Other Broken Things

by C. Desir

  I grab his hand again. “You didn’t force those drinks down her throat.”

  He shrugs. “I know. I’ve worked through it with my sponsor. I get that the choice was hers. But that doesn’t change the fact that I was part of her death and I don’t remember it. It doesn’t change the night sweats I get sometimes, waking up with the image of her cold, lifeless body next to mine.

  “Dead bodies in real life are horrible. We’d both pissed the sheets at some point in the middle of that night. Her skirt was hiked up and her panties were somewhere on the floor. We might’ve had sex. I don’t know.”

  My hands are shaking. I spit my gum out and grab my cigarettes. I don’t know what to say. My lost baby seems like nothing now. And yet it’s everything. It’s my connection to Joe. Someone else might be disgusted by him. Mom wouldn’t be able to stay in the same room with him. But in my core I understand something about the two of us. Something no one else in my life does.

  “That hooker could’ve been me.”

  Joe nods, swipes my cigarette from me, and takes a deep drag.

  “The only difference is I woke up,” I continue.

  He nods again. “It could’ve been any of us, Nat.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  “Me too. So much.” His cheeks are wet with tears now. Not the sobbing kind, the silent ones that remind you of who you are and what you’ve lost. I woke up with so many of those kinds of tears when I was in rehab. My counselors always asked, but I couldn’t say anything.

  I take the cigarette from him and put it out. Then I stand and come to his side, hooking my fingers around two of his.

  “Natalie.” His voice is a choked plea. For a second I wonder if I’m doing the wrong thing here. If this is old Natalie, falling back on what’s easy for me, what I’m good at. But as I brush the tears from his cheeks, I know I’m right to do this. I want this and not just to be wanted. I want this because it’s real. We’re real. He needs this and so do I. And it’s right.

  “Please.”

  I tug him to standing and lead him into his bedroom. The bed is made, almost military-style tight, and I smile when I see it. These are the things he has control over and everything about his place proves how much that means to him.

  I turn when he steps into the small space behind me. My hands aren’t shaking anymore. They’re sure and steady as I pull his shirt from his jeans and unbutton it before sliding it off his shoulders. The T-shirt follows and he hisses when my fingers trace over his bare chest.

  “We shouldn’t . . . ,” he starts, but I put my fingers against his lips to stop him.

  Then I go up on my tiptoes to kiss him. It’s been a really long time since I’ve kissed anyone sober, and Joe’s mouth is soft and gentle. He tastes like cigarettes and breath mints, which is strange, but I’m not sure my breath is much better, and the way he opens slightly makes me think maybe he doesn’t mind so much either. I nibble his lips, and then something changes and he makes a sound in the back of his throat before gripping my hips and driving his tongue into my mouth.

  It’s a seriously good make-out session and I feel like I could keep kissing him forever except for the itching want that is traveling all over my skin. My fingers skim down and I undo the button and zipper on his pants. Then before I can slide them off, his hands are pulling at my shirt, and we’re chest to chest. His hair tickling my bare breasts. It’s so different from Brent’s body, which now seems so much like a boy’s.

  My breathing speeds up and the itching moves closer to the surface. My hands open and close into fists. It feels like the only thing keeping me on the ground right now is the bite of my nails into my palms. I haven’t experienced a rush like this since the first time I got in the ring.

  I want everything to go faster. I want to crawl out of my skin and find a place inside him. I want to cement the two of us together and never come back from it. As quick as I can, I yank off my jeans and pull him on top of me, hooking my feet behind his hips. His jeans are only half-off.

  He reels back. “Slow down,” he whispers. “It’s okay.”

  I shake my head. “No. Please. I can’t . . . I need you to . . .”

  “I know. Jesus, Natalie. Natalie. Natalie.” It’s a prayer and a plea at once, and everything between us clicks into place.

  He slips off the bed and reaches for the side table, pulling out a box of condoms. My skin is on fire and the bottom of my stomach feels so achy and empty, like I want to devour Joe until the emptiness isn’t there anymore. He pushes his jeans off, then rolls the condom on. I want to growl in frustration. Brent would already be done with the whole thing by now. But no. This isn’t Brent.

  My body is trembling. Not with fear. Not with want. With something else. Joe sees it and slides on top of me, pressing me against the mattress so hard it’s difficult to breathe at first.

  “Please. Please. Please.” I don’t even know what I’m asking for. But something is crawling up inside of me, screaming to get out.

  “Let go,” he says.

  I shake my head and he shifts on me more. He links his hands to mine and pulls my arms above my head, pinning them down. I hook my legs around him and press my heels into his back.

  “Please. Joe. Please.”

  He swears and I feel tears on my cheek. I’m overwhelmed, complete emotional overload, and pretty soon I’m going to shut down. I know this feeling. I’ve had it so many times before. Only, normally, I’ve fought myself out of it or dulled it with vodka.

  Joe kisses away the tears and nuzzles along my neck, keeping his hands locked with mine. I arch into him, but he pulls back again.

  The itching is so bad now. And I’m babbling and begging and then he’s kissing me softly and whispering to me and telling me it’s okay, I’m okay. He unclasps his hands from mine and pins my wrists, watching my face the whole time. “Beautiful Natalie,” he whispers over and over again.

  Then he slowly slides inside me and I cry out, pushing against his hands until he releases my wrists and lets me wrap myself so tight around him there’s no space between where he ends and I start. And finally, finally, the itching inside me cracks into pieces and reshapes itself into something that feels like it actually belongs.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Two

  It’s dark outside and we’re in Joe’s bed, half-naked, eating Chinese food out of the boxes. He’s been painfully quiet since we both collapsed into each other, prying himself off me the minute I stopped trembling in his arms. The walls around his emotions are high and I don’t have the first fricking clue how to scale them.

  “What happened with your brother after you dried out for that month?”

  Joe’s gaze moves to the side. He’s barely looked at me, either. “He made sure I was okay. Made sure I got the help I most needed. Then he said he was letting me go. That he couldn’t keep taking care of me. It hurt too much to watch me piss it all away time after time.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, and reach out to rub his cheek. He flinches and draws away. What. The. Hell?

  He drags his hand over his beard stubble and says, “It gave me a weird kind of incentive, though, him letting go like that. I was sort of determined not to mess up again so he didn’t have to dig me out of it. I promised myself never to ask him for anything again.”

  “So you haven’t talked to him since?” I know the answer to this before he even says it. Joe doesn’t know anything about what’s going on with Kathy. He hasn’t talked to his brother.

  “No. Maybe one day. But for now I respect his wishes. He did a lot for me. Part of making amends with people is allowing them the choice not to forgive you.”

  So he’s back in AA program mode. Like nothing happened here. Half of me wants to put my clothes on and blow the whole thing off, but the other half wants him to man the fuck up and either ask me to leave or take me back to bed.

  “Do you think people are less willing to forgive you after you’ve screwed them over a bunch of times? Like maybe there’s a
limit and after enough times of you messing things up with them, they give up?”

  He shrugs. “Don’t know. Depends on them.”

  I nod and think about Camille. How she probably would forgive me because she didn’t see the worst of me. I think about Brent. I don’t know what to say to him or if he could forgive me. I think about Jerry and wonder if there’s a chance of ever walking back into the gym and apologizing. If I’m strong enough for that. I nibble my lower lip and Joe stops me with a swipe of his thumb. Then achingly slow, as if he can’t help it, he pulls me forward to kiss him.

  Yes. He’s still with me. Or at least part of him is. He’s a really great kisser and I feel like I could spend days exploring his mouth, but a knock on his door jolts me backward.

  “Natalie?” Mom’s voice calls, sort of frantic.

  “Natalie, get out here now.” Dad, solid, unrelenting, brittle.

  “Fuck. How did they find me?” I whisper, and snatch my jeans from the floor. Joe is already two steps ahead of me, tugging on his pants and T-shirt, mumbling under his breath.

  This is going to be awkward. There’s no two ways about it. Even if we don’t look like we’ve been doing exactly what we’ve been doing.

  The door rattles from Dad’s pounding and Joe swears again and goes to answer it, barefoot. I try to tame my crazy curls, but it’s no use. My hair, my face, my clothes, every part of me looks like I’ve spent the last three hours in bed.

  I follow Joe as he tugs open the door. Dad is in a fury. His face is purply-red and there’s a little spittle on the corner of his mouth as if he’s been yelling. From my mom’s face, I’m guessing he’s been yelling at her.

  “This is Joe,” I say softly. “He’s in the program with me. These are my parents, Tom and Sarah.”

  Joe holds out his hand, but neither of them shake it. Mom’s in shock. Her eyes are wide and she keeps opening and closing her mouth like a codfish.

  “Get your stuff, young lady,” Dad says.

  I shake my head. “We’re having dinner. I did my Fifth Step with Joe. I’ll be home later.”

  “Do not try that crap on me, Natalie. Do you know the state your mother’s been in since you left? No calls. No texts. Just you disappearing after last night’s vodka bender. It’s a damn good thing I put the GPS tracker on your car or she’d still be home pacing. Have you checked your phone at all?”

  “No. I turned it off. Doing the Fifth Step—”

  Dad swats my words away. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

  I gasp.

  Dad steps into Joe’s trailer and pokes him in the chest. “You do realize she’s seventeen? A minor. I have every right to charge you with statutory rape.”

  A choked sound escapes my throat. “Dad,” I whisper. “He didn’t rape me.”

  “Enough,” he snarls. “I don’t want to hear anything from you.” Then he turns back to Joe. “And you’re never to see my daughter again. Find another meeting place. Don’t call her. Don’t reach out to her. If you get near her, I’ll slap an order of protection on you.”

  Mom releases a sobbing breath. She’s curled into herself, wrapping her arms around her stomach like she’s in pain.

  I should say something to Dad. Say something to Joe. Do something to make things better. But I don’t have any idea what to do to make Dad’s anger dissipate. This is too damn hard and I feel myself shutting down.

  Dad grabs my arm and tugs me toward the door. “We’ll follow you in your car.”

  I look back at Joe. His face has gone pale and he’s staring at his feet, taking long slow breaths. “Can I just have a second with him?” I say to Dad.

  “No. You’re done with this,” Dad snaps. Then he pushes me out the door and says to Joe, “You’re a disgusting shame of a man, preying on young vulnerable girls. How can you even live with yourself?”

  Joe doesn’t look up, but the tension in his body is so obvious. I want to wrap my arms around him. I want to whisper to him it’ll be okay, but he shuts the door on us and I’m pushed toward my car, feeling more hopeless than I ever have in my life.

  * * *

  Dad takes my phone and sends me to my room the minute I get home. The shock of what happened at the trailer has worn off and now I’m itching to reach out to Joe and make sure he’s all right. I’m not just going to roll over. This means too much and I’m past that now. Past avoiding things because they’re too hard.

  But without my phone, I’m sunk. Then I remember Joe’s business card has an email address on it, so I pull it out of my wallet and power up my computer.

  But Dad has disabled the Wi-Fi. Of fucking course. Jesus. It’s the worst kind of lockdown. I can’t even call Kathy. I feel like I’m going to barf. The craziness of the past twenty-four hours is pinging around my head and I can’t seem to grab onto a thought. The only weird thing is that I don’t want to drink. Maybe because I realize it won’t help me figure out how to fix the situation with my parents and Joe.

  There’s a light knock at my door and I know it’s Mom before she even sticks her head in. Her face is more composed now, but she looks really sad. A small tinge of guilt pricks the back of my neck. I shake it off and put my hands on my hips.

  “A GPS tracker on my car?” I say.

  “Your father said it would help. It would give us the security of knowing we could find you if you relapsed.”

  “The Breathalyzer is supposed to keep me from relapsing.”

  She nods. “Yes. But who’s to say once you get to a place, you don’t start drinking? School starts back up tomorrow, Natalie. I was worried.”

  I shrug. “I was fine.”

  “You were drunk last night. Your moods are so out of whack. You’ve always been impulsive, swinging high and low, but since you got out of rehab it’s like there’s no telling what we’re going to get with you. Maybe you’re bipolar? Maybe we should let Dr. Warner prescribe something for you.”

  “Now? After everything? What was all that crap about kids being overmedicated and needing to learn how to deal with stress naturally? Suddenly you want Dr. Warner to get involved?”

  She looks down. “I’m at a loss here, Natalie. I don’t have any more cards to play.”

  I huff. “I’m not bipolar. I’m an alcoholic trying to give up drinking. I’m a girl who’s spent her life trying to avoid difficult things in whatever way I can and now I realize it’s not possible. Things are hard, that’s life. I’m sorry if it isn’t convenient for you that I’m suddenly getting my act together, but it’s a hell of a lot better than me going on a Jack Daniel’s binge.”

  She sits down next to me on the bed and makes a face when she smells me. I’m sure I smell like cigarettes, sex, and Joe. “What were you thinking, Natalie? Why would you get involved with someone so much older?”

  I sigh. “He’s good to me, Mom. He listens. He gets me. He doesn’t want anything from me. He doesn’t make me feel like I’m there only to make him feel good. He’s real. He just—”

  “He’s twice your age. What am I supposed to think? This isn’t making good choices.”

  “It is. I mean, I know it’s unusual, but I like him. And he likes me. It might be hard, but we could work and he’s worth it. It’s not like older guys haven’t been with young girls before. Look at George Clooney.”

  “Oh, Natalie, don’t bring celebrities into this. That’s hardly a lifestyle you want to model.”

  “I really like him, Mom.” Feeling the truth of this again nearly knocks me over. I don’t like him because he likes me or because it’s easy, I like him for him. For how we are together.

  She shakes her head. “You’re not thinking straight. You’re vulnerable right now. I know the program suggests not getting involved with someone until you’re one year sober.”

  “Did you see that in a movie?”

  Her mouth pinches. “Am I wrong?”

  I sigh. “You need to talk to Dad. I can’t lose Joe. I won’t sleep with him again, but I need him as a friend. Pleas
e.”

  “You have a sponsor.”

  I grab her forearm and squeeze. “I need Joe. He’s the only real friend I have right now. You have no idea all the things he’s done for me.”

  Mom pats my hand. “You start back at school tomorrow. You should get some sleep. It’s been a long day.”

  “Will you do one thing for me at least?”

  “What?”

  “Will you get Dad off the statutory rape thing? I don’t want Joe stressing about that. There’s no way to even prove we had sex anyways.”

  She flinches when I say the word “sex” but I need her help on this one. Dad is a dog with a bone when it comes to his decisions. It’s practically impossible to talk him out of something, and my only hope is that his threat was just talk, not something he’d actually consider.

  “Get some sleep,” she says in answer. “We’ll talk more in the morning.”

  Then, because she doesn’t know what else to do, she pulls the covers up and helps me slide beneath them. I’m still in my jeans and T-shirt, but I don’t say anything. I let her tuck me in, kiss my forehead, and slip quietly from the room. My mind is racing but my body is heavy, and before I can figure out what to do, I drop into a deep sleep.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Three

  I walk into school the next day, after a tense breakfast with my mom, and search out Amy and Amanda. They’re both at Amy’s locker, sipping from their water bottles. Amanda is sitting on the floor, back against the locker next to Amy’s, with her legs stretched out.

  “Give me your phone,” I tell Amanda.

  She looks up at me. “Where’s yours?”

  “My dad took it. I need yours.”

  The two of them exchange a glance. Amanda shakes her head. “So you only come around when you need something from us?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then no. Go ask for help from your new sober pals.”

  I snatch her bag and rifle through it for her phone. I shove the bag back at her. “How many times did I sneak you past your mom? Don’t be a bitch. You owe me.”