That Night

by Cyn Balog

  Kane’s door was closed. He and Luisa had finally stopped dancing around the subject and gotten together. They’d escaped in there an hour ago, which probably meant they were doing what we were not. Sometimes, I’d hear his headboard bang against the wall and think of him on top of her.

  Declan cornered me in the hallway and kissed my neck. He stroked my cheek. “You’re mad?”

  “A little. You’re driving me crazy.”

  “Well, hell. That’s the best place to be,” he said with a little smirk, the smirk that made it impossible to hate him. All the while, he kept stroking my cheek, contemplating my every feature.

  “You know what’s going to happen, don’t you?” I murmured. “I want to go to school and start a career and get established and then have a lavish wedding with a billion of our closest friends. But we’re not going to be able to wait for that. So we’re going to get married the second we turn eighteen, while we’re poor and stupid. I don’t want to get married like that, Dec. All because of God’s rule? It doesn’t make sense.”

  His face turned about as sour as it could get, which wasn’t very. “It’s not stupid, Hail. We can still do everything we want to do. We simply get to do them as man and wife.”

  Man and wife. I cringed. I was sixteen, and in no way could I imagine myself married in less than two years. Married was, like, true adulthood—like, pay your own taxes and stop raiding your parents’ refrigerator. “But you’re against birth control, right? I don’t want to…”

  “I’ve been reading up on it. It’s called the rhythm method, and it seems to work,” he said. Then he kissed my forehead, tucked a strand of hair behind my head. “You’re too good, putting up with me. You could go and find someone else in a second.”

  “Stop it. You know I don’t want anyone else.”

  He grinned. “But it hardly seems fair. I don’t have to put up with you. You’re perfect. My dream girl.”

  I smiled. How could I be angry at him? He always knew the right thing to say.

  “You look upset, though. What’s wrong?”

  I’d gotten good at opening up to him. Whenever he talked, I took it for granted that he was telling me every last thing on his mind, no secrets. I knew I could never do the same. There were thoughts in my head that would make him hate me, and whenever I looked upset, it was always because of that. I lied and told him my old standby. “My parents have been screaming at each other all day.”

  He nodded. It wasn’t the first time I’d told him about my parents’ bickering. Otherwise, he never would have known. They did a good job of keeping up appearances.

  “I wish they’d get divorced,” I mumbled.

  He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. He never offered judgment, but I swore sometimes I could see it on his face.

  “I mean, they’ve tried therapy. They’ve tried everything. They’ve changed. Grown apart. I look at the pictures of them from when I was a baby, and they don’t even look like the same people.”

  “Why are you arguing with me? I didn’t say anything.”

  “I’m not.” I guess my voice had been steadily rising. “I just… People change.”

  He contemplated this and then reached out, smoothing the wrinkle on my forehead. “Nothing will change with us, Hail. I know that.”

  My face blazed. I didn’t mean to get louder and more defensive. I took a breath. “I walked in on them once. While they were, you know. I was, like, ten.”

  He straightened my collar. I could nearly see the blush on his face. There was empathy, and then there was Declan’s empathy. He could identify with my emotions so deeply that I could see them written on his face. “That must have been awkward for all parties involved.”

  “They didn’t even notice,” I said, thinking back to that day. “But I’ll never forget it. The way my mom looked. She was just lying there, staring at the ceiling with these dead eyes, as if she’d rather be anywhere else. It made me wonder if she ever liked it.”

  “Ah. It made you wonder if you would like it. Or if you would be the same as her,” he corrected.

  I swallowed. He knew me too well. “That’s not true. I mean, you touch me, even innocently, and I…” My voice trailed off.

  Declan straightened, suddenly acutely interested. “You what, exactly?”

  I glare at him.

  “So if I… I don’t know,” he said, studying my body. “Did this…?”

  He reached out and touched my elbow.

  I giggled.

  “Or say, if I did this…” He ran a finger down my thigh to my knee.

  I nodded. Then I pointed to the field of goose bumps there. “See?”

  He looked up and breathed the hair out of his face. “That’s sweet. Hell, you make it so hard. In more ways than one.”

  I pulled him onto me, and we kissed some more, until I could feel just how hard I made it. Finally, I became so frustrated that I said, “There are other things we can do. You know?”

  He sighed against me. “Yeah. I know. But that’s all…lust. This is love. This is bigger than that.”

  My spirit sank. “Oh.”

  He pulled away and looked at me, surprised. “You want to?”

  I thought I could see disgust behind his eyes. So I said, “No. I just thought you might.”

  He pursed his lips together and shook his head. “No. No. I’m good.”

  Fantastic, I thought bitterly. But then I thought of my mother. I thought of Kane, on top of me. Knowing what I knew of sex, why did I fill so many hours thinking about it?

  Speak of the devil. Just then, Kane’s door swung open. He was only wearing boxers and unabashedly scratching his crotch. He ambled toward us, to the bathroom door. “As you were, soldiers,” he mumbled, yawning.

  Declan watched him, then averted his eyes, embarrassed. Sometimes it was hard to believe two people living under the same roof could be so different.

  Monday, February 25

  Shady Harbor was kind of like preschool. There were people constantly following us around to make sure we showered and ate and wiped ourselves. We’d have assignments each day like, Draw a picture of you in your favorite place! If you could dream of being anything, what would it be? Even though I was in the teen ward, and even though I had a tutor to help me with my schoolwork so I wouldn’t fall behind, I felt like a toddler. That was good, because even on my best days, my mind was so consumed by Declan that I struggled to find the will to brush my teeth.

  “Thinking is what kills us,” Juliet had said. “So the trick is filling your time. Fill your time with tasks, even menial ones, and you won’t dwell so much on potentially damaging thoughts.”

  She was right. My first nights there were the longest. They’d stripped the drawstrings out of my sweatpants and taken the razor from my toiletries bag. Left alone, all I’d done was stare up at the ceiling and think of him. I thought of him with such intensity that my retinas might have burned his image on the water-stained ceiling over my bed.

  And I wanted to die too.

  “You need to make a plan,” she’d told me. “Imagine yourself in another year. What do you want to happen? Where do you want to be?”

  But I couldn’t see myself anywhere without Declan.

  Eventually, they got me sewing Christmas stockings for disadvantaged kids during free time. I went to therapy classes where I had to put my thoughts and feelings into artwork. At group, we didn’t talk so much about what was bothering us, but about who we were, what we liked, what we were hoping to get back to. I started filling trays with food I liked to eat instead of being force-fed disgusting mac and cheese.

  I started to learn how to live for myself. And I started to make that plan. But it didn’t really formulate in my mind until I saw that picture. THIS ENDS HERE.

  I am better, miles better than I’d been. But it will never be good enough. Not until th
ings are set right. And maybe not even then.

  But I should try, right? For Declan, I should try.

  “Mrs. Weeks went into labor last night,” my father tells me as I come downstairs. “Bill asked me to keep an eye on the house while they’re at the hospital.”

  “Oh,” I say. Mr. Weeks never seemed to trust Kane with that. Not that Kane ever burned the house down. If Declan had been around, Mr. Weeks wouldn’t have worried for a second. “I’m going to get ready for school.”

  He laughs. “You haven’t looked outside, have you?”

  I raise an eyebrow, then stumble to the nearest window. There’s a fine blanket of snow on the ground. Hallelujah.

  “We’re supposed to get blizzard conditions later. The weather’s calling for two feet.”

  Hallelujah, even more. That means no school, likely, for the next few days. Excitement wells inside me, which I quickly squelch when I think of Juliet. The trick is filling your time.

  The plan inside me feels like it’s dangling from a very thin string, ready to snap. Exactly what will I fill my time with, cooped up inside for the next few days?

  I go up to my room and slide under the covers, wiggling the Cheez-It crumbs between my toes. Then I peek over the side of the bed at the dust ruffle. My heart buckles. Sweat slides down my rib cage.

  I’m not actually going to do the one thing guaranteed to make me bawl, am I?

  Juliet’s voice again: It might be therapeutic.

  I lift the dust ruffle and root around under the bed, feeling the hard edges of the cardboard box. Taking a deep breath, I yank back one of the flaps and reach inside. My fingertips come in contact with the rough pages of a book, a marled leather cover.

  I know this. There can be nothing more innocent. I pull it out and study the words inked in gold on the front: HOLY BIBLE.

  I swallow. This book has been responsible for saving countless lives, right? Why do I feel so unprotected?

  He’d kept it in the glove compartment of his truck. He’d carried it around school, unabashed. Sometimes I’d go to his room and see him studying it, yellow highlighter in hand.

  Highlighter.

  I’d never opened the book before. When I flip it open, the first thing I notice is the lines of fluorescent yellow. Many of them. I knew he’d always relied on these words to solve problems and answer questions both big and small, as if the book were a Magic 8 Ball or something. He’d told me the story of his dad once, while he’d cradled this book in his lap. He’d said the Bible was responsible for saving his life.

  My eyes fall upon something highlighted from Corinthians. For some reason, this line is highlighted in bright purple:

  “Do you not know that the unrighteous will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived; neither the immoral, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor sexual perverts, nor thieves, nor the greedy, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor robbers will inherit the kingdom of God.”

  My hands are marking the cover with sinner’s sweat, a shame considering he’d probably touched this cover a million times. The binding’s pristine, and there’s not a dog-eared page in sight. He cared for this as much as he cared for me. Maybe more.

  My hands shake. Forget it. I snap the Bible closed and slide it back under the bed. I change into a thermal shirt and jeans and lace up my boots.

  I know exactly what to do.

  Outside, I grab the shovel and get started. Who cares if we’re expecting two feet more? This is what they call getting ahead of the weather. I can shovel all week, if I have to. It’ll be good for me. Fresh air, exertion. This will be great. Filling my time.

  Each time the snow pummels my face in the icy wind, I only think about how much Declan, gentle Californian soul that he was, used to hate the snow. He was so right. Snow blows. I get the entire driveway done, and all the way around the court sidewalk to the Weeks house, without hardly exerting myself. Snow falls steadily the whole time, so when I turn around, everything is coated in white again.

  Do you not know that the unrighteous will not inherit the kingdom of God?

  Declan never once preached to anyone. He was conscious of sin, worked hard to avoid it and do good. But he only had these expectations for himself. He never faulted anyone else.

  “He felt guilty about something,” I find myself whispering as Kane comes outside.

  He’s wearing an inadequate coat, open, collar pushed up to his ears, once again saying eff you to the weather. He closes his eyes, and the snowflakes land on his eyelashes. “What?”

  “Declan. Don’t you understand? If he’d had a problem, he would’ve prayed. What he did is a mortal sin. The worst of the worst. He wouldn’t have done it, and you know it.”

  Kane’s fist, the one that’s holding his coat closed, is white-knuckled. “Maybe he wasn’t as perfect as you remember.”

  I throw the shovel down. “I don’t remember a lot. So what’s that supposed to mean?”

  For the first time, I notice he’s holding two sledding saucers: one his, one Declan’s. Not that Declan ever used his. “It means, stop asking me to talk about him. Please. Let’s go have fun.”

  I snort. “Remember what happened the last time you wanted me to have fun?”

  He grins. “This time, there’s no alcohol involved. Come on.” He inspects my shoveling job and laughs. “Talk about an exercise in futility.”

  I follow him, head down, to the retention pond. When we get there, we duck under the fence. When the pond is iced over, the hill sloping down to it is perfect for sledding. It’s steep but not breakneck, and once you hit the ice, you can glide and glide for ages, straight over to the tree line on the other side. The two of us used to sled together, then go inside and drink hot cocoa, where Declan would be waiting for us, all warm and snug, reading.

  “You’re going to be a big brother soon,” I say as we survey the hill for a place to push off.

  “Yep,” he mumbles. He hasn’t talked about the baby much. Maybe he feels the way I do: that his parents are trying to replace Declan.

  Talk about an exercise in futility.

  Kane hands me a saucer. I’m not sure if it’s his or Declan’s—they were both the same red color with the camouflage pad on the center, and both look fairly new despite the fact that Kane got more use of his. I set it down next to his and drop to kneeling as he does the same. “Ready? One. Two. Three!”

  As usual, he pushes hard and ends up halfway down the hill before I even start to pick up speed. He hoots as he hits the ice and starts to glide, leaving a trail in the snow. Somehow, my saucer crosses over and ends up exactly in his wake, following him. I’m flying at a breakneck pace. Everything around me is a blur. My hair is wet and in my face, and I’m numb. Then, suddenly, the weirdest thing happens. I open my mouth and start to shriek.

  But I’m not scared. For the first time in so long, my cheek muscles pull into what’s got to be a smile, because it hurts so much from lack of use. I’m exhilarated.

  Being bigger, Kane coasts to a stop well before the other side of the pond. He crouches, watching me. At first, he’s far enough away that I’m not worried about crashing into him. But I’m so surprised to be happy that I lose control. And I’m nearly on top of him before I realize I’m not sure how to stop. He expects me to figure it out, maybe to put out a hand, dig my toes into the ice, or pull back on the rope like they’re reins, but I don’t. Instead, I catch his shocked expression as he manages to rip his hands out of his pockets to hold me back. I barrel into his feet, and for a second, I’m flying, weightless, before my hands and body come in contact with his wall of a chest, pushing him down flat on his back.

  Then I’m on top of him. Breathless, laughing.

  His astonishment at seeing me this way transforms to some other emotion, which I can’t make out through my joy. I only realize his arms are around me when I feel the pressure of his hands, pulling my face
toward him. He kisses me.

  And I kiss him.

  Alive. Finally, I feel alive.

  I’m not sure how it happens. One moment, we’re kissing in the center of the retention pond. The next moment, the sleds are abandoned, and we’re in his foyer. Cold and warm, numb and buzzing—I feel everything at once. He hasn’t let go of my hand. He’s still kissing me, but now he’s pulling off my coat. I push his from his shoulders to the floor, then raise his shirt over his head. His skin is red and damp from sweat and snow.

  He kisses me again. “You know I’ve always wanted this,” he murmurs.

  “I did too,” I tell him, because I have to say something in answer.

  “You did?”

  What? Was that the wrong thing to say?

  He pulls away and inspects me, looking for a trace of irony. “Because last time, I mean, I thought…”

  Oh, enough with the talking! There was a time, long ago, when I was dying to know what he’d thought about that day, if he’d even remembered it. But now I silence him with an open-mouth kiss, hard, demanding. When his fingers dance noncommittally at the hem of my shirt, I push him off me and yank my thermal shirt over my head, much to his astonishment. Words bubble on my tongue. Come on, come on.

  I kick aside the piles of clothes and pull him toward the staircase. I won’t look up at the bedroom at the end of the hall, even if it has been repainted and redecorated as a nursery. Instead, I go up the stairs backward, drawing him up by his belt buckle. He keeps trying to kiss me, but I don’t want to. Not until we’re in his bedroom. When we’re there, I fall down on his bed, and he’s on top of me, kissing my stomach and undoing my jeans. I reach behind my back and unclasp my bra, then toss it to the side.

  He peels my jeans off my hips.

  Same room. Same boy. And yet, this is nothing like my first time.

  I look around the room as he fumbles around in his night table for a condom. I haven’t been in here in years, I think. Or have I? I can’t remember. He has so many more trophies that they’ve metastasized onto every available surface. On the walls, banners for schools he’ll never be able to attend without a baseball scholarship, but not much else. Kane wasn’t neat, but he was never sentimental. There isn’t a trace of his girlfriend here at all.