“She thinks that experiences can be molded and that she can create the perfect memories. When it comes to day-to-day life she’s open, flexible, spontaneous even. That’s the fun Gracie. But when it comes to milestones, monumental events, or even symbolic gestures… it has to be perfect. She’s been doing it for years, and we’ve never figured out why.”
Asher flips the last card, and it’s the queen of hearts.
The story tugs at me somewhere I’ve long since forgotten. Perfect memories. How does that even happen? How can one sculpt their surroundings to perfection and then actually believe it to be so? I live in a world of constant perfection. Perfect body, perfect skill, perfect friends, perfect life. I hate perfect. But I’m starting to think Gracie and I have a very different definition of the word.
I twirl my beer around in my hand and take a sip before chuckling to myself.
“So in other words, Thursday has to be perfect,” I say, and my smile is returned. Thursday is Gracie’s sixteenth birthday. For some strange reason, girls think it’s monumental.
“You’re a quick learner, Ben.” Carter stands, clapping his hand on my shoulder, again. “Well, I’m off to bed. Night, boys. Stay out of my beer fridge. I counted.”
Carter points to his sons, who both shrug innocently, then disappears down the long hallway.
Just then, my phone starts ringing in my pocket, and I fish it out to see ‘Gracie’ flashing across the screen. I frown as I answer. “Hello?”
“Bentley?” A frantic voice sounds, but it’s not Gracie. Looking at the twins, I stand abruptly and head out of the front door to the porch.
“Who is this?” I ask, and lean against the railing.
“It’s me, Lacy. I’m so sorry to call you, Bentley. But I didn’t know what else to do.”
“What’s wrong? Is Gracie okay?”
There’s silence on the other end, and my heart sputters. I’m just about to ask again when she speaks.
“Um. She’s been drinking. We were out with some friends, and she got into a fight with this guy she, uh, kinda sees sometimes. She’s really drunk. She can’t stay at my place like this.” Lacy’s voice is shaking, and she sounds scared, which makes me think that this is more than just a drunk girl who fought with her…wait. Guy she’s seeing? My interest in this conversation is switching gears and I don't like it. I don't like the way it makes me feel to hear about this guy.
“What do you want me to do about it?” My tone is defensive, but it sounds like Lacy’s crying. My one fatal flaw. The crying girl. Okay, I have more than one fatal flaw, but tears are definitely top five.
“My parents will kill me if I bring her home like this. But her dad will kill her if I call him. Please, it’s her birthday in two days. If she gets grounded or something, she’ll freak. Please, Bentley. Can you please come get her?”
“What am I supposed to do with her when I pick her up? I can’t exactly just waltz in here with my boss’ drunk underage daughter, can I?”
“By the way she was acting tonight, I don’t care if you toss her in a hay pile and leave her there.”
My mouth hangs open as I try with everything I have to tell her it’s not my problem. Drunk, crying, fighting girls are not my problem.
“I’ll be right there. Text me directions.”
I tuck my phone back in my pocket and bury my head in my hands.
So much for getting away from it all. A summer of peace and quiet. No girls. No drama. No me being…well, me.
I reach in the porch and grab the keys for the truck that was deemed ‘mine’ for the duration of my job and hammer down the steps.
***
When I get to the school, Lacy is standing in the front with her arms wrapped around her stomach and holding her elbows. She’s not crying, but in the glare of the headlights, I can see her eyes lined with red and a little swollen.
I don’t even bother turning the truck off. I’m not staying. I nod as I pass Lacy, silently asking if I’m heading in the right direction. She spins and easily falls into step with me. It takes three glances and one failed attempt before she can say anything.
“Thanks, Bentley. Seriously,” she says and tucks a strand of wavy hair behind her ear.
I look at her, and she smiles weakly.
“No problem, but I am not going down for this. If she gets caught, she’s on her own. As far as I’m concerned, she gets a free pass a little too often.”
Lacy doesn’t say anything. She agrees with me, but I’ve never met anyone as loyal as Lacy. We come around the side of the two-story brick school, and Lacy points to the football field.
“She’s in the bleachers. She won’t let anyone near her. Good luck.” Lacy spins on her heel and goes in the opposite direction.
Thanks. I take back the loyalty statement.
Gracie's about halfway up the bleachers, laying on her stomach on the wooden plank. Her arm hangs over the edge, and her hair is draped in front of her face. I walk up slowly, stepping on the benches until I’m right in front of her. I squat down and brush her hair off her face.
“G’way, Lacy. I said I dun need yer help,” Gracie says with her eyes closed and swats my hand limply.
“No, but it looks like you need mine.”
Her eyes shoot open, and she rolls off the bench, landing awkwardly half on and half off. She starts to laugh, and I try to scoop her out.
There is nothing harder than helping a drunk girl walk. A guy you just have to keep him upright. He’ll fall over, but that’s it. Girls bend in weird places and to the point that they should probably snap in half.
Gracie is no exception. I basically have to roll her into the fetal position so I can get a good grip on her and hoist her up into my arms.
“Benny!” She giggles, and her head flops back.
“Don’t move, Gracie. If I fall and break my neck, my blood is on your hands.”
I think she tries to laugh, but it comes out as a gurgling snort and she lifts her head, just about scorching my eyes with the scent of alcohol.
“Jesus, Graceland. Did you leave any for your friends?”
***
I finally get her into the truck, but I can’t get her to sit up. Even with the seatbelt, she just slumps over. I move around the truck and climb in, carefully lifting her head and placing it in my lap, accepting that she won't sit up.
I think she’s sleeping, or passed out, until we get to the dirt road, and I feel a tickling sensation on my side. I lift my arm and look down to see her holding the bottom of my shirt out with one hand and tracing my stomach with the other. I pull her hand away and press it to her own stomach before going back to driving. This is going to be the longest twenty-five miles I’ve ever driven.
Not even ten seconds later, her hands are on me again.
“Gracie. Stop. You have a boyfriend.” I don’t look down at her, but I feel her head tilt in my lap to look at me.
“Who told you that?” she stumbles.
“Lacy. She said you got in a fight with the guy you’re seeing.”
“Dermott’s not my boyfriend.” She states so curtly that I almost think she’s sober.
“Does he know that?” I glance down at her, and she looks up at me with her glazed over glare and pursed mouth.
“Of course. We hook up sometimes. When we’re bored.”
I laugh, and her glare deepens.
“When you’re bored? Like sex is a game to occupy your time?” I ask.
Gracie’s face suddenly changes, and like the day she showed me her secret spot, her ego fully disappears. Her eyes go distant, and she turns her head.
“It’s not sex,” Gracie states. “And are you really going to tell me to wait until I fall in love? That love will make it all better? Make it more magical? More meaningful?”
I stare blankly at the road while I process her words. Wait?
“Wait? Wait, as in wait for the first time? As in you’ve never...” I stutter, and my voice is lost behind the sudden pounding of my heart. I
shift uncomfortably as she shakes her head. I figured I am something of a summer fling. But this...this changes things.
“Gone all the way? Nope.” She pokes me in the side, and I flinch.
It takes everything I have, but I push the frantic emotion aside and lock it up. Of course she’s a virgin. She’s barely sixteen. I should have known that. I should have assumed that. But this is huge. The first time is monumental. A milestone. Shit. A memory.
“What’s wrong with waiting until you fall in love?” I just want to keep talking, to keep her talking. Hopefully talk her out of it. This has to do with her memories. Her perfect memories, which I apparently am now a part of. While I know should literally run, I can’t. I’ve always been so good at bailing. I should want to bail, but I don’t. That curiosity still pulls at me. I still need to figure her out.
“Love is just a word, Ben. It doesn’t mean anything. The word doesn’t mean anything.”
“It does if you give it meaning.”
She snorts again.
“It doesn’t matter anyway. I told D we can’t anymore. It’s not perfect anymore.”
I look down at her again and can’t stop myself from brushing hair off her face. Even drunk and half cross-eyed, I’d still say she was beautiful.
“What does that mean? Not perfect?”
“He’s not you.” She slides my hand over her mouth and kisses my palm, her lips searing my skin with an intense heat that ripples up my arm. I have to roll my shoulders to release the tension and clench my jaw because it feels so damn good, and it shouldn’t.
I should be pissed at her. I should be terrified of what else she has planned for me. I don't want that, but I want her and I shouldn't. I want her to keep going, but I shouldn't.
I suck in a deep breath and struggle to stay neutral as she runs her fingers along each of mine.
“I’m not perfect.”
She ignores me and continues to stroke and tug on my fingers, which sends conflicting feelings crashing deeper into each other inside me. Multiple times, I want to pull my hand away, but it’s physically impossible to do so.
“D used to make me feel things. But not since you. You make me feel things in so many more places. And stronger.”
She places my hand on her head. “Like here. Fuzzy.”
I let her guide my hand lightly down her face as I attempt to focus on the road. My fingertips graze her neck and down her collarbone. She slides my hand over her heart.
“And here. Fast.”
I swallow hard and blink a few times to make the road stop blurring. I should stop her. I should say that I don’t want any part of this. I should say that it’s not part of my job to babysit the boss’ daughter.
She presses my hand down between the triangles of her bikini.
The boss’ ridiculously hot daughter.
No, Bentley, I think. No. I do not need to be 'the guy she lost her virginity to'.
She stops my hand on her soft but muscular stomach.
“And here. Sinking.”
Sliding over to her hip, she pushes my hand the length of her outer thigh. I can’t register anything that’s happening anymore. I’m so overloaded that I feel numb and don’t trust myself to do anything but keep the truck on the road.
She stops my hand on her knee.
“And here. Weak.”
Her leg relaxes as she begins to pull my hand up her inner thigh this time. I grip the steering wheel so tight I think I might actually break it while my other hand feels only the softness of her skin. Until my fingers touch the hem of her shorts.
Like a bucket of cold water thrown in my face, I snatch my hand back and grip the steering wheel.
“God dammit, Gracie. Stop. You’re drunk.” I frantically push my hand through my hair and stretch my neck, trying to crush out this feeling. These feelings. Too many of them.
“See, you feel it too. But you don’t love me. You said it yourself. You don’t even know me. Feelings fade. Eventually, you won’t feel them anymore, but you’ll always have the memory.” Her voice is slurred and crackly, but it doesn’t really sound like she’s talking to me.
I look down at her again, and she’s staring blankly at my stomach. Her eyes glaze with a layer of tears over the layer of drunk, and she shifts her body. I hit a bump in the gravel, and the truck swerves slightly.
Gracie shoots up into the sitting position, startling me, and I hit the brakes. She throws her hand over her mouth and turns a wide-eyed stare my way.
“I’m gunna puke.” She mutters behind her fingers, and then her chest heaves as she gags.
I stop the truck abruptly in the middle of the road as she struggles with the door, but she’s not coordinated enough to get it. If she pukes in here, I’m walking home.
I push my door open violently and reach across the seat, grabbing Gracie under her arms and heaving her as hard as I can toward me.
I jump from the truck, dragging her out with me, and we both go to our knees in the gravel. I grab as much of her hair as I can get and brace her across her chest so she doesn’t fall face first in it.
I look straight up as she retches loudly over and over onto the gravel road, under a clear black sky dotted with more stars than I’ve ever seen in my life.
One quick flash flies overhead. A shooting star zips by, and even though I’m not the wishing type, I make one.
For strength. That’s all. Strength to survive the summer. To survive the heat and the work. To survive Gracie.
I’d say the strength to not fall into my old ways, but I think it’s too late for that now.
***
She’s still fast asleep as I set her on her feet in front of the broken down old barn. Her head falls against my chest, and I shake her shoulders lightly.
“Gracie, you have to get up. That’s it. Open your eyes.”
She makes a groaning noise, and her eyes flutter.
“Where are we?” She mumbles, and I kick the rock that blocks the entrance to the barn.
“We’re at your spot. I need you to crawl inside, okay? I can’t carry you.”
She looks from me to the barn, and I watch her slowly understand.
“Lacy’s mad at me?” She’s disoriented, and I can’t let go of her shoulders or she’ll just crumple. I nod.
“I’m such a bad friend. Did I say mean things about my brother? I’m okay with it. I just don’t know how to deal with it. I don’t mean it. She can love my brother if she wants to.” Her eyes are darting around. I try to lighten the mood, or wake her up a bit more.
“I thought you didn’t believe in love?”
“I didn’t say that. I said that love was just a word. I didn’t mean that no one can love. But I can’t.”
One eyebrow goes straight up at her words, and if she didn’t sound so pathetic, I would have laughed at her. That doesn’t even make sense.
“Just you. You’re the only one in the world who can’t be in love.”
She looks right at me, her eyes so scared and unfocused it gives me that same feeling as before. To wrap her up inside of me and keep her there, as part of me.
“Not if I want them to stay.”
Her words dig at me, but I not sure why. She pulls herself from my grip and stumbles into a kneeling position before turning to look at me again.
“Are you coming?”
I look to the house then back to her. “I dunno, Gracie.”
She smiles a tiny smile but a real one.
“My mouth tastes like barf, and I feel like I have a screwdriver in my brain tightening it until it’ll explode. I’m not going to try anything. I just don’t want to be alone.”
I sigh and drop to my knees beside her.
It takes a couple tries, but I get her up the ladder and laying on the old futon mat. She’s fast asleep with her head in my lap while I lean against the scratchy wood panels. My head tilts to the side to see the stars outside the broken window. My fingers trail her hairline, and I twist the strands and brush them off her neck, fac
e, and shoulders. Then the sticky hot summer breeze swirls through the window and blows it back in her face, making me have to start all over again.
Seeing her like this, vulnerable and scared, sparks that feeling I’ve been trying to avoid. The feeling that I’ve been running from, and not just with Gracie, but all girls.
The need to save them. To love them, so in turn they can learn to love themselves.
But it never works, and in the end, I’m always empty and exhausted. As I run my fingers down Gracie’s face one more time and twirl her hair around my finger, I know I’m done for. But I also know I can’t give her what she wants. When she looks like she does right now, I can’t help but feel that she doesn’t really know what she wants.
There’s something about a sleeping person that shows who they really are. Like the body is so in need of rest that it peels away all the layers we build around ourselves to work on strengthening who we are instead of who we pretend to be. The way Gracie curls herself as small as she can, hides her face in her arms, and clutches the hem of my T-shirt as she sleeps, shows me more about what she’s hiding from than anything she could ever say.
The need to be the savior grows stronger. I want to uncover her and fix her. It fills me with dread.
CHAPTER 17
Graceland
Heat rises. I feel like I’m swimming in an ocean of heat waves with my face pressed against the sweat-covered sheets of the futon mat. The sun is shining directly into the old broken window, heating my back to a ridiculous temperature.
I would move out of the rays, but if I open my eyes, the light will gouge them out. If I shift my body, the remnants of last night will threaten to make another appearance. After what feels like years, I manage to lift my head and turn it away from the window. Taking a couple deep breaths, I force my eyes to open. It takes a few tries, but when I notice three objects sitting on the floor in front of the mat, they spring open.
A glass of iced tea, a plate with a dinner roll on it, and an ice cream pail. Tucked under the plate is a ripped piece of paper, and I stare at it awhile before I try to go for it. Sliding my arm out, I pick it up and pull it closer to my face.
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