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“Go,” he says mercifully, and with that word, I fly into him. Grunting and heaving and writhing with my own pleasure. He is watching me, and I try like hell to keep my eyes open so that I can do the same to him, but I can’t. I can only feel him. I feel him come, thrusting deep and fast inside of me, the dog tags bouncing off my chest. His breath snags twice and then his body steadies. He pulls out of me as my legs drop off the edge of the dresser. And my heart lifts into my throat.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Emma—Age 17
I finally got my admission acceptance letter to Case Western yesterday, and I am on Cloud Nine. I cannot fucking wait to get out of this house. My senior year is almost half over, and I swear, if I can just put up with Michael’s shit for a few more months, I’ll be out of here forever. Once I’m gone, there is no way in hell I am coming back. No way I am returning to this torturous house. No way I will continue to let him control me.
And I’ll admit it, these days he does have control. Complete control over both me and my mother. When they came back from Singapore last year, things changed. Our little game ended. It struck me hard that he could force my mother to make a choice, and that is something I do not want. I do not want her to choose him. I still love her, even though most days I wonder if she feels the same. And I know that if I take things too far, he’ll push her away from me even further. She will let me go. I know it. And I’m not willing to take the risk. So I let him have control. I don’t rile him on purpose anymore. He doesn’t need it. He finds ways to dig into me just fine on his own.
My mom and Michael have been out of the country only three times in the past year. The peace their absence creates has been both brief and blissful. But volleyball has kept me busy. As has Peter Beckman. He’s a senior at Holy Name, and we’ve been seeing each other for the past few months. We met at a volleyball tournament. He was there with a bunch of his friends to watch his twin sister play. I really like him, but I’m sure our relationship will end when he leaves for the summer program at Northwestern in June. Peter is different from Bobby and all the other boys I have screwed around with. He was a virgin when we met, and he is more serious than any other eighteen-year-old I have ever laid eyes on. He is serious about school, about soccer, about his job, about his family and about me. In a way, Peter and I don’t match up. But they always say that opposites attract, so maybe that’s why things are pretty good right now. Maybe that’s why we work.
Peter and I are sitting on the steps of my front porch, talking about college. He knows I am eager to leave because he has seen some of Michael’s finest work. He’s seen him flip out on me big-time. He’s seen how Michael can take a little piece of me and grind it into the ground like dust. The first time it happened in front of Peter, I thought that was the end of us. I was sure he would up and run for the hills. But he didn’t. Instead he stood right next to me, holding my hand while Michael’s face grew red and his mouth spewed at me. He was screaming about a less-than-perfect calculus test. Screaming about how volleyball had fucking ruined my academics. About how I’m going to fail out of any university that is stupid enough to accept me in the first place. About how I am a brainless moron. Just like my mother.
I spit in his face. Peter’s hand gripped mine and Michael froze. I think if Peter weren’t there, Michael would have hit me as he had done any number of times before. One or two swipes were all he ever took. Ones that wouldn’t leave a mark but would send me a message. But this time, he turned on his heels and walked back down the hallway. To plan my punishment, no doubt. Peter and I bolted out the door and got into his car. When he took me back home a few hours later, Michael was waiting for me. He sent Peter away. I had to wash both of my parents’ cars. In front of the entire neighborhood, I had to scrub the tires with a fingernail brush. I had to scrape the bugs from the engine grille. I had to wax and polish every square inch. And I had to do it all with a bar of Ivory soap in my mouth. A seventeen-year-old with a bar of soap in her mouth.
I found out later that Peter sat in his car down the street and watched my punishment unfold. Unable to help me. Unwilling to get caught up in the whole thing. He apologized profusely the next day, his pity searing through me, but I told him not to worry about it. I told him it wouldn’t have made any difference anyway. It probably would have made it worse.
Peter tells me that he has to go to work. It is Saturday, and his shift starts at one. But before he leaves he says he has a question for me. He asks me if he can take me to the prom. His invitation is sweet and warm and inviting, just like him. I accept it with a kiss, knowing that, somehow, Michael will probably manage to fuck it all up.
* * *
A few weeks later, my mom takes me to buy a prom dress. It is the most fun we have had in a very long time. We laugh at the ridiculousness of some of the styles, and when we finally find the right one, she tells me how beautiful I am. How much I look like my father. It is the first time she has mentioned him in nearly a decade, and I am swimming with emotion. She tells me he would have been proud of me for getting into such a good college and for keeping things together without him.
There are a million questions I want to ask her. About him. About us. About why she changed so much when he died. But I don’t ask because her eyes are already telling me about all of her regrets. We are standing in the dress shop, with me in my new prom dress and her face only inches from mine. Her hands sweep my hair up and twist it gently against the back of my head. She holds it there and looks at me for the first time in what feels like forever. We are locked together, thoughts passing between us. Unspoken words seeping out of our faces. And then she is crying and telling me how sorry she is. I tell her that it is okay. That it is almost over. That I am going to college and moving on and things will be all right. I tell her that I believe Michael takes good care of her and that she’ll be all right, too. I don’t believe a word I am saying, but I think it’s what she wants to hear. She needs to know that I forgive her. She lets go of my hair and wraps her arms around me, hugging me tight against her. I am breathing as if it is my last moment on this earth, afraid to move because I don’t want her to let me go.
“It was my fault,” she whispers into my ear. “My fault that your father died. I should have forced him to get that test. I should have driven him straight to the hospital, and for the rest of my life, all I want to do is punish myself for making that choice. Marrying Michael was part of it. I needed someone to support us, but the idea of moving on was just so.....so wrong. I picked Michael because, if I was going to move on, I needed it to be with someone who was never going to replace your father. Someone who was incapable of replacing him. Because I don’t deserve any better. I don’t deserve a second chance at happiness. I never meant to punish you for it, too, Emma, but that’s what happened. And I am so sorry. So, so sorry.” She stops talking only long enough to let me go and smooth the dress against my skin. “You can hate me if you want to. You might already hate me. I deserve it. I can’t take it back, but I want you to know that I am proud of the woman you are becoming. Proud that you are surviving. Proud that you are so much stronger than me.”
I don’t cry because I’m empty. I don’t hate her. How could she think that? I give her a small smile and use my thumb to brush the tears from her face. All I can say is, “It’s all right, Mom. Everything is okay.”
After that, I think things are going to be different between my mother and me. But outwardly, they aren’t. Michael stays between us, steering both her actions and mine. But inwardly, I know that we do feel different. Each in our own way. I think we recognize that there is still love here, even though we don’t say it, even though we don’t show it. Because we know that if we keep it inside, Michael can’t have it.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Emma—Present Day
Saturday is heavenly. David and I sleep in, eat a leisurely brunch, catch a movie and take a walk. Before we know it, evening arrives. I make us some dinner, and we talk about how to spend the night.
Turns out they are going to be at a club on the south side of the city. The show starts at ten, and David calls Caleb to get us on the guest list. He seems excited to be going out to see his friends and tells me that this time we should plan on hanging out with them after the show.
“I’m not worried about them scaring you off anymore,” he says with confidence. “No matter what fucking song they decide to play for you.” I smile at him, remembering how ridiculously crazy he looked the last time. And then I promise him—and myself—that I will not get absurdly drunk tonight. I will stay in line, and I will not humiliate either of us. He laughs and tells me I can do whatever the fuck makes me happy. He doesn’t care, just so long as he’s the one who puts me in the shower this time.
We have so much fun. Before they start playing, we hang out with everyone backstage. I meet John and Steve’s girlfriends and enjoy watching David chatting and posturing with his friends. He seems so relaxed with them. And this time, when the band is playing, we don’t stand by the bar. Or rather, I don’t stand by the bar. I dance. With the other girlfriends and a few other people. I glance over at David from time to time and watch him watching me. It is the first time he’s seen me dance, and I hope I am not embarrassing him. He eyes are alight every time I glance at him, so I think I must be doing all right.
By the time the band finishes and the DJ begins, I am drenched in sweat, laughing my ass off at Mandy, Steve’s girlfriend, and her antics. She’s a howl, traipsing around pretending to be a supermodel and flirting with everyone she sees. I like her—and everyone else here, for that matter. They are unpretentious and uninhibited.
About an hour later, I decide to have a seat on a bar stool a few feet away from David. He is busy talking with John. I can’t tell what the topic is, but it must be light because they occasionally crack up between drags on their cigarettes. As I am watching the pair of them and drinking a gin and tonic of my own, Saz sits down next to me and starts talking. He is overly animated, telling me about how much he likes my shirt and how he thinks the DJ looks like a young Hugh Jackman.
Suddenly, he stops blabbering and starts smiling at me like a silly little boy. “Emma,” he says, dragging my name out slowly.
“Saz,” I say. “You all right?”
“Shit, girl, I’m more than all right. I’m thrilled to fucking death.” I think he might be a little drunk. He leans over into me as if he is going to tell me a secret. “You, girl. You and David. Things are tightening up again for that man.” Uh, okay. What does that mean?
“Tightening up?” I say, forcing a cautious smile on my face. He is smiling, too, and his eyes are lit.
“Yeah, yeah. It’s a good thing. A really good thing. He hasn’t had a girl around since Lucia fucked him over, man. That was some tough shit to witness right there.” Who the hell is Lucia?
“Oh,” I say. “Lucia, huh? What happened there?”
“He never mentioned her?” I shake my head cautiously. “Aww, man. I’m not surprised. It was bad. The whole time the two of them were together, she was fucking some other cocksucker. The dude even lived in David’s building. It was a really fucking bad scene. The guy lived two floors down from David. They were friends, man. Nothing worse than finding out your woman is screwing one of your mates. She was just a rotten fucking whore.” This is news. Holy fuck. Two floors down. That’s my apartment. I’m not sure I want to hear any more about this, but I can’t help myself.
Screw it. I’m going to take advantage of Saz’s candor.
“Wow. How long ago did all this happen?” I ask, trying to act casual but choking on a wad of apprehension.
He thinks for a moment, then says, “Must be a year or so ago. That Lucia, man, she was trouble right from the start. David, he’s got a good heart, man, and she fucking threw that shit right to the floor.” Saz balls his hand up into a fist and starts tapping it on his chest. His face suddenly looks emotional, as if he hurts for David. “He went a little crazy after Lucia fucked him over. He was doing some wacked-out shit. Skydiving, motor-cross racing, jumping off of fucking cliffs—crazy shit like that,” he stresses. “Ever since I’ve known him, David’s always been in control, man, he’s always got a grip. He’s always...I don’t know...tight. But what that whore did...she put a dent in all that. All the crazy-ass shit he was doing was completely against his grain. It wasn’t like him to take those kinds of risks. It was total insanity. But apparently, it was temporary. Because he’s back, man, he’s tight again. It’s like he buckled his ass back down and got a grip. Once he met you, all that shit stopped.” His eyebrows go up and he shrugs. I’m silent because I don’t know what to say. A few seconds later, Saz starts talking again.
“Just so you know, Emma, he was never like this before,” he continues. When he says the word “this,” he opens his arms up toward me and then gestures back and forth from me to David. I cannot believe what I am hearing.
“What happened to her?” I ask as casually as I can. She can’t possibly still be part of David’s life? Surely he would have mentioned her.
“Don’t know. He put the guy in the hospital, though. He beat the living shit out of the dude. Then he got Carl to evict the guy for selling stolen merchandise out of his apartment, which apparently David had known about for a long time. The day the guy got out of the hospital, David put all the dude’s furniture and shit out in the parking lot and changed all the locks. David even had the cops there to make sure it was a clean eviction. The dude never said a word to anyone about David being the one that beat the living shit out of him. I think he was afraid that David would tell the cops about all the stolen shit he was selling. And, as far as I know, David told Lucia to go fuck herself. We never saw her after that. Maybe she’s with the other guy, I don’t know.”
“Jesus, Saz. That’s crazy.” I grab my drink and take a long sip. My mind is racing. For all the talking that David and I have done over the past few weeks, we have never discussed any of his ex-girlfriends. And now I know there are at least two. Maybe three, if the “gun hound” isn’t Anna or Lucia, or if you count him sleeping with his dad’s secretary. I have always considered past relationships in the none-of-my-business category, but it seems as if David’s exes are a complicated bunch. I suddenly feel very naive.
Saz is taking a sip of his beer, and I glance over my shoulder at David. I need to see him. To confirm that he is the same man that Saz and I are talking about. When my eyes meet his, I can see immediately that he is uncomfortable. That he is guarded. His body language is screaming it. His arms are crossed over each other but not across his chest, around his midsection. Like he is protecting himself from a shot to the gut. For the first time ever, I look at David and I see insecurity. He knows we are talking about him, and he is clearly uneasy as shit about it. John is talking to him, but I don’t think he is listening. He is focused on me and Saz.
Now I feel guilty and dirty for talking about this. For making David feel insecure. For making him wonder what we are saying. I need to stop. I turn back to Saz.
“I’m going to go check in with David now,” I tell him. “It was nice talking with you, Saz.”
“You too, Emma. And take it easy on him, okay?” he says. I don’t answer. I just smile and walk over to David.
As soon as I get there, his arms release his waist and wrap around me, folding me against him. I put my head on his chest and slide my hands around him. I’m sure everyone is looking at us, hugging like this at the bar, but I don’t care. It’s nice to know that David doesn’t either. It makes me realize that there’s a lot of stuff I don’t care about. Really. When it comes down to it, I don’t care about what kind of crazy shit David did because of someone named Lucia. I don’t care that he didn’t tell me about the cocksucker who used to live in my apartment. I don’t care what Matt k
nows about David that I don’t. I don’t care about gun-toting ex-girlfriends or illegal poker nights or his fucked-up family. I don’t care. He’ll tell me what he wants me to know. And none of it will matter anyway. Because I already know I love him, and all that shit won’t make a damn bit of difference.
Shit. I love David Calgaro.
“I want to go,” I say to him, my head still against his chest.
“Fuck.” It comes out of him sounding sick and disturbed. “Why can’t any of my friends keep their mouths shut? What did he say, Emma?” I lean back away from him and look at his face. He thinks I’m angry.
“It doesn’t matter what he said. None of it matters,” I say softly.
“What the hell does that mean?” He sounds hurt.
“It means that any one of them could tell me that you snorted coke with the pope, and it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference.” His face relaxes. He recognizes his own words of assurance from Monday night. From the night I said I would be his girlfriend. He briefly closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and shakes his head.
When he opens his eyes, they dig into mine. “Two of the same,” he says stone-faced. “Let’s get out of here.”
* * *
Neither of us brings up my conversation with Saz. We don’t talk about it on the drive home or all day Sunday. He doesn’t ask, and I don’t offer. But I think David already knows what Saz told me. I think he called or texted him about it. I also think David probably chewed Saz a new one for sharing what wasn’t his to share.
On Sunday, I get my period, so by the time Monday rolls around, we have both caught up on our sleep. And grocery shopping and laundry. David is still not letting me out of his sight, driving me wherever I want to go and hanging out at my apartment as if it’s his own. I make it no secret: I love how safe I feel when he’s around. When I tell him as much, his face shines, and he plumps himself up like a horny rooster strutting through the barnyard. It makes me laugh out loud.