Crushed

by Dawn Rae Miller

  25

  As soon as we disembark at SFO, Dad heads straight to work, leaving Mom and me to deal with the luggage retrieval. Actually, we’re just sitting in our car, waiting for the driver to get the bags. Mom can’t be bothered to actually do it herself.

  I curl my hand around the worn strap of my backpack. Inside are three shell necklaces — one each for Paige, Calista, and Ellie. I wanted to get Ellie a little something, but worried it would be “non-friend-ish” if I didn’t give the other girls gifts too.

  “Are you sleepy?” Mom asks as her fingers fly across the keyboard of her phone. The “whoosh” sound of a sent email fills the space around us, and she slides her phone into her purse.

  I rub the back of my neck and pull my shoulders back, stretching the muscles across my chest. “A little. Flying always makes me groggy.”

  “You should go to bed when we get home. Try to get back on California time before Monday.”

  I nod. “I probably will.” Outside, the familiar winter rain pounds the car. “Dad working late?”

  “Most likely. He’s…” She hesitates. “Very busy right now.”

  When isn’t Dad very busy?

  “Do you want to have dinner with me before you turn in?” Mom asks.

  I pat my stomach. “Sounds good. Fill me up before you send me back to Harker and prison food.”

  Mom laughs. “Oh, Fletch. It’s not that bad.”

  ***

  Saturday, I hang out with my old friends. After a few unsuccessful hours trying to skate down the Arguello hill without flipping out into traffic or bailing, we call it quits and say our goodbyes since I’m heading back to Harker in the morning. With my skateboard tucked under my arm, I jog the four blocks up Washington to my house. As usual, the front rooms are lit up, but that doesn’t tell me if anyone is actually home.

  I enter through the side door and drop my board next to some fancy bench thing I’ve never seen anyone sit on. Some people have usable furniture and some people have random shit that never gets used. Most of our stuff falls in the later category.

  My stomach growls as I wander through the cavernous dining room to the kitchen. When I open the fridge, a plate with my name on it greets me. Hello, dinner.

  While the slightly Mediterranean-smelling chicken with olives reheats, I hit the bathroom. On my way back to the kitchen, I spy Mom folded into an oversized chair in the library. She’s sitting at an angle, her head turned toward the fire, blanket over her lap.

  “Mom,” I say softly in case she’s fallen asleep.

  She turns her head and blinks like she’s not entirely sure I’m real. Her eyes, red and swollen, focus on me.

  “Fletch?” Her voice wavers. “You’re home early. I thought you’d be out all night.”

  “It got too cold.”

  Her head moves in slow motion. There’s a bottle of red wine, nearly empty, sitting on the table next to her.

  “You okay?” Angry red splotches cover her neck.

  She tries to smile, at least I think that’s what she’s doing. Her lips twitch, and her chin crumples. “I’m fine, honey. Just fine.”

  No. Something isn’t right. Mom doesn’t drink herself into a sloppy mess before eight in the evening. At least not without Dad around.

  I sit on the leather couch across from her and put my feet on the low coffee table. Normally, she’d playfully reprimand me, telling me tables are not for feet, but she doesn’t even notice.

  “How is everyone?” Mom’s perfected the art of talking without saying much of anything. Kind of like Calista.

  “The same as always. Rich’s dad bought a Maserati and let him drive it the other day.” I wait from some reaction from her, anything that indicates interest, but there’s nothing. Only a blank stare into the fire.

  “Mom? You sure you’re okay?”

  “You’re a good boy, Fletch. The best. I couldn’t wish for a better son.” She turns her glazed eyes toward me.

  “Thanks.” The lines around her eyes are deeper than normal and, despite the warm glow of the fire, she’s unusually pale.

  I don't know what to do. Help her to bed? Offer her water or something to eat? Just let her keep drinking?

  Silence settles between us, and the fire cracks, sending sparks into the air.

  Mom rolls her wine glass between her palms before finishing the glass in a gulp. “When I look at you, I see Will at seventeen.”

  “I’m eighteen,” I correct.

  “That’s right, you’re an adult now.” She gestures to the bottle. “Help yourself.”

  Drinking with my mom is not high on my list of things to do right now. “No thanks.”

  She tops off her glass. “Do you still have a girlfriend?” Her words slur. Oh man, Mom is tossed. “Calista said you had a girlfriend. Emily was it?”

  “Her name is Ellie, and she’s just my friend.” But I wish she were more.

  “Right. I forgot ‘friend’ is the term we use now.” She uses air quotes for the word friend. Her high, thin chuckle sounds like resignation.

  I stand and offer her my arm. She needs to sleep this off. “Let me help you upstairs.”

  “Sit down. We’re not done talking.”

  I recoil, unaccustomed to the hard edge in her voice. Mom never speaks to me like that. She’s always upbeat. Always cheerful. “Where’s Dad? At work?”

  Her eyes narrow, and she leans forward. “Let me tell you about girls, Fletch. Calista would be good for you. She knows the rules. Unlike me, she was brought up with them.”

  “What rules? What are you talking about?”

  “The ones that allow men to cheat on their wives. We’re supposed to smile, pretend we don’t know, and keep quiet. But you.” She swings her glass toward me. Red wine sloshes over the side and onto her yoga pants. “You get to do whatever you want. Because you’re a boy. And that makes you. Very. Lucky.“

  Uneasiness grows in the pit of my stomach.

  “But women — we have to take what’s thrown at us. As long as our man brings home a paycheck, puts a roof over our head, and takes care of our kids — we can’t complain. Doesn’t matter how much we sacrifice to keep everything running smoothly, or how hard it is to be perfect all the time. No. None of it matters as long as our husbands can go off and conquer businesses, sports, women. It’s all the same.”

  Some undefined feeling nibbles at the edges of my mind, and bile rises in my gut. “Mom, I think you need to stop drinking. Let me help you to bed.”

  “I’m not tired, Fletch.” She slumps back into the chair. “Don’t treat me like I don’t matter. I was here first. Don’t you understand that? Me.”

  I have no idea what she’s rambling about. Woman’s lib or feminism, or what?

  I slip my hand around her forearm and try pulling her up, but she won’t budge.

  The way she slumps in the chair, the wine, everything about her screams defeat. “C’mon, Fletch. You’re not a dense boy. Open your eyes.” Her words hammers the sore spot growing in my brain.

  “Mom, stop it. You’re not making sense.” I offer her my hand again. “Please, let me help you upstairs.”

  She crosses her arms across her chest like she’s trying to hold herself together. “Are you listening to me? I’m telling you your dad — the great Will Colson — has a hard time keeping his pants zipped up. He has a thing for fucking the cheap whores who work for him.”

  Time stops. Neither of us move. Mom’s hurt gaze latches onto mine like she’s afraid to let go. I’m trying to rewind, back up, and start over. Skip the part where she accuses Dad of adultery.

  The microwave gives a reminder chirp and snaps me out of my trance.

  No. Not my dad. Not my parents. She’s drunk. That’s all. “Dad loves you. I’ve seen the two of you together.”

  Mascara-black tears roll down her face as she pulls the blanket back over her lap. “He does. I know he does. He just likes fooling around more.”

  Mom’s blond hair clings to the damp spots on her
face. How many times have I heard her described as stunning? She’s everything most guys claim to find attractive. And she’s brilliant. She graduated summa cum laude. So why isn’t it enough for Dad? What the fuck is wrong with him? Or is she just crazy?

  Is everyone insane?

  “Stop it.” My words come out haltingly. “Stop it. Dad is not screwing around on you. He’s not. Why are you saying this?”

  She wobbles when she stands, and I grab onto her, not to steady her, but myself. Mom leans against me, her head on my shoulder.

  “Fletch, I know this is hard to hear. But he is. He always has. Since we were kids. But I knew as long as he came back to me, I couldn’t complain, because at the end of the day, what matters is that he comes home to me. To us. Doesn’t make it hurt less though.”

  My body trembles. No fucking way. No way. She’s wrong. Dad loves her. I saw them in Hawaii. I’ve seen the way he smiles at her.

  “You’re drunk,” I accuse before shoving her away and stumbling into the hallway. My feet carry me to the kitchen where the microwave flashes, reminding me of my abandoned dinner, but I keep going, out the door and into the gray San Francisco night.

  She’s just drunk. That’s all. Mom doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Tomorrow she’ll apologize.

  But what if it’s true? And if it is, why does she put up with it?

  Anger tears through me as I sprint down the steep hill to Jackson Street and to Calista’s house. My heart is crushed, like an elephant has tapped danced all over it.

  When I press the bell, the front door flies open as if the person on the other side expected me. “Fletch! Come in, Calista’s upstairs.“

  I storm past Catherine and take the stairs two at a time.

  At the landing, I turn right toward Cal’s room. Her door is open, so I don’t bother to knock. Just step in and close it behind me, turning the lock like I always do.

  She’s stretched out on her bed, stomach side down, working on one of her scrapbooks.

  A jar of sparkly things rolls onto the floor. “Hey,” she says, sitting up. “This is a surprise.”

  I don’t want to talk. If I do, I’m not sure what I’ll say. I stride across the room and press her into my heaving chest. Right now, I need a different emotion, something less angry. I lean down and search for her lips. Cal gives a surprised gasp before surrendering and kissing me back.

  My fingers slip just beneath the waistband of her skintight jeans and run over her hipbones. Her warm skin is soft and perfect.

  I need to lose myself. Just for a little while.

  Calista runs her hands under my shirt and up my back. Every time she touches me, I relax a little more. When I move my lips to her neck, she pushes me down on the bed. She scampers to the other side, and crawls, ass held high, toward me. I watch the way her hips swing, and my heart accelerates. When she reaches me, she shoves her scrapbook supplies to the ground and climbs on me, pinning me beneath her thighs.

  “Hello to you too.” She uses her sexy voice — one that’s deeper and huskier than normal.

  Her breath warms my cheek. Her fingers play with my hair.

  It feels so wrong.

  The memory of my parents, running up the hill in Hawaii, flits through my mind. That’s what Cal and I will be like in twenty years. It’s what we’re supposed to be.

  I can’t do that to Cal. She deserves better.

  I twist out from under her and fall to the floor.

  “What’s wrong?” She leans over the edge of the bed to where I lie prone, staring at the tray ceiling.

  “Is this what you want?”

  She giggles. “What I want is for you to get your ass back up here and do what I know you’re so good at.”

  I roll my head back and forth. “And after that? What then?”

  Cal rests her cheek on the edge of the mattress. Her fingers play with the bottom of my t-shirt. Every so often, she traces her fingernail over my torso. My eyes flutter shut and warmth spreads from the point of contact to the rest of my body.

  “We go back to school like we always do.”

  She slinks down the side of the bed and places my finger in her mouth, nibbling on it and running her tongue over it in a way that suggests something else all together.

  When I don’t protest, Calista climbs onto my lap; her legs wrap around me, her tits are in my face, and she grinds on my lap.

  God help me.

  Instinct takes over, and I run my hands up the back of her thighs. “Take off your clothes,” I order.

  With a grin, Cal pulls her sweater off so that she only reveals one new inch of skin at a time. With a final tug, she yanks it over her head and drops it on me. Her tits are amazing in a red push-up bra. Like two sizes bigger.

  I point at her jeans, and as she stands over me and unbuttons them, I wonder how she’ll wiggle out of them without help. But she does, and I admire the barely-there matching panties she wears.

  Has a hard time keeping his pants zipped up. My stomach flops. Over and over again. Puke burns my throat. I can’t shake this shitty feeling – not even with Cal standing half-naked in front of me.

  Don’t think, Fletch. Just do.

  Cal wraps her hands in my hair and tugs on it until my face tilts up toward hers. Her lips move over mine, softly, so softly I want to cry and beg for more. Pulses of heat travel under her hand as she runs it down my neck, onto my arm, and finally, across my chest.

  I crush her body to mine.

  “Please Cal, please.” Please stop me. Tell me no. Stand up for yourself.

  My shirt and sweater get tossed somewhere. Her trail of kisses covers my stomach and chest.

  Enough of this. I push her backward and yank off her panties.

  I stand and with one hand, unfasten my pants and let them drop around my knees. She moans and her eyes look a little wild. When I sink down, she digs her fingernails into the backs of my thighs and thrusts her hips toward me. I grab hold of her ass as Cal twists her slim legs around me, pulling me closer.

  And then, she sighs. Instead of lust or longing, I see anxiety, hurt, resignation.

  “Why do you let me do this?” I ask.

  The corners of her mouth turn up. “Because it feels good.”

  I shift back. “You know I fuck around with other girls. Why do you put up with it?”

  She reaches for me, and I allow myself to be pulled back toward her. She rubs against me, and I ache in all the right places. “Because you like me. You always come back to me.”

  I blink. My mom’s words mingle with Cal’s. I force my eyes shut and flip her over so she can’t see the tears. I can’t cry. Not in front of Cal.

  Fight me, Cal. Tell me ‘no’. Don’t give into me all the time. Don’t accept this.

  She arches her back and flashes a smile over her shoulder as she reaches for me.

  When her cold hand touches me, I gasp.

  I should stop her. I should tell her no. But I never do.

  I’m just like my dad.

  26

  I don’t go home. I can’t. Instead, I nuzzle Calista’s hair and breathe her in. Her body curves perfectly to mine, like it belongs there.

  Regret and elation battle inside me. I’ve missed her. God, how I’ve missed her. I need to make things right between us – not this bullshit we have going on at school. At the same time, I wish I didn’t do what we just did.

  How messed up is it that her mom knows I’m here? She knows I’ve just spent the night in Calista’s locked bedroom, and no one — not Tomas or Catherine came by to check on us. Or to ask me to leave.

  The clock glares the time at me: three in the morning.

  Next to me, Cal tucks my arm back around her. “What’s wrong?” she asks groggily.

  “Nothing.” She wiggles a little, getting comfortable again, and falls back to sleep.

  Sitting in the dark, with only Cal’s soft breathing keeping me company, my mind whirls.

  If I loved her, really loved her, then I wouldn’t hook
-up with all those other girls. I wouldn’t be into Ellie.

  Fuck. Am I into Ellie? I disentangle my arm and roll over.

  Yeah, I like her. More than a friend. That kiss…

  Cal locks her bare leg around mine, like she knows I’m lying in bed with her and thinking about Ellie. God. I’m a fucking asshole.

  I lie with my arm curled behind my head until the sun peeks through the windows, then slip out of bed, put my clothes back on, give Cal a kiss on the forehead, and leave.

  No one’s awake at my place. That’s not surprising since both Mom and Dad sleep late. Part of me wants to leave for school now. Just dump my bag in the car and go.

  Since I’m awake, I shower and change into clean clothes. Part of me wants to storm into Mom and Dad’s room and rip him out of bed and demand answers. How can he do this to her?

  But what does it matter? Mom obviously doesn’t give a fuck. Not with the way she keeps taking him back. She’s almost as pathetic as he is.

  I turn on my phone to check the time. I’m supposed to pick Cal up around ten — three hours from now.

  I’m going to go crazy waiting.

  My phone vibrates. A text from Brady. Figures – he’s on East Coast time. “Sitting next to the hottest girl. Going to try for the mile high club.”

  I’m not in the mood for his testosterone-fueled antics and shove the phone into my pocket without replying.

  Even though I have no appetite, I stomp downstairs to the kitchen, not caring if I wake up my parents. My dinner from last night is still in the microwave. How awesome.

  From the pantry, I grab a box of bran flakes. Not my normal choice, but I doubt anything will taste good right now. Not with the sour-acid taste that’s been in my mouth since Mom went crazy.

  And I’m right. Even with Mom’s favorite organic, glass-jar milk, the mealy flakes tastes like cardboard. And vomit.

  Screw this. I drop the full bowl into the sink, not bothering to rinse it out. That’s what we have staff for.

  I have to get out of here. I punch in Cal’s number and pace the perimeter of the kitchen while it rings.

  “Hey,” she says. From the way her voices fades, I can tell I woke her up.