Depths

by Liz Reinhardt

  The screeches from the other room interrupt my Cohen Rodriguez daydreams and send me creeping into the living room. There are several bras piled on the table Officer Miller’s dry-humping, his navy blue man-thong practically falling off under the weight of so many dollar bills.

  “Where have you been?” Jacinda shouts over the music.

  “Just talking to a guy I work—”

  “Dildo!” the entire room screams, stopping me in my tracks for a few seconds.

  “It’s times like these that make a lap full of vomit seem almost appealing,” I mutter before heading back out into the throng.

  I so need a Jell-O shot or five to get through this night.

  ***

  Two hours later, I’m finally home. My sister texted me twice, just to check in, but I don’t text back. I haven’t broken the news to her about dropping out of my classes again. She’ll blame Dad like she always does. And I get it. It’s his fault, partially. And mine, of course. But it’s too much to think about right now in the dingy dimness of our apartment, especially since I never did those Jell-O shots after all.

  The daughter of an alcoholic with a string of intoxication-related failures and arrests does not tempt fate by drinking even a little and driving.

  Dad is snoring on the recliner, his arm hanging over the side, his fingers curled around the glass neck of his Evan Williams bottle like a child clinging to his cherished lovey. I pull it out of his hand and screw the cap on, making sure to tilt it away from me so I don’t catch a whiff. It’s not that I don’t drink, but I loathe the smell of whiskey. Just one whiff will make my stomach roll and churn. Smelling the thing that turns the person you love and respect into a blubbering mess will do that to you.

  I throw a blanket over him, one of the dozens my mom knitted before she left. He won’t get rid of any of them, even though the weather in our area doesn’t really call for blankets most of the year. Also, they make him even more pathetically depressed.

  But I guess he likes being a sad sack.

  I tuck the fringed end under his chin, the chin that used to be so strong and handsome. It’s lost in the extra weight all the drinking added to his body. His skin is pale with smatterings of broken blood vessels and a greasy sheen that always makes him look sweaty and unwashed. He looks old. Pitiful. But still like the dad who used to lie on the floor with me, reading from piles of books until I fell asleep pillowed on his arm.

  I blink hard. I want that dad back. I want him so badly, I’ve let dreams slip away left and right on the off chance that maybe he’s there, deep down. Maybe he just needs one more night to drink, one more day to mope before he’ll stand up and say, “Alright, Pumpkin Pie, let’s get the yard cleaned up. Get the lead out.” And I’ll be here to help him when he does.

  Except that fantasy is pretty hard to imagine now that the yard he loved was sold long ago because he couldn’t handle the mortgage on his own after the divorce. And all his yard work was done with Mom’s complicated diagrams tucked in his back pocket back then anyway. She’d come lean off the deck and say, “Thomas, it looks amazing. I wish I had your green thumb, babe.”

  And he’d say, “But you got the sugar palm. You married the green thumb, smart girl.”

  He’d wink and she’d blush and go make some delicious baked thing that would knock us all out. It’s weird, that their inside joke would become her business, Sugar Palm Baked Goods, and her business would lead to the end of their marriage.

  I tiptoe to the dimly lit galley kitchen, where nothing sweet has ever been cooked, at least as long as Dad and I have lived here. I didn’t inherit my mother’s sugar palm or my father’s green thumb. Did I inherit anything useful or good?

  Some days I feel like I’m just the outline of a person, with no real shape or substance.

  My sister, Rowan, would tell me to let go of the past. Quit being a martyr. Let Dad face his responsibilities. But she’s tough and strong, like our mother. To the point where they both tend to trample other people if it serves their needs.

  I’m not like that. Dad and I are softer. Givers. We get bumped and smashed by life, and, while Mom and Rowan could build a ship during a storm and then navigate a steady course home, Dad and I would cling to driftwood for dear life, constantly in danger of drowning.

  I grab a bottle of water and some Ritz crackers and head to my room, closing the door tight and dropping my bag on the bed.

  My party favors spill out.

  Including a tiny silver vibrator and small tube of lube in a Ziploc baggie with Jacinda’s card.

  I sit on the far end of my bed, munching on crackers and eyeing the sex toys. I’ve never used one, but I’ve usually had a boyfriend.

  Tonight, I don’t have anyone.

  I push my crackers away and pick up my phone, flipping to Jason’s contact. My thumb hovers over the ‘call’ button, but I never press it. I go into my photos and run through them until I find the hottest picture of Jason, which is impressively incredible. He’s at the beach, his shirt rolled and tossed over one shoulder, his smile so cocky it’s a hair away from arrogant jackass. Each glistening, gorgeous muscle shows in high definition as the sun glints off his wet skin.

  Every single time I’ve ever looked at this picture, I’ve gotten instantly horny, even when I’m enraged at my own traitorous body for that. I focus on the picture and pick up the vibrator, but I don’t have any urge at this point to use it, and the weight of that depressing feeling makes me fall back in the bed with a thump.

  When did life get so boring and sucky and…lifeless?

  I grip the phone tighter in my hand, as an idea suddenly, crazily, presses against my brain and won’t shut the hell up.

  I go into my messages and push the one I’ve saved a few times already, secretly.

  “Hey, Maren. I hate to bug you, but you know that sheet you sent me? Well, I’m looking at it…”

  Cohen’s voice is going on and on about columns lining up and dividends and taxable expenses, but I ignore the words. I just listen to that perfect, sexy, velvet voice.

  And press my thighs together. This is faster and wetter than it ever was with Jason’s picture. I lie back on my bed and slide my hand down under the waistband of my sensible cotton underwear.

  Damn.

  I’m more turned on by the sound of Cohen’s voice talking about one of the most boring topics on earth than I ever was by Jason in person, even at his sexiest.

  “…with the bar graph. That one looks, um, like it’s about sofas? I think. I’m reading this wrong, aren’t I? I’m sorry to ramble like this on your voicemail, but I need to receive this by tomorrow morning…”

  I hold the little silver vibrator up. It glints from the low light of my alarm clock. I put my phone down on the pillow, his voice slipping into my ear like a lover’s whisper. I click the vibrator on, move it down, and jump when it buzzes against the skin under my bellybutton. I feel the vibrations low and hard in the center of my body.

  I pull all the air in my stale little bedroom into my lungs. His voice is indistinct enough that the words are just a rumble, but their tenor is clear and so damn hot. I press down one inch, another, one more, before I let out a single, tiny whimper.

  A tremor bolts through my body. My free hand fists the sheets, my toes curl, and I tilt my head back. Normal breathing has been replaced with a pattern of pants and whimpers. I press that little bit of vibrating silver against my clit so gently, I don’t expect to feel anything, but something springs alive in me like a wild animal freed from a cage. My spine lifts off the mattress and bridges under me, and I press harder, the hum rippling out until I can feel the vibrations up my arms, along my neck, on my lips.

  I unknot my free hand from the sheet and brush my fingers over my lips to see if they could possibly be shaking the way I think they are. But it’s all inside me, all bursting and tearing to explode out.

  I turn my head to the side, my whimpers hard and quick and hear his voice, soft, sweet, real, and right in its own sec
ret way.

  Cohen.

  My secret.

  I squeeze my eyelids shut, slide my heels against the blankets and shudder three, four times as a deep, solid orgasm rocks through me. It’s over faster than I want it to be, and I’m left feeling slightly hollow. Next to my ear, I can still hear Cohen’s voice, and the plan that sounded so sexy and daring a few minutes ago now feels kind of dirty. The only other sound is the hypnotic hum of the vibrator, which I flick off and toss aside. I click my phone off, embarrassed.

  I should have just called Jason. I flop back on the bed and wonder when life is finally going to right itself. I feel like I’ve been in a tailspin since my mom finally bailed, and that was freshman year of high school.

  I’m getting too old to waste time with people like Jason and jobs like the one I have now. When is life going to start?

  I punch and prod my pillow, desperate to get it to a point where I can relax comfortably, but nothing is working the way I want it to. I settle with my neck at a strange angle and reach out to finger the old Polaroid of my family, camping. Rowan has a new fishing pole. I’m pouting, arms crossed over my puffy red vest, because she wouldn’t share. Dad’s arms are around me, to make me feel better, and Mom, because he could never keep his hands off of her. They seemed so in love.

  That’s what Mom said in the end to Dad. I remember her standing in the doorway while he cried. She was crying. So was I. Rowan was the only one who wasn’t, and even she looked pale and droopy. “I love you, Thomas. I’ll always love you. But you can’t ask me to choose, because this is part of who I am now. I can’t be who I was, and I think that’s who you still love.”

  “Bullshit,” my dad sobbed. “You made me choose. You or the band. I chose you. I chose this.”

  It’s painful, even in memory, to picture my dad sobbing. Standing in front of him cored my heart. That was the moment I stepped away from mom and dropped my bags in the hallway.

  “I’m staying here. With Dad,” I declared.

  Mom didn’t argue. I think she was relieved. She knew he was in a bad place. We all did. I guess no one knew just how bad. Or maybe no one knows just how bad. I’ve been doing a pretty fair job of keeping my father’s secrets, and Mom and Rowan have been busy expanding the business. Which is why I can’t ask them for help or money right now. They’re under tremendous pressure, and they don’t need all this extra worry piled on top.

  I want someone in this family to make it, to have it good. I guess my turn will come. Just not yet. Not right now.

  Right now I’ll take the few simple, secret pleasures I get and deal with the rest.

  With that in mind, I click my phone back on and listen to Cohen’s message, sinking into the silky softness of his tone as sleep takes over.

  5 COHEN

  “You’re going to love Tracey.” Marigold pulls all her long, dark hair into a sloppy bun and drizzles a little bit of oil into a jar.

  “Thanks for setting this up, Mrs. Beck—er, Marigold.” Deo’s mom has been asking me to call her by her first name since Deo and I were out of high school, and I almost always remember.

  It’s not all that hard, since Marigold is cool and funny and so down-to-earth, it’s easy to see her as a friend. But I imagine how hard my mom would slap me upside the head if she ever heard me do it; my parents are old-school, manners-wise. I don’t think Deo even knows what their first names are.

  “Forget about it. I love getting awesome people together. And here is your scent.” She holds a small blue vial under my nose, and I breathe in deep.

  There’s sandalwood, a tiny hint of something sweet…maybe vanilla, and a last burst of mint. “This is great. What do I owe you?” I reach for my wallet, but Marigold smacks at my hand and shakes her head.

  “Don’t you dare. Have fun and be careful tonight, sweetie.” She hands me the paper bag and kisses my cheek just as Deo trips the bells on the front door.

  “Hey, hey, hey!” He runs over and half-tackles me away from his mom. “Geez, kid! You break up with your woman, and I can’t turn my back without you trying to scoop up all the ladies in my life.”

  “Deo!” Marigold rolls her eyes and pulls him in for a hug. “Don’t be greedy. You were always such a greedy kid, and it was bad enough when you were an adorable little boy. It’s terrible now.” She licks a thumb and moves to press it on his cowlick, but he jumps back.

  “Woman! That’s crossing the line. No more spitting on my hair.” He rubs his hands down on his head, flattening his hair for a second before it springs back up.

  “Learn to share,” she singsongs with a grin. “Cohen was here because he wanted a special mix for his date with Tracey.”

  “Tracey, huh?” Deo unscrews the lid of a random bottle of oil, takes a whiff, and gags. “I hope you didn’t mix any of that crap in. He’s already batting out of his league with sexy Tracey. He doesn’t need to smell like a damn skunk to top it all off.”

  “Don’t be an idiot all your life, sweetie,” his mom says, swiping the vial out of his hand and smiling my way like she can sense my gut-gnawing nervousness. “Cohen, you are exactly the kind of sweet, grounded, sexy—”

  “Ugh, Mom! Stop!” Deo groans.

  “—man she needs in her life.” Marigold’s smile makes my heart slow down a little.

  “What’s time’s the date, lover boy?” Deo asks.

  “Dinner at six. She needs to be home by one for her babysitter.”

  “Come again?” Deo squints from me to Marigold. “Sexy Tracey has kids?”

  “Kid. Just one.” I try to keep my voice even, like it makes any difference that it’s just one kid. Like one kid doesn’t scare the shit out of me and make me feel like I’m in over my head before I even started.

  “Sage is an amazing child.” Marigold puts her hand over her heart. “A true old soul. I love them, I love you, and I love you.” She gets misty eyed and kisses Deo’s forehead. “I feel like love is out there, just waiting for you to scoop it up. And, if in the middle of all that love scooping, you wind up doing the blanket hornpipe—”

  “Mom!” Deo bellows, sticking his fingers in his ears like a little kid. “Enough. Goddamn, woman! Just when I think a conversation is as awkward as it’s going to get, blam! You bring out the extra awkward.”

  “Well, I have no idea why you’re being such a prude, Deo. It’s perfectly natural. Oh! And speaking of natural, I just got this shipment of vegan condoms. Rocko and I haven’t had a chance to give them a try—”

  Deo just shakes his head and groans.

  “—but the customer reviews say they’re amazing! Take some on the house. And don’t thank me! Just tell me how they worked out so I can pass the info on to my customers.”

  Marigold holds the small packets out, and I grab them and shove them in my pocket, embarrassed that this is so embarrassing. I’m an adult and safe sex is not something I get all weird about.

  But taking condoms from my best friend’s mother so I can maybe use them on a date with her friend? I can’t pretend to be cool. This is weird.

  “Thanks, Marigold. I’ll, uh, be sure to let you know. How they work.” I love you like a second mother, but I will never discuss condoms with you. Ever.

  Deo kisses his mom’s cheek and drags me out the door.

  “Holy shit. I will never be able to apologize enough for her, man. Mom’s always been a little nutso, but she’s gone off the deep end lately.” He walks to my car with me. “So? You’re going on a date with a mom?”

  “Don’t make it weirder than it is for me, Deo. It’s not like I hate kids or anything.” I actually would love to have a big family someday. Of course, I wasn’t planning on it right away. But I also wasn’t planning on getting my ass dumped by the girl I’d been with since I was in freaking high school.

  “I know it. You’d make an awesome dad and all that. It’s just kind of heavy, right?” He leans against my car.

  “I guess. But maybe I need someone a little more mature.” I think back to the awful mes
s of my date with Claire.

  A huge grin cracks across Deo’s face. “Sorry, but I accept zero responsibility for that one, man. You were warned to stay far away. I begged, even. I mean, I feel for you. No guy deserves a lap full of vomit. But she was always a loose cannon, and I knew that even back when I had no standards.”

  “Yeah.” I close my eyes and try to blank on the details of that crazy night. “I guess I got what was coming. If nothing else, I’m excited about meeting Tracey because, seriously, your mom is awesome, and she picks awesome people to surround herself with. So what do I have to lose?”

  Deo claps a hand on my shoulder. “Nothing, man. Nothing to lose. I wish you luck. May you use many vegan condoms and not get vomited on.”

  I can’t help laughing as I get in my car and pull out of Marigold’s lot. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “No worries! Being my best friend means you get the Deo deluxe deal, wisdom and blessings included for free!”

  Deo’s an ass, but he manages to lighten my mood to the point where I’m not even nervous when I pull up to Tracey’s place. Before I can get out of the car, the door opens and a woman backs out, kissing a frowning little girl with a head full of braids.

  And then I feel like a total pervert because the first thing I notice is the way this mom’s tight jeans hug the most gorgeous ass I’ve ever laid eyes on. And her legs? Ten miles long and made to look even longer because she’s wearing heels at least five inches high. When she turns to come down the walk, my mouth dries up. She’s wearing what pretty much amounts to a leather vest, and I can see a little black lace from her bra peeping out…along with some seriously perfect cleavage.

  Holy mother…

  Tracey is a mom. And a friend of Marigold’s. I guess I was expecting a sweet-faced woman in a long, flowery dress. Not cheekbones and full, pouty lips poured into leather and tight denim.

  Damn.

  “Um, hi. Tracey. You must be Tracey. I’m Cohen. It’s nice to meet you.”

  She skips my hand and wraps her arms around me. She smells sweet with a hint of musk. It’s so sexy my knees knock.