by Claire Adams
“You know,” I tell Ash, “that might have been the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.”
“I know! He’s like Mr. Underwater Tow Truck, isn’t he?” she chortles.
I kiss her again and then lie back and look at the sky above, making sure my hand finds Ash’s. She scoots over next to me and rests her head on my chest.
“We should probably wait and help him get the boat drained and back wherever it needs to go when he gets out of there,” I say.
“You’re such a Boy Scout,” Ash says, patting me on the chest.
“We did sink his boat and then laugh in his face uncontrollably about it,” I tell her. “It just seems like common courtesy to give the guy a hand.”
When the owner of the boat rental shop surfaces, holding the line between the boat and the wench to make sure the connection stays taut, Ash and I get up and help him. Until that, though, we’re just lying here on the cool grass huddled together both for warmth and affection.
By the time we finish helping the owner of the boat shop, Morris, undo most of the damage that we’d done, he’s offering to give us our deposit back. We turn it down, though. He definitely earned it.
The world is a great, gorgeous fairy tale until we’re driving back to my place and we have to pull over before we get there.
There are five police cars in front of my house—two in the driveway, two off the curb and one on the front lawn—and the near-immaculate moment Ash and I were enjoying together craters into brimstone.
Ash gets out of the car, but I hesitate.
I know exactly what happened. Maybe not the specifics of what he did this time, or even whether this is just the fallout of another scam-gone-bad from who knows when, but the police aren’t there because someone broke into my house.
I get out of the car, more for the sake of not leaving Ash out there by herself than anything, and policemen start coming out the front door of my house.
“You don’t have anything in there that would give you away as a boxer—fighter,” she sighs. “You know what I mean.”
“No,” I tell her. “There’s a lot of MMA stuff, but nothing that would give away anything. This is all him.”
When they bring Chris out of the house, Ash grabs my hand. We’re in front of the neighbor’s house, but he sees me. I don’t know what the look on his face is, but there’s almost a ferocity to it back somewhere beneath the expressionless face itself.
I don’t try to get closer or try to stop it. I don’t call out that I’ll have his bail tonight or that everything’s going to be okay.
I don’t want to lie.
We just stare at each other until he’s put in the back of a police car.
Chapter Twelve
The Fourth Letter in the Alphabet and the Longest River in the World
Ash
“Good morning!” Mason’s voice comes out of a dream and into my irritating reality.
“Why are you waking me up ever?” I drone, my face a little more than half covered by the pillow.
“It’s nine,” he says. “It’s late. Come on, I made you breakfast.”
“Great,” I moan. “You can eat it yourself, which should give you the strength to try again in another three hours.”
“Come on, Ash,” he says cheerily. “It’s a beautiful day outside.”
I put my whole face in the pillow now and wonder if I have the resolve to be the first person to intentionally smother herself with a pillow. After a couple of seconds with decreased oxygen, though, I decide to live. Even if that means I have to get out of bed.
I turn my head to the side, catch a bit of sunlight too directly in the eye, and I’m strongly reconsidering my options.
Mason’s been Mason for the most part, but that’s kind of the problem. For the first hour or two after Chris got taken away, Mason just said he didn’t want to talk about it. After that, it was like a switch just flipped and everything was fine.
Now, when the topic of Chris comes up, he says, “What happened is what happened.”
Breakfast out of bed at nine o’clock in the morning on my day off, though? This must be stopped.
My knuckles hit the floor shortly after my feet do as I drag myself out of bed. It’s been nice staying at Mason’s, but he’s got to stop picking my clothes off the floor before I’ve had a chance to get up in the morning.
I walk over to the dresser where my clothes are all folded neatly—okay, the folding is new—and I get dressed. The television is on as I enter the living room and Mason’s just coming around the corner from the kitchen.
“Oh hey,” he says. “I didn’t know if you fell back asleep or not. Breakfast is ready when you are.”
“Mason,” I tell him. “You have to let me sleep.”
“Ooh,” he says, “come check this out.”
He grabs my hand and leads me into the kitchen. I’ll give him this much, breakfast does smell really good.
Sleep smells better.
“Look,” he says. “There’s been a chipmunk going up and down that tree all morning. I’ve never seen it before.”
“That’s because only chipmunks and the elderly are awake this early,” I tell him.
“It’s nine o’clock,” he says. “Most people are at work by now.”
“Whatever,” I tell him. “The chipmunk’s great and everything, and I’m sure the two of you are going to have a blast, but I’m going back to bed and I need to know that you’re not going to bother me again until I awake naturally, fresh and healthy, ready to start my day on my own terms. Failure to abide by this very reasonable request absolves me of any responsibility of what I may do in retaliation.”
“All right,” he laughs, putting his hands up. “Go back to bed. I just thought you might want to taste my first attempt at breakfast-stuffed mushrooms.”
“What the hell is that?” I blurt.
“I remember you said you liked portabella mushrooms, so I picked some up from the store,” he says.
“You’ve already been to the store this morning?” I ask. “When did you get up?”
“Ah,” he says. “This close to a fight, my natural schedule changes a little bit. I probably should have told you that.”
“Are you sure that’s all this is?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “Why? What else would it be?”
“First off,” I tell him, “I’ve seen you before a couple of fights now, and I’ve never seen you go manic like this. Therefore, I’m going to really take a chance and guess that the fight doesn’t really have anything to do with it.”
“Oh,” he says. “You think I’m up early because—” he laughs. “No, I just got up early,” he says. “That’s all.”
I’m no less tired than I was a few minutes ago, but that short amount of time spent standing in this kitchen has awakened some of my finer senses.
“What’s in the mushrooms?” I ask.
“Bacon,” he starts.
“Sold,” I answer. “I’ll have some and then I’m going back to bed. You are a foul temptress. I guess it wouldn’t be temptress, though, would it? That’d be the feminine version. Would it be tempter? Now I’m starting to do it.”
“You’re waking up,” he says. “Want some coffee?”
“No,” I snap. “I’m delirious because it’s my day off and I’m not used to waking up before noon on my days off and you’re in denial because you’re upset about your brother getting arrested, but you’re so pissed at him for it that you won’t let yourself admit to yourself,” I repeat, “to yourself, mind you, that Chris getting arrested bothers you. There. I’ve done my good deed for the day, now point me to my mushroom and I’ll be on my way.”
“I’m not in denial,” he says. “I’ve just been expecting it for so long that it really just doesn’t bother me that much.”
“I’m sure that’s part of it,” I tell him, “but you’re acting like it doesn’t bother you at all. That’s your brother. I don’t know if you’re pissed or depressed or disappointed
or scared or what, but it’s not the guy making stuffed breakfast mushrooms which, if I could just get a plate—” he hands me a plate “—thank you,” I say. “It’s not the guy making stuffed breakfast mushrooms and chipmunk-watching.”
“I thought you said you were going back to bed,” he says. “Why are we still talking about Chris?”
“Fork?” I ask.
He hands me a fork, at which point I cut off a piece of the stuffed mushroom and watch as cheese oozes out of it.
“Yeah, it’s not just bacon,” he says, “although that was a bigger part of the process than you’d think. You have to cook it to just the right level of crispiness: Too little and it won’t break apart in pieces small enough to stuff a mushroom, too much and crumble it all you want, it’s burnt bacon.”
“Are you not hearing that?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” he says.
I gather my piece of stuffed mushroom with my fork and blow on it a little before putting it in my mouth.
There are hints of bell peppers, provolone cheese, small-but-crispy bacon bits and I don’t even know what spices. The whole experience of it is almost enough to make me want to stay awake.
“The reason,” I say, swallowing, “that I’m still talking about Chris—”
“Oh god,” he groans.
“The reason I’m still talking about Chris is that, tired and irritated enough to seriously consider your untimely demise as I am, I care about you more than that,” I tell him. “I know you were mad at him, and I’m sure you probably still are, but you can’t pretend like it doesn’t affect you. I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe that’s how you deal with things, but I think it’d be better if you let it out.”
“There’s nothing to let out,” he says. “He broke the law for a long time and it caught up with him. I don’t know that there’s really anything else to say about it.”
“All right then,” I say, walking out of the kitchen on my way back to the bedroom. “I’m going back to bed, then.”
“You said ‘then’ twice,” Mason teases.
“My mind and my ears are shutting down now, thank you,” I tell him. “Good night.”
“You’re taking the mush—” I close the bedroom door behind me.
I set the stuffed mushroom on the nightstand and I collapse back into bed. If it weren’t for the knowledge that the beautiful culinary work sitting next to me will become inedible if I just leave it and fall asleep, I wouldn’t bother opening my eyes again.
After the food has gone from plate to belly, though, I am out.
* * *
I wake a few hours later, this time far less hostile. The only problem is that now my mind’s clearer, I’m beginning to think there’s another possible explanation to why Mason’s so blasé about Chris being taken away.
Getting out of bed, I rub my eyes as I walk to the door.
There’s the metal clink and clang of Mason’s barbell, and I find him out on the corner of the back porch on his weight bench.
“Need a spotter?” I ask, walking past the lawn chairs toward him.
“Sure,” he says, “just as long as you can lift this thing off of my struggling, but useless body in the event I misjudge my strength.”
“I’ve seen you lift weights,” I tell him. “I’m pretty sure I could out-bench you.”
He wheezes laughter, the bar swaying a little above him as he lifts it and sets it back in place.
“You almost don’t need a gym membership at all,” I tell him.
“I need a new setup,” he says. “The bar’s hollow. My dad used it. See how it’s gotten all bent and rusted over the years?”
“Yeah,” I say, looking at what he’s showing me, just wanting to keep him talking.
“The weights won’t come off,” he says. “I’ve tried bending the bar back straight, but it’s too old, too worn down.”
“You’ve never really talked about him,” I say.
“Yeah, well he left when I was just little, so I don’t really remember him,” he answers. “Mom said he was an ass, though, so maybe it’s just as well.”
“Do you know anything about him?” I ask. “Where he lives, anything like that?”
“No,” he says. “I don’t really care, either. If he wants to come home, he’ll come home. I can’t say he’s going to get a very warm welcome if he does, though.”
“This is where your—”
“Yeah,” he interrupts. “I’ve lived in the same house all my life. The parents somehow paid it off, although that might have been something grandpa did. He went bankrupt indulging my mom. Anyway, other than property taxes and utility bills, this place is free to own.”
“Why aren’t you reacting to what’s happening with Chris?” I ask. It’s blunt, but I think it’s clear enough.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I guess I’m just so used to things going bad that when they do, it’s just, you know. It’s normal.”
“What can I do?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t see any reason to get upset about my not being upset.”
“I’m not upset,” I tell him. “I’m just worried about you. If you bottle these things up, they come out, you know.”
“Like in the form of physical confrontation which, one might say, is the most fundamental aspect of MMA?” he asks.
“No need to be a jerk about it,” I tell him. “Just shut up and realize I’m being very sweet right now and you’re very much not.”
“You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry. I was going to get in the shower. Care to join me?”
“Sure,” I tell him. “Sounds like good, wholesome fun.”
He says, “I don’t know how wholesome that really—“
“Yeah, I was going to say ‘clean,’ but I didn’t want to go with a pun so I winged it,” I interrupt. “Yes, let’s go take a shower.”
“Okay,” he laughs and off we go.
I’m worried about him. He’s smiling and joking now, but even with something like fighting to get the aggression out, it’s still good to talk this stuff through with someone.
Right now, though, I’m not sure my approach would really help. After all, what do I know about this sort of thing? My parents have always had their own, individual team of lawyers so anything they might have done was dropped before it was picked up.
Now that I think about it, I wonder if my parents only stay together because they don’t want to go through the headache of dealing with the other’s legal team.
That’s slightly unnerving.
We get to the bathroom and we get undressed. As Mason turns on the shower and we get in, I decide to bring up something other than Mason’s family for once. “Your hair’s gotten way long,” I tell him.
“Yeah,” he says. “I haven’t cut it since before you and I met. I’m going to have it taken way down before my next fight.”
“We’ve been together for what, two months? Three months?” I ask.
He smirks and says, “I’m not stupid enough to answer questions like that without being able to tell you the minute and, seeing as I don’t have my watch with me…”
“When we first met and you were running around like you were fresh off of your latest mass murder, did you ever think you and I would end up a couple?” I ask.
“Immediately,” he says without hesitation.
“You sound pretty sure about that,” I snicker.
He nods. “Oh yeah,” he says. “As soon as you saw what brand of terrible I looked like and you didn’t take off screaming, I knew you were a keeper.”
“You know,” I tell him, wetting my hair, “Jana was standing out there, too.”
“Yeah, but me and her already dated,” he says. “It was your turn.”
I playfully smack his chest and he laughs. Maybe this is better. Instead of getting bogged down with the way people are “supposed” to process things, maybe we should just focus on actually processing it.
If that means he comes off a little call
ous when his brother gets arrested, so what? That’s probably going to come in handy down the road, too. Chris doesn’t seem like he’s the changing type, although I’m sure he’ll come out of jail “a new man.”
Every con has a simple concept behind it and that one’s just begging to be grabbed.
I’m a little surprised when Mason leans in and kisses me, a bit more when the kiss keeps going, but it feels good. I’ve been so busy accusing him of not being upset enough and he’s been so busy denying he’s upset at all that we haven’t really focused on the more important things in life.
I kiss him back and put my arms around his shoulders. He’s shaking.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Bit cold,” he says. “About done with the water for a minute?”
“Oh yeah,” I answer. “Sure.”
We switch spots and he puts his head under the water. He turns around to face me, and I’m thinking that’s the end of the romantic part of our shower together when he’s reaching out for me again, pulling me toward him.
Only, he doesn’t have the best footing and so he slips a little. He manages to catch himself before he falls, but his reflex to catch himself caused him to pull me a little harder than he’d intended and I’m now shoulder-checking him in the sternum.
I don’t know how, but we don’t fall over. It’s when I run into him, though, that I notice he’s starting to grow hard. Maybe if it were just in the context of my nakedness or our proximity, I’d take it as a compliment; but with as awkward as the lead-up to this particular erection was, it’s more confusing than anything.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I answer, getting my feet more securely under me and taking a step back so he can stand up straight again.
“You think the mood’s killed?” he asks.
I do. I really do.
That’s not what I say, though. Sex, even sex that starts as clumsily as this, is something I know I could really use right now and, from the way Mason feels in my hand, I’d say he’s good to keep going.
“No,” I tell him. “That was just a momentary hiccup. Come here.”
