Closer

by Mary Elizabeth

  “On what?” she asks, sweeping her fingers across the top of my hand.

  “If you’re ready to call me boyfriend.”

  “You’re already my best boyfriend, Tell,” she replies in a guarded tone.

  Disappointment shady enough to block the sun hovers over my head, but I’m in no mood to dwell on this crap today. My manhood can only handle so many hits, and I’ve reached my limit of shits to give this week. I’m going to bask in this motherfucking sunshine, but not with her.

  “I need a drink.” I urge her shoulders forward until she sits up. Space is essential before bad blood turns the pool crimson. “Want something?”

  “Teller, don’t overreact.”

  Pulling a red V-neck over my head, I drop a pair of Ray-Bans over my eyes and slide an unlit cigarette behind my ear. I scratch the back of my neck, hardly containing my temper and ask, “Are you sure you don’t want anything? Water, beer, a beating heart?”

  Lightheaded from the champagne Ella ordered when we got here, I approach a cocktail waitress on my way to the bar, but I don’t need someone to take my drink order. The redheaded server touches my elbow as she passes, as if there wasn’t enough room for her to get by without doing so. I return her smile, but can’t see past the heartbreaker who was drinking straight from the Korbel bottle, flipping me off as I walked away.

  “Corona, please,” I mumble to the bartender.

  Cold beer strokes my tongue and cools my body from the inside out, giving me exactly what I need to clear my mind for a moment. I order a second and spin my stool around to face the pool and lean back, dulling anxiety with booze. Ella hasn’t moved from the chaise I left her on, sunbathing on her stomach with the champagne bottle dangling from her hand over the edge of the lounge chair. Judging by the steady rise and fall of her back, she’s asleep.

  “How’s it going?” redhead asks as she walks by for the tenth time. She loads her tray with napkins and straws she doesn’t need more of, sucking in an already thin stomach, flaunting her fake chest.

  “Good, thanks,” I say into the neck of my brew, tasting lime and salt on my lips.

  Jessica Rabbit’s lipstick looks black under my dark lenses, accentuating her abnormally plump mouth. “Are you from around here?”

  “Beverly Hills,” I say vaguely, turning toward the bar.

  “Nice,” she replies, sliding a white paper napkin in front of me with her name and number written in pink marker across the top. “I’m off in a few hours. We should hang out.”

  The E in Everyly bleeds into the V, and it’s so fucking basic, I pocket the napkin to show Husher later. She mistakes this for an invitation and squeezes herself between my stool and the fella’s beside me, pressing her tits against my arm. The bartender smirks as he walks by, and I lift my empty Corona, indicating that I need a new one.

  “I have plans later, but maybe another time.” I let her down easy, offering a casual smile.

  The other men can’t take their eyes off of her rack, but I can’t get over how much makeup she has on her face. Nothing about this girl is authentic, and the hand drawn arch in her eyebrows has left her expression permanently surprised.

  “What’s your name, sweetheart?” she asks, circling her finger around the lip of my beer bottle. Because I didn’t want to drink it anyway.

  “Prick,” a voice I know by heart answers. Ella, barefoot and sun-kissed, saunters over and shoos the waitress away. “His name is Prick. Motherfucker for short.”

  The entire bar laughs at my expense, and I laugh with them, known to go by motherfucker from time to time. Jessica Rabbit takes one look at my favorite smartass and rolls her eyes, stomping away to find another idiot to fool.

  “I called Emerson. He’s coming to get me.” Ella shoves my towel into my chest and stalks off, uttering, “Feel free to leave with your girlfriend, Prick.”

  “Shit,” I say under my breath, tossing a few twenty-dollar bills onto the bar. I chase Ella into the hotel lobby and run between crowds of people trying to check-in, tripping over a suitcase. “Gabriella, wait a second.”

  Capturing her by the elbow right before she disappears, I guide Ella toward the hall of elevators, away from rubbernecked hotel guests too fucking nosy to mind their own business. She shakes free from my grip, but doesn’t put up a fight when I force her into an empty elevator car and press the button for the top floor.

  “Nice. You’ve kidnapped me,” she says, pressing every other button on the control panel. “Are you going to sleep with that girl since you won’t sleep with me?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I reply. “I don’t even know who she is.”

  “Save it.” She stands directly in front of the double doors, waiting for them to open. “I can’t stomach your bullshit today.”

  Resentment barrels through me, crushing my patience and splitting my heart. I spin her around and push her against the gold-plated wall, caging defiance between my arms. She slashes my throat with the sharpness in her eyes, and I use my dying breath to say, “Fuck you.”

  The elevator suddenly dings and the doors open on the second floor, where an older couple in matching fit-over sunglasses and Velcro shoes hesitates outside the entrance. The man attempts to smile, but the woman scowls.

  I slam the palm of my hand against the Door Close button.

  Ella pushes against my chest, breaks stitches in the neck of my shirt, and digs her fingernails into my arm until small beads of blood paint her nails red. I inhale deeply, surviving off her rage, taking it to my vein like a junkie.

  “You’re all I want,” I say, pressing her against the wall with my body. “You’re the only person I want to be with.”

  The elevator doors open on the third floor, and this time she closes them. Ella wraps her legs around my waist, grips my hair between her fingers, and slowly rocks her hips along my hardening cock. Her head drops and she cries out, arching her back. I kiss mouthfuls of her chest, pulling down her yellow bikini straps to lick the curve of her breast. We slide into the corner of the elevator, barely breathing and indecent when we arrive on the fourth floor.

  “Teller, stop,” Ella whispers breathlessly, looking over my shoulder. Her lips are swollen, and she hurries to correct her top.

  “We can catch the next ride,” someone says gladly.

  I look over my shoulder to find a middle-aged man grinning from ear-to-ear, covering his son’s eyes. He gives me a thumbs-up, but I don’t return his enthusiasm and help Ella cover herself. She steps unsteadily to her feet, straightening her hair and lifting her bag from the floor.

  “This is our stop,” she lies, walking past me. Ella waits for our company to leave before she asks, “Do you honestly think this will work between us?”

  “Are you joking?” I ask. My heart races. “I’m not your mom, Ella. I’m not your dad. You don’t have to worry about me leaving you.”

  “Why would you bring them up?” Her entire body stiffens, defensive and small. “What do my parents have to do with how insane you are? Think about it, Teller. Really think about this. When have we ever spent an entire day together without it turning into a fight?”

  “It doesn’t stop you from rubbing all over my dick,” I reply.

  She scoffs. “You’re a joke.”

  I smile, despite the ache in my chest. “And your nipple is showing.”

  Ella straightens her bikini, slaps me across the face, and takes the stairs down to her brother.

  Now

  “We should head in.”

  Early morning Alaskan weather turns Ella’s breath white and the tip of her nose red. Her eyes shine like glass, and she stands close to me for warmth, but not too close under the microscope of Kristi’s family.

  The sky’s gray, and the scent of rain hangs in the air—something we don’t experience much of in California. Bound by snowcapped mountains and green forests, summertime in Anchorage is nothing like summer in Los Angeles. I could use a cigarette, but secondhand smoke might kill the trees.

  �
��In a minute.” Licking my lips, I taste nicotine from the last cigarette I smoked before we left the hotel. I suffocate in my suit, trapped by wool and cashmere, choking on the necktie. Panic closes my veins and claws at my chest, and I need the fuck out of here.

  I unbutton my jacket and loosen my tie, searching for an escape.

  “Hey.” Emerson clamps his hand over my shoulder and turns me away from the church. He discreetly presses a silver flask into my chest. “You doing, okay? We need you to hold it together until the service is over. We’re going to get through this, Tell.”

  Jack Daniel’s tastes like avoidance, peppery and woodsy as it numbs my tongue and leaves a trace of fire from my esophagus to my stomach. I swig mouthfuls, preferring bourbon’s burn to guilt’s emptiness.

  “Is that better?” Ella fixes my tie. There’s no judgment in her expression, only undiluted understanding. “Maby and Husher ran inside to save us a seat, but we can’t stay out here much longer. The funeral’s about to start.”

  My head swims in liquor-based comfort, and my heartbeat settles to a low rhythm. I can’t take my eyes off her, long-legged in a black dress made of lace. Ella’s nails are painted bright red, and her long brown hair is curled and pulled half up away from her face. Black heels still don’t make her as tall as I am, but I can look into her eyes without bending my knees.

  “We’ll meet you inside,” Emerson says. He takes Nicolette’s hand and leads her toward the red brick church with a green roof, small enough to be a single family home.

  “I don’t want to do this, Smella,” I admit. Pressure builds behind my eyes, and my jaw aches.

  “Neither do I.” She takes the flask from my hand and takes a swallow, handling her liquor as well as I can.

  Running a hand through my hair, I exhale and say, “I never met Kristi’s parents, and the one time her sister came to visit, I took them to dinner and she talked shit about my tattoos the entire time. It got weird, so I left.”

  Ella smiles, sipping another swig and coughing. She passes the flask back to me. “I remember that. You didn’t see Kristi again until she left town.”

  Scoping out the church, backdropped by boulders, brush, and hundred-year-old trees, I can’t place the girl I know here. Kristi’s a star-struck leaf eater who thinks every song is about her. She loves sun, sand, and shitty reality television. Kristi once stood in line overnight for a cell phone and spent entire paychecks at the boutique she works at.

  There’s no trace of her amongst the great outdoors, flannel jackets, and sixty-degree weather in August. It feels like I’m here to honor a complete stranger.

  “Come on, Teller. It’s time to go in.” Ella takes my hand and squeezes my fingers.

  I follow her up the cobblestone path, impressed with her ability to walk on this shit in stilettos. The scent of wet wood and myrrh welcomes us at the door, followed by a gray-haired gentleman in rubber rain boots, offering us a memorial pamphlet.

  “Since when is Kristi Catholic?” Ella whispers, nodding toward the life-sized crucifix suspended above the altar.

  “She might have mentioned it once or twice,” I say, putting my sunglasses on. “But she didn’t actively practice or anything.”

  Ella takes one more opportunity to flatten my tie and run her fingers through my hair, correcting the mess I made of it. Heads turn when we step onto the green carpet between pews, but confidence leads me to our seats with her shoulders back and chin held high, and it’s impossible not to mimic.

  Our family greets us with half-smiles and tears in their eyes. My parents, who flew in this morning, saved Ella and me a place beside them. I’ve managed to avoid their phone calls in the week since Kristi and Joe passed, but the sight of my mother and the comfort she comes with nearly drops me to my knees.

  I slip Emerson the flask, and Ella accepts a Bible from Maby before we sit. There’s no space between our bodies, from our legs to our shoulders, but I want more. I want to fall onto her lap and squeeze my eyes shut while she holds her hands over my ears, until this thing is over.

  “How are you holding up, baby?” Mom asks, patting my leg affectionately.

  I don’t answer, because there are no words to offer once my eyes fall on the casket. Covered by a white pall, resting at the front of the church, it’s surrounded by boring flower arrangements she wouldn’t have chosen for herself. An unrecognizable photo of Kristi with dark hair and a round face rests on a three-stand easel beside the spectacle, and it’s so fucking disturbing, I want to knock it down.

  The feeling doesn’t go away once the service begins. We stand, sit, kneel, and chant prayers until the priest proclaims the word of God, promising that Kristy Reinhart is in the Kingdom of Heaven, cloaked by holy light, looking down upon us until the day she’s resurrected.

  “Her physical body has perished,” he says from the altar, behind thick glasses, “but the human soul never dies.”

  Two rows in front of us, Mrs. Reinhart crumbles into her husband’s side and breaks down, inconsolable by the loss of their daughter. She covers her face with both hands, but it doesn’t help hide the strangled sound of agony rupturing from her lips. The man with the same nose as Kristi rocks his wife with his expression turned up, eyes closed. Amy, their only remaining child, sits frozen beside them, blank-faced and unemotional.

  Father Regis Fortuna declares Kristi based her short life on the love and teaching of Jesus Christ. He dashes her casket with holy water, a token from her baptism and the day she gave her life to the Lord, followed by incense, a sign that our prayers are carried to Heaven.

  I cough.

  Holding on to the bench in front of me, I drop my head and stare at my shoes while Kristi’s aunt approaches the altar. She begins the eulogy by remembering the life of her niece—her sister’s daughter who loved the snow and lived for hunting season.

  Hunting.

  She was a fucking vegan.

  I couldn’t order a steak without a lecture on animal mistreatment and my environmental footprint.

  “Have you ever watched an animal being slaughtered?” she asked me once, forking her tofu and kale. “You’d change your mind about that steak if you saw how barbaric it is.”

  “Who the fuck is she talking about?” I turn my head toward Ella and ask. She looks as confused by the eulogy as me. “This isn’t real, right? Please tell me this is a fucking nightmare.”

  “Maybe they don’t know her like we do,” she whispers, like it’s the only explanation. Her expression changes to something confident.

  And my gut tells me she’s right.

  An hour later, I stare at the mahogany casket lowered six feet into the ground, covered with pink roses and handfuls of dirt, wondering how well Kristi and I knew one another. Twelve months doesn’t compare to a lifetime, but the version of her I know is an illusion compared to the girl we paid tribute to today.

  There are no dots to connect or strings to follow—the facts line up: we’re opportunists.

  We walked into each other’s lives when we needed distraction the most. She’s everything Ella’s not, and what better way to say fuck you to an old life than fucking a tatted hooligan she meets at a gas station?

  We weren’t in love with each other. We loved what our relationship represented.

  Distraction.

  Realization doesn’t keep my spirit from breaking. Kristi did more than warm my empty bed until she didn’t—she gave me perspective and taught me patience. I can have a connection with someone that isn’t volatile, and I have the ability to show affection without jealousy and anger.

  Maybe.

  And the most important thing I learned because of Kristi is no one has my heart like Gabriella Mason.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I whisper to keep other passengers from hearing.

  “Are you blind or just dumb?” Ella asks, sipping whiskey straight from the bottle she snuck onboard. She waves her arm around her, showcasing the luxury of first class. “I had a long day, and tomorrow w
ill be longer. I’m going to enjoy this, if that’s okay with you, Prick.”

  “I was just asking.” I fidget with my neck pillow, cross my arms over my chest, and settle for takeoff. It’s nearly midnight with a seven-hour flight to New York ahead of us, and we’ll only have a few hours to check into our hotel and change before Joe’s service. We need to sleep now, but Ella’s ready to party.

  With the exception of a few cell phone screens illuminating faces and casting shadows across the ceiling, the first class cabin is dark. As the pilot prepares for takeoff, flight attendants grab their seats and the Seatbelt sign flashes. Luggage shifts in overhead compartments, and Emerson’s already snoring. Jet engines run on high, and I close my eyes, surrendering to exhaustion.

  We’re not three feet off the runway when Ella starts to laugh, holding her stomach. “Oh my gosh, I forgot how much this tickles.”

  I lunge for the bottle, but she pulls it out of reach.

  “Keep your claws to yourself, Reddy.” She clutches it to her chest like it’s her firstborn child and not a bottle of Jim Beam.

  “Calm down.” I stretch for the bottle a second time, but she lifts it like she’s going to hit me over the head with the damn thing. “Floozy.”

  “Fall into a coma, asshole.”

  Her liquor-heavy eyes widen as her jaw drops dramatically. Ella pats the bottle, still holding it like a newborn, and shakes her head in mock disbelief. With today’s mascara smeared under her eyes, she’s thrown her hair up and taken her bra off, jumping headfirst into not giving a fuck.

  I hold my hands up and face forward, situating myself again. Altitude and booze don’t play well together, but if she wants to learn the hard way, who am I to stop her?

  “Don’t try to wake me up when you get sick, Smella. I’ll be in a coma, minding my own business. You’re on your own.” I close my eyes, instantly feeling the lull of sleep pulling me to unconsciousness. My limbs become heavy, and slowly, slowly, slowly my breathing steadies and my heart rate eases.