basement was one room, a bedroom. A double bed stood on the far wall, the comforter a simple gray with white stripes. The dresser was old and chipped, made of cheap wood, and the desk appeared homemade, unstable and rickety. To my left, the doors to a small closet stood ajar, hanging slightly off-kilter like they had been slammed closed one too many times and now the joints were out of alignment.

  Jethro sunk into the tattered computer chair and opened the bottom drawer of his desk. Rifling around, he stretched his hand to the very back and glass clinked. With a triumphant grin, he yanked a half-empty bottle of Paul Masson out of the drawer and waved it like a prize.

  “Knew it was still here.”

  “I’m rather terrified to drink it.” I crossed the small room and sat on the end of the bed as he rolled his chair across the faded white—now almost gray—carpet.

  “It’s no Rémy Martin, but it gets the job done.”

  After taking the first swig, he offered me the bottle, and I accepted graciously. Brandy was never my choice of drink, but alcohol was alcohol. As the sip trickled down my throat, I winced. He was right; it was no Rémy Martin. But regardless of the cheap price tag, it wasn’t terrible.

  “So, being the only male had its perks.” I gestured to the room. “Your own room, for starters.”

  “Yeah, once Rachel came along they finished the basement and stuck me down here.”

  Passing the bottle back and forth, we nursed the drink. “At least you could hear someone coming down the stairs. No embarrassing, interrupted masturbation sessions.”

  Jethro sputtered, stray rivulets of brandy trickling over his chin as he coughed. “Oh my God! Is that really the first place your mind went?”

  With a shrug, I stole the bottle back as he hacked into his hand. “Gotta look on the bright side of life, right?”

  The flippant comment had the opposite effect of my intention, and the atmosphere sobered. Wiping at his watery eyes, he wordlessly requested the brandy, and I handed it over. He wasted no time, guzzling several swallows.

  “Is that what you were doing on that bridge? Looking on the bright side of life?” he said, and I regretted my smart remark, scowling into my lap as I refused to answer. “Last time I checked, falling hundreds of feet into cement-like rapids wasn’t what anyone would consider the bright side.”

  “Is this why you brought me down here? To Doctor-Phil me?”

  Snatching the bottle from his hands, I spilled brandy on his carpet in my haste but didn’t waste an apology. The stains blended in with the thousands of other discolorations and worn patches. No one would ever notice the stray droplets of amber liquid.

  “I’m just trying to understand.”

  There was a deep sorrow to his tone, a sincerity that spurred my hackles to rise, and I swallowed the burning, cheap liquor as I glared. “There’s nothing to understand. Life was empty, boring, and death was… different. Maybe the other side is the brighter side. Nobody actually knows.”

  “And if it isn’t? If it’s emptier or lonely? What then?” He had taken the bottle back but it hung limp in his grasp, neither of us draining it dry. I shrugged in response to his questions. “There’s no return ticket, Sam.”

  “That’s kinda the point.”

  We stared at each other, his hazel eyes burning with an intensity I could barely face, yet it was impossible to look away. And I didn’t want to. He made me feel more exposed and afraid than even the river had, yet turning away was worse than facing the vulnerability. He peered into the depths of me, sifting through my secrets and insecurities. The longer he searched, the thicker the air grew.

  “What are you looking for?” I finally broke the buzzing stillness, and Jethro almost dropped the bottle of brandy as he startled.

  As his cheeks flushed salmon, he brought the bottle to his lips and tipped it back until the liquor spiraled into his mouth, leaving the bottle empty. He licked his lips, and I dropped my gaze from his mouth, annoyed at how easily he’d distracted me with the simple action of taking a drink. Maybe I should have passed on the alcohol.

  At long last, he spoke. “Answers, maybe. I have no idea what I’m doing, and my time is ticking away. I don’t know how to fix you.”

  His honesty hurt, and my heart writhed behind my rib cage at the defeat weighing his shoulders, the surrender carving wrinkles into his young face. “Yeah, me neither,” I admitted, running a trembling hand through my hair. “Welcome to the club.”

  Chapter Four

  Plunge

  With no more alcohol to dull the painful honesty hanging in the air, Jethro suggested heading back upstairs. I agreed and checked my phone, surprised to see it was twenty minutes to midnight. A little more than seven hours left. Why did that feel like too much, yet not nearly enough?

  At the base of the steps, Jethro stopped abruptly, and I stumbled to avoid smashing into his back. He rounded on me, taking advantage of the narrow stairwell’s lack of space, and invaded my personal bubble. My spine met the handrail, and I raised my hands instinctively, as if to ward off an attack.

  Of course, he wasn’t attacking me. He utilized his height, looming over me even though he was only a few inches taller, and I swallowed thickly as his proximity. With my palms on his chest—there was no leniency in the small space of the stairs—I furrowed my brow and instituted as much distance as possible.

  “What are you—”

  “I want to take you somewhere.” His teeth worried his bottom lip, distracting me from my irritation at his interruption. “I didn’t drink that much. I’m still good to drive. If you wanna go, that is?”

  Ripping my focus from his pink mouth, I banished the curiosity of what his lips would feel like against my own. “Huh? Go somewhere?”

  “Yeah, I’m good to drive,” he repeated. “You wanna go?”

  At this point, I was willing to go anywhere to escape the close quarters of the stairwell, and Jethro smiled at my enthusiastic nod. “Yeah, okay. Let’s go. Now.”

  I pushed against his chest, and for a moment, he didn’t budge. I was bulkier, stronger, and could have forcibly shoved him off, but I didn’t. For one, I didn’t want to inadvertently hurt him. And two, a part of me enjoyed the warmth of him so near.

  It had been a long time since I’d met a guy who interested me enough to tempt me. Usually, traveling through the unexplored territory of my sexuality was a no-go for the simple reason of avoidin
g complexity. Being bisexual, or whatever I might be, was complicated, and the idea of sorting through the quagmire in search of the truth exhausted me.

  Perhaps it made me a coward, but it was easier being straight. Sure, the random fantasy in the shower now and then didn’t hurt anybody, but the reality… No.

  Yet, Jethro was attractive with his golden hair and hazel eyes. The strength hiding beneath his clothes and the lack of feminine curves was, shockingly, not a turn-off. In fact, my libido roused for the first time in months as he, for the briefest of moments, leaned toward me.

  I inhaled sharply at the movement, and as if he was shaken from a spell, Jethro jerked away from me like I’d burned him. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he smoothed his hands over his wrinkled shirt as he studied the peeling wallpaper.

  “Well, let’s go, then.”

  Bounding up the steps, he hovered in the doorway, waiting for me to catch up. To be honest, I had already forgotten what I had agreed to as I staggered after him. Maybe I drank too much cheap brandy.

  Muffled voices traveled through the house, and I caught a quick peek of Jethro’s family standing in the backyard, heads raised to the sky as they awaited the fireworks sure to begin soon. Jethro’s father had his arm around his wife’s waist as he held Ruthie on his hip. One of the girls—Rachel, I guessed—stood to the side, phone in hand. The screen lit her face as her fingers flew over the screen. The twins were farthest from the house, their silhouettes barely visible in the night, arms linked at the elbows.

  When Jethro headed to the front door without a glance in his family’s direction, I followed suit. Guilt filled my gut at the prospect of leaving without thanking his parents for their hospitality, and I almost asked if I could say goodbye. But I didn’t. Biting my tongue, I tugged my shoes on my feet and followed Jethro into the night.