Sin With Me

by JA Huss

  “Fuck. Um, yeah, right. So… so I’m in the middle of my second deployment, or… I think it may have been my second… My third? Shit. I dunno anymore. Doesn’t matter. I was gone. And I get an email from Scotty that he’s moving to Colorado for firefighter training. ‘What? Firefighter training? Colorado? What the fuck? And why Colorado?’ I ask him. He tells me… Do you know what hotshots are?”

  “Hotshots? Like…?”

  “They’re firefighters,” I interrupt. “Specially trained firefighters who work in what’s called ‘wildfire suppression tactics.’ In other words, when there’s a fire raging out of control because some fucknut forgot to put out their campfire or dropped a cigarette in the forest, these dudes are the crews trained to put that shit out.”

  “And so Scotty was going to Colorado to become a hotshot?”

  “You got it.”

  I think she expects me to say more. But I don’t. I’m starting to feel like maybe I’m all talked out.

  But then I get a second wind.

  “So yeah. So he’s moving to fucking Colorado to become a fucking hotshot. Oh, and by the way, don’t think the fact that they’re called ‘hotshots’ is lost on me. Only thing that would be more on the nose is if they were called Big-Dick Badasses Who’ll Show Fucking Tyler Morgan Who’s The Man. I think they actually tried that for a while but it didn’t fit on the back of the jackets.” I pause for a beat to give the good doctor a moment to take in just how goddamn clever I am. She grins, tightly. It makes her eyes squint.

  “So anyway. So, you know. You know me. I can’t just let anything be without being a smartass or making some fucking joke, because then I might risk actually having a genuine emotion and that doesn’t sound fun. So know what I did? No, seriously. Know what I did? Guess.”

  She continues to just eyeball me with compassion and lack of judgment and it’s tearing me completely in half.

  “No? OK. I’ll tell you. I gave him shit about it. I gave him shit about were they only gonna let him put out fires in flower gardens and would the helmet fit his tiny head and shit. And his head wasn’t even that tiny! He had a totally normal-sized head! It was a stupid joke! Fuck!”

  I’m starting to get a little emotional now. I’m worried it’s going to freak her out.

  “And what happened?” she asks calmly.

  “Whaddayou mean?” I say. “He told me to go fuck myself.”

  “Sure,” she says, “but I mean what happened that caused him to die? You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want.”

  “No, no. I do. I mean I DON’T, but…” I take a deep breath. Sigh it out. “So he’s up in Colo-fucking-rado, and it’s Halloween, and… and look, I don’t know all the details. Obviously, I wasn’t there. But as I understand it some goddamn kids—they think—are out in the woods getting high and shit and they start a fire somehow, and it gets out of control real fucking fast because it was like a weirdly dry October or whatever and Scotty’s crew is the first deployed to try to contain it, and…”

  It’s very clear I don’t need to say more. But I’ve come this far.

  “And one of the other hotshots was standing in the way of some falling timber or something and Scotty pushed him out of the way and the tree fell on him instead and he fucking died and it was Halloween and Evan says it’s not my fault but it is pretty much my fault because he was trying to be a hero and I know for a fact that he was trying to be a fucking goddamn motherfucking hero because of all the fucking years that I gave him shit so fuck me and fuck Halloween and fuck God and fuck everybody and Scotty’s dead the end.”

  Silence. Can. Have. Weight.

  And the silence in the small room after my big outburst is intensely heavy.

  “I swear too much, don’t I?” I ask after a few thick moments pass.

  “As compared to who?” she responds. Bless her heart. Then she commences again. “Do you mind if I say a couple of things or do you have more?”

  I shake my head no. I don’t want to say more. If possible, I’d like to un-say everything I just said.

  “So you don’t need me to tell you this, but Evan is right. Your friend’s death is not your fault. That’s the first thing.” She bends her head down to seek my eyes because my gaze is now pointed directly at the floor.

  “Also,” she continues, “I know you’ve been diagnosed with PTSD. You got that from a military psychiatrist, yes?”

  I nod. Slightly.

  “Ok,” she says, “I’m gonna go ahead and say that I do agree with that. But I’m gonna add something… I think you’ve probably been living with it since long before you were in the military.”

  Well, that gets my attention. I look up.

  She finds my eyes. “I think you’ve been battling post-traumatic stress since you were a child. Because I think you’ve been dealing with trauma since you were a child.”

  I bite my bottom lip a little. Isn’t fifty minutes up yet?

  “And…” Nope. Still some time to go. “And I think you might look for reasons or situations that help keep you in a state of trauma. Not because you want to, but because it’s familiar. Because you need to have something to fight against.”

  I feel like punching something right now, that’s for sure. I feel like walking out of here, finding the first drunk group of frat boys I can find—all giving each other shit and joking with each other in careless and hurtful ways—and ripping off their arms and beating them to death with them. Not to teach them a lesson. Just because it’d feel good.

  “But, hey, just my opinion. I have three degrees and have seen hundreds of patients, but let’s be honest… nobody really knows what’s going on inside anybody else. Maybe you’re fine and it’s the rest of the world that has PTSD. Could go either way.”

  She smiles again. It doesn’t make me want to punch things any less, but it definitely makes me not want to punch her.

  “Do you have any plans for Halloween?” she asks. “Are you seeing the girl?”

  “Fuck. No. I wanted to ask her to a carnival at the firehouse that they do for charity, but I didn’t get a chance.”

  “Why don’t you call her and ask her? I think it would be good to start replacing this particular association you have with one that’s more positive.”

  “I can’t call her,” I say. “I don’t have her number. Or her name. Or like a real clear understanding that she’s an actual human being and not just a fantasy that I created.”

  Now it’s the doctor’s turn to bite her lip. “Well,” she says. “Um. That feels like it’s worth talking about, but we’re out of time.”

  “Oh,” I say. Just a few minutes ago I was praying for this to be over and now that it is, I’m kind of sad. Which is surprising. Or else it’s not at all. She reads my face. It’s not hard to see, I imagine.

  “Or,” she starts, “I don’t actually have anyone right away. If you want to talk some more… we can.”

  She tilts her head. It occurs to me all of a sudden that… I’m paying her. That ‘talk some more’ means pay her for more of her time. And that, on some level, this is what my relationship with Scarlett is about too. Paying for the illusion of something I want. Something I need. In Scarlett’s case, it was about paying her for the illusion of desire. No, not desire. Salvation. I was trying to buy salvation. Right here, with the doctor, it’s about paying for the illusion of what it would be like to have someone who gets me. Who understands me. Who cares at all. Paying for a surrogate mother.

  And realizing this is just about the most sorrowful, most desperate thing I can imagine. So…

  “Tyler?” she asks. “Would you like to talk some more?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I would.”

  Chapter Twelve - Maddie

  My mother calls on Monday.

  I let it go to voicemail and then I stare at that little voicemail notification all day, telling myself I should just delete it and not listen. But she’s just trying to be helpful and so it sits there like just another little red flag in my life
.

  I’m still trying to come to terms with last weekend at Pete’s. Not only the way Logan practically kidnapped me from the alley, or the way Ford kicked his friend’s ass and took his gun. But also what came afterward.

  I’ve been trying to forget about it… but I can’t. It was… hot.

  God, I’m so disgusting.

  But I can’t deny it. This guy—whatever his real name is—just… does something to me. Makes me irrational. Turns me into a dirty little slut.

  I know he’s bad for me. I see all the ways this can go wrong. And I know I’m just as bad for him. I mean, shit. All I gotta do is look at the fucking calendar to understand why I’m acting this way.

  I press the voicemail icon on my phone just as an excuse to stop thinking about him, and wince as my mother’s voice blares through the speaker.

  “Madison,” she says in her calm Mom voice. “I have something really important to ask you. Can you please call me back? Thank you, darling.”

  The call ends.

  My life ends too as I get lost in the reasons she’s so insistent on talking to me this week.

  But only for an instant. Because I decide I’d rather think about Madison’s Slutty Adventures at Pete’s than that.

  So I masturbate to the memory of what he did. The way he felt. The way he made me feel. My back is scratched from being fucked up against the brick wall and there’s a bruise on my left thigh from where his fingers pressed into my muscles as he ate me out. I lie in bed and close my eyes and pretend we know each other. That it was a prearranged fantasy date. I was just pretending to be a stripper. He was just pretending to be a stranger. That he’s the love of my life and this is just our special way of keeping things fresh.

  I come to that thought.

  Annie doesn’t come home Monday night and even though Caroline and Diane tell me not to worry, she’s just on a job, I stay up until dawn waiting on her and get no sleep.

  She walks in on Tuesday afternoon looking like… well a whore who’s been on a call for eighteen hours.

  “Don’t ask,” she says, dropping her heels on the foyer floor.

  So I don’t. Because I’m wallowing in my own mountain of self-pity right now and don’t even have time for hers.

  My father calls on Wednesday. He’s not a message leaver, so he just calls and calls and calls all day long. Sometimes I wish I worked during the week. Pete’s is open all the time, so I could work during the week. But it’s slow, so is it worth it? I mean, if Pete’s becomes my full-time job, what does that say about me?

  I’m desperate?

  Yes. That’s exactly what it says.

  Wednesday night I break down and answer my father’s call. “Hey Dad. What’s up?”

  “We’ve been calling you all week, Mads.”

  I roll my eyes at the nickname. “Please don’t call me that.”

  “How are you?” he asks, ignoring my response. I can hear my mother talking in the background and then my father covers his phone with his hand or something, because her voice gets all muffled and distorted.

  “Fine,” I say automatically.

  My mother grabs the phone from my dad. “Madison,” she says. “I’d like you to come visit for the holidays. What do you say? Can I send you a ticket? I’ll get you Global First Class.” She sings that last part. Like it’s a special treat.

  It is. I don’t go anywhere these days. And even when I did, I never went first class.

  “They have beds in that class, Madison. And they serve you champagne as soon you sit down. It’s lovely. Come stay with us for a little while. We miss you. Let me buy you a ticket.”

  “No,” I say. “I can’t, Mom. Really. I’m so busy with this new business, I just can’t leave it right now. If I do, I’ll lose all the momentum I’ve built up over the last few months.”

  Bullshit. I cannot believe how stupid I am for wasting twelve thousand dollars on a fucking drone. You would’ve been better off buying stripper outfits with that money, my little devil says.

  Or paying Carlos back, the angel counters.

  “Did you at least call Plu?”

  “Who?”

  “Dr. Brown.”

  “Oh, her,” I say, unable to hide my disgust. Plumeria Brown is the daughter of my dad’s old associate from his Vegas casino days. I knew her—sorta—all growing up. She’s only a few years older, but the fact that she’s now some kind of licensed therapist is just a big ol’ slap in my face as far as I’m concerned.

  “I think you’d really enjoy catching up with her.”

  “Would I?” I laugh. “Why do you think that?”

  “Well,” my mother says. “The two of you are close in age. You must have a few things in common. I think she’d be a good listener.”

  “You don’t talk to people you know when you see a therapist, Mother.” I snarl out the word ‘mother.’ “It kinda defeats the purpose.”

  “Well, she definitely understands the issues—”

  “No one understands the issues,” I snap back. “And I’m tired of you pushing this shit on me. Can you just stop? Please? Just let me deal with it the way I always do. I’ve gotten through enough anniversaries now. And those cards you send, they don’t help. So just stop.”

  Silence on the other end of the phone.

  I exhale. “Mom?”

  She inhales. “OK, Maddie. If that’s what you think is best then… then I’ll stop caring. OK? How’s that? I’ll just throw up my hands and stop caring. Is that what you want? Do you want us to forget about you? Pretend we don’t have a daughter?”

  “I just…” I feel the water welling up in my eyes. Swallow hard. Then say, “I’m just not ready.”

  “It’s been seven years, Madison. You are ready.”

  The tears fall down my cheeks, but I don’t cry. Not sobs, anyway.

  “You need to get out. Meet people. Move on, Maddie.”

  “I have,” I say.

  “No,” my mother counters. “You start things and never finish them. Jumping from one crazy plan to another like you’re desperate to fill up your life. You hide in your work, pretending to be busy—”

  “I am busy,” I say.

  “And you don’t date.”

  “I am dating,” I say. Just wanting to stop her pity.

  “You are?” my mother says. The surprise in her voice makes me stifle a laugh. “What’s his… is it a him?”

  Then I do laugh. “Yes, it’s a him.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Ford,” I say, picturing the face that goes with that fake name.

  “Ford. What’s his last name?

  Shit. “Chevy,” I say, because that other car name flies right out of my head and I’m desperate to pull this off.

  My mother tsks her tongue. “You don’t need to lie to me, Maddie.”

  “OK, I don’t know his last name,” I say, exasperated. “But he really is called Ford. And I’ve only seen him a couple of times”—which isn’t a lie, either—“so I didn’t want to tell you, but you seem to think I’m some spinster hiding away in the attic just waiting to grow old and I’m not. I’m living, Mom. I’m fine. Everything is fine.”

  She thinks about this for several long, silent seconds. Probably trying to picture my life. If she knew I was stripping at Pete’s she’d hang up the phone and fly home immediately, so I know that’s not what she’s picturing.

  She’s picturing some average guy, probably. Maybe tall. Maybe dark hair. Maybe that Ford guy, in fact. He’s kinda my type. All manly and shit. I always did go for that type.

  So I just fill it in for her. I tell her what he looks like. His handsome face. And his beard. Which makes me actually smile when I say it out loud. And I tell her about his scars. I’m not sure why, maybe to divert her sympathy from me to him.

  “He was a soldier?” she asks.

  “Yes…” I say, assuming, since he said I didn’t want to know and I never got confirmation, but I have a feeling. Not sure why it matters, since it’s
all just part of a lie, but it does for some reason.

  “Is he… normal?” she asks.

  “What does that—?“

  “Just… you know those soldiers sometimes come back with… damage.”

  “OK, this is over now,” I say. My tears are gone and I’m fed up and tired.

  “Will you call Plu?” my mother asks.

  I hesitate. “I’m not calling Plu.”

  “Please, Madison,” my mother begs. “Please. For me. Just one time. One talk. That’s all I’m asking for.”

  “And you’ll leave me alone?” I ask.

  “I promise. If you go for one visit with Plu, I’ll stop nagging about it.”

  “Fine.” I sigh into the phone. “I’ll call her.”

  “I’ve already set up an appointment. It’s for tomorrow at noon.”

  “Jesus, Mom—”

  “One time, Maddie. Then you’re free of my worry. I’ve done my best and I’ll move on too.”

  I give up. Fuck it. “One. Time,” I say. “That’s it. And you never bring it up again. You never send another sympathy card to prepare me for the anniversary. You never call me about it. And you don’t make Dad call either. Because I don’t need help, OK? I’m fine.” My pride might very well be the thing that kills me.

  “You’ve got yourself a deal, Madison,” my mother says.

  “Good,” I say.

  “I love you,” she says, a soft whisper.

  “I love you too,” I sigh back, meaning it.

  “And we all miss him. But he’s gone.”

  The tears are back. They fall and fall and fall down my cheeks in rivers that might never end.

  “Goodbye,” I say, then end the call and throw myself on the bed face first so I can cry into my pillow.

  “You can call me Plu. Or you can call me Dr. Brown.”

  I’m in Plumeria’s office at noon the following day, just like I promised my mother I would be.

  “It’s funny, right?” I say, looking around her office. It’s nice. She’s in some kind of co-op with other counselors. Like roommates, I think. They all share a main reception area filled with high-end leather chairs and coffee tables with stacks of current glossy magazines.