by Holly Hart
“All? This time of year?” There was ice at the edge of the pond. It looked like lace, thin and deckle-edged.
Brandon grinned. “What, you chicken? There’s a hot spring at the bottom. It’s like jumping into a warm bath.”
“Che vuol dire, hot spring?”
“Woh-woh-woh, hot spring!”
“There’s no steam?”
Kids were starting to make chicken noises. Brandon was getting ready to push me. I could feel it. I wasn’t going to be the coward who had to be shoved, especially if everyone else had done this. I took a deep breath and jumped.
I sank like a stone, stunned by the cold. It wasn’t till my feet hit the bottom and the stirred-up silt started to block out the sky that I understood I could die here. Even then, I couldn’t move. But I wasn’t afraid. I settled into the mud, watching roots and clods and streamers of waterweed drift overhead. I wondered if my eyes would freeze open. If I’d be able to see the stars at night.
Then it all came back: my fear, my anger, the sensation in my legs. I kicked for the surface and broke forth gasping. Brandon was laughing. Everyone was laughing, but he was the loudest, and the closest to shore. I charged out of the water and grabbed a double handful of his shirt. The rest of them pulled in around us, chanting “Fight! Fight! Fight!”
Brandon was older, but I was taller and stronger. I spun him around and flung him into the pond, wading in after him. He was as stunned as I’d been by the cold. It was easy to hold him under.
And that was what Mother and Principal Hillard saw.
A childhood memory, then...or fiction? A memory spun into fiction? I scroll back to the top. PRIGIONIERI, it reads—and then Chapter One—I grew up in the shadow of the Castel Sant’Angelo....
Castel Sant’Angelo—sounds familiar. I paste it into Google: a museum in Rome, formerly a prison, a Papal fortress, and the final resting place of...a bunch of dead Emperors. Stella’s from Rome. I remember that from her background check. So this is a memoir. Something real.
I click it away. I’ve intruded enough. For now, at least. I might check back later. Just to see if she got in trouble for standing up for herself. If she had dreams of drowning. If she still does.
25
Stella
I wake up twice in the night, fighting off what turns out to be the comforter. Not Starkey with a pillow over my face.
The third time I come to my senses, the sun’s streaming in through the picture windows. It’s a beautiful day. I can smell the salt breeze from the ocean, and something else—something tempting. Coffee. I want coffee. I don’t want to see Starkey...but what choice do I have? I can march out there, head held high, and help myself to his coffee, or I can cower in my room like a kicked puppy.
Hell if I’m letting him win. I throw on my robe, run a comb through my hair, and pad out to the kitchen.
There’s a place set for me already. There’s coffee, toast fingers, an egg in a cheery red egg cozy—even tabasco sauce. Starkey’s leaning on the counter, peeling an orange.
“Morning,” he says.
“Yeah.” I take my seat. “Nice day.”
“Yup.”
I set aside the egg cozy and crack open my egg. Starkey’s staring out the window, studiously not watching me. He half-turns to me, like he’s got something to say. I ignore him. Let him stew in the awkward sauce. Think about what he’s done.
“So I talked to Jack,” he says at last.
“Yeah?”
“He said we should take the boat out.”
My blood turns to ice. Hitting the open water with this guy seems...unwise, to put it mildly.
“We don’t have to do that. I could drive you somewhere instead.” He tosses a chunk of orange peel in the sink and turns on the garbage disposal. The scent of citrus fills the air. “If your friends are still around, you could...smooth things over, maybe.”
Right.... “Really.”
“Look, I don’t feel great about last night.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I didn’t say anything to Jack.”
I pause, tabasco sauce in hand. “You...for my benefit, or yours?”
“Both. He wouldn’t like what you did, but he’d hate what I did.” He twists his orange, breaking it in two. “You can tell him if you want.”
I don’t, but.... “Why’d you do that? I mean, if you didn’t have to, weren’t supposed to...do you just like hurting women?” I’m shivering again, maybe from the morning chill, maybe from the furious tension building in my gut. “Well?”
Starkey turns his back on me. Pops an orange slice into his mouth. Mature. I dig into my breakfast. Maybe I will make him drive me around, no place in particular, just...wherever’ll waste his time. Not that there’s much to do here, anyway.
“Your boyfriend’s dragged us into some deep, murky waters.”
“My—what?”
“Jack. This is his mess. He’s the one who....” Starkey hangs his head. “He might not have ordered me to do what I did, but...we’re all drowning here. I’ve had to make compromises, to stay afloat. All of us have. I don’t always like it.” Starkey tosses the rest of his orange in the trash.
“Wait—what do you mean? He’s the one who what?”
“You know I can’t tell you.”
“But he’s taking you down with him. Why let him?”
His knuckles are white where he’s gripping the counter. “There’s no win to be had here. “You need to stop for all our sakes. Especially yours. Whatever you dug up last night, forget it. Run away if you have to. Forget all of us. Jack won’t chase you.”
My heart’s in my mouth. He sounds almost...scared. “So you didn’t believe me? About the birth control?”
“You serious?”
“Why’d you let me get away with it?”
Starkey rounds on me, eyes blazing. This isn’t last night’s cold menace. It’s anger, hot and sharp. “What could I do? You think I’d actually torture you?” He scowls, spins on his heel, and stalks out of the kitchen, out of the house, to the beach. He’s still there, staring at the horizon, when I’ve showered and dressed. I’ve just settled in to watch Netflix—something other than Mindhunter—when he wanders back in.
“I can tell Jack you’re sick. Drive you back home. If you’re not comfortable here.” With me goes unsaid.
“Would you take me to my place?”
“I can’t. The rules....”
“What’s the point, then?” I stretch out on the couch. “I’m doing a LOST marathon. You can join, or not.”
He sits down without comment, as far from me as he can get.
26
Jack
Something’s wrong after the Hamptons. Stella looks like she hasn’t slept in days, and Starkey looks...weird. Hangdog. He’s telling me, talk to her. She’s blowing me off. Meanwhile, they’re going around like they buried a body out there. Or slept together.
I lose patience Friday night. Stella’s on the rooftop, swimming. Starkey’s there too, reading the latest Stephen King. I hold out my hand to help her out of the pool. “Come on. We’re going out.”
She pulls away. “I’m not dressed.”
“So throw something on.”
“The dress code—”
“Fuck the dress code.”
She actually flinches. Guilt? Fear?
I try again. “Sorry. I meant, I just want to get out of here. See a movie, maybe. I could use some company. You don’t have to wear anything special.” I gesture at my own getup, a ratty old gym shirt and jeans. “I’m wearing this.”
Stella looks doubtful, but she takes my hand. She throws on the worst, holiest sweatsuit I’ve ever seen—one I know for a fact she wears as pajamas—but if she thinks she’s getting off that easy, she hasn’t met me. Besides, it’s kind of hot, the way the fabric’s worn almost through in places, revealing a bra strap here, a flash of lacy panties there. I usher her to the limo with all the gallantry I can muster.
We end up in a near-empty theater, wat
ching some grim arthouse thing, grainy and black and white. I try to draw Stella into making fun of it, but she barely makes a token effort before curling up against me and falling asleep.
Well...all right.
I drape my arm around her. She snuggles in closer, cozying up to my chest. Could it be she’s just tired? Coming down with something? I stroke her hair, her arm, her back. Our movie ends and another one starts. No one comes to kick us out.
We’re the only ones left when she stirs. I feel her shiver in my arms: there’s a chill in the air. Summer’s definitely winding down.
“Should’ve brought a coat. Or a blanket.” I pull her a little closer, rubbing some warmth into her arms.
“Mm...what time is it?”
I check my watch. “Coming on midnight.”
“Ugh. I’ll never sleep tonight.”
“Should I have woken you?”
She shakes her head. Her nose rubs my shoulder.
“You looked pretty peaceful. Thought I’d let you rest.” I catch myself playing with her hair. She doesn’t seem to mind, so I keep it up. “You got the flu or something?”
“No, just...long week.”
“What happened?” I tug at her hair. “And don’t say ‘nothing’. You’re all...tense. Not yourself.”
Stella sighs. “It’s no one thing. Bit of cabin fever, change of routine....” She shifts against me till she’s stretched out along the row, head in my lap. “Ran into someone in the Hamptons, too. There was...kind of an argument.” She shrugs. “It’s stupid. Sorry.”
“What was the argument about?”
“Music.”
“Well, there—that’s not stupid. Music’s everything. Unless you’re into—”
“Don’t say it!”
“What? Why not?”
She laughs, maybe for the first time since the trip. “In case you’re about to trash one of my idols. Not sure I could make it through an entire year, knowing you’re one of those.”
“Wise.” I’m about to make a lip-zipping gesture when something else occurs to me. “What about Starkey? What’s with the bug up his ass?”
“I might’ve got into it with him too. Just a little.”
With Starkey? “Seriously? How? I’ve been trying to rile that guy up for, hell, ten, eleven years! Didn’t think it could be done.”
“It was pretty much me yelling at him.” She looks away. There’s a bruise on her neck, just behind her ear. It’s black and uneven. I prod at it.
“Ouch! Quit that.”
“You have a bruise.”
“Slept on a button.” She sits up. Her hair tumbles forth, hiding it from view. Not sure I’m buying the button thing, but maybe the truth is embarrassing—a dumb argument that came to blows; a humiliating fall. Starkey would’ve told me, had it been serious. I decide not to push it. For now, at least.
“Want to head back? Or we could stop somewhere, get ice cream.”
“Can I sleep with you tonight?”
I blink. She’s still got her head turned, a curtain of hair hiding her expression. I’m pretty sure she means sleep, but it’s a shock, all the same. Everything’s been a game so far—a tug-of-war. This feels honest. Too honest, like I’d be taking advantage. She wouldn’t ask for this, fully alert and composed.
“You, uh....” How to say no without embarrassing her? “I don’t think you want that. Not really.”
“And you’d be the expert on that?”
I suppose not. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s been a while since I’ve shared my bed. It’d be nice....” The movie’s ending. I watch the credits roll, thinking it over. “I guess what I’m asking would be...why now?”
For a long time, she doesn’t say anything. When she does, it’s the last thing I expect.
“The birds are driving me crazy.”
I don’t even try to restrain my laughter. That’s the definition of poetic justice, right there.
“It’s not funny!” She smacks my arm. “They’re supposed to go to sleep with the cover on their cage, but they—they just don’t! I hear them scratching, cheeping, doing that fluffy thing with their wings, like...like—thp-thp-thp-thp-thp-thp. I’ve got my pillow over my head, my blanket round my ears, and they’re still... It’s like living in that Edgar Allan Poe story, with the beating heart!”
I have to bite my fist to cut the snickers. “Admit you deserve it.”
“Ohhh....”
“You know you do.”
“I got them a bigger cage! Better toys! What do you want from me?”
“Three little words: I...deserve....”
“Fine! Fine—I do. I deserve it. It totally serves me right. Now, will you save me, or not?”
I turn her to face me, one hand on her chin. Her eyes are glistening, like she could cry. I lean in and kiss her on the forehead. “Yes. I, Sir Jack of, uh...the Kingdom of Upper Manhattan, will pluck you from the beak of the winged menace.”
“Yeah. Very noble.”
“They’re, like, this big.” I hold up my thumb and forefinger, two inches apart.
“You going to mock me all night?”
“Just a while longer.” Someone’s coming. I think we’re about to get kicked out. “You know what movie we should’ve seen tonight?”
Stella groans, wriggling out of my grasp. “That’s it. I’m going.”
I round up her purse and my empty Coke. “The Birds,” I call after her. She flaps her hand at me: fuck off.
On the drive home, I load Angry Birds on my phone. This time, she laughs too.
27
Stella
Jack’s wrapped himself around me in the night. Or maybe it was me, seeking out his warmth. Either way, I’ve got my back to his chest, my head tucked under his chin, and one huge arm curled around my waist. The first light of dawn’s peeking over the horizon. I close my eyes against it. I’m still in that fuzzy, half-conscious state, where it wouldn’t take much to catch the coattail of a dream and ride it back under.
Sleep... Got to take it where I can get it. Jack mumbled something last night about clearing a room for the birds. Tonight, tomorrow night—some night soon—I’ll be back where I started, ten feet from the real source of my sleepless nights.
Fucking Starkey.
Jack moves against me, stretching mightily. He cracks his neck and squeezes me a little tighter. “Sleep well?”
“Still asleep.”
“Having a good dream?”
“One of those ones where you wake up smiling. Thinking of....” What was I dreaming about? Everything’s gone but the feeling. “I don’t even know. Sunshine, ice cream...swimming in the sea.”
“Nice.” He shifts again. I can feel his morning wood. “Like vacation.”
“Vacation, yeah.” I walk my fingers up his arm. He relaxes into the touch, sighing and pressing his lips to the back of my neck. It’s not quite a kiss—more of a lazy little nuzzle. I can feel him breathing, slow and even—like he’s barely awake himself.
“We should get up,” he says, making no move to do so.
“Ever do that thing where you’re going to get up and go to the gym, but instead you go back to sleep, and, like...dream your entire workout?”
I feel his chuckle all the way down my back, a deep, soothing rumble. His thumb follows the lace edge of my panties down the crease of my thigh, up to my hip, back and forth. “Maybe we’re dreaming right now.”
“So... Anything could happen.”
“Mm....” His palm’s warm and rough, following the contours of my body. He crests my hipbone, lingers in the hollow beneath. I hold my breath as he traces the shapes of my ribs, riding that line between a caress and a tickle.
I fit my hand over his as he finds the swell of my breast. It’s strange to feel both the catch of my hard nipple under our fingers and my answering thrill of pleasure. He pinches and teases; I arch into it. There’s a slow heat building, a catch in my breath, a curl in my toes, rising with every tweak and graze, every hot breath on the shell of my
ear.
I tilt my head and he kisses the corner of my mouth. I twine my fingers with his, and he guides our hands back down my body, teasing me through my panties. His heart’s beating faster. Mine’s keeping up, a hot pulse galloping through my body.
He spreads his fingers. Mine move with them. Lace brushes my clit. I bite back a gasp and Jack groans himself. He’s moving against me now, cock throbbing insistently at my back. I move with him, matching his rhythm. His fingers dip lower, spreading me open. It’s embarrassing how ready I am, slick and panting for him, and he’s hardly touched me.
“I’ll be so pissed if this is my dream,” he says. “If I wake up in five minutes, and you’re in the shower.”
I press my hand down on his, deliberately grinding his fingers on my clit. “Then we can fuck in there.”
“Here’s better.” He pushes my panties aside. I reach back to dispense with his shorts. My knuckles snag on a ridge of scar tissue plunging down his side from rib to groin, ending in a messy whorl. Like someone twisted a knife in him and jerked it up and out. Jack shifts away, and his cock springs free. Feels thicker than I thought, heavy and hot against my thigh. I forget about his scar as he guides it to my slit. “Yeah?”
I nod, drawing up my knees to let him in. He doesn’t hesitate, surging against me, powerful as the tide. His cock swells inside me. I can feel every inch of it, every twitch and pull. I’m tingling all over, like my body’s still waking up, nerves coming online in tiny shocks and sizzles.
His thumb digs into my hip and I stiffen, certain he’s going to shove me on my belly, pound me into the mattress, but he just gathers me closer, rocking more than thrusting, peppering my neck with kisses.
“You got freckles here,” he says, nipping my shoulder to show me just where. “Cinnamon sprinkles.”
I think about kicking him, but I’m too blissed out to muster a proper head of steam. I take his hand prisoner, instead. He groans as I tease his fingers, swallowing two of them to the knuckles, flicking my tongue at the tips. I let my teeth catch his skin, here and there—can’t let him sink too deep into whatever this is, this quiet intimacy.
