Chaste

by Angela Felsted

  I sit in the rock-hard chair in the corner and take a bite of the Snickers bar. While I’m chewing, Molly asserts her opinion.

  “I don’t like your sister, or your mother,” she says. “They’re both using you.”

  I clench the Snickers bar between my fingers. How dare she insult my family! Rushing to swallow the candy, a piece gets stuck in my throat. I drop it and grab my orange juice, twisting off the top.

  “Your mother should be here,” she says. “She left you guys to fend for yourselves so she could go to Europe and play. Your father hardly lifts a finger, and Amy … Amy …”

  Her voice has gotten louder; her face is growing redder too. It almost matches her hair. “She should have put it up for adoption!”

  Lifting the orange juice bottle to my mouth, I guzzle it down in four gulps. Now that the candy piece is gone, I can speak my mind.

  “Elijah’s not an it!” I snap.

  She waves away my response with her hand. “It’s obvious Amy can’t do it alone. She needs help, and you have a life. How selfish can your mother be? She should get on the first plane back and come ho—”

  “She’s paid her dues as a stay-at-home mom,” I cut in. “All her married life she’s been doing laundry, washing dishes, kissing boo boos. She gave up her career for eighteen years to raise Amy and me. It isn’t like she woke up one day and said ‘Amy’s pregnant! Time to go to Europe.’”

  I ball up the candy bar wrapper and fling it into the trash. Molly has no right to insult my mother.

  “Her timing sucks!”

  “She shouldn’t have to put her life on hold because Amy can’t keep it together,” I say, knowing the statement is true despite my own resentments.

  I still remember how my mother used to lie in bed the year before she went back to work. At first it didn’t bother me. So what if I had to wake her to fix dinner when I got home from school? So what if I had to do laundry on my own? Work builds character and my mother needed me to do it. I was a good son, so I did. Then I realized she wasn’t happy, because every time she ruffled my hair she’d cry. When she watched TV, when she stood in the sun, even when she looked out the window she’d cry. My mother went to a psychiatrist. She tried Prozac but, the medicine made her sick to her stomach. Then and only then did she decide to go back to work.

  “She should put her family first,” Molly says, hands on her hips. “Your sister needs her. You need her. And Amy—”

  “Amy what?” My sister says, coming through the door with a soda in her hand.

  “Molly was just leaving,” I cut in.

  “But I need to give you a ride,” Molly says. “You’re tired. Amy’s here and Elijah’s her son. Let me take you home. Come on, Quinn. I’m tired too!”

  Whoa! Well, she’s certainly inconvenienced, isn’t she?

  “I’ll go when Amy goes. You go home,” I say, glancing at my watch. “You have, what, half an hour before you have to deliver The Washington Post? Guess I’m not the only one who lets their family use them.”

  The words roll off my tongue like acid. I know they hurt when I see her wince. Yep, she visibly takes a step back and instead of regretting it, I feel vindicated.

  I picture my mother shaking her head. She would not be happy with what I just said. She’d tell me to stand my ground without attacking others. She’d tell me to be a man. And it occurs to me now that I’m not a very good man. That maybe I never will be because Molly has been supportive today. She’s stayed for hours at the hospital. And I should be grateful. Instead I’m angry.

  “You want me to leave? Fine, I’ll leave!” Molly grabs her brown leather purse and marches out the door.

  “Why didn’t you let her take you home?” My sister raises one puzzled eyebrow.

  “Elijah’s fever still hasn’t broken,” I point out.

  When I shut my eyes, the floor tilts. My body sways as I try to keep my balance. This must be what it feels like to sleep on your feet. Snapping my eyes open, I focus on the closed curtains behind Amy and the corner chair.

  They’re sage green, one shade lighter than Kat’s eyes.

  Have I lost my mind? Why am I thinking about Kat? I try to wipe her from my brain, but her face keeps coming back. I remember her pouting lips, her saucy words, her gorgeous eyelashes. I’ve said my share of insulting things to Kat, but for some reason, she still talks to me. Suddenly, what I said to Molly doesn’t seem so terrible.

  I brace my hand on the wall in an attempt to rest without actually resting, to sleep without lying down. My eyelids feel like they’ve been coated in sand.

  “I’m going on a walk,” I tell Amy. “I need air.”

  If I’d thought it through instead of lashing out, maybe I’d have taken that ride home from Molly. Amy can’t leave, my dad took the other car and now I’m stuck here without any place to sleep, which wouldn’t be so bad if my body didn’t feel like it might collapse at any moment. The halls of the hospital look unnaturally dim as I pass a man in a wheelchair, a nurse with a clipboard, a patient holding the back of his paper gown shut.

  I hate the alcohol and iodine smell of hospitals, the smell of stale air and stale food. I hate that I didn’t practice my cello today, that I have to choose between my music and Elijah, that nothing I do is good enough.

  When I walk into the elevator, I push the button marked L. Fairfax Hospital is huge. The first time I came here I got lost. Now that I’ve been here far too long, I know it like the back of my hand.

  Double doors open onto the lobby, and I feel carpet under my shoes. Tall, frond-covered plants are set up every few feet. Light pink walls sway around me as I walk toward a floral-patterned couch. It’s not very masculine, but at this point, I don’t care. Give me a bed, a couch, anyplace comfortable where I can sleep.

  “Quinn?” It’s Kat’s voice.

  Am I hallucinating? I look up at the fluorescent lights with the hope they’ll slap me awake and make the room stop spinning. Everything around me blurs into a swirling ball of light. Yep, I’m definitely hallucinating.

  Without taking my eyes off the lights, I stagger forward and catch myself on the arm of a chair. At least, I think it’s the arm of a chair. My eyes drift down. No chair, a person’s naked arm.

  “Are you okay?”

  I look down into clear green eyes. Kat’s eyes.

  “I’m fine,” I mumble, thinking how odd I must look staggering around in the middle of the lobby.

  I’m shocked when she grasps my forearms. “Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall.”

  It isn’t falling that scares me. It’s failure. Failure to be the man I should be.

  “What are you, drunk?” She guides me to the couch, pushing me down by the arms until I land on a cushion.

  When she lets go, I lean my head back as far as possible. The cushion next to me sinks. Her knees bump up against mine.

  “I don’t drink.”

  “Sure you don’t,” Kat says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Just like you don’t go out with bad girls, sleep around, or get anyone pregnant.”

  Did she just accuse of me of drinking and sleeping around in the same breath? No way. Though I know it will likely only result in falling asleep, I let my eyes close. Anything to keep the room from spinning.

  “You stood me up,” she says.

  I put a finger to my temple. “I meant to call.”

  “Well, you didn’t. What were you doing, having a family picnic? Taking Quinn Junior to the park with your unwed girlfriend?”

  Quinn Junior … unwed girlfriend … what is she talking about? I open my eyes and shake my head at her. I don’t have any energy to fight.

  “I’m a virgin,” I blurt.

  She hauls in a breath, and then pokes me in the shoulder. “I don’t believe you.”

  “You’re judgmental,” I accuse.

  “Me? You’re a jerk. A jerk who looks at me with those innocent, bleeding-heart eyes until I want to believe every lying word that comes out of your mouth.”

&n
bsp; She stares into my eyes with new intensity. Heat prickles my neck.

  “I’m not lying,” I manage to say.

  “You’re drunk. There’s no way in hell you could walk a straight line. Speaking of which, were you looking for angels when I called your name earlier? Somehow I doubt they live in the lights.”

  “What?” I ask in a groggy voice.

  “I want that kiss now,” she says, scooting in next to me.

  “Now?”

  “Why not? Afraid you’ll like it?

  I shake my head and glance at her lips, so moist and full. No wonder she believes I’m drunk. For the first time ever I let my eyes take in her figure, the fullness of her chest, the swell of her hips, the long line of her legs. My body stirs, and my mind goes places I know it shouldn’t. To my hands on those legs, my face in her neck, her curvy body pressed against mine.

  “Okay, Kat,” I say as I lean toward her. “But after this, no more pushing.”

  Her hands slide around my neck. I’m going to keep my eyes open when I kiss Katarina Jackson. I know she’s teasing me and that I’m playing with fire. But she’s so gorgeous and forbidden it’s impossible to resist her. I snake my arms around her waist. Having her warm body pressed against mine feels like a dream, an unbelievably wonderful dream. The room gets all blurry as I think what a nice, soft pillow she’d make.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  It’s the last thing I remember.

  20

  Katarina

  “Wake up, Quinn,” I say into the ear of the unconscious boy on my shoulder.

  He doesn’t get up, just nestles his cheek against mine. I put a hand on the back of his head and slide my fingers through his thick, curly hair, surprised at its softness, the way it moves through my fingers.

  For a moment I wish I could wipe out his past, overlook his ludicrous beliefs and take him home like a puppy. Then I remember how he lied to me, and I give myself a mental kick in the pants for these mushy feelings. No part of me should feel sorry for Quinn Walker.

  I scoot sideways and lower his head onto my lap. He lies across the couch, his hands limp at his sides. Despite what I thought earlier, he’s not drunk. If he were drunk, his breath would smell like alcohol. If he were drunk, I’d have found him at some stupid party or coming out of someone’s house, not in the lobby of Fairfax Hospital.

  Tracing a finger around his pale ear, I can’t fathom why anyone would run themselves into the ground like this. So I just sit there, drawing circles on his shoulder, empowered by the fact that I can do this without him flinching.

  “Molly, I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

  I feel myself smile. Does Mr. Nice talk in his sleep? This is too perfect. If he thinks I’m Molly, maybe we can have a decent conversation. I’m thinking of all the questions I’d like to ask when his arms come around my waist and he snuggles close against me.

  My heart warms. Poor Quinn. My fingers make figure eights on his back.

  I lift my hand, hating my irrational urge to protect a boy who hates me. He’d be horrified if he were awake. Every time I touch him at school, he acts like I’ve burned him.

  “Don’t stop. That feels good,” he says.

  I can’t believe my ears. So I sigh and rest my hand on the back of his cotton T-shirt. Where did this vulnerable Quinn come from? I think of Molly and how Quinn trusts her. I’d bet my right arm she’s seen this side of him.

  My stomach twists. What makes her so special?

  “You forgive me?” he asks, sounding hopeful, like Molly’s good opinion will make everything better.

  Honestly, I doubt he’s done anything wrong. Knowing Molly, he probably did some stupid thing that doesn’t matter. Maybe he gave her the wrong kind of flowers on her birthday. My curiosity gets the better of me.

  “For what?” I ask.

  “Insulting your family.”

  I inhale, more than a little surprised. It doesn’t seem like something Quinn would do. Maybe he isn’t as nice as he pretends. Maybe he’s … human. Putting a hand in front of my mouth, I let out an irrational giggle. Seduction doesn’t look so hopeless after all. I just need to find a way to make him let down his guard.

  My cell phone rings. I pull it from my purse, look at the fluorescent green screen and curse under my breath. My ex is acting like a stalker. Why did I make out with him tonight? Getting rid of him now will be ten times harder. I click the accept button.

  “Mike,” I say.

  “Where are you?” he says in an agitated tone.

  “At the hospital.”

  “Still?”

  I can tell that’s the beer talking because he’s slurring his words. He seems to have forgotten the eternal wait that goes on in emergency rooms. Tasha’s not the only one I’ve taken to the hospital in my Jeep. I’ve driven Mike on a number of occasions when his face has gotten in the way of someone’s fist.

  “Gee, Mike. Tasha’s fine. Thanks so much for asking after her.”

  I know it’s stupid to get sarcastic with a drunk guy, but I’m seriously tired of this possessive-boyfriend act. The least he can do is think about his most recent girl toy. You’d think he’d care that Tasha has a broken nose.

  “Are you with her now?” he asks.

  “No. Her parents came. They dismissed me half an hour ago.”

  “And you’re still there?” His voice is whiny.

  What business is it of his how long I stay here? I glance down at Quinn’s blond curls in my lap, such a contrast to my jet-black skirt. Without thinking, I wind a strand around my finger and imagine us waking up together. Me, inundated with the smell of baby powder. Him, with his arms around me, his body cradling mine as he holds me against his stomach. Snap out of it, Kat! The fantasy is absurd. Thinking about it makes me feel weak.

  “I wanted a soda,” I say, looking at the vending machine in the corner.

  There’s a button for Pepsi, one for Sprite and another for bottled water. The machine beside it has snack foods in it. Doritos, Fritos, Pretzels, Twinkies—junk food filled with empty calories. Ever since Roland died, it’s the only kind of food I eat.

  “Come home. I want to see you,” he says, as if I’m a pet he can order around.

  “I’m not your girlfriend, Mike. And even if I was, I wouldn’t come running at your beck and call.”

  “It’s Walker, isn’t it?”

  “Quinn means nothing to me.” I say it out loud to convince myself it’s true, because nothing about Quinn feels fake right now. And because the emotional part of me still wants to believe he’s innocent.

  Then I shut my eyes and remember the breast milk in his refrigerator, the child bowls in his cupboard, the look of pure shame on his father’s face when I asked about the note on the counter.

  “Quinn’s a liar and a fraud,” I go on.

  “Do you want me to beat him up?” Mike asks, letting out a sinister laugh.

  “No!”

  “You gonna come home anytime soon, Alley Kat?”

  I sigh and glance at Quinn’s eyelashes, so long they’ve tangled in the corners. He looks peaceful with his eyes closed, peaceful and pure. It isn’t fair.

  “I don’t know. Just … go to bed, Mike. Don’t wait up for me. That stuff we did tonight.” I wave my hand in the air. “It doesn’t mean anything. Please don’t read anything into it.”

  “But you kissed me.”

  I’ve set him off. His voice gets louder and louder until I’m holding the phone as far away from me as possible. Forget the whales, someone needs to save my eardrums. I press end and turn off my phone, wondering what possessed me to tell him where I was? Gently, I put my hands under sleeping beauty’s head.

  “Oh my heck, Quinn. Did you actually fall asleep?” says a voice to my left.

  I look up. It’s a girl I’ve never seen before, with light brown hair and circles under her eyes. Her face is as pale as Quinn’s. She has the same straight nose, thick eyebrows and short, bitten-down nails as my lab partner. Is this his sister?
r />   She grabs Quinn by the shoulders, lowers her nose to his and yells, “Wake up lazy bones. I have news!”

  “Don’t do that,” I say, pushing back her forehead with the palm of my hand.

  I may not shy away from confrontation, but even I have limits. Punching one girl in the face was more than enough action for me tonight. I’d rather not have to do it twice. The fact that Quinn has slept through all this proves how tired he is.

  The girl straightens and puts her hands on her hips. “Who are you?”

  “Kat,” I say.

  “His physics partner?” How does she know? Before my brain starts working again, Quinn’s brunette twin starts talking.

  “Elijah’s fever broke. Quinn will want to know.”

  “Elijah?” The name sounds foreign as it rolls off my tongue.

  “Our precious little boy has an RSV infection. And if it weren’t for my brother—” She shuts her eyes, taking a moment to fan the tears leaking from the corners. “If it weren’t for him, Elijah might have died.”

  I nod.

  “Quinn will make a really good dad one day,” she says.

  Her words hit me like a slap.

  “So Elijah is … who’s child, exactly?”

  “Mine.” She says the word so loud it’s a wonder she doesn’t wake the whole hospital. Hell, people in Japan can probably hear her. “Quinn may watch Elijah, but I’m still his mother. His only solid, stable parent.”

  She continues in frantic, urgent tones, explaining why she’s a good mother while pacing with long strides around the lobby. For someone so convinced of her goodness, she’s awfully nervous. And not really stable, I think, as I watch her wring her hands. For a moment I think God has played a cruel joke on this family, giving the sister all the passion and the brother all the steadiness.

  “I didn’t mean to offend you,” I say in an attempt to smooth things over. “Quinn hasn’t mentioned his nephew. I was just clarifying.”

  She crosses her arms over her stomach. “Should I wake him up, or will you?”

  “Let him sleep,” I say, looking at her with new respect. Phrase your wishes as a request and people walk all over you. Phrase your wishes as an order and people listen. It’s one of the few things I’ve learned from my father. I wonder where Quinn’s sister learned it.