eyond Desire Collection

by JS Scott, M Malone, Marie Hall, et al

  She watched my face for a minute. “Good. ‘Cause Ellie Canter could totally kick your ass.” I laughed, assuming she was joking, but her face told me she was dead serious.

  “So she’s close with this Ellie and with Hunter?”

  Kristin nodded. “You know Everett Pines?”

  “Sure.” Everett is a good guy and usually supplies me with weed whenever I ask.

  “He rolls with them too. They all live over in Park Side. Hunter works at the 7-11 on Grant. That’s all I got.”

  “Thanks, Kristin, appreciate it.” If Zoe really hangs out with Everett that would be a perfect in. I see him around at least once a week.

  She watched me closely for a minute without saying anything, probably wondering what the hell my deal was. Finally she nodded one last time and turned her attention back to her cigarette.

  I walked away feeling like an ass, and I still feel like an ass this morning since I can’t get Zoe out of my mind. I’m not sure what it is that’s drawing me to her. Sure, she’s hot. But there were a lot of hot girls at that party—hell, there’s always been a lot of hot girls around me. Yet none of them have ever made me feel so…anxious. Maybe it’s the way she actually listens to me when I talk. The way she seems so out of place in a room full of fake and ridiculous people. The way I could see her emotions so clearly on her face. Or the way she’d try not to laugh at my cheesy lines and end up laughing anyway.

  I’m not sure what it is, but I know I want to make her laugh like that again.

  I lean against Preston’s counter, chewing my pizza, trying to find the will to go home. My house is on the far side of the neighborhood, definitely within jogging distance, and the run should clear my mind. Before I can finish my pizza, Preston stumbles into the kitchen.

  “God, I’m wrecked,” he says as he opens the fridge.

  “You look it.” His face is red, and bright creases line his skin, like he slept on the floor or something. His eyes are red too, a sure sign he was smoking earlier. Sometime in the night he’d lost his shirt, not to mention his pants. I wonder if he managed to convince some girl to go up to his room with him.

  He finds a carton of juice in the fridge, and closes the door so he can lean against it. He takes a long swig straight from the container, and I decide never to accept anything to eat or drink from that fridge again.

  “So,” he says, squinting at me. “What’d you get up to last night? One minute you were in the kitchen with me, and the next you disappeared. I didn’t see you for the rest of the night.”

  I shrug. “I was in the basement most of the time.”

  “I should have known you’d find the kids who were carrying.”

  I shake my head. “I wasn’t smoking. I was just talking to some girl.” I regret saying anything the moment the words are out of my mouth. Preston is the last person I want to talk to about Zoe. Already his face is transforming into a leer.

  “Yeah? You get some?”

  I roll my eyes. “Glad to hear you’re still acting like a sixteen-year-old. I was worried for a minute college might have changed you.”

  He laughs and then burps before taking another swig of OJ. “Seriously man, who was it?”

  I might as well tell him—she was at his party, after all. Maybe he knows her or knows some of her friends. “Zoe something. She was with Ellie, the girl who almost took Stef’s head off.”

  He grins. “That Ellie chick is fine. I looked for her half the night.”

  “She was downstairs.”

  He shrugs. “Guess it doesn’t matter. She’s not exactly someone I could take out. But I wouldn’t mind me and her spending some time in, if you know what I mean. A girl with hair like that just has to be wild in bed.”

  This is so like Preston, always putting everyone in little boxes, deciding who and what they are on sight. I hate this kind of shit, and it’s the reason I stopped hanging out with just about every friend I ever had before senior year. Preston has managed to stick around purely on the basis of being one of my oldest friends—and having ready access to good liquor and parents who are rarely home. Most of the time, I wonder why I still bother.

  “I should go.” I push off from the counter.

  He looks surprised. “Yeah? Sure you don’t want to stick around? I’m sure we can round up a few beers. Maybe play some Halo?”

  “Nah.”

  He follows me out to the door. “I’ll give you a call. Now that I’m home we should hang out. Pick up some chicks or something. When does Fred get back?”

  “Today.” There’s a strange little ache in my stomach at my best friend’s name. I forgot he was back from school today. I’m psyched to see him—he’s pretty much the only person in my life that I can count on—but it also makes me feel sad in a weird way I don’t want to think about. Our relationship, like so much else in my life, is fucking complicated.

  “We’ll hang,” Preston says and pulls open the door for me. “See ya, bro.”

  “See ya.”

  I take off down the drive, picking up into a jog almost immediately. I feel relieved to get out of his house, away from the depressing sights and smells of after-party. Life feels so stale the morning after, the light of day bringing sharp relief to how dirty and messed up everything is. Out of nowhere I find myself wondering what Zoe looks like in the morning. I can’t imagine she’d be much different. She doesn’t wear tons of makeup or ridiculous clothes. I have a feeling that what you see is what you get. And I really like that.

  My hangover is much better by the time I get home, though the run has done nothing to get Zoe off my mind. I’m sweating and desperately in need of some water, and maybe some cereal or something. I open the heavy, oak front door and pause, trying to gauge from the energy in the foyer whether anyone is home. The house is as silent as the grave, but I know from experience that that doesn’t mean anything. Taking a deep breath, I walk into the air-conditioned coolness of the front hall.

  The cool air after the jog over from Preston’s makes me shiver. My mother keeps the house absolutely frigid regardless of the temperature outside, and walks around bundled up in a sweater. I have long since stopped trying to convince her that she won’t need the sweater if she turns the air down. It doesn’t do any good; she never listens to me about anything.

  Saying a silent prayer that she’s out, I make my way into the kitchen, checking over my shoulder as I go, like I’m some kind of thief in my own house. I pull open a cupboard and find a box of cereal. Its weight in my hand reminds me that I need to get to the grocery store. I open the fridge in search of milk and bite back a curse when I realize we’re out.

  “There’s no milk,” my mom says from behind me. “I guess someone forgot to go shopping.”

  I close my eyes. I didn’t hear her come into the room. With my mom, it’s always better to see her before you try to talk to her. The only way to gauge her emotional state is to look in her eyes—her tone of voice is a shitty indicator of what kind of conversation it’s going to be.

  I take a deep breath and turn to face her, forcing myself to keep my face neutral. “Sorry, Mom. I thought we had enough to get through the weekend.”

  She’s quiet, but the way she’s staring at me makes my stomach sink. Her eyes are red-rimmed and glassy. She’s been drinking already, for hours by the looks of it. And it’s barely two p.m.

  “I guess I shouldn’t expect any different,” she finally mutters before turning away from me. “You can’t count on anyone around here.”

  Don’t take the bait. “I’ll get some this afternoon.”

  “If you hadn’t been out all night, you could have been to the store and back by now. But no, you have no qualms about leaving your mother alone in this house with God knows who out there.” She’s working herself up into a good rant, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sweater. I need to cut her off, but it’s hard once she gets going. “I wonder what your father would think,” she goes on. “You never pull this kind of behavior when he’s around.”
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  Yeah, like he’s ever around, I think bitterly. “Mom, I’m sorry.” My voice is strained with the effort of staying calm. Everything in my body is telling me to run, to get out of this kitchen and as far away as I can go. It’s only guilt that keeps my feet planted. “I told you yesterday I would be staying over with Preston—”

  “No, you did not. You don’t tell me anything. You never tell me anything!” Her voice raises in pitch, and tears form in her eyes. Great. I should have gotten out while I could. “Everyone leaves me all alone here. Everyone! Your father. You. My sweet little Jimmy. What happened to my sweet baby boy?”

  She’s flat out sobbing now, her shoulders shaking. I hate this. There’s never anything I can say to calm her down, and I can never make myself leave when she’s like this. “Please, Mom,” I say, pushing off from the fridge and approaching her cautiously. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

  I reach my arms out, thinking she might let me hug her, comfort her. Instead she rears back and slaps me, hard, right across the face. She’s a small woman, and much more fragile than she used to be, but the force of her blow still stings. It’s knowing how she feels about me that hurts like a bitch, though.

  “You’re not the one I want,” she screams. “Just go away! Go back to your apartment, get out!”

  “Mom—”

  “Leave me alone!”

  I stand frozen in place. I want to get away from her, from the stink of the liquor still on her, from the hatred I see in her eyes. But there’s always that part of me, that stubborn little voice, that reminds me that everything she says about me is true. There are a lot of people in the world who have every reason to hate me, but none more so than my mother.

  “Fine,” I finally whisper and turn away. “I’ll stop by the store in a little bit and make sure you have everything you need.”

  “You already took away what I need,” she cries behind me. “And I can never get it back. Never, ever, ever…”

  I can’t stand the sound of her voice for one second more, can’t take hearing the words she flings at me. I flee the kitchen, out onto the patio and around the house. I throw open the door to my apartment above the garage, taking the steps two at a time.

  I moved up here my senior year of high school, and have lived here ever since. The previous owners had remodeled the space as an in-law apartment, complete with a small living room, kitchenette, bedroom, and bathroom. Since we don’t have any extended family, the rooms sat nearly empty for most of my childhood, used only to store my Dad’s old golf clubs and some camping equipment until the day I couldn’t stand to live in the main house one minute longer. I moved up my clothes and found a cheap couch at the Salvation Army. All these years later, I haven’t changed it much, save for the addition of a new record player and a rickety desk. The walls remain bare and I don’t even have any bookshelves. To an outsider, it would hardly look like anyone lives here at all.

  With the door shut safely behind me, I collapse onto the couch, burying my head in my hands and taking deep breaths, trying to block out the past five minutes. I can’t keep doing this. I have to get out of here.

  I laugh bitterly, the sound strange in the silent apartment, knowing I’ll never actually leave. I’ve decided that I’ve had enough many times over the years, been ready to move out, to just take off and disappear. But I always stay. The guilt makes sure of that.

  It’s far too quiet in the apartment, so I get up from the couch to put a record on the turntable and crank up the volume until the sound of the Dropkick Murphys finally silences the noise in my head. I grab a beer from the kitchen, and swallow it down in a few long gulps. Beer is about the only thing I keep up here. I know that if I buy my own groceries and keep them in my place, my mom will probably stop eating altogether. Using the kitchen in the main house is one of the few ways I can get away with keeping an eye on her.

  I’m not eager to go back down there, but I also don’t think I can stand to sit in the empty apartment for much longer. Deciding I may as well get to the store and get the grocery shopping over with, I head to the shower.

  As I jump under the warm spray, I smile grimly. All morning I’ve been looking for a way to stop thinking about the girl from the party. Little did I know that all I needed was a classic blowup with Mom to wipe every trace of excited hopefulness from my mind.

  ***

  I wheel the shopping cart down the produce aisle, in search of bananas. Over the past few years, I’ve gotten pretty good at figuring out what my mom will and won’t eat. Fruit is usually safe, and we always finish it off before it spoils. Cereal is another thing we go through quickly. And granola bars. Basically anything that can be eaten quickly and without much preparation. Neither of us really has the motivation or energy for cooking.

  I grab a few oranges and turn, ready to pick up the milk and be done, when I catch sight of Zoe down the aisle, carefully weighing some apples in that little scale that helps you determine the cost of your produce.

  Because she hasn’t seen me yet, I have the chance to get a good look at her. She must have recently taken a shower, because her red hair is damp and pulled up in a messy bun. She’s dressed in yoga pants and a tank top, and her face is free of makeup, pale under the harsh neon lights. The little blue stud in her nose catches the light as she turns her head, and I’m transfixed for a moment by the sight of her pale arms, delicate and fragile looking, stretching out to drop her apples into a plastic bag.

  She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

  The rush of yearning hits me like a punch to the gut. In that moment I want nothing more than to take her away with me, find some quiet place where I can convince her to tell me every boring, little detail about herself. Where I can run my fingers down her arm and judge for myself if her pale skin is as soft as it looks. Where I can kiss those full lips of hers and then spend the rest of the day trying to tease them up into a smile.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  Before I can decide if I want to act on my impulse or run away, she looks up, and her gaze meets mine. The small smile that greets me pleases me far too much for my own good.

  “Taylor?” she asks, cocking her head slightly as if she is trying to decide if it’s really me.

  I grin and push my cart toward her. “Hey, Zoe. How’s it going?”

  “Good. You?” Her eyes narrow little as she studies my face. “You don’t look nearly as hungover as I feel.”

  I laugh. “I went for a jog this morning. That usually helps.”

  She makes a face at me. “I ate a burrito. A slightly different take on hangover relief.”

  She starts to push her cart down the aisle, and I match her pace. She peeks into my cart. “Fruit and cereal, eh? I expected you to be more of a frozen dinner guy.”

  I shrug. “I shop for my mom, too.”

  Her face closes up as she nods. “Me too.”

  She seems sad, and, for some reason, I really don’t like the idea of her sad, so I change the subject. “You know, I’ve been trying to figure out a way to find you. I asked your friends about you.”

  I expect her to blush or to stammer in surprise and am kind of disappointed when she nods instead. “I know. I heard.”

  “Well, I feel a lot less smooth now.”

  She bumps her bare shoulder against my arm. “Sorry to spoil your game. So, why were you asking about me?”

  “We didn’t really finish our conversation last night. I thought we could pick it back up sometime.”

  Now she does blush slightly, and I feel a little thrill. Get ahold of yourself, dude. I don’t know what it is about this chick that makes me act like a teenaged girl, but I’m not sure I like it. Yet I can’t bring myself to walk away. What’s up with that?

  “That sounds good.”

  “Yeah?” I feel inordinately proud of myself that she’s at all interested. “What are you doing this afternoon?”

  That same closed up look covers her features again. “I hav
e to get home, actually. I need to…my mom needs…I just need to go home.”

  She seems really uncomfortable at the mention of her mom, and I wonder what the story is there. I almost wish I could tell her that I totally understand the complicated mother thing, and I never talk about that with anyone. Instead I ask, “What about tonight then? Any plans?”

  We’ve reached the front of the store and she looks over each checkout line as if trying to gauge which is the shortest. “Tonight?” she asks, still closed off, almost distracted now. “I’m not really sure if I’ll be able to get away.”

  She inches towards a line, and I feel a rush of fear, which is totally ridiculous. It isn’t like she’s going to disappear. Still, I take her arm and wait for her to look up at me. “Where would you go, do you think? If you can get away?”

  Her face relaxes a little. “Ellie and I hang out at Kennedy Park sometimes. I know partying in the park is kind of high school and lame, but it’s quiet there, and private, and—”

  “That sounds cool,” I say, wanting her to stop stammering. I don’t like the thought that I might be making her uncomfortable. “Maybe I’ll see you there?”

  She gives me a brief smile. “If I can get away.”

  She pulls her arm back a bit and, reluctantly, I let it go. “If you can get away.” She graces me with one small smile before getting in line. I consider following her, but I haven’t gotten the milk yet, and I don’t want another conversation about my inadequacies when I get home.

  Instead I watch as Zoe moves through the line, her head down even as the cashier begins ringing her up. A woman with a baby pushes past me, and I realize I’m blocking the way to the registers. Feeling like a stalker, I head off in the direction of the coolers, wishing I knew for sure when I would see her again.

  Chapter Five

  Zoe

  By the time Ellie comes to pick me up, I’m beyond exhausted. It was such a long day with my mother, trying to coax her to shower and to eat. Then Jerry showed up around dinnertime, stinking of beer, and the inevitable screaming match followed. If I was smart, I would have simply called it a night once I got my mom back to sleep and tried to get some rest myself, but I know there’s no way to turn my brain off long enough to make that happen. As is so often the case, a mere few hours of being in that house, of dealing with my mother and Jerry, makes my skin itch and my heart race. I need to get out, to get away. And I sure as hell am going to need some liquid calm if I have any hope of falling asleep.