by Jay McLean
Back in the car, Lachlan faces me as he buckles himself in. “I think you should do more than just sex Red.”
Me too, buddy. Me too. I keep that thought to myself.
17
Aubrey
Logan didn’t come back, which is fine; I only half expected him to. I spent the night trying to come up with more names for his penis. I switched from ideas of food and combined the two things he told me are his favorite things in the world. Weed and sex. I’ve replaced the sex with masturbation. I now have an ongoing list comprising of the following:
Weed Whacker.
High Jacker.
Toke and Stroker.
Stoner Boner.
Masterbaker.
I’m pretty happy with all of them so far.
I walk to work today, because the bike has a flat, and knowing me, I’ll never fix it. I plan to draw up a sign offering it to another good home. The Copic markers are still where I left them in the middle of the shop floor, and so I pick them up, put them in the safe. Before Lachlan gets here this afternoon, I plan to bring the desk from the office out to the shop floor so he can draw on that. Obviously, I made the plans before his brother and I had sex on it. I’ll wipe it down. He’ll never know.
After doing my opening checklist, I go back to my usual spot behind the counter and check my phone. Nothing. No surprise. I send my mother a text:
All good here. What’s up with you?
I send my grandmother a text:
All good here. What’s up with you?
I write out a text to Joy: Why the fuck does it even matter? You cheated on him.
I delete the text.
For a few minutes, I watch people walk past the store one way. Then the other. They never look inside.
I jump on Facebook, and I’m bombarded with status updates from Carter—the ex.
I love her.
I love her.
I love her.
That’s not what they say, but that’s how I read them, and that’s okay. It doesn’t hurt like it used to. Then I remember Logan’s friend request sitting in purgatory. I accept the request from Bing Bong—seller of cheap Ray Bans and smile when a picture of him replaces the generic white silhouette and blue backdrop. The night at Lucy’s, they mentioned how the twins are YouTube famous, and that’s why they all have their accounts on lock down. Their dad even had to put up a security gate at their property because teenage girls were starting to show up. I’ve watched a few of their videos. Logan’s not in any that I saw.
There isn’t a lot going on in his profile. Mainly pictures of him in what I assume is Cambodia, building a house. There’s a picture of him with another guy, who I assume is Lucas. Lucas has his arm around a girl with thick, black glasses. She’s beautiful. He’s beautiful. Everything is beautiful. Especially the picture of Logan holding a banner that reads: Habitat for Humanity, and now it all makes sense, at the same time it doesn’t, because I’m pretty sure that no one could force Logan into doing something like this unless he wanted to. Logan is nice, and he treats it as though it should be a secret.
I go through more and more of his profile, because I have my own secrets: I like Logan Preston.
I’m smiling, and I shake my head at myself, but I can’t stop my face’s reaction to my admittance.
I like Logan Preston.
Every time I say it in my head, I scroll down a little more.
Then stop.
The girl is beautiful: long, blond hair, and bright brown eyes, and the kind of smile that’s hard to fake. Logan has his arm around her, and they’re both smiling at the camera. The background is the house they’re building, the Habitat for Humanity banner hanging above where the front door will eventually sit. Her name is Casey Allen, and it’s her photo, and he’s tagged in it. The caption reads: More like Habitat for Hotties.
I click into her profile—completely public—and feel the pierce of my heart cause my entire body to deflate. We weren’t anything, I convince myself. We were a one-night stand that meant nothing.
We still mean nothing.
Because three weeks ago, Casey Allen was in a hotel room, and this boy she’s dubbed “hottie” is under a sheet, covering just his junk. He’s reaching out, likely telling her not to take the picture, but she does it anyway, and she posts the photo to show off to her friends, to show off to me, because social media is the place where hope goes to die.
It would be stupid to cry.
I cry anyway.
And send another text to my mother:
I miss you.
By early afternoon I’ve convinced myself that it’s not a big deal. Really. I just… I need to understand the meaning of casual sex, that’s all. This is what happens: Boy meets girl. Boy and girl have sex. The end. I’ve never done casual before, and so this is normal. This feeling is normal.
My mom hasn’t called or written back. According to my grandmother, she’s away for business somewhere where there’s no signal. It would’ve been great if she let her daughter know.
There are two girls in the store (possibly the only bright side to my day), and it’s taking all the power in me not to follow them around, beg them to buy something. I’ve seen them around at the parties Joy used to take me to, but I’ve never said a word to them and doubt they have any idea who I am. They’re talking about their plans; plans for the future, the weekend, tonight. All things I don’t have.
Jealousy is a petty emotion.
“Will’s taking me away for the weekend,” the brunette says.
“Oh. Em. Gee, Bree!” says the blonde, clutching a hand to her heart. “You’re so lucky. Will’s such a nice guy.”
“I know, right? I did good with him.”
“Totally.” They move from the notebooks to the pens, and the blonde says, “There’s this party tonight, but I’m not sure if I’ll go…”
“Why not?”
“I’m waiting on a call.”
“From a guy?”
“Yep.”
“Who?”
“I don’t want to say.”
“No, Bella!” says Bree.
Bella?
Why does that sound so…
Bella with the Boobies.
She does have boobies.
“No, Bella, what?” Bella mocks.
Her friend rolls her eyes. “Your not wanting to say can only mean one thing.”
“And what’s that?”
“Logan Preston.”
My heart sinks to my stomach, and I rise a few inches, flex my hands at my sides. “He called me last week,” she says. Liar. He was gone last week. “On Thursday,” she adds. “As soon as he got back from Cambodia.”
My eyes drift shut. I force myself to breathe. In through my nose. Out through my mouth.
“You’re such a sucker for bad boys,” Bree says. “I take it you slept with him… again.”
“Hell, yeah, I did. And I have no regrets. Not everyone gets to have a Will in their life.”
Bree sighs.
I glance down at my hands, at the freckles, at my unpainted nails, and the half-dozen silver rings on my fingers. I try to name each stone, just so I have something else to concentrate on other than their conversation. But they’re talking louder now, coming closer, and when I look up, Bella has two notebooks and a pen in her grasp. She smiles at me, the kind of All-American-Girl smile that makes you fake smile back without realizing. She dumps her items on the counter and turns to her friend. “And then he found me at the party on Friday.”
The party on Friday. I was at the party on Friday.
“I thought he left,” Bree says.
He did! With me…
“He did,” Bella confirms. “He says he had to take care of some business. But he came back and found me. We spent the night in one of the rooms.” She turns to me, but I can’t see her expression beyond my pain. “Can I get these?” She’s pointing to the notebooks and pen. “You take debit card, right?”
I nod, ring up her purchase. “Sixteen d
ollars and fifty cents, thank you.” My voice breaks.
I break.
As soon as they’re out the door, I flip the sign to closed and go to the office, where I take out the Copic markers from the safe and put them in a nicer box that still hides its content. Then I flick off all the lights and lock up the shop. I don’t bother putting a note up. It won’t make a difference. I take the markers to Lucy’s bookstore. She’s sitting in an armchair at the end of one of the aisles, a place where she likes to “hide” from customers. I leave the markers on the counter, and as soon as I’m back out on the street, I send her a text:
Aubrey: Left a gift for Lachlan on your counter. Tell him he must keep them and USE them, no matter what.
Lucy: You’re not at your shop today?
Aubrey: Heading home for the weekend.
I delete my Facebook app, and switch off my phone. Then I walk to the bus stop and prepare to go to an empty house where silence will greet me and loneliness will consume me.
18
Aubrey
My mother burned every single item belonging to or resembling my dad the day after his funeral. I have no physical memory of him. Not even a single photograph. When I was younger, I’d scour the house for anything that reminded me of him: a plate, a towel, a DVD. One time, I found an old sock of his. She burned that, too. She said I was too young to understand, that I might never understand. Now there are zero chances of me finding anything of my father’s. The house she owns now—the one I’m currently in—is not my home.
Neither is my house.
Or the town I live in.
Logan
We try to preserve as much of my mother as possible. Every item, every scent, every memory. In the living room, she used to sit on this giant armchair next to my dad’s recliner. When I close my eyes, I can still see her there; a blanket on her knees, knitting needles between her fingers. Smiling. She was always smiling. When she did frown, it was because one of us kids was sad or hurt. Her chair’s still in the living room. Over the years, the smell of her has faded. No one sits on the chair. No one but Lachlan. I don’t recall the conversation. It’s not like we all sat down and said, “We have to preserve this piece of her. Only Lachlan can sit in her chair, smell her perfume left behind, so that he can feel somewhat close to her. If we all sit there, we’ll take a piece of her with us every time we leave it. Let him have this tiny piece of her.” When I was kid, I’d watch Lachy sitting in the same spot I’d always find her. Even now, seeing him there makes my breath catch.
He’s sitting with his legs crossed, headphones on, iPad in hand. It’s Friday night. I’ve already had my fill of Mary, and so I rush through the house, hope he doesn’t catch onto it. I make it to the front door before he calls out, “Where are you going?”
My shoulders slump, and I lick my lips, try to act straight. I turn to him, shrug. “Just going to hang out with Aubrey.”
“At her house?” he asks, removing the headphones.
“I guess.”
“In Raleigh?”
“What?”
“She’s gone home for the weekend, dude.” He sighs, puts his headphones back on. “Sheesh, don’t you and your girlfriend communicate?”
“She’s not my girlfriend.” I think. Or maybe she’s closer to it than I let myself believe, because she should’ve told me, right? I mean, we made plans. Didn’t we?
I go to her house anyway, just in case Lachlan was talking shit. The house is dark, no sign of life, and so I try calling her. Her phone goes directly to voicemail the first time, so I don’t really know why I try three more times. I go to her shop. It, too, is closed. But there’s no sign on the door saying she’s closed for the weekend. I call home, ask Lachlan how he knew Aubrey was going out of town. He says Lucy told him. I call Lucy. She confirms. I call Aubrey again. I’m officially that guy. Surprise, surprise: straight to voicemail.
I’ve lit up another joint before I even make it to my shack, my phone on my lap in case she calls. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to seeing her even though I managed to satisfy my craving yesterday. Yesterday was intense, sure, but it was rushed. I like to take my time with Red. Like to build her up just to pull away, tease her. She hates it. I love it.
The sun’s setting earlier now than it did the one time she was here. I get out of the truck and instantly look up at the stars. They’re still the same in my eyes: dots of light surrounded by darkness. Some rustling sounds from beside me, and I know who it is without turning. I click my fingers, mumble, “Come here, Chicken.”
Aubrey wasn’t exaggerating; the pig is a beast. He walks—waddles?—over to me, his snout instantly going to my hand. He loves the smell of weed. Sometimes, when I’m really high, I think about blowing smoke in his face. I’m not that cruel. Plus, if he’s anything like other stoners, he’ll probably get the munchies, and that’s not a good idea when he’s 350 pounds, and I’m the only thing in front of him. He searches around us, as if he’s looking for something, someone. “She’s not here,” I say aloud.
Chicken squeals.
“I know, dude. Me too.”
I smoke three joints in a row, because there’s fuck-all to do, and I don’t feel like partying. I call Aubrey again, and this time, I leave her a voicemail. “Thanks for letting me know you were heading out of town. I could’ve made other plans.” And then I hang up, because I’m annoyed and I’m disappointed, and I’m alone on a Friday fucking night when I don’t have to be.
I call Aubrey again. I’ve memorized her voicemail message, memorized her voice. “Can you please call me when you get back? Hope everything’s okay. I’m missin’ ya, Red.”
19
Logan
I don’t call Aubrey again the next day, but I drive by her store (still closed) and her house (still lifeless). There’s a bike on her front lawn with a sign that reads “Free to a good home.” I question whether it was there yesterday, and I decide that it had to be; I was just too annoyed to notice it.
The next day, I barely make it through Sunday Family Breakfast. Dad senses this and tells me to get some rest. Meaning: Go to your room so your brothers don’t realize how fucking stoned you are.
I go up to my room, shut all the blinds, lie in bed in the darkness with my phone resting on my chest. If she calls, I don’t want to miss it. Only a few minutes go by when there’s a knock on my door. It can only be Lucy—she’s the only one who knocks. “Come in,” I say, and the door opens slowly, slightly.
She pokes her head inside. “Okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure?” Lucy was in college when I first started smoking, so she missed the beginning, the middle, the peeing in the cup that led to what everyone hoped would be The End.
“Yeah, Luce, I’m all good.”
She steps into the room. “So…” she starts, then looks around my room as if it’s the first time she’s seeing it. She’s still in her pajama pants (pages of books) and probably one of Cameron’s hoodies because it goes past her knees. She’s so short. Shorter than Aubrey. Maybe even shorter than Mom was.
“You’re so little and cute,” I tell her, pressing my cheek against the pillow.
She smiles over at me, sits down on the end of my bed. “Do you know when Aubrey gets back?”
“I didn’t even know she was leaving.”
“She didn’t tell you?”
My answer is to look up at the ceiling.
“Well, it’s not like you guys are… you know… are you?”
“Sexing?”
“Logan, you’ve sexed nearly every girl in this town, some of the women, too. Even a couple of the lonely housewives—”
“False.”
She rolls her eyes. “I hear things, you know. A lot of things. I think this town sometimes forgets that there’s a vagina amongst all the Preston testosterone.”
“That’s probably a good thing,” I tell her.
“Maybe.” She shrugs. “So, Aubrey…?”
“Luce.” I sigh.
“When have we ever talked about this stuff?”
“We could start,” she says, hopeful.
I crush her hope. “I’d rather not.”
My phone vibrates on my chest, and I’m quick to unlock it.
Bella with the Boobies: Where the hell have you been?
20
Logan
I could barely focus during Monday morning’s meeting because Aubrey’s phone’s still off and she still hasn’t called. Even when Dad called me into his office halfway through the morning to tell me he was proud of my work lately, it still didn’t take the edge off. My mind is scattered. Lost. I mismeasure three times. Garray cracks a joke about how I should’ve finished high school. The glare I give him lets him know that it’s the last time I’ll let him get away with it. I’m an asshole to everyone, and I know it. I just can’t help it. I watch the seconds tick by, but they feel like minutes, and as soon as lunch break comes along, I’m out of my tool belt and into my truck and making my way to her shop.
Still closed.
I drive to her house, knock on the door.
Aubrey
I came home Saturday morning. I wanted to leave within an hour of getting to Mom’s place, but unfortunately for me, the buses had stopped running. When I left, I was sure to make it look as though I hadn’t been there at all.
I didn’t go to work on Saturday. I didn’t have it in me to plaster on a smile, talk to the two, maybe three people who might walk through the door. Besides, I didn’t want him to know I was home. Hence why I never answered the few times he came knocking and why I haven’t bothered to switch on my phone. But I’m answering now, because I should, because I deserve to have my say, and because it’s time.
