Flashed

by Zoey Castile

  Patrick: Seriously?

  Patrick: Last time I checked, this was my house.

  Me: I’ll paint it white again if you want.

  Me: But why did you say it was okay to paint if you were going to be like this?

  Patrick: It’s not the painting part. It’s the COLOR.

  Me: Will you trust me? I’m about to make dinner. Just give it a chance.

  Me: Please?

  Patrick types and stops. I wonder what are the words that are lost every time he deletes a potential text. How many of his thoughts go unsaid?

  Patrick: Fine.

  Patrick: Isn’t it a little early for dinner?

  Me: Deliciousness takes time. Trust me.

  Patrick: I’m wary of people who ask me to trust them twice in the span of ten minutes.

  Me: I’m wary of people I’ve never seen face-to-face, but . . .

  Me: I’m sorry, that didn’t come out right.

  He doesn’t answer and the song ends and I feel a nervous coil in the pit of my stomach as I take out the pork shoulder from the fridge. I mix the condiments in a bowl, the cumin and pepper making my nose itch from their delightfully pungent aromas. I grind two heads of garlic, cilantro, and olive oil, then rub the mixture all over the beautiful cut of meat. I dance along to a fast merengue jam that’s popular at all the sweet sixteens and quinces in my old neighborhood. When the oven timer dings, it’s finally hot enough to put the pork in. I set a new timer, wash my hands, and because I can’t exactly start painting a room all four swatch colors, I head into the living room.

  Standing in the middle of all these boxes makes me feel like a giant in a city made of cardboard. Each one is stacked like a toy high-rise and spaced for enough room to walk, like a labyrinth, or midtown Manhattan. When I told Scarlett I could do this, I wasn’t really aware of what it entailed. It isn’t just a couple of things that Patrick has here. It’s an entire life. It’s everything from house warming gifts to things he must have picked out himself when he thought he’d be moving in to live and not haunt the place.

  I moved to Bozeman with a single suitcase and two duffles stuffed with more brushes than shoes, more pencils and charcoal sticks than jeans, more sketchbooks than I own hair products. And yet, aren’t they all in the back of my car this very moment? Those swatches were the first brushstrokes I’ve made since the semester ended, when I couldn’t bring myself to imagine anything because I was sure, I was so sure that my stepmother had ruined my life and I was going to have to drive all the way back home with my tail tucked between my legs.

  I’ve unpacked the start of an entertainment set. I built a mini fort to give myself enough room, and at the end of it, I’m sticky and smelly with sweat. The oven dings and I wash my hands before turning the pork so the skin gets nice and crispy. Pernil was my mother’s specialty, even though everything she made was delicious. I only hope I can do justice to her recipe, which she learned to make for my dad’s Puerto Rican side of the family. I make the sides—greens beans, a tomato and onion salsa with lemon and salt, and white rice.

  At the end of the night, I leave Patrick another note. This time I draw a fish and hope he understands it means it’s a salmon.

  “This is so weird,” I sigh to myself as I walk back to my place. I don’t know why it hadn’t occurred to me to dip my hands and feet in the pool before. But tonight, I stop, and rake my fingers across the water. It is heated and it’s kind of a waste that no one uses it. I almost feel a little guilty using Patrick’s property when he can’t do it himself. That guilt is outweighed by the temptation to swim.

  It’s been months since I’ve been in a pool or body of water. The rivers and lakes here are too cold for my liking. I change into my swimsuit—a red and blue number covered in white stars that I got for last year’s July Fourth party—and dive right in.

  The water envelops me, and I swim laps over and over, relishing in the resistance of the water. Maybe I’ve said a lot of wrong things today to Scarlett and Patrick, and maybe I’m away from my sister, but I’ve done one thing right. I know that pernil is going to taste amazing. When I get out of the pool, heart slamming against my ribs, I see his name light up my phone.

  I scroll up, an eager spark in the pit of my stomach as I read his text.

  He says: The salmon.

  PAT

  I eat the food Lena made for me like a starving man at an all-you-can-eat buffet. When I was in Vegas, I used to wonder how the people there could eat that much, that quickly. The body I’ve carved out for myself has come with more than hard work. It has come with deprivation, with sweat, with anguish. When I played soccer in college, I didn’t always worry about what I ate as long as it included so much lean meat I can’t look at a grilled chicken cutlet without cringing.

  Then I got injured and my professional career was over before I finished my first season. I turned to acting, and fell so flat on my face that I never quite recovered. Then, I met Ricky and the boys and Mayhem City became my home for years. I tried one more time, going to LA to model. After a couple of bland gigs, I joined up with the boys again in Vegas. I pushed my body into the best shape of my life. My set always got the most screams from the crowd, and I drank in that adoration. It was sweeter than champagne, sometimes it was better than sex. I was wanted.

  Meeting Scarlett again was destiny. I didn’t recognize her at first, but she remembered me. Funny how she rescued me in a way I didn’t know I needed then. Then, the movie happened after Miriam signed me to her agency. It was all so fast that I didn’t feel ready. I trained and ran and pushed my body even harder. I went without sugar for six months to squeeze every ounce of fat out of my body for the semi-nude scenes. I had a major movie. I had a life. I could take a step outside the house without feeling paralyzed or worse.

  Now, I eat the dinner Lena spent hours making. I hold the Post-it and stare at the fish drawn in marker. After the accident, it took me a while to want to move my body again. To lift weights and run for my heart health. It took me months to want to eat food that wasn’t frozen. God knows, Scarlett tried. But when Lena leaves food on the kitchen island, I feel a hunger that is so deep it terrifies me.

  * * *

  I set the Post-it on the marble when I catch the sound of a splash outside. I go to the kitchen window where I have a view of the pool. Lena is swimming laps as the sun sets. She’s fast, moving like there’s something, somewhere she’s trying to get to. Or get away from.

  I used to love to swim.

  I used to love a lot of things.

  I go to the guest room and find the furniture covered in plastic. Lena did this. She took this room and assembled it. To my right, the sun sinks behind a hill, filling the room with a warm light. I shut my eyes against the brightness of it and swear under my breath.

  When I pull up her name in my phone, I reread that last message she sent. “I’m wary of people I haven’t seen face-to-face but . . .”

  Would she be less wary of me if she could see me now? I know I can’t leave the house, but she doesn’t have to go anywhere to stand face-to-face with me. Scarlett does it. Kayli does it. Kayli touched my scars and she didn’t grimace the way my first doctor did. She didn’t gasp and recoil the way the nurses did when my bandages came off. She did have the same sadness in her eyes, though, but haven’t they all? It’s that pity that feels like salt in wounds I’m not sure will ever close.

  I don’t know Lena. Not truly.

  I shouldn’t care about what she would say if she looked at me. She doesn’t seem like a shallow kind of person. I think of every girl I ever rejected because in my mind, she wasn’t perfect. She wasn’t my bullshit version of perfect. The twisted, sick, downright vile kind of man who could take someone who was beautiful and make her feel like she wasn’t enough. That’s the man I was.

  That’s the man you still are, I think.

  And that’s not the man who can stand face-to-face in front of Lena. That man can’t ask not to be judged.

  I find myself typing.
The salmon.

  Then I hit the gym and push myself until I’m drenched in sweat, until it rolls down my chest and arms like I’ve been standing in the middle of a fucking thunderstorm. I blast my music, but I keep picturing Lena swimming back and forth. I picture her turning around and looking up at me, the way she knew I was standing there watching the three of them sit around a fire pit, the only part of this land that is still the same as the original.

  I think of the way my face hurt again and I cursed Kayli’s name because I was smiling. I was fucking smiling at a girl who couldn’t see me, but I could see her. I could see the broad strokes of her eyebrows, her wide brown inquisitive eyes. A mouth that quirked up. A mouth I keep wondering whether or not would gasp under my weight. Or scream if she saw me.

  I turn around and punch the wall. I break the skin of my middle knuckle, then go to my closet for a towel but there are none there.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  I grab my phone from my pocket.

  Me: What did you do with my towels?

  Lena: They’re in the closet with all the other towels in the laundry room.

  Me: Why aren’t they in the gym?

  Lena: Because I didn’t know they belonged there? And I didn’t think I could go downstairs.

  Lena: I’ll put them back. I just thought it’d be easier.

  Me: Well, it’s not. I like grabbing my towel from the gym.

  Lena types and stops over and over. I wonder if this is what it’s like when she talks to me.

  Fuck, I’m being an asshole again. Am I really angry over goddamn towels?

  All of a sudden, it is like the fog of anger dissipates and I can see my words clearly. I can imagine her face contorting with anger. That sweet, pouty mouth marred with a scowl.

  “Fuck!” I shout at no one but myself.

  I’m sorry, I type.

  Lena says nothing.

  I’m sorry, I type again. That was out of line.

  Lena doesn’t respond. I walk to the kitchen and put my plates in the dishwasher. Is this the first time I’ve done that since she got here? I shake my head, wishing I was brave enough to walk a hundred feet to hang my boxing bag because that’s what I need. There is too much anger inside of me and she shouldn’t be the one I take it out on.

  Lena, I type.

  I can see the lights of the pool house are still up. Every time I text her when I go to bed, she says good night before the lights go off. It is such a weird, random thing to notice but I can’t un-notice it right now.

  I take the stairs two at a time and go into the shower in the master bedroom. When I had the old house knocked down and remodeled, I wanted the kind of bathrooms I’d seen in five-star hotels I’d stayed at. Decked out with marble sinks and white mosaics fit for a Moroccan palace. Now, when I’m in here, I feel ridiculous. It’s too big, too empty, like the rest of this house. At the very least, the water pressure is good. There’s a modern tub big enough for three people on one end, but clearly, I’ve never used it. Instead, I head into the separate shower stall—big enough to fit at least five people comfortably with two sitting ledges and all—and two waterfall showerheads.

  A warm sensation settles in the center of my throat, and I know enough about myself that it isn’t anger. I am angry at myself, but this is different. I’ve regretted so many things over the last six months. This feeling is not regret, either. Why can’t I put a name to it?

  I turn off the water and barely wrap a towel around my waist before I go in search of my phone, dripping all the way into my bedroom.

  She hasn’t messaged me back. That’s when I think I know what this feeling is in my throat—I’m sorry. I’m afraid.

  I brush my hair away from my face, water seeping on my comforter as my heart slams in my chest. I touch Lena’s name on the screen and an anxious rivet cleaves me in half because I’m calling her and, before I can hang up, she answers.

  “Hello?” Her voice asks, sleepy. “Patrick?” Startled. I can hear the crush of fabric. Lena moving around on her bed. “Is everything okay?”

  I clear my throat, and because I’m a fucking idiot, I say, “How can someone with such a beautiful speaking voice sound like a drowning cat when she sings?”

  She barks out a laugh, then goes back to sounding like she just woke up. “Did you really call to insult me? Because you could have sent me some more rude text messages to read when I woke up.”

  “You were sleeping?” I ask, and the ache in my throat eases. This is weird. This is stupid. This is fucking wrong. What am I doing freaking out over a good night text? Is that really who I’ve become?

  She makes a slight moaning sound, like she’s stretching, and the vibration of her voice sends an ache down to my crotch. If my face hurt from stretching muscles into a smile, then my dick is feeling even worse.

  “I fell asleep with the light on. Did you need something?”

  “What would I need?” I ask.

  Her voice is like licking honey off your fingertips. “Well, you’ve never called me before.”

  “I—” I wanted to make sure you weren’t mad at me. I wanted you to accept my apology. I wanted you to tell me good night. I say none of those things. Instead, I go with, “I wanted to say I’m sorry about the towel thing. It was stupid. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m fucked up.”

  I mean it to come out as self-deprecating. Being self-deprecating worked for my friend Fallon. Overconfidence was more my speed, but there isn’t any kind of confidence to be found these days. Still, she doesn’t laugh at me.

  “You’re not fucked up,” she says softly. “I don’t know what happened to you, but I know it must have been bad. I know that you can’t be all bad.”

  “Not all bad,” I say slowly, despite my hammering heart. “How could you know that?”

  “You wouldn’t have people like Scarlett or Kayli trying to take care of you if you were a complete lost cause. They haven’t given up.”

  Emotion swells in my chest at her words, then floods to my groin. Fuck, this is not what I had in mind. It’s almost painful to get hard at the sound of her voice. It’s wrong. “You don’t think I’m worth all this trouble?”

  “Well, even if you don’t believe it, they do.”

  But do you? I want to ask her. That alone is utterly ridiculous because how could she believe anything about me. “I should let you get back to bed.”

  The silence between us stretches as neither of us hangs up. I hold my breath until she makes a sighing sound again. “I’m awake now. And you’re the only person around for miles.”

  “Except for Scarlett and this new couple that moved by the lake in the spring.”

  “Seriously?” she asks incredulously. “Is there like a newsletter out here? You haven’t left the house in months and you know who’s coming and going?”

  “My newsletter is called Scarlett West.”

  “You should really get cable in here. I guess I could always read one of the books Scarlett gave me.”

  My heart spikes and my mouth gets dry. My hard-on quickly vanishes at the thought of her holding one of those books. I have read those books. “Which one did she give you?”

  I can hear her move around. A door open and close. The refrigerator maybe. There’s the hiss of a soda opening. Her voice is light and playful when she says, “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy.”

  Part of me is relieved because I’m not on the cover of that one. Another part wants to laugh at that title for completely different reasons. I say, “Ah, that’s the start of her new series.”

  “Can I ask you something personal?” Lena asks.

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On how personal.” I sling my towel around my neck and move to the armoire for a pair of boxers. This time, my face hurts a lot less when I smirk at her words, though fear pools in anticipation of what she wants to know.

  “The girls let it slip that your brother’s in New York.”

  I make a grumbling soun
d. “What else did they say?”

  “That they weren’t going to tell me everything there is to know about you. I have to tell you that this is pretty—”

  “Weird?” I offer.

  “Unconventional,” she says.

  I sigh and sit on the side of my king-size bed that isn’t covered in shower water. “I heard what you said on the first day here. I’m not a billionaire recluse.”

  “So just a recluse?”

  There’s something so playful in her voice that warms the skin of my chest. I take a deep breath and think of what Kayli suggested. Of what she has been suggesting for the last six months. That I need a professional to talk to. That I need someone to talk to. So here she is, a complete stranger who knows nothing of my life except fragments from Scarlett and Kayli.

  “There was an accident,” I say. Those four words feel like lead rolling off my tongue. I wait for some sort of reaction but she seems to just be waiting, the steady sound of her breathing is something to focus on. I clear my throat. Breathe again. “It was my fault. People got hurt. My brother got hurt.”

  “You don’t have to tell me everything,” she says, a voice so soft it’s like feathers brushing across my arms, my face. “I just want you to know that I understand that you’re going through something. I mean, I could never know everything about what you went through. But I understand wanting to be alone. I get being, I don’t know, lost. That sounds stupid when I say it out loud.” She laughs nervously, a rambling sound that makes me smile again.

  “I suppose I did wonder how a girl from the big city chose to come all the way out here.”

  “The short version?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  She takes a long breath. “My mom died when I was little. My dad remarried. He had another daughter. I love my little sister more than anything. But then my dad had a stroke and never got better. I quit school to help take care of Ari because my stepmother wasn’t dealing at all. And then one day, I couldn’t take it anymore. I could see my life slipping away and I didn’t want that. I wanted to try one more time to finish school. I thought of going overseas, but part of me was scared. I’d never left the state I was born in.” There’s that nervous laugh again and I wish I was strong enough to go down those stairs, around the pool, and knock on the house. And then what? Let her cry on my shoulder? Tell her it’s okay? Be her friend?