Reprieve

by A. E. Woodward

  I get that metallic taste in my mouth. You know the one I mean. Like when you’ve been on a three-day binge and you wake up on a couch someplace, not having a fucking clue where you are, your head thumping like a bass drum, your mouth as dry as Gandhi’s flip-flop. You go to stand up and all the bile that has been churning in your gut races up the back of your throat, flooding into your mouth, the acrid taste alone making you want to throw up. I wanted to reach across the table and punch Asher. He had no right . . . but then again, he did. It could be argued that he was just doing his job; but all the while he’s been overstepping the boundaries between professional and personal.

  So instead of kicking his ass, I swallow my pride and smile. “Yeah, it would be good for me to work some stuff out with them.”

  All the while my mind screams at me.

  Fuck.

  I LOOK IN THE mirror for the twentieth time. The few clothes I had brought with me before I checked in didn’t fit anymore. I tug at my jeans, the white of the stitching visible at the seams where the fabric strains, bunching uncomfortably around my thighs, behind my knees, around my ankles. My shirt is no different, especially across my chest where the fabric stretched in the most unflattering way. I look like an overstuffed sausage in everything I own. I sigh and tug the jeans off, tossing them into the bottom of my closet and removing the only sundress I have from where it hangs, tossing it on the bed, collapsing on top of it, no doubt creasing the material. No matter if it’s because I’m healthier—gaining weight sucks. Period. Especially when you’re a girl with low self-esteem.

  I’m just about to break down and cry when I hear the light tap on my window. Suddenly feeling down doesn’t matter. I start to run to it but pull up short. Asher’s smile is visible through the darkness, and I think to myself about how amazing it is that his presence can alter my mood so greatly. One minute I’m wallowing, the next my heart is soaring. I had been slightly upset with him after our visit with Simon. Finding out about a life altering event from a stranger was one thing, but finding out that the person I trusted most had recommended it without consulting me was another. But no matter how badly I wanted to be angry, I just couldn’t bring myself stay mad at him. I needed him too much. That doesn’t mean I can’t make him sweat it a little while, though.

  With shaking hands I fumble to open the window. I can’t get it up fast enough, but the minute the wind rushes into the room, so does Asher. He steps quietly down onto the rug and stands up, turning to close the window behind him before bringing his eyes back to me. He watches me warily, like he’s not sure how I’ll react. It would appear that I made my irritation clear when I left him outside Simon’s office, choosing to go back to the TV room and watch some talent show with the few people already in there. I haven’t spoken to him since.

  He kicks at the rug with the toe of his shoe, his hands fisted in his pockets, his jaw grinding back and forth. It’s such a childlike posture, and it makes me remember all the shit that happened to him when he was younger and I realize that Asher is, in some respects, still a child. Like me, he hasn’t ever had a “real” relationship. He probably doesn’t have a clue about how it works. And neither do I.

  Unable to hold back any longer I rush to him, wrapping my arms tightly around his waist and lean my cheek against his chest. “I am so glad you’re here,” I whisper and as I feel him exhale into my hair, his arms around me tighten.

  “Of course I am. You have a big day tomorrow.”

  And I’m reminded why I was in such a bad mood, and of the fashion dilemma I’m currently facing. I drop my arms from his waist and rub my cheeks with my palms, groaning. “Don’t I know it.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  I gesture to the disaster that surrounds us. “I have nothing to wear.”

  He looks around my room at the scattered clothing covering not only my bed, but my desk and part of the floor too, before looking back to me with raised eyebrows. “Really?”

  “Everything is too tight,” I whine, hating the way my voice sounds. “I look like shit in everything.”

  He steps forward and runs his hands up and down my arms before stopping on my biceps and giving a light squeeze. The reassurance is nice, but it doesn’t solve my problem. “I’ve seen you in some of these clothes,” he says. “You don’t look like shit.”

  “Well I don’t look good enough to tell my father to go fuck himself.”

  Asher laughs at my brash statement.

  “You think I’m joking, but I’m not. I’m going to tell that sonofabitch to get lost, and then I’m going to tell my mother everything.”

  He stops laughing. His body goes solid. His fingers dig in ever so slightly. He realizes I’m serious and he looks at me with concern in his eyes. “You think you’re ready for all that?”

  “Hell yeah, I am.”

  As if not entirely convinced, he stares at me for a beat. But I don’t blink. I don’t waver. I meet his gaze head on and my lips pull into a line because I am 100% serious. I’ve spent too many years giving over power, avoiding the conversation that I now know needs to happen. With a crooked smile he nods, spinning me around to face my bed. “Get dressed.”

  I look over my shoulder, unable to turn around completely because his fingers on my shoulders hold me in place. “Where are we going?”

  “I’m taking you to get an appropriate reckoning day outfit.”

  Shocked that he’s taking me out I freeze in place, my mouth hanging open. His hands drop from my shoulders and I watch him saunter to the window. He opens it and sits astride the sill, his feet dangling either side. He looks back at me. “What are you waiting for? Get dressed.”

  “But I thought—”

  He winks. “We can do that after.”

  I roll my eyes and grab the sweatpants and T-shirt that I know fit and throw them on. He takes my hand in his and helps me out through the window. And even though this isn’t the first time we’ve done it, the thrill of sneaking out hasn’t diminished. It’s not like with the heroin, where I needed to take more and more to feel the same high. Every time I’m with Asher, I feel everything, and I feel it everywhere. It’s not a simulated feeling of euphoria. This time, it’s real.

  Just like all the times before, we race across the grass, taking care to avoid all the security cameras, and by the time we make it to his motorcycle I’m breathing heavily. But he’s fresh as a daisy. He hands me the helmet that I’ve come to think of as mine and his voice is cocky when he says, “If you play your cards right, I might even let you come over afterwards.”

  My stomach dances and I clench my thighs together at the thought of being able to be with him again. It was going to be a long night of waiting, and if I weren’t already not in the mood for shopping, this would have tipped the scales. But I need an outfit. Truth be told, I am shitting myself at the thought of standing up to my father. I need some kind of . . . I don’t know . . . armor, maybe? An outfit that let’s them all know I’m back, and that I won’t take shit from anyone—least of all him.

  Asher takes the helmet from my hands and puts it over my head, giving a tap on the top, flattening my hair against my head. With a lift of his chin he gestures for me to hop on and I don’t waste any time, hopping up behind him, wrapping my arms tightly around his waist. He kicks the bike to life and in an instant the air is whooshing past us. The streets immediately around the center have become familiar and I notice things I’ve seen before: the bookshop next to the hairdressers, the nail salon, and the middle school on the corner. It’s weird to think that life on the outside has continued, even though it feels like time has stopped within the walls of the center.

  Even as I take note of my surroundings, I don’t pay any attention to where we are going. The ride is the longest I’ve experienced, and as the minutes pass the landscape around me changes. I no longer recognize the street signs or the shops. I consider asking Asher where we’re heading but I figure it’s best if he concentrates on getting us wherever we’re going. I trust him. That
, and even though he hasn’t given me any reason to doubt his driving skills, I don’t want to test him. Eventually the engine slows to a low purr before coming to a stop in a parking lot lit by hundreds of decorative lamps. It’s not busy but there are cars dotted here and there, and couples walk by holding hands, their purchases hanging off their elbows. I pull the helmet off and ask, “Where are we?”

  Asher removes his own helmet and shakes his head, a lock of his hair falling over his eyes before he reaches up and brushes it away. “It’s just a discount mall,” he says, taking my hand in his, placing the helmets on the seat of his bike, “but I figured it was safest to head a little out of town. We wouldn’t want anyone recognizing us.”

  I beam up at him, surprised that he would be so thoughtful but at the same time wondering why I’m surprised. Asher looks out for me. It’s what he does. Why should now be any different. He winks at me, tugging gently at my hand and leading me to the entrance.

  We walk past store after store and the whole time his hand never leaves mine. I can’t help but wonder if this is what it would be like if we had a normal relationship. The kind where we didn’t have to keep our feelings for each other a secret.

  I finally see a store that I used to shop at when I was in high school. They have a display of dresses in the front window so I figure that it’ll be worth a look inside. “Let’s go in here,” I say, steering him inside.

  I browse around for a few minutes and grab a selection of dresses, making sure to take different sizes since I have no clue what’ll fit my new curves. I decide to just try them all on and hope that one looks somewhat half decent. “Will you come sit in the dressing room and tell me what looks good?”

  He shrugs, seemingly unaffected by the stares coming his way from the young girls trolling the aisles. “If that’s what you want.”

  I raise my eyebrow at him. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want you to.”

  “Touché.”

  Once in the back room I model dress after dress for him. They’re all okay, but none of them quite do what is I need them to do.

  “What about this one?” I ask, half hoping that he’ll make the decision for me.

  “They all look good.”

  I groan. “You are no help at all. I wish I had a girlfriend to help me with this.”

  “I’m sorry, you look good in all of ’em.”

  “Can we go back out and just look one more time?”

  “Of course.” He leads me back out onto the display floor and I glance around, hoping that something will catch my eye. I’m just about to give up and just go all eeny, meeny, miny, mo on the ones I’ve already tried when I see it. Mint green fabric peeks out from the racks, only just visible in a sea of teal and emerald. Excited, I lead him toward it, pushing back the dresses either side and pulling it off the rack. The fabric falls beautifully and I immediately know that this is the dress.

  “That’s pretty.”

  “You’ve said that about the last fifteen dresses.”

  Again with the shrug. Men. “They all look the same to me.”

  I shoot him a look that I’m damn sure could melt ice and he holds his palms out in surrender.

  “Seriously, they do. Let me demonstrate.” He grabs a nearby dress off its hanger and tosses it to the ground. “Yep, looks awesome.”

  I shake my head and he starts laughing from his belly, bending over to pick up the dress. “You’re unbelievable,” I say, trying to keep a straight face but seeing him so happy and relaxed make it impossible. His grin widens and he points to the green dress slung over my arm.

  “It all seriousness, I do like that one a lot.”

  I grab his hand again and tug him back into the changing room. I step into the dress and the zip runs up my back with ease. The fabric hugs me in all the right places, fanning out and touching the tops of my knees. I glance at myself for a second in the mirror and I know that this is the winner. It’s like it was made for me.

  Filled with confidence I leave the changing room, strutting out to where Asher is sitting and do a spin. He whistles through his teeth, hopping up to his feet, his jaw slack, his eyes wide. “You’re right. They’re not all the same. This dress . . .” His voice trails off as his eyes rake me up and down. “This—fuckin’—dress.” He hooks his arm around my waist and pulls me to him. Our bodies collide and I let out a little yelp just before his mouth covers mine.

  Without hesitation, our tongues find each other and start the dance they’ve grown accustomed to. His hands explore every inch of my body. His fingers brush against the silky fabric, but then they snake underneath the tent the skirt creates. Without missing a beat he slides a finger between my legs. My eyes widen with shock but as he begins to move, my knees go week. He lifts me up and walks us both back into the changing stall, locking the door behind him.

  He places my feet on the floor and his eyes take me in, and they’re dark, hungry, and intense. He undoes his pants and frees himself, my heart thundering as he takes a step toward me. The heaviness between my legs aches for him and as his hands grab the hem of the skirt and lift it over my head, my heart soars. He tosses it to the floor and looks at the pile of fabric. “I guess you’re right, that one looks better on you.”

  I giggle and his mouth takes mine. Eagerly, I wrap my legs around his waist allowing him to bury himself inside of me. He rolls his hips against me, his intentions clear, and I throw my head back against the wall, biting my bottom lip to stifle the moans. The heat between us builds as he kisses my neck, my brain filling with an ecstasy induced fog as I lose myself in him. My hands roam every inch of his muscle laden body, I revel in feeling each of them contract with every thrust. As he quickens the pace, I lift my hips to meet him, forcing him deeper, thankful that our rapid breaths are muffled by the music playing through the store speakers.

  I dig my nails into the skin on his lower back and he winces, driving forward, biting the skin at the base of my neck. My back arches off the wall and his hand flies to my mouth, his fingers pressing into my swollen lips, stifling the moan I didn’t even know was coming. Our bodies tense, our faces flush with heat and he buries his face in my neck, giving one last final thrust as we find our release.

  He nuzzles at my neck, kissing soft patterns against the skin. Our breathing slows and he gently places my feet back down on solid ground, he catches my eyes, his grin widening to a face-splitting smile. His hand cups my cheek, his thumb brushing my lips before he leans forward and kisses me on the lips.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Three times.

  A kiss on the cheek.

  A kiss on the eye.

  A fourth on my mouth and he murmurs against my lips, “I think it’s safe to say I fuckin’ love that dress.”

  “Ladies and gentleman, we have a winner!” I say, lifting my hand above my head in triumph, a mischievous grin on my face.

  He chuckles, shrugging his pants up and over his hips, fastening them before turning to help me with my own clothes. “I guess we do. Now lets get the fuck out of here and pay for that dress so I can get your sweet ass in my bed.”

  The butterflies return to the pit of my stomach as the ache slowly builds. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of him. It can’t be possible.

  I don’t ever want to live in a world where I don’t need him.

  I STAND IN THE lobby, my arms crossed over my chest, completely spoiling the line of my dress, my foot tapping on the wooden floor. I’m so antsy that I’m beginning to annoy myself; yet here I stand, waiting for them to come through the doors. All around me I watch on as other families are reunited. Hugs and kisses are abundant; dolled out like sweets at a kid’s birthday party. I can’t help but wonder about their stories. I know every family has secrets, and wonder what they could be. Molestation? Animosity? Divorce? Abuse? What led them to be here? Maybe there wasn’t a reason. But we definitely all have something in common. Drugs.

  I see my mother first. She’s beaming at me and once her eyes meet mi
ne she begins to walk faster. She’s genuinely excited. My anxieties take a whip to my heartbeat, sending it racing off the charts.

  We wrap our arms around each other and her perfume fills my nose. Lilacs and baby powder. It reminds me of all the times she hugged me as a child. She’d scoop me up and cover me in kisses and I’d giggle the entire time, squirming to get free. But my attempts were always halfhearted; I never really wanted to get free. I wanted to be in her arms forever, because when I was in her arms I was safe.

  “Oh my god, Tegan.” I hear the happiness in her voice. She places her hands on my shoulders and pushes me back. “Lemme get a good look at you.” With tears in her eyes she gives me a onceover; running her fingertips over the apples of my cheeks, no doubt noticing the new fullness there, taking on board the makeup that accentuates my features. She traces her finger up and around my earlobe to the studs at my ears, then runs her hand over my hair, which has been washed, conditioned, and blow-dried especially for this occasion. “You look so . . . so . . . healthy.”

  My smile begins to widen but retracts quickly when I hear the clearing of a throat. My eyes snap over her shoulder.

  He’s there.

  Hatred courses through my veins and for a moment I’m back where I was; before I even came to rehab. Time slows, allowing me the opportunity to think about all the ways I’d like to kill him. But then my breath returns and the anger ebbs away. I’m no longer fearful of him. It’s time to move on.

  “You look great, Tegan.”

  I don’t acknowledge him, turning to slide my arm through my mother’s and smile at her as I pull her toward the double doors leading to the hallway. “Let’s go find a place to talk.”

  Mom chatters about the goings on at home as we walk, filling me in on what my brother and sisters, nieces and nephews have been getting up to over the last few weeks. My father adds a comment here or there, but I don’t really care what he has to say; I’m more focused on her. We eventually come to an empty room, typically used for group therapy and I stop outside. “This looks like a great place.” I motion for them to head in and sit down, which they do, and I click the door shut behind us.