After a year of dating, Rex already knew that the heart of all things beat more deeply when Rosie was around. Even her apartment vibrated. The walls were covered with annotated Polaroids and handwritten notes from friends. The refrigerator door was collaged with old ads featuring Cheryl Tiegs and Faye Dunaway. The walls were covered with posters of Elton John and Prince and Blondie. The corners of the couches had stuffing coming out the seams ineffectively covered by discolored pillows. There were markers and paintbrushes sprawled across the table. It was so clear to Rex that this was a place where art was made and drinks were spilled. It was a place where friends put their feet on the table, and no one bothered to replace old light bulbs. It was a place where people breathed and moved and talked and created. It was a place where people lived. And were happy. And he could see it in Rosie’s face that this was where she lived and was happy.
Rex took off his scarf, kissed Rosie gently, and then the two of them sank into her worn-in couch. They oriented themselves on the cushions as if they had been doing it just this way for years; Rex seated upright, shoes on, while Rosie placed her head in his lap and stretched her ankles over the arm of the sofa to let her clogs fall to the ground. This had already become Rex’s favorite part of the day, inhaling all of the scents of Rosie’s life—the flowery scent of the beautiful world around her lingering on the surface of her skin. It was no surprise to Rex that beautiful things clung onto Rosie and didn’t let go. It felt good being close to her. So good and so warm and so comfortable.
Rex wondered how he would eventually let go of all of the beautiful sweet things Rosie Collins was, but the thought quickly burrowed itself in the back of his mind when Rosie reached back and, without looking, wrapped her fingers one by one around Rex’s bicep and squeezed it enticingly.
Rex swept Rosie’s bangs away and traced his pointer around her temple, across her forehead and along the bridge of her nose. Rosie tried to follow his finger and giggled when she found herself cross-eyed as a result. Rex was a serious man and always assumed his girlfriend would be equally so, but Rosie’s quirky style of intimacy fulfilled him in a way he’d never thought possible.
* * *
And just as Rex was about to bend over and kiss Rosie, Rosie’s roommate Chloe burst out of her room, spewing on and on about the attractive man she’d locked eyes with at the café down the block, and ignoring Rex’s presence entirely. Rex did everything he could to keep from staring at Chloe’s nipples plainly visible through her sheer white shirt as she spoke. Rosie just half chuckled and shook her head as Chloe’s small breasts bounced up and down while she gesticulated her way through another mundane story.
And when Chloe finally exhaled, she lifted Rosie’s legs, wedged herself under her knees and pulled out a marijuana joint. Rex’s belly tensed at the sight of it.
Rex was uncomfortable with drugs, even the mere sight of them. He wanted to get up, rip the joint away from Chloe and throw it out the window. But Rosie lifted her eyes to meet Rex’s eyes and stroked his thigh gently. It was an indication that, yes, this was something she found to be acceptable in her home. And although Rex had never heard Rosie mention drugs before, the effortlessness with which she handled the joint between her fingers indicated that this was an activity she partook in regularly. Rex’s muscles tensed and his jaw clenched as he watched Rosie exhale a cloud of smoke, but in the newness of the scene, he didn’t protest.
And then Rosie brought the joint to her lips a second time.
Rex watched suspiciously as Rosie inhaled and the tip of the joint flared orange. He watched as Rosie gave in to the feeling of smoke in her lungs right away.
Rosie let her arm hang off the side of the sofa and slowly allowed her eyelids to close. As her breath deepened and her high began, Chloe’s voice, the clamor of the city streets, her lingering uncertainty about Rex and anything else grating about the world, drifted quietly away.
Rex could see the release in her face as he watched the smoke roll around in Rosie’s mouth, and then overtake her red lips, like fog rolling over a hill. She looked so calm, so beautiful. He felt Rosie’s body loosen, allowing herself to fully sink into his lap. This stillness, this quiet, was something Rex had never seen in Rosie before. He was used to her intense energy. Rex knew that Rosie was someone in tune with all of the tiny ripples of the world. All of the individual, human-to-human forces in it. And that those forces moved in waves through her. And that Rosie absorbed those waves deep within her body. It was the thing that made Rosie, Rosie. The thing that made her so special. But it also seemed to be the thing that exhausted her. Caused her to crave the calm of that high. And Rex could see that happening right there on Rosie’s old couch.
Rex was surprised to find an overwhelming sensuality in the feeling of Rosie melting into him. Rosie opened her eyes and looked deeply into Rex’s. She slowly reached her hand back and squeezed his inner thigh and walked her thin fingers delicately toward his crotch. Rex looked back at Rosie and kissed her forehead as his heart and his groin pulsed.
Then Rex, leaving Chloe to the rest of the joint in the living room, took Rosie’s nearly drooping body to her bedroom where, at her beckoning, he entered her slowly and entirely. As he moved inside her, Rex could feel Rosie’s body surge with pleasure, and then dissolve again back into her high. Rex found Rosie sexier than ever beneath him.
It was a version of Rosie he would enjoy only this one time, he told himself, in her bedroom with the old chipping paint. And then never permit this again. He didn’t want drugs to be a force in their relationship. He didn’t want drugs to be a force inside of Rosie. No matter how beautifully calm they enabled her to be.
Rex returned home from Rosie’s apartment late the next morning, heart and mind still spinning. He couldn’t keep all of these feelings, these ripples ricocheting around his brain. So he picked up the phone and called Roy Andrews, his oldest and closest, most dependable and most trustworthy friend.
“Roy,” Rex said solemnly. “This girl is going to be trouble.”
Rex knew he would need someone he could call on if Rosie was going to stick around in his life. And he had a feeling Rosie was going to become a part of him. For the first time, Rex was facing the difficulty of trying to hold on to something that vibrated. First, the sensation tickled a bit. Pleasingly. But then the energy started to move through him. Shaking his hand and then his arm and then his whole body. And even though those ripples in his body were briefly pleasant, they quickly started to become uncomfortable. Because his body was not meant to ripple like that. Vibrate like that. He wanted to release his grip, but his body couldn’t catch up with his brain. Finally he managed to let go, knowing he should keep his distance in the future. But still, he wanted to feel that first little tickle again. Even for just a moment. So he came back to Rosie again and again.
12
After dinner at their father’s, Willow and Asher met in the den to play their favorite game: Lava Floor. It was the only game in Willow and Asher’s repertoire that was more fun at Dad’s. Because the den at Dad’s was full of so many surfaces to jump onto once the floor turned to lava. It was full of big leather couches and thick wooden tables and velvety ottomans. All were perfectly sized for far leaps and smooth landings. Willow moved the ivory-and-ebony chessboard that her father left out on the coffee table as a not-so-subtle attempt to get his children to play something more worthwhile than Lava Floor. And then she hopped up on the couch and poised herself for a leap. And even though Willow’s unreliable legs made her pretty bad at Lava Floor, Willow liked watching her brother jump from surface to surface while his silky blond hair flopped all around.
And also, it couldn’t be discounted that she thoroughly enjoyed hopping all around the same couch she was asked to sit on earlier that day with folded hands as her father introduced another one of his girlfriends who ended up staying for dinner. This one had boring blond hair and ate teeny tiny bites at a time. Her shirt was
too stiff and her hair was too straight and her pocketbook looked too perfect on her shoulder. Willow liked the idea of jumping wildly up and down on the same surface that lady sat on with a straight back and forced smile.
Willow looked over at Asher, who was squatted down on the end table across the room with his knees bent, elbows tucked by his side and eyes full of determination.
Willow laughed at the intensity of this stance. “Ash, do you have to poop or something?”
And Asher laughed right back. Quickly and loudly. Until they were both interrupted by Rex’s booming voice.
“Hey! You two! Is that Lava Floor?”
Willow knew that her father could always tell when fun was about to be had because his jaw would tighten and his shoulders would press upward. And even if he was three rooms away in his office, undoubtedly reading from his stack of notes and tapping his ballpoint pen, Willow could feel the pulsing tension radiate.
“No shoes on the couch!”
Willow and Asher met eyes, shrugged sneakily and threw off their shoes as if they had never been on and giggled quietly.
And then Asher made his first leap toward the couch a couple feet away. His feet flew into the air, and then sank down into the leather cushion.
“Yeah!” Willow shouted instinctively, and threw her arms in the air to celebrate the first triumph of the game.
Then their father’s voice boomed again.
“Can we keep the noise down, please?”
Willow turned to Asher to shrug again, but he was back in his squatted position, prepared for his second leap to the ottoman next to the fireplace mantel. It was a far leap that Willow had only seen Asher complete once before. And he had tied his blankie around his neck like a cape in order to do it.
Asher pulled his arms back and jumped up again. His straight, blond bowl cut flapped around as he moved through the air. His feet reached the ottoman, but his upper body was off balance. He swung his arms around like windmills before grabbing onto the mantel of the fireplace for support. His hands slid across the top of the dark wood, knocking her father’s favorite vase off balance. It teetered one way, and then the other, and then rolled along the mantel and dripped over the edge. Willow braced herself for a shattered vase but instead, it dropped delicately into the cushioned embrace of the ottoman.
Asher’s eyes widened as far as they could go, and he put both of his little hands over his O-shaped mouth.
And suddenly, Rex was standing right next to Asher, arms folded across his chest and his crooked bottom teeth thrust out.
“What did I say?”
Rex picked up the vase from the ottoman, gripped onto it tightly in anger and slammed it down on the mantel. Rex slammed the vase down so hard that it shattered. It shattered into little flecks of pink and blue and green and clear. And all of those little flecks scattered all across the dark wood floor. They spread under the couch and table and the ottoman.
It got so quiet as the clicking of glass hitting floor trailed off into stillness. Eye of the storm stillness.
And then Rex’s storm came.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me! Go to your rooms!” Rex shouted as he thrust his pointer finger in the direction of the staircase. “Now!”
A deep red drop of blood fell from his finger as Willow and Asher stood stunned.
“I said, now!”
And then Willow and Asher scurried upstairs without returning the chessboard to its place on the coffee table or refluffing the pillows or picking up their shoes. They were on the cusp of the giggles. They wanted to laugh so hard at the irony of the event. Of Dad’s favorite vase in pieces by his own doing.
But Willow also felt the sadness of having a father who loathed the sight of shoes on the couch so deeply, so thoroughly, that blood was spilled. Even if it was just a drop. Willow entered her room and sat down on her bed with the weight of her father’s anger pressing heavily on her shoulders and her heart.
* * *
The next words Willow and Asher heard from their father were, “My office for ‘The Box,’ please.” Willow dropped her shoulders and shuffled into the office alongside her brother.
“The Box” was the culmination of Rex’s week collecting misplaced items from around the house—toys, sweatshirts, books, sneakers—and placing them in a blue milk crate. And when the week was over on Sunday night, Rex would dangle each individual object above his head and announce the name of its shameful owner.
“Sock with holes in it. Asher.”
“Purple crayon. Willow.”
“Silly Putty with comic imprint?”
Asher reached his hand out excitedly, not really understanding the purpose of the ritual.
“Look. This is the one whewe Calvin and Hobbes make a snowman,” he explained excitedly. And then he gloated when Rex returned it into his possession.
Rex ignored the non sequitur and got back to business.
“Batman mask. Asher.”
“Hulk action figure. Asher.”
And this continued until the crate was clear. And once it was, Willow and Asher could finally escape Rex’s office and move on to the nighttime checklist.
Toys Away
Homework Finished—Are you forgetting anything?
Laundry in the Basket
Shower—Armpits included
Floss Teeth—Top AND bottom! Molars too!
15 Minutes of Reading—More is OK!
Tuck In
And when it was complete, Rex would slide his hand through the door frame, flipping the light switch into the off position, and then saying, “Night.”
As Willow drifted into sleep, she thought about what it would look like if she created a nighttime checklist for her father. It wouldn’t say tell Willow and Asher about the things they left around the house or to count backward from sixty as they brush their teeth to make sure they aren’t missing any spots. It would only have one thing on it:
Kiss Willow and Asher good-night.
* * *
Willow barely realized that she had fallen asleep when a loud, booming thunder and the knocking of rain woke her up. And when her eyes burst open, her heart was beating furiously and her bladder was pulsing. Her thoughts carouseled around in her mind.
Don’t go. Don’t go. Please don’t go. No accidents. Don’t go. Please don’t go.
Willow closed her eyelids as tightly as she could and put her pointer fingers deep into her ears. But her pointer fingers were no match for rain that sounded like thousands of pebbles had been dumped onto the roof of her room. When a crack of lightning and second explosion of thunder shook her entire body to its core, Willow instinctively leaped out of bed and ran to her father’s room. He would be able to protect her. Calm her.
Willow walked quickly down the long hallway to her dad’s room with panic fluttering inside her and her fingers still in her ears. She gently pushed the door open, trying not to wake her father as harshly as the thunder had woken her up.
“Dad,” Willow whispered, walking toward his bed.
“Dad.”
“Dad.”
“Willow?” Rex said with a raspy voice and his eyes still closed. “What’s going on?”
“The storm,” Willow confessed.
No response.
“I’m scared.”
“Willow, it’s the middle of the night. We’re inside. Go back to sleep.”
But the wind was still howling and the rain was still slapping against the windows. And her heart was still racing and her bladder was still pulsing and she was too scared to go to the bathroom alone. Being inside didn’t make any of it better.
Willow stood in her father’s dark bedroom, Keith Haring T-shirt down to her knees, shivering with fear. Willow couldn’t bring herself to leave just yet. She watched her father’s shadow rolling over in bed, turning his back to her.
She stared at the empty space next to him in bed, wishing she could jump in there. Wishing she could jump in there for a hug and then a back tickle. She stared at that space so hard. She wanted to be in that space so badly.
And then that space moved.
And a second shadow appeared.
The shadow of a woman. A stiff, thin woman with long straight hair strewn across the pillow. Willow was sure it was the same woman she had seen before.
Willow’s right knee buckled as she turned around and walked back to her room. A single tear formed in her chest, and then made its way slowly into her eye and down her cheek.
When Willow woke up, her entire bed was wet and everything smelled like urine.
13
Eleven Years Ago
After a year of dating, Rosie decided she loved Rex despite, and sometimes because of, his supreme jerkiness. Because his moments of jerkiness often illuminated his strength, his confidence, his masculinity. But sometimes, those moments just made him a jerk. And usually, the combination of his handsomeness and her love for Rex outweighed all the jerkiness. But not today. Not today when Rosie and Rex made plans to eat crabs by the water downtown.
Rosie could tell that Rex was stressed as soon as she saw him. His shoulders were so tense they nearly brushed up against his earlobes and he was chewing a big wad of pink Bubblicious gum. His temples were flaring intensely and his responses were curt.
It was one of those days in which Rex had a big gray cloud around him. All of Rex’s prior girlfriends hated this cloud. And they would either run scared of the impending storm or would shine extra bright hoping it would go away. But these approaches worked neither for Rex nor his prior girlfriends. Because no matter what, when Rex showed up with a big gray cloud around him, everyone always ended up enduring a storm. Everyone always ended up soaking wet. Everyone except for Rosie.
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