Raze

by Roan Parrish

  Put pressure on something knitting itself back together and watch it pull itself apart.

  I went with them to a meeting and afterward, Vicki introduced me to someone she thought I might be able to sponsor. He was just a kid—maybe twenty-one or twenty-two—with a familiar manic energy. He had dark hair and dark eyes, and he looked up at me in a way that reminded me so much of Felix that it made my stomach turn over.

  That fucking kid looked up at me and something tried to claw its way out of my chest. My mind had raced down a hundred avenues of his struggle and his hope and his pain and all of them brought me to the same place: after years of perfecting the art of detachment, I didn’t think I could wade into another ocean of struggle without drowning.

  I bolted outside and walked for hours. I walked until my feet ached and my bad knee throbbed, seeking permissible oblivion.

  Felix left me a voicemail asking if he should wait for me and in his voice I could hear need. I could imagine him wrapping his arms around me, pressing his cheek to my neck.

  I could go to him. Give him whatever he needed, then lay myself at his feet and sink into his sweetness.

  But I couldn’t stand the thought of lying to him, and I couldn’t tell him the truth.

  That something was wrong with me. Again. Something was breaking me apart from the inside out, crawling into my strongest places and leaving them a tender, blooming landscape of…

  Fear.

  Fear that whatever was happening would leave me a ruin. Fear that I couldn’t possibly be strong enough to be Felix’s man when the supports I’d built were cracking, one by one. How could I ever hope to be enough for him?

  Around midnight I finally dragged myself home, and there it was on the counter. A glass from the bar that smelled like gin.

  I knew what probably happened: Felix would have come in through the bar, Johi would’ve offered him a drink, and he would’ve carried it upstairs with him. He wouldn’t have thought anything of it, because I owned a bar. I was around alcohol all the time, and alcohol had never been too much of a problem for me.

  He couldn’t know that I never let any drugs or alcohol in my space, period, because I’d never told him. And I was sure he’d meant to wash the glass and take it downstairs, because Felix was considerate like that.

  Even though I knew it had been an innocent accident, it felt like my space had been polluted, my safe haven defiled in my absence. Without a second thought, I grabbed the glass, threw open the bathroom window, and pitched it into the alley below. I heard the plonk and a shatter, the offended yowl of some alley-dwelling creature, and I slammed the window shut.

  But the damage was done. I was shaky and unsettled, and despite how exhausted I felt, I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. It had been a while since I’d had one of these nights. Still, it was a familiar sensation, and I sank into it with equal parts dread and resignation.

  I turned on every light in the apartment. The shadows had a way of creeping across the walls at certain hours, to be hailed like acquaintances encountered after a long winter spent indoors.

  In the middle of the living room, I did push-ups until my shoulders gave out, then sit-ups until I puked. Squats, then, until my thighs shook so hard I sank down where I stood.

  Finally, I pulled out my notebook, flipped to the next blank page, and started writing. I wrote for what felt like hours, the jagged black marks a visible record of each minute spent here, on earth, alive, breathing.

  I wrote until my hand cramped, then switched to my left hand. When I couldn’t write another word, I slid the notebook behind the row of books with all the others.

  I dragged myself into the bathroom, a mess of shrieking muscles and too-tight skin, and stepped into the shower, water turned as hot as I could make it. I watched distractedly as my skin turned pink.

  After my mom died, my father would take long showers and emerge from the steamy bathroom lobster pink. He probably thought the rush of running water would drown out the sound of him crying.

  It didn’t. But I gave him the courtesy of pretending, because pretense was all he had. I’d taken on the responsibilities I could, at twelve, and I’d done my best to stay away from the house and my father’s misery. I’d thrown myself into football, gone out with friends every night, worked grueling jobs in the summers that would leave me too tired to need anything more than a sandwich and my bed at the end of the day.

  The football scholarship had dropped down like a lifeline and I had grabbed it with both hands, counting the days until I could leave town. My father had shaken my hand and patted my shoulder, but I truly hadn’t known if he would take over the things I’d done for years—grocery shopping and cleaning and paying bills—or if he would let it all go.

  I hadn’t known and I’d left anyway, so relieved to be free of his crushing sadness that I’d told myself it wasn’t my problem anymore.

  Sometime in the first year of my recovery I’d begun to remember things about him. How he paced the house at night the way I now did. The way he couldn’t sleep. How he panicked one night when he found something in the trash that I’d thrown away and pulled it out, repeating over and over that it wasn’t garbage.

  I’d remembered finding a notebook shoved under a couch cushion. I’d assumed it was mine from school, but when I’d opened it my father’s left-slanting hand had poured his heart out in letters that my mother would never read.

  I can’t do this. I can’t do anything. I open my mouth to scream but nothing comes out. How did this happen? How could we have ended up this way? This isn’t what it was supposed to be like. I don’t know how to take care of him. Good thing he doesn’t really need me. You would have been so much better at this than me. I wish it had been me instead of you. I still wish it could be.

  I’d replaced the notebook and never looked at it again. But in my own apartment, I’d taken out another and written words of my own.

  For the first time in a long time, I tried to remember the week after my mother died instead of avoiding it.

  I could remember my father, swallowed by grief until he turned himself inside out and swallowed it instead. I could remember the funeral, my father stoic as a zombie until we got home and he fell apart, my mother’s parents weeping and drifting off afterward, neighbors and friends wishing heartfelt and cumbersome condolences. I remembered my friends’ preteen awkwardness as they offered video game playing, Doritos, and bike lending, the most precious things they had.

  I could remember all of that, and I could even remember what I wore—a dark gray suit I’d outgrown the previous year when I’d worn it to my cousin’s wedding, shiny black shoes that pinched my toes, and a purple shirt that my mother had brought home for me one day and said she thought would look nice on me. It was the only purple thing I’d ever worn.

  Yet I couldn’t remember myself.

  Couldn’t remember what I had done or said. I couldn’t remember crying. I couldn’t remember my father hugging me. I didn’t know what had happened to that suit or that purple shirt, but I didn’t think I’d ever seen them again. I couldn’t remember how I’d felt. If I’d felt anything at all.

  I got out of the shower, pink like my father was when he’d stood under the water too long, and uncapped my Sharpie.

  I thought about writing, Face your fears or they will climb over your back. I thought about writing a lot of things. But none of them would be enough. I couldn’t think of anything that would be.

  Words were sliding away. The words I’d held onto, pulled myself up by, guarded myself with. They were slipping through a thousand cracks I hadn’t known were there, gone before I could reach out and grab a single one.

  I walked around my white box of an apartment, turning off the lights in the hope of a few hours’ rest before dawn, and spotted the purple monster Felix had given me at Coney Island. It was a go
ofy-looking thing, black felt eyes slightly askew, horns pointing in different directions.

  “You look ridiculous,” I told it. It just stared at me, soft and fuzzy, with open arms.

  I grabbed it and climbed into bed naked, pulling the sheets up and trying to let sleep find me. A rustling, scraping sound came from the alley, and I clutched the purple monster, its synthetic fur tickling my nose, and let out a shuddering sigh.

  Chapter 12

  Felix

  I hated how early I had to get up to work the opening shift, but it was peaceful to be at the store in the dark, before the city was awake. Opening prep work was mindless and soothing, and the smell of bagels and bread baking and coffee perking was nice for the first hour.

  I liked watching the day begin through the front glass windows: the first trickle of movement, runners and dog walkers, then professionals in suits and the occasional early-rising student. The magic of it wore off as the sun rose, but for a while it felt like I was getting a glimpse of a secret life.

  As I loaded new filters into the huge coffee machines, Kiara pulled a candle out of her purse and lit it, sticking it in the hole of a blueberry bagel—our worst seller—and held it out to Stephen.

  “Happy last day,” she said.

  “Aw, thanks, you shouldn’t’ve.” Stephen grinned and took the bagel. He tore off a chunk and chewed, grin fading. “You actually shouldn’t have,” he said with his mouth full. “These are awful.”

  “Wait, it’s your last day?”

  Stephen raked a hand through his spiky blond hair. He’d been working here for about a year, which was longer than most people lasted—though nowhere near as long as me—and I’d gotten used to his low-key attitude and ability to keep a perfectly straight face no matter what ridiculous requests the customers made.

  “Yeah. I got into grad school, so I don’t have to do this anymore.”

  “Oh, wow. What do you study?”

  “Molecular biology.” He grinned, a goofy, satisfied grin. “I love it. I’m really excited.”

  “That’s awesome, man, congrats.”

  I went back to making coffee and looked outside for the tiny miracles that early-morning New York sometimes bestowed, but I didn’t see any. By the time the sun had risen, the smell of yeast and old coffee grounds turned my stomach, and Stephen’s words echoed persistently in my head: I don’t have to do this anymore.

  This job had been a pit stop before he started his real life. But for me, it wasn’t a rung on the ladder that led to anything else, because I didn’t have anything I was working toward. My sister was off living her dream. My boyfriend spent most of his time helping other people.

  What the hell did I do?

  * * *

  —

  After work, I headed over to Dane’s, exhausted and moody.

  We’d been missing each other a lot in the week since I’d shown up at Dane’s and he hadn’t come home. Or…it felt more like I’d been missing him. Sponsee crises, bar crises, gym crises. Every sector of Dane’s life seemed to be imploding lately. What on earth could constitute a gym crisis? I couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d been dodging me.

  Today, though, we had plans. He’d texted last night and we’d said we’d spend the whole afternoon together. I couldn’t wait. All I wanted was to get my mind off of everything except how good it felt to feel his skin against mine, his arms around me. A home-cooked dinner wouldn’t hurt, either.

  When Dane opened the door, he looked as exhausted as I felt. He smiled when he saw me, though, and his growled, “Hey, sweetheart,” made me throw myself into his arms.

  He smelled so good and felt so good and tasted so good. I tugged him down and kissed him, wrapping my arms around his neck so he had to hoist me up for better access. I wrapped my legs around his hips and kissed him harder.

  “Whoa, whoa,” he said, reaching a hand out to close the door. His smile was gone. “Hey. You okay?”

  I tucked my nose in the crook of his neck and tried to will us into bed and the rest of the world into fuzzy nothingness. It didn’t work. Dane ran a hand gently up and down my back, then walked us to the couch and sat down.

  “ ’M glad to see you,” I murmured against his neck, not wanting to let go. “Missed you.”

  “Me too. Sorry about the other day. I was with a sponsee and then…”

  “ ’S okay.” I knew he wouldn’t tell me anything about it, and I didn’t want to dwell in my hurt that he hadn’t called back. Right now I only cared that he was here and that we had the whole day stretching out in front of us.

  I snuggled into Dane’s side on the couch and let out a long breath. Peace settled over me when he threaded his fingers through mine.

  Before I knew it, I was telling Dane all about the photographers who had ambushed me and pouring out my fear that somehow I’d have to pay for the camera I broke and how sure I was that Sofia was getting a million times worse than that.

  “She chose it, though,” he said soothingly, fingers in my hair. “You didn’t.”

  I shuddered.

  “I don’t think anyone chooses to have their privacy invaded. Even if they decide to be a singer for a band. It was horrible.”

  “You’re right.”

  “How are you?” I asked, tugging him closer to me. “You look really tired. You’ve been busy, huh?”

  Dane’s sigh felt like it came from the depths of his being, and he did something I’d never seen him do before. He made a gesture like he was running a hand through his hair, only he didn’t have hair. It was like a ghost gesture from a life he used to have.

  “Did you start shaving your head because you were balding?” I asked, realizing I’d never seen a single old picture of him.

  “No.”

  “How come, then?”

  His brows drew together.

  “I don’t remember,” he said. “I started doing it so long ago. Now it’s—”

  “Habit.”

  I tapped him on the tip of his nose.

  “Yeah.”

  “Is it dark like your eyebrows?”

  “A little lighter. Hell, could be gray by now for all I know. Do you…You don’t like it, huh?”

  “I like it,” I reassured him. “I was just curious.”

  I knelt up and pressed a kiss to his smooth head. When I looked closely, I could make out the shadow of his hairline, though I’d never paid attention before. He had a widow’s peak.

  Just as I sank back down next to him, Dane’s phone rang. He grabbed for it, apologized, and went to take it in the other room like he always did when it was a sponsee. I slumped onto the couch. I was doing a lot of slumping these days.

  “Hey,” Dane said after a few minutes, towering over the couch, a pinched expression on his face. “I’m really sorry, sweetheart, but I have to go.”

  “What?! But I thought— We were gonna— But…”

  My heart started to race and a surge of adrenaline shot through me. Everything felt like it was falling apart, and the promise of spending the whole day with someone who’d become so important to me was the only thing that had been getting me through. Now, as it was torn away, I felt it in my whole body.

  “We were, I know. I’m so sorry. Sponsee’s having a crisis. Needs me.”

  I had spent weeks, months, years squashing my desires so small that they would never intrude on anyone—so small they became invisible even to me. Now, in the face of the man who had, for the first time, put me in the position to be cared for, they unfolded in a cascade of want and need and desire. Burst from my chest, unpracticed and sloppy, and shocking even myself.

  “I need you!”

  Dane’s eyes got wide and he frowned. Shame crept through me.

  “I…This is what I do, Felix. He needs me now.”


  “I need you now.” It came out tiny. A whimper of please love me that had begun its hopeless retreat before it had even left my mouth.

  I knew my needs weren’t the same as his sponsees’. I knew I was being selfish. But I also knew that in Dane’s personal triage, his sponsee was above me on the list.

  Would it always be that way? Would his sponsees’ needs—however legitimate and pressing—always have priority?

  Would he leave me over and over to do something more important? What was my desire worth if I couldn’t prove its necessity?

  I breathed deeply, trying to calm down.

  “Um. What will you do when you go there?” I asked.

  “Probably we’ll talk, I’ll keep him company, maybe watch TV.”

  “I could come too!” I offered, an edge of desperation audible. “I can help, I promise. I’m a good listener.”

  Dane’s eyes narrowed and he crossed his arms, muscles bulging. He looked stern, untouchable. The notion that I had ever kissed him, hugged him, made him laugh, seen the way his eyes fluttered open when he first woke in the morning, seemed mountain-distant.

  “You are a good listener,” he said slowly. “But you can’t come. That’s not how it works. It’s private. Anonymous. This is serious, Felix.”

  He was disappointed in me, and it made me feel sick and ashamed. But the idea of him leaving—this time, next time, possibly forever—had me wild.

  “I know it’s serious! I’m not stupid. It’s all you care about!”

  He blinked at me, wide-eyed and still, and I felt weak and small yelling at him from the couch, so I scrambled to my feet.

  “Not all I care about,” he said, arms still crossed tight over his bulging chest.

  His detached calm felt like he didn’t even care about this moment and my chest burned with hurt. I pushed the hurt out with anger and dug my nails into my palm, praying I wouldn’t cry.