by JA Huss
She was neglected. Somehow, some way.
The door is unlocked when I try the knob and when I enter, there’s Christmas music playing and the remnants of wrapping paper and boxes all over the living room floor.
We give her the real presents on Christmas Eve, but Bric came back up here early this morning while she was still sleeping and stacked dozens of presents under her tree.
We got her toys.
A dollhouse, Barbies, sparkling, glittery craft kits, a stereo—people don’t get those anymore, but it was something you asked for at Christmas as a teenager back in the day. We got her a diary, and some Lego sets. All the things she missed out on growing up.
“Chella?” I call into the apartment. She’s nowhere to be seen.
“Back here!” A faint yell from the bedroom.
I walk down the hallway and enter the bedroom, find it empty. “Chella? Where are you?”
“Up here!” she calls again, this time louder. “In the closet.”
“In the closet?” I walk over to the closet—hers, not ours—and peek inside. “What the fuck?”
Chella’s head pops out from the attic door in the ceiling. “Hey. Come up here.”
“What are you doing?” I ask. “Where the hell did this ladder come from?”
“It’s an attic, Quin. And it’s my present to you.” She smiles, her head hanging upside down, her dark hair falling over her shoulders. “Come on. I’m dying to show you this. I’ve been keeping it a secret for a week and I can’t take it anymore.”
I climb up the steep attic ladder and peek inside as she scoots away and backs up against a small circular window at the far end of the room, her head outlined by the lights around the gold dome of the capitol building. “What the fuck is all this?”
“What does it look like?” Chella asks. “Or, who does it look like?”
I take it all in. A small shabby Christmas tree is lit up on the opposite end as Chella. It’s decorated with white lights and ornaments made of old paper. There’s dozens of vintage suitcases stacked around the perimeter walls. Those little hand-cases women used to carry makeup and toiletries in back in the Fifties and Sixties. And there’s a fuzzy pink rug on the floor.
“It looks like… Rochelle,” I say, sadness filling my heart.
“It is Rochelle,” Chella says. “I found this place by accident last week. And even I saw it immediately. She came up here, I guess. Her little secret room. Her little private life. And I don’t think Bric knows about it.”
“No,” I say, crawling across the rug and sitting cross-legged in front of Chella. “He’d have thrown it all away if he did.”
“Yeah, that’s why I didn’t tell him. I figure all this stuff belongs to you. And look,” she says, crawling over to an old record player, the kind that comes in a case. “There’s music too.” She flips a switch and the turn table begins to spin. When she lifts the arm and places the needle on the 45 record, it starts to play Blue Christmas.
“Fuck,” I say.
Chella frowns. “Is this making you sad? I didn’t want to make you sad.”
“No,” I say, laying back on the rug and closing my eyes, two fingers massaging my temple to drive away the headache I feel coming. “I’m not sad.”
I’m devastated. I just don’t want it to show.
“I miss her so fucking much.”
Chella crawls over to me and lies down. She wraps an arm around my waist and places her head against my chest. “I’m sorry she left. And I wish I knew where she went. Because I’d tell you, Quin. I promise, I would.”
I slip an arm under her and start playing with her hair as I imagine all the nights Rochelle and I spent together listening to these old records. “Blue Christmas. That’s pretty much how I feel right now.”
“Open your eyes and look up,” Chella says.
I do. And on the ceiling is… a work of art. “Jesus,” I whisper. “What is all that?”
“Her,” Chella says. “She has a thing for dandelions.”
I get a stabbing pain in my heart. “I used to pick her dandelions every summer. Whole bouquets of them. When they were yellow, she’d put them in a vase.” And there on the ceiling is the vase filled with our weedy flowers. “And then in late summer I’d pick her wishes.” I smile at that thought. “Millions of wishes.”
Chella points to the ceiling. “Like that?”
It’s a self-portrait of Rochelle. She’s not a painter—as least, not as far as I knew—but it resembles her enough for me to recognize her. She’s blowing the wishes away.
“What was her wish, Quin? Did she ever tell you?”
“Her wish…” I say, thinking about it. It has been so long since we thought of our relationship in terms of the arrangement. “Her wish was to… belong to someone.”
We sigh together. “I think that might be my wish too,” Chella says.
“Really?” I ask, turning my head so I can see her in profile.
“Yeah. Bric and Smith have both asked me, but I don’t feel like telling them.”
“But you’ll tell me?”
She nods slowly. “I like telling you things. You tell me things, I tell you things. You’re the perfect Number Two, Quin. Easy to love, just like Smith said. And easy to laugh with too.”
“I like you too, Chella. And if I had my way, we’d stay in this arrangement forever.”
“But we won’t, will we?”
“No,” I say. “It never lasts.”
More sighing from both of us. “What’s all that writing?” I ask, pointing to the ceiling.
“It’s a song,” Chella says. “An old church song. I’ll Fly Away. Have you ever heard it?”
I shake my head. Sick. So sick for not knowing this about the girl I loved.
“I can play it,” Chella says. “She has the record.”
When I say nothing Chella gets up on her knees and crawls over to the record player. Anything is better than Blue Christmas. She takes that record off, plops a new record on, and then starts the music with a loud crackling noise.
Then she crawls back to me and lies back down. Points to the ceiling. “The words are up there. She wrote them all out.”
I follow along with the song, reading her words, dying inside.
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” I ask.
“No,” Chella says softly, leaning into me to kiss my cheek. “I don’t think so.”
“That song is about dying, Chella. Whatever this is, whatever reason she had for doing all this. She did it as a goodbye.”
Chella lets out a long exhale. “She left, so that is a goodbye. But I don’t think she left to kill herself, Quin.”
“The song is about death,” I say, too loud.
“I didn’t know her well, Quin. Not at all, hardly. But if there’s one thing I understood about Rochelle, it’s that she’s not a literal person. She’s an artist. A musician. Maybe a painter and a poet. But she didn’t write out those lyrics on the ceiling as a premonition of her suicide. She wrote as them as a memorial to your love.”
“So our love is dead.” That doesn’t help.
“Maybe it’s just a new beginning?” Chella asks. “Maybe she just wanted out of this arrangement? Did that ever occur to you?”
“Then why not tell me?” I ask, turning my head to look at Chella. “Why just… pick up and leave? She knew the rules.”
“Maybe I don’t know all the rules of Taking Turns, Quin. But it’s my understanding that once you walk out, there’s no turning back.”
I don’t answer.
“So maybe she left to end the game and give the two of you a chance to start over?”
“I’m supposed to look for her?” I want to throw up. “And I didn’t. She’s been gone for a month. She could be anywhere. She probably thinks—”
“She probably thinks it’s gonna take a while for you to sort it all out, Quin. So don’t jump to conclusions.”
The song ends and the needle plays endless static as it jumps the open space at
the center of the record.
“I think this is over now,” I say.
“Yeah,” Chella says in a low, sad whisper. “I think so too.”
We lie there in the static of nothingness for a little longer. And then Chella gets up and crawls over to the record player again, picking up the needle and turning it off. “Come on,” she says, tugging on my hand. “Let’s go to sleep.”
She climbs down from the attic and I follow a few second later. She’s changing out of her dress and into a t-shirt and shorts. I walk across the hall, into the closet I share with Bric and Smith, and slowly undress until I’m only wearing gray boxer briefs.
Chella is waiting for me in bed, holding the covers open so I can climb in. I flip off the light and then pull her close.
“Merry Christmas,” she says, holding on to me tight.
“Merry Christmas, Chella,” I say, hugging her back.
We sleep like that. Clutching each other like we don’t want to let go.
But we both know it’s time to let go.
Chapter Thirty-Three - Smith
“So tonight?” I’m trying my best to be cool with this, but I’m not cool with this.
“That’s what she told Quin.”
Chella made herself very clear the other night. She wants to experience the four of us together. The quad, as we like to call it. And I’ll admit, this was my aim as well when we first started the game.
But I’m not sure anymore.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Bric says. “And I don’t think it’s fair.”
“No,” I say. “You wouldn’t. Because you want this.”
“You want it too.”
“I did, now… now so much.”
Bric throws up his hands. We’re sitting in my bar at the Club. Quin and Chella are out… doing something fun today. “So back out, Smith. Call the game. End it. We won’t care if you do.”
I know he won’t. Quin, maybe. But Bric’s not a grudge holder. He’s not invested in very much, if you ask me. But who asked me?
“We’ll get over it. Find a new girl.”
“I don’t want a new girl, Bric. I’m out.”
He doesn’t bother throwing up his hands. He doesn’t even shrug. “So do it. Leave. But she wants it, Smith. And that’s the only thing that matters at this point. She wants it. So you better think about that. If you call the game she might be mad at you.”
“Then maybe that’s how it has to be?”
“Maybe you’re just being juvenile?”
“Maybe I’m just in love?”
“Maybe she’s not in love with you back?”
Burn. “She is,” I say. But I’m not really as sure as I sound.
“How many ways can I explain this to you, Smith? Let’s use Rochelle as an example. She left. Why?”
“She was done?”
“With Quin?” he asks. “I don’t think so. She left to end the game and start over. Quin told me Chella found some secret room up in the attic of her apartment. Rochelle’s secret room. There’s a lot of stuff up there about starting over. Rochelle had to leave the game in order to do that. It doesn’t mean she never cared about me or you and it doesn’t mean she’s not in love with Quin. It means… The game. Is. Over. That’s it. I’m almost positive she’s coming back. Not to us, but to Quin. She just needs to sort things out first.”
“Chella isn’t Rochelle. Not even close. She’s not… weird, for one. And she’s not desperate for anything.”
“How do you know?”
I’m irritated. “What do you mean how do I know? Chella is fucking wealthy. Probably has more money in her trust fund that you make in ten years. She’s loaded.”
“And you, of all people, understand that money isn’t happiness.”
“So what is she desperate for?” I ask. “I’m interested, Bric. I am. So if you know something—”
“I don’t know anything except she’s here, Smith. With all three of us… Perfectly willing to go along with the rules and play the game. And she wants to finish it. I’m betting you money this is over in a week. So why not let her get what she came for and then you can both skip out and start over?”
I’m silent as I think this through. “What if we can’t start over?” I ask him. “What if, after we finish the game, I can’t let it go?”
“Then you’re a dumbass.”
I sigh.
“You’re a dumbass because she’s not in love with me, Smith. She’s not in love with Quin. If she’s interested in any of us, it’s you. And, while I’m in the mood to let it all out, I’ll just say it would be completely one hundred percent selfish of you to deny her the end she’s looking for. She’s here. She needs it to end the way she envisioned it in her mind. If she doesn’t get that, who’s to say she won’t go looking somewhere else?”
I can’t even picture that in my head. Not because I can’t picture Chella doing it, but because I would kill someone.
“If this is what she wants,” Bric continues. His tone is softer now. More understanding. “Isn’t it better to let her do it with us than complete strangers?”
I let out a frustrated breath of air.
“She’s got problems. We all know that. And she’s working them out using us and the game to do it. Don’t take it personally, Smith. It’s not about you right now. It’s about her. Let her do it her own way, in her own time.”
“I’m jealous,” I admit. “I’m fucking jealous.”
“Of me?” He laughs. “Of Quin? Why?”
“I don’t want you to touch her.”
He turns his head away, done with me. “Do what you want. But you’re being shortsighted. She already belongs to you and if you need Quin and me to defer to you tonight, we will.”
He looks back at me. Stares hard at me.
“You’d let me run things? Somehow I can’t picture that.”
“I don’t care, Smith. That’s the part you refuse to see. I do not care. I just want a good, dirty fuck with you, and Quin, and Chella. I’m pretty sure that’s all Quin wants too. Just a nice, filthy fuck to end the game. So plan it however you want. As long as we’re all satisfied at the end, I’m OK with it.”
He stands up, buttons his suit coat, and then points down to the lobby. “I’m having lunch with Lucinda and her husband today.”
I lean over the balcony railing to look down. Lucinda and her husband are talking to a crowd of people just inside the White Room. “Why?”
“I dunno. They want to talk. Quin’s bringing Chella upstairs to my place at eight. See you then.”
He walks off. I watch him as he descends the stairs and then shakes the husband’s hand. Funny how I don’t even know that guy’s name and they’ve been members here for more than eight years. Bric gives Lucinda a quick kiss on her cheek and then they walk into the restaurant and disappear from my view.
Give Chella what she needs. What does she need? It’s fucking killing me because I know Bric’s right about Chella. She is here for a reason and she has refused to tell me what it is. Any of us. I have relentlessly questioned Quin about it for over a week now. He says he has no idea. And like Bric, he doesn’t care.
How can I love a girl who wants to fuck my two best friends at the same time?
I laugh out loud at that. Really, I am the biggest hypocrite ever. There have been other girls who thought they loved me. Thought being the important word in that sentence. I never loved them, so it couldn't be love. Love is not one-sided. Love has to come from both ends at the same time. Romantic love, at least. It’s not the same as loving a child who’s disconnected. Or a parent who fucked you over. I don’t think I ever loved my parents, but maybe they loved me. I guess it’s possible. Though doubtful.
That makes me wonder about Chella’s father. She was a little upset about the way he went about severing their ties, but not the way a child should be. Maybe she doesn’t love him?
How did her family get so screwed up? I have to wonder, because he’s been in public life for twenty ye
ars and not once was there a scandal about his family life. No secret mistress, no cheating wife. Chella has no criminal record. She didn’t lash out or rebel as a teenager. Of course, her past has been scrubbed, so what do I know about her? What do I really know about her?
I know she’s dirty.
Which makes me smile. Bric’s right. We play this little game for the payout. The asymmetrical quad fucking is the prize. And I like it. I do. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have invested so much time and energy in these girls over the years.
She’s very sexual, although I haven’t really had the chance to see all of that side to her. Bric has seen her more sexual than I have. Quin has seen a lot more than either of us.
I just want something of my own for once.
And even thinking that makes me feel a little selfish. I have been given so much in this life. I do not deserve more. I really don’t. I shouldn’t even want Chella for myself. It’s breaks all my rules.
But... I do want her for myself. I wasn’t lying to her father last week. I want to own her. Keep her. Not like a house, though.
I try and work this out in my mind but it’s difficult to come to terms with. To justify.
It should make me feel good to give them the night we’ve been working towards.
It just… doesn’t.
I’m so fucking afraid that we’ll get to the end of the game and I… I won’t want her anymore. What would I do then?
I can’t even picture myself in another game at this point.
I don’t know what I’ll do, but this—I look around the Club. This place has my life for a decade. It’s my home. Well, it was my home until I moved in with Chella.
I have spent almost all of my adult life getting by on the generosity of others. And I’m lucky because Bric and Quin are very generous with me. They give me whatever I want. So much, I never thinking about not having enough. I never wonder anymore if people will provide me with the things I need. It just… comes.
Don’t I owe Quin and Bric the same consideration? Don’t I owe them that much, at least? And shouldn’t I think this through a little more before I give up everything I’ve worked towards all these years?
