Come Undone (The Kellys of Key West Book 2)

by AJ Matthews

  Trini is in the same spot I left her. Her head is bowed, like she’s praying. Her lips move, barely, but no words come out. I guess when you hurt like she does, you pray to God, or whoever you believe in, to make the pain and nausea go away.

  I hate to interrupt, but I need to get her and the floor cleaned up before the stench gets worse. “So, hey, the shower’s running. Can you stand under the water for a few minutes?”

  She glances up, her hair matted to one side of her sweaty face. She blinks her puffy eyelids, and the red-rimmed skin can’t hide what her forced smile tries to cover. “Yeah, sure. No problem.”

  She pushes on the floor to stand, but her elbows buckle. I grab her before she face-plants on the floor. She jerks away from me but at least manages gratitude. “Th-thanks. I can make it from here.”

  She moves to the bathroom in a slow, pained walk, closing the door behind her. I press my ear to the flimsy wooden door, where I hear the scrape of the shower hooks across the metal rod. She’s in the shower now, so I head outside to my scooter and get my backpack. I brought one change of clothes, a pair of jeans and another T-shirt. I’d never have guessed I would need the clothes this soon. I may need the last bit of money in my checking account to buy clothes at the super center I passed a mile back.

  Jeff Buckley sings again.

  Right. I take my phone out of my pocket, and Mom’s face, under the giant sombrero we made her wear on her last birthday at the Mexican Grille, smiles back at me.

  As promised, I’d texted home a couple times.

  I guess Mom needs verbal confirmation, even though I hate talking on the phone. I hit “accept” on the screen and raise the phone to my ear.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hey, are you good, baby boy?”

  I roll my eyes, but don’t say anything. Since I’m the youngest, I guess I’ll always be the baby. “Yeah, Mom, no problems. I found Trini, and she’s, um, well. I’ll be gone for a couple days to go with Trini to meet her dad.”

  She makes a sucking noise. “Yes, your father filled me in. Are you sure you can handle the stress? Do you need more money? Anything?”

  Her concern warms me, but I need to finish this on my own. “Nope. Don’t need anything.”

  Except a new brain, wired like a normal person’s.

  Even Mom, being the miracle worker she is, can’t get me a new brain.

  “Well, okay, Mac, but please call if you two need anything.”

  “Will do, Mom. Love you.”

  “I love you too. Don’t ever forget.” She sniffs, and then hangs up her phone.

  All this crying confuses me, but lots of people don’t get my coping methods or outbursts, either.

  When I get back in the room, I hear the shower still running. I tap on the door. “You okay?”

  The water cuts off. “Yep. All good.” Then louder. “Much better, thanks.”

  She has an overly-cheerful tone in her voice again. She’s not telling the truth, but what can I do? I want to ask her if she needs any help, but given the fact I had my tongue in her mouth twelve hours ago, I shouldn’t offer to help her put clothes on her now-naked body. She needs clothes since she didn’t take anything into the bathroom.

  Her animal-print suitcase rests on the desk in the corner of the room. I pick up the bag and move it to the floor outside the bathroom. I knock on the door again. “Hey, Cheese, your bag is outside the door. I’m gonna go grab a couple bottles of water from the vending machine.”

  Cheese. I hadn’t called her that in a while. Mom always said me and Trini fit together like Mac and Cheese. Goofy, but true. No one gets me the way she does. I have a few other friends, but they’re like me. Aspies and others on the high-functioning end of the spectrum. We don’t talk to each other much, but more or less sit around in the same room and stare at the floor or play on our phones or our Nintendo DS games. Sometimes a counselor comes in to talk to us about “growing up” and “gaining independence.” If any of us talks, it’s typically done without eye contact.

  Trini is the only friend I’ve ever been able to look in the eye, which took years to accomplish.

  Now I wonder if we’ll ever be able to look at each other the same way again.

  “The musicians cultivate friendships because when they hit rock bottom, they know someone will always be around to help them up again.”—Trini Díáz, Songs in the Key of Paradise

  WAVES OF NAUSEA THREATEN to topple me when I push to my feet. I avert my gaze to the floor. Funny, usually Mac stares at the floor during tense or uncomfortable moments. I can’t help it, though. I’m weirded out because I didn’t pull away, at least not at first, and my toes curled up a little from his kiss.

  He’d just broken up with his girlfriend, the one we believed might be good for him. He didn’t seem too bent out of shape. Now I understand why.

  Have I been blind for so long? He says he’s been in love with me forever. True, or a load of hyperbole?

  Mac isn’t inclined to exaggeration. His mind processes in a concrete fashion. He’s most comfortable with things he can touch, things he can see. Abstract concepts throw him off, and sometimes he struggles to label his emotions.

  I slip when I try to get up, but I push his hands away when he offers assistance.

  Remember, he is trying to help. “Th-thanks. I can make it from here.”

  My bones ache, and my gait is wobbly, uneven, as I shuffle to the bathroom. The room is already steamy. I am filthy, and not just in an “I vomited all over the place” way. I feel disgusting on the inside, too.

  A gnawing sensation eats away at my stomach lining—or stomach acid revolts against all the vile things I shoved into my face. No, something is definitely gnawing. Guilt. Shame. I itch with negativity. Why did I give into the binge urge? I’ve been doing so well. I mean, my diet left something to be desired—I often opted for carry-out over salad—but I’ve been binge-free for a while. For so long, I could measure the time in years—over one and a half of them. Until tonight.

  Like an alcoholic, my clock resets. I slip off my clothes, matted to my skin from the steam in the tiny, pig-pink bathroom. Appropriate, since I made a hog out of myself today. Why did I do this?

  I let my clothes fall into a sloppy pile on the floor, then draw back the thin white vinyl curtain and step into the stream of water. I always take a bath or shower when I’m in a funk. When life has disappointed me, or I’ve disappointed someone. I’d read in my English class how water has long been a metaphor for cleansing of the soul. That’s why flood stories have appeared so prominently in the Bible and other key works through different cultures and times.

  There is truth to the idea.

  The scalding spikes of water jab against my skin, and in a comforting way remind me of the damage I’ve done to my own body today. Not irreparable damage, but not something I want to repeat. It’s good Mac came. What if I’d lain in the bed and fallen asleep, and then vomited? I could have aspirated on my own puke and died. Not the way I want to be remembered. I shudder, and the need to cleanse myself of the film of shame escalates.

  Mac set the sample shampoo, conditioner, and bar of soap on the edge of the tub for me. I stick my head under the stream and let the water rinse away the ugliness from the past few days. Weeks now, since the breakup. I open the paper on the bar of soap and slide it over my wet skin. I pinch the excess flesh. I’d put on a few pounds, seen them, but never paid attention to how they feel.

  These extra few pounds aren’t so bad, contrary to what Dean says.

  What a fucking douche. I was hurt at first, but there’s too much other stuff going on, and he isn’t worth my effort. I screw off the top of the shampoo bottle, which smells faintly of baby wash. The cap clatters to the floor of the tub.

  “Shit!” I bend over to retrieve the dropped cap, and it slips through my fingers again. I finally catch my tiny plastic nemesis and set it down before dispensing a quarter-sized dollop into my hand. The shampoo stings the multiple cuts a little, but at least the w
ounds aren’t bleeding anymore. Though there are a number of cuts, I don’t think I need to go the hospital. The first aid kit in the truck should have everything I need.

  I work the liquid through my thick, curly hair and spend the next five minutes rinsing. This gives me way too much time to contemplate other things bothering me.

  For Mac, kissing me must have been hard, admitting his feelings, harder. Emotion is not his thing, and he struggles with reading other people. Strangers, anyway, but he always seems to get me. Which makes him perfectly suited for me. Except he’s Mac, and we’re buddies. Or at least I thought.

  Of course there’s the mom thing, and the dad thing. What the hell? No surprise the guy I believed was my dad went splitsville when I was a kid. “The baby you’ve raised? Never mind. Not yours.” I’m sure the conversation was a bit different, but I’m sure the news devastated Dad—Lucas.

  “You okay?” Mac’s usual monotone voice is replaced by raw concern.

  I cut the water off. “Yep. All good. Much better, thanks.”

  My own tone is one of forced cheerfulness. I dry off, rubbing a rough towel on reddened skin. I forgot something to change into. Crap.

  “Hey, Cheese, your bag is outside the door. I’m gonna go grab a couple bottles of water from the vending machine.”

  Cheese. I grin at his use of my nickname. He hasn’t called me Cheese in forever. I guess he doesn’t get calling me a food item may not be the best idea, but somehow I don’t mind.

  The outer door of the hotel room closes, so I open the bathroom door and a whoosh of cold air slaps me in the face. I tug the bag in and close the door quickly. The steam is like a warm hug, and I don’t want to lose the sensation yet. I wipe off the mirror and stare at myself in the unflattering light. I yank my fingers through my kinky hair and consider blow-drying it, but I lack the energy and arm strength to lift the appliance. If I can’t muster the strength to blow-dry my hair, how the hell am I strong enough to finish this trip?

  What am I doing? The mirror reflects the eyes of my biological father back at me, and I remember why I am doing this. To end the lies. No more hiding.

  What is he going to say? Did Mom tell him about me? What if he has a family of his own, besides me? Would he acknowledge me? Ask Mom for a DNA test? He should, given he’s the owner of a successful company. I’m willing to take the test. I don’t want his money.

  I put on fresh underwear and a bra. I don a long skirt and a long-sleeve T-shirt. I am better, a little more refreshed.

  I open the bathroom door, and Mac is back, dressed in clean clothes. The vomit is all cleaned up. I can’t say the room smells great, but much better than earlier. At least the sour stench is gone—a bright spot in a dismal day.

  “How did you find me?”

  “Your mom. She called me a little while after you left my house. I told her I’d find you since you’re still mad at her. She checked your credit card alerts.”

  Pesky real-time bank updates. It’s Mom’s account, and I’m just a user. Of course she could find me using the card.

  “So here I am.” His tone is so matter-of-fact, like it’s not a big deal he drove this far on his own.

  It’s totally a huge deal, the biggest ever for him.

  The enormity of his gesture is not lost on me, and it makes me want to kiss him.

  Not advisable. Here I am, at my worst again, considering Mac in a non-platonic way. I’m such a jerk sometimes.

  “So what now, Goon?” I’m at a loss for words. He averts his gaze, likely unsure how to act himself. Why did he fall in love with me? Things are so much more complicated now than they need to be. I want my pre-winter-break life back. Three weeks ago, everything was right. I knew where I came from, who loved me, and how. Now, everything is on its head, and it doesn’t seem fair.

  But life’s not fair, buttercup, I remind myself, or else I wouldn’t have issues with binge eating—wouldn’t feel the need to seek love where I shouldn’t be searching for it. I was a fool to imagine Dean loved me. The chubby little Cuban girl who got skinny. Well, sort of. Mac may be right. Dean may have wanted me because I was the one girl who’d never shown interest in him. They key word being “shown.” I’d always been interested because he’s so gorgeous. When he asked me out, how could I say no to my one shot with a third-degree-burn hot guy?

  I was a challenge. After I gained weight back, I wasn’t worth his time.

  Mac cleaned off the bed too, the awful reminders of my binge gone out with the rest of the trash. I sit on the side of the bed, and he takes a seat in the desk chair.

  He taps me with something cold. A bottle of water. I crack the cap and suck down half the bottle in one swallow. My stomach churns, shocked by the icy water, but my body will be grateful when I rehydrate. I take a few sips and replace the cap. The silence in the room is deafening.

  Without a doubt, this may be the most awkward moment I’ve ever experienced in my life, though I imagine the day I meet my real dad may be worse.

  “Shut out the light, plug up the noise/Let me crawl in a cave/Let me be alone.”—Lyrics from “Too Much” by Mac Kelly

  THIS TRIP TO THE super center—which I made last summer with Mom on the way back from a neuro appointment in Miami—should be fun. Not. Those stores are everything I hate in a place: crowded, loud, and visually stimulating.

  Over-stimulating.

  Colorful displays and similarly colorful people. I’m not the best dresser. I tend toward the blander side of things. When I see things some people wear out in public, I wonder if those people own mirrors.

  At least I’ve learned in the past few years not to say those things out loud. Though it’s the truth, it’s inappropriate to say potentially hurtful or insulting things. You can say whatever you want if you’re old, like my grandpa. He says improper things all the time and no one ever calls him out. Except me. To which Grandpa laughs and says, “When you’re old, Big Mac, you can say whatever you want.”

  That will be such a relief. I’m exhausted trying to remember what I’m allowed to say and what I’m not and to whom. I can joke around with my brothers and parents, but not other people’s families.

  Some days I want to go to bed at eight and quiet my head with the trazodone. The med helps with my depression (thanks, birth mother), anxiety (thanks, noisy world), and my sleeplessness (thanks, autism, for never allowing my brain to shut down.) My other meds also help reduce my stimming behaviors, so fewer people think I am a freak.

  Which I still am, despite the pharmaceutical treatment.

  Before the right combo of meds, I frequently slapped myself and banged my head on the walls and floors when I was younger. I’d been trying to quiet the words in my head.

  I don’t hear voices, just the words of the songs I write scrambling around. So I take my meds and carry a notebook around all the time so I can write down the words instead of pounding myself.

  Trini grabs the keys to her mom’s truck and follows me out to the sidewalk in front of her room. She locks the hotel room door, the deadbolt holding the door in place. It wasn’t locked when I kicked in the door, which is good because forcing the door open was easier, but bad, because of safety.

  I guess she wasn’t thinking about security when she came into the room with her haul of junk food. Of course I can’t know what she thought, but she’s told me bingeing is like getting high—nothing matters but the buzz. I assume that’s what it was this time too.

  She heads to the driver’s door, but I block her and hold out my hand. “No way you’re driving.”

  She clucks her tongue at me, her forehead wrinkling in a scowl. Displeasure. “I’m okay to drive.”

  I shake my head and thrust my open palm at her again.

  “Fine!” Her tone is telling me it’s anything but fine. “Don’t mess up Mom’s truck. I’m sure she’s mad I took it.”

  “If you checked your messages, you’d realize she’s not mad. She’s worried sick about you. Plus, I drive a stick better than you.” Da taught
me to drive a stick. A year later, I perfected my technique. I drive my brother Liam’s car once a month to stay in practice. Trini, not so much.

  She rolls her eyes at me, which I’ve learned means she is frustrated and believes I’m wrong. I climb into the driver’s seat of the thirty-year-old pickup truck, and the scent of one of those clip-on air fresheners assaults me. I open the window to dilute the odor before I get a migraine. I find the lever and push the seat way back so my legs fit.

  “Go right out of the parking lot.” I guess she tells me which way to go to hang on to a sense of control. I’d normally snap that I know which way to go, since I passed the store on the way up, but I let her have this one thing. When she binges, she thinks she’s lost control, so she’ll take steps now to regain power in her world.

  She opens up the glove box and pulls out a small white bin. I keep my eyes on the road, but I hear paper tearing. She must be putting bandages on her palms. She puts the bin back in the glove box before I drive into the super center lot a mile and a half down the road.

  I park in the back, away from other vehicles. It’s like being around people—I keep my car or my scooter away from other cars and hope no one gets too close.

  I hop out and head over to open Trini’s door. The handle on the passenger side is broken on the inside, so I have to open it from the outside. When she steps out, she smiles up at me, her eyes wrinkling at the corners. Her sincere smile warms my insides.

  We approach the sliding door of the store and dodge carts steered by people juggling children or cell phones, sometimes both. I jump when Trini’s fingers slide between mine and squeeze hard. My heart leaps into my throat and my tongue rests heavy in the bottom of my mouth. I want to ask what she is doing.

  “Are you ready?” She squeezes again and again, in a constant, pulsating rhythm. Oh. She’s applying deep joint pressure because she recognizes I’m about to go into sensory overload and the touch calms me.

  We step inside. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz like a hive of bees around my head, and spots cloud my vision. The registers beep as endless items roll across the conveyor belts.