Closer

by Mary Elizabeth

  Fish water sloshes around the tank on the drive home, and I have teeth marks on my tongue from biting it so hard. If it were up to me, I’d leave Joe’s animal on someone’s porch, ring the doorbell, and run. But Ella’s gripping the tank like her life depends on it, and I can’t bring myself to tell her she has to give one more thing up today.

  “What’s its name?” I ask instead, ignoring the water dripping onto the leather.

  “Phish with a P,” she answers, looking into the tank. “It was a patient’s, and no one claimed the fish after he … died. So Joe brought him home. Maybe I can take him back to the hospital. The kids would like it.”

  That do-good motherfucker was always acting selflessly, making the rest of us look like chumps. I’m too busy saving lives to rescue unclaimed goldfish.

  “Did you know?” Ella asks softly.

  I slow the car down to a stop at a red light. Headlights from vehicles crossing traffic in front us shine in my eye, and music too low to hear plays faintly from the speakers. Pink and blue rocks on the bottom of the tank swish, and it’s not the fish’s fault its rescuer was killed.

  “No, I didn’t know Joe was the fucking fish whisperer,” I say, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel.

  Ella laughs lightly, and I look up to find her watching me.

  “Did you know he was going to propose to me?” she clarifies.

  The light turns green, but I don’t drive forward. “Yes.”

  It’s as if air has been sucked from the car and we’re left to breathe remorse. For seven years, she’s been everything to me. For the last seven years, I’ve taken what I can get from her and stolen what I could not. No matter the consequences, Gabriella Mason is who I have always wanted—needed—most. At one point, that meant giving her up. But now…

  Traffic honks once, twice, three, and four times. Ella stares at me like there’s hope, and I can’t move because I’m hopeless.

  “I could never have said yes to him, Teller,” she whispers. Tears she must have an unlimited supply of fall from her tired eyes.

  I lift her hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles, letting my own sadness drop to her skin. “It killed me.”

  “You knew,” she replies, resting her hand on the side of my face. “You’ve always known.”

  As the light turns from green to yellow, the line of cars behind me maneuvers around us, screeching their tires and their drivers shouting expletives. I accelerate right before the signal changes red and slam on my brakes in the crosswalk to keep from colliding with oncoming traffic.

  The tank slides from Ella’s lap and hits the dashboard, splashing goldfish water everywhere and tumbling to her feet. Like this isn’t a one hundred-thousand-dollar car, she scoops it up, flinging tiny colored pebbles and plastic sea plants across the red interior.

  “Oh my gosh. Phish is still in there,” she says, lifting the tank. Swimming in an inch of water, the tiny fish gapes at me.

  “You have got to be fucking kidding,” I say, white-knuckle gripping the steering wheel. “I told you to put that thing back where you found it, and now look at my car.”

  She cradles the fish tank against her chest. “It’s water, Teller. It’ll dry.”

  We pull into my garage twenty minutes later, soaked in fish water and pissed off. She’s a thoughtless disaster, I’m a condescending ass, and neither one of us is going to apologize first. Thus, ending this night like any normal Tuesday.

  Ella runs into the house to save the fish from its untimely death, and I lower the windows to air out my Rover. Tiny rocks fall from my lap and tap, tap, tap against the cement floor, rolling under my shoes as I step over them. The fish ambassador is placing the tank on the bookshelf when I walk into the living room, ignoring my dirty looks and general presence. Maby, Husher, Nicolette, and Emerson ignore me, too—still here, still watching my TV, still sitting on my couch.

  “That thing isn’t staying,” I say, pointing to Phish. “I don’t have time to take care of it, Ella. Take it home with you.”

  She faces me with a sly grin on her pouty lips. The front of her shirt is wet and sticking to her skin. “Don’t I live here now? Isn’t this our fish?”

  “What?” my sister and Emerson question concurrently.

  “Here we go,” Nicolette mumbles under her breath. She turns off the television.

  “You’re moving in?” I ask. Anger melts away, leaving me lighthearted and unable to hold back a smile.

  “Only if my fish can move in, too.”

  “I love Phish,” I say.

  And the ground shakes.

  Literally.

  An aftershock from today’s earthquake rocks the entire house back and forth.

  Emerson dashes across the living room and nosedives under the kitchen table, and the fucking fish tanks falls over again, dumping a two-inch goldfish onto the floor. They both flop around like idiots, and I couldn’t care less because Ella’s going to stay.

  Before

  “You got another tattoo?” my dad asks, pouring himself a cup of coffee. Steam rises from the freshly brewed caffeine, but he takes a drink without flinching. Judging by the bags under his eyes, it was another late night at the hospital. “On your neck of all places. Are you purposely trying to destroy your future?”

  Mid-bite, I lower my spoon into my cereal bowl. It hits the glass with an audible clink, and milk splashes onto the table. “I don’t know, Pops. I was kind of banking on my patients being more concerned with my ability to save their lives than what I look like.”

  America’s most respected cardiac surgeon turned multi-millionaire after his investment in a groundbreaking heart medication took off licks coffee from his mustache and laughs. “Do you realize how stupid you sound?”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I utter, carrying my uneaten breakfast to the sink.

  Dad’s glasses slide down the bridge of his nose as he studies my ink. “At least it’s quality work. I don’t like giving you a hard time, Teller, but you’re making your life harder than it needs to be. There might be a day when your patients won’t judge you by the way you look, but your professors and your colleagues will. You need to be smarter and work harder than everyone in your class to be taken seriously now.”

  “I’ve always been smarter than those motherfuckers,” I say, smirking. “And can I get through college before I think about medical school?”

  “You’re going to medical school, Teller. We’re not having that argument again.” My dad gulps liquid adrenaline, assessing me over his blue mug. Green eyes the same shade as mine harden. “Have you started applying yet?”

  Leaning against the counter across from my father, I lift my backpack over my shoulder and scrutinize the man who gave me life. Sometime during high school, I grew a few inches taller than him, but no one has ever wondered what I’ll look like when I’m older. Minus the mustache—I’m a spitting image of this guy.

  “Applications aren’t due until this summer, and I’m only applying to one school,” I remind him. Smirks fall from our faces.

  “You can at least attempt to get into Stanford, Teller. Appease me,” he says. The veins in his neck expand with his rise in blood pressure. “We made a deal when you decided to stay in LA and go to UCLA. You said when it came time to apply for medical school, you’d apply to Stanford. And to be honest, at this point, you’ll need all the help you can get. I have connections there.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.” I cross my arms over my chest, unwilling to budge.

  I’ve spent my entire life accepting the fact that my family expects me to follow in my father’s precise footsteps. There’s no shame in our career choice, so I’ve never put up much of a fight.

  But things have changed.

  My dad reaches past me and drops his mug into the sink with my bowl. “Does this have anything to do with Gabriella Mason?”

  Heat rushes to my face, and I can’t bring myself to look at him.

  “Are you dating her?” He continues. His tone of
voice softens. “I’ve never seen you get this serious with anyone. Maby says the two of you are close.”

  Pushing myself away from the counter, I grab my keys and head toward the front door. Class starts in an hour, and I’m as interested in discussing my relationship with Ella as I am in applying to medical school at Stanford. This is one part of my life I’m in control of, and I’m not willing to give it up.

  “I won’t be home tonight,” I call out before I leave.

  “Think about Stan—” Dad replies before the door slams closed, crushing his last word.

  Summer arrived early this year, dropping a record-breaking hot spell over Southern California. Barely tipping nine in the morning, heat waves hover over the street, stretching to the end of the block. Leather interior burns my bare arms, and the air conditioner doesn’t cool fast enough. I drive the gun metal gray BMW M2 my parents bought me when I graduated high school down the road, with every intention of going to school until my phone rings.

  “Can we ditch today?” Ella asks in her just-woke-up voice. “We won’t have another chance before finals. Take me somewhere before I melt.”

  When I get to her apartment, Nicolette answers the door with oversized curlers in her hair and makeup dotted under her eyelids. She’s barefoot, dressed in shorts that are too short and a shirt that exposes her navel.

  “What do you want?” she asks, annoyed.

  “Do you ever go home?” I take two steps forward and one step back.

  Nic stands in the doorway and presses her hand to my chest, blocking the way. She smells like hairspray, and her hazel eyes are more brown than green without fake eyelashes framing them. Her expression is regretful, but I pretend not to notice.

  “Emerson said it’s probably not a good idea for you to come around for a while, Teller.”

  I lean against the doorframe and smirk, letting cool air from the apartment chill my heated skin. I’ve watched this girl grow from a dirty-faced kid, to a teenager with a crush on her best friend’s older brother, to this Real Housewives of Beverly Hills wannabe. And it’s the latest reinvention I despise the most.

  “Ella and I are fine,” I say, poking one of her pink rollers.

  She ducks and swats my touch away, fixing the wayward curl. “She tried to scratch your eyes out, and her brother had to lift her over his shoulder because she wouldn’t leave the bar.”

  Dragging my hands down my face, I hold back a laugh at the memory from last weekend’s mess. Too much booze and a simple misunderstanding turned our night upside down; Ella, drunk and overreacting, was carried out kicking and screaming, and I, drunk and defensive, wasn’t allowed to follow. Which was unacceptable, and resulted in a near-physical altercation with Em.

  “We had too much to drink.” I shrug. “It’s not a huge deal.”

  Nic arches an eyebrow. “And the weekend before that when you threw her phone out of a moving car?”

  “You forgot to mention that she threw mine first,” I reply, but it knocks me down a level. Nicolette doesn’t need to remind me that my relationship with Ella is … volatile. But it’s my relationship.

  I also don’t need her to stand in my way, because one way or another, I’ll find my way in.

  “Fine.” She exhales heavily and steps aside, allowing me to walk by. “Please don’t make me regret this. I have class today, and Emerson’s already at work. There won’t be anyone here to referee.”

  The small television in front of a mint-colored sofa broadcasts the morning news with the volume on low. Mid-morning sun filters through the mini blinds above the kitchen sink, and two slices of burnt toast pop up from the toaster, filling the air with the scent of dough and smoke.

  “Don’t judge me, fucker,” Nicolette says with a small smile on her lips. She drops the charcoal-like bread onto a napkin and uses a knife to scrape grape jelly across the seared surface.

  “Have some soot with your bread, Nic,” I joke, heading toward Ella’s room.

  “Asshole,” she mumbles under her breath.

  Gabriella’s door is cracked open, giving me a small glimpse inside her space before I step inside. An untouched glass of orange juice sits on the nightstand beside her bed, and yesterday’s clothes are thrown across the top of her laundry hamper. Ella’s sleeping on her stomach under pink sheets with her hair fanned across the pillow. Sunlight shines through thin violet curtains, painting the walls lavender.

  Walking around to the side of her queen-sized bed, I lift the corner of the sheet and slide in, pressing my body against her sleep-warm form. I slide my hand under her tank top, up her backbone and down her side, brushing the tips of my fingers along Ella’s bare breast. Her breath hitches.

  “I thought you were awake,” I whisper into her hair.

  Sleepy in Venice curves to her side, rubbing her bottom against my shorts. She beats my composure half to death, deliberately rolling her hips, inciting a riot. I feel myself harden, and a rush of effervescence spreads through my limbs and numbs my face, waving a white flag.

  “My bed missed me.” Ella turns in my arms and shoves me against the mattress, straddling my legs. She slowly creeps closer to my cock, pushing her hands under the hem of my shirt and along my abs. “My bed was lonely.”

  Saccharine torment strokes her softest part over my hardest, trailing her nails down my chest. I cover my eyes in the bend of my elbow and pull my bottom lip between my teeth.

  “I thought you didn’t want to melt today?” I ask, keeping my hands to myself before Ella gets fucked hard enough for the entire complex to hear.

  She grips my wrists and forces my hands to the bed, slowing the sway in her hips. Peppermint sweetens her breath, and freckles across her nose and cheeks are close enough to count. Ella’s full chest is barely contained by her low-neck tank, and I can see her nipples through the thin fabric.

  “Don’t worry,” she says, lowering her face to mine. Pretty lips hover over my own. “I brushed my teeth.”

  Her kiss comes close enough to taste, but a knock on the door stops it from getting deeper. Ella sits straight and rolls her eyes, bringing my hand to her chest so I can feel how hard her heart pumps.

  “What?” she calls out, pressing her hand to my heartbeat.

  They’re flying.

  “I’m out of here, girl. Em and I are meeting my parents for dinner tonight, so we’ll be home late,” Nicolette says. Her voice is muffled through the door.

  “Sounds good,” Smella replies, meeting my eyes as our beats palpitate. “See you later, Nic.”

  “Do I even want to know what you guys are doing in there?” she asks.

  “Get the fuck out of here, Nicolette,” I say, throwing a pillow at the door.

  “You’re such a jerk,” she grumbles, walking away. A minute later, the front door opens and closes, leaving us alone in the apartment.

  Carefully lifting Ella from my lap, I position her beside me and roll out of bed, turning to adjust my shorts out of her line of sight. My face is hot, my fingertips tingle, and my dick is hard. We never get past the over-the-clothes shit, and it leaves me aching and thoughtless. But if one of us doesn’t stop, we can do this all day.

  We have done this all day.

  Heavy touches, harsh rubbing, and pushing each other so close to coming our skin catches fire. We stop before the world burns, because it’s never the right time. We stop because we’re not official, and I won’t fuck her until we are, no matter how hard she begs or how badly I want to know what she tastes like between her legs.

  “Where are you going?” Ella stretches across the bed and clutches onto the hem of my shorts. “Get back in bed with me.”

  “Fuck no.” I step away from her reach and head toward the bathroom to splash cold water onto my face, not ruling out a shower if my dick doesn’t soften. “Get dressed. I can’t be in this apartment with you all day. You’re insane.”

  She follows me into the living room, dressed in nothing but a pair of black cotton underwear and a see-through top, sipping orange
juice. Her hair’s tangled, and she still has sleep lines embedded on the side of her face, but she’s easily the sexiest woman alive.

  “Stay away, Smella,” I warn her, hurrying my pace.

  Setting the glass onto the coffee table, she tiptoes after me with the right amount of sway in her hips, tousling bedhead between her fingers. Perfectly round, pink nipples peek through slight fabric, hacking at my tenacity, and I know what her breasts feel like cupped in the palms of my hands. It’s too good to deny.

  “What if I promise to keep my hands to myself?” she asks, closing the space between us. “What if I’m a good girl?”

  “You’re a shitty liar, Gabriella.” I slam the bathroom door in her face and lock it, immediately turning to the sink for deliverance. “And you’re the fucking Antichrist. Leave me alone, witch, and go put some clothes on.”

  An hour later, we arrive at the Roosevelt Hotel in Hollywood. It’s noon on a Thursday, and the pool’s packed with hipsters wearing fedoras and girls in small bikinis searching for celebrities. In a city full of dreamers, where everyone’s a star, nothing slows down—not for a job, another person, or a breath.

  While the rest of LA whirls around us, Ella and I take it slow.

  “Should we get a room and stay for the weekend?” I kiss the top of Ella’s bare shoulder, licking banana-scented sunscreen off my lips.

  Eyes hidden under a pair of Aviators, she looks back and smiles, reflecting my image in her sunglasses, sharp with palm trees and the Roosevelt Tower in the distance. “Will there be sex involved?”

  I lie against the chaise lounge with persistence between my knees and stretch my arms over my head. The sun’s out, drinks flow, and the water’s cool. UVAs and UVBs warm my bones and redden my skin, and sipping stars in the middle of the day makes it feel like Friday.

  “Depends.” I smirk. My cock twitches, and I’m glad there’s a cold pool to dive in if needed.

  Ella reclines against my bare chest, resting her head under my chin and reaching for my arms to wrap around her stomach. Her legs run parallel with mine, parading the difference between her untouched skin alongside my tattooed thighs.