by M. N. Forgy
“I’m heading home.” I jump down from my tailgate, some of the other guys following suit. I know nothing great awaits me back at my place. My dad will be drunk, the fridge will be empty, but the later I stay out… the drunker he’ll get. I can see it now, the drunken hackle and red-rimmed eyes, as he slurs his every word. A sight I’ve grown used to, and can usually accept until he gets so drunk he becomes angry and I’m his only outlet.
“I’ll see y’all tomorrow,” I tell the boys, and slide in behind the wheel of my truck. The only thing I have left of my mother. She drove this damn thing everywhere. Including work when my dad sat at home feeling sorry for himself. Until she died my freshman year from a brain aneurysm. I remember the day it happened. I came home from school and my dad was sitting on the tail bed of his truck, drunk out of his mind more than usual.
“What are you doin’ out here?” I asked, coming home from practice, I was sore and tired wouldn’t normally converse with my dad, but the look on his face was off. Something was wrong. He never sat on his truck and drank this time of night, Mom hated him drinking outside of the house. Said it gave us a bad image. He looked up at me and I noticed he was crying, my stomach sank and all I could think about was my mother.
“Where’s Mom?”
He sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand holding a bottle of cheap whiskey in it. The kind Mom always bought him because it was cheap.
“Your momma… she’s gone,” he sobbed before taking a large swig.
“What do you mean?” My brain became fuzzy, nothing was making sense to me, as if I had forgotten how to talk or listen. Did he do something to her? Where the hell is she?
“She’s dead. What the fuck you want me to say? She’s fucking dead. Gone. It’s just you and me, be damned all the—” He got up and threw the bottle across the street before wobbling on drunken feet. I ran inside ignoring him crying out into the night. I searched the house for my mother, praying he was just drunk and out of his mind. The smell of her hairspray was missing though, the house was an empty void, as if I stepped into the wrong house. He wasn’t lying. My mother is gone, and I feel as if someone tore my lungs from my chest. No more football games, or laughing over Saturday Night Live together. I’m alone. I slid to the floor in a stupor and remained much that way all the way through her funeral.
Without my mom standing in between my father and me, we couldn’t stand in the same room for more than five minutes without fighting. He became the worse kind of drunk, hating everyone and everything. Especially me.
The truck bounces and weaves through the rough field pulling me from that terrible night. My tires kicking rocks as I head home. Not too much longer and I’ll be out of the house and away from everything this fucked up town has to offer.
Pulling into the driveway, I see Dad’s old Chevy pick-up parked in its spot. Taking a deep breath, I grab my school bag and get out. I don’t even make it to the front porch before he kicks the screen door open and steps out. His stance wide, only wearing jeans, he scratches his bare chest with a beer in his hand.
“Where you been?” His tone heated. Lovely, he’s going to play the caring father tonight.
“With the guys,” I tell him, even though he already knows where I’ve been. I’m always with the guys. Stepping past him he fists my letterman jacket, stopping me.
“You been drinkin’, boy?” Not wanting to get into it on the porch, I jerk from his grip and head inside the house, hoping the neighbors haven’t seen anything. The last thing we need is Sheriff Randall out here, again.
“Warner, you’re going to fuck up your free ride out of here by drinking with a bunch of nobodies!” he hollers, marching into the house behind me.
The house looks the same since I left it this morning. Clothes thrown everywhere, the couch cushions halfway off because Dad has been sliding all over them in his drunken mess. Stomping past the table stacked with overdue bills, I notice the kitchen table holding an empty bottle of whiskey. It’s going to be a long night. Glancing at the fridge that hums just a little too loudly, I decide against making a sandwich and start toward my room. It’s not the first night I’ve gone to bed hungry, won’t be the last.
“Warner!” A tight grip pinches my left arm, stopping me where I stand in the hall. “You hear me talkin’ to you boy?” he shouts in my face, the rancid smell of whiskey slipping from his breath and nearly gagging me. His dark brown eyebrows furrow, his bloodshot eyes narrowing in on me as he slams me against the wall. My arms shake with anger.
“Get off me!” I grit, standing up to him. I’m not in the mood for this bullshit tonight. He clamps his grip down harder, and I bite through the pain. Noticing me not backing down, he chuckles and shoves me into the wall for good measure before turning away. I fucking hate him. Why couldn’t it have been him who died?
“You don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve what’s been given to you,” he slurs, losing his stepping and falling into a wooden kitchen chair. “Who put this goddamn chair here?” He wallows, tossing it into the counter that is littered with beer cans. My hands clench at the same time my heart does seeing him toss that chair like that. My mom picked that kitchen set out. She saved every penny, even invited Axel’s family over for a nice dinner. But Dad doesn’t care, or he doesn’t remember. If he did, that table would probably be gone. He got rid of everything of Mom’s the day after the funeral. At least he thought he had.
He stands, elbowing a picture of himself as a kid in his football uniform on the wall. It cracks and hangs sideways, but he takes no notice of it. My dad used to play football on the same field I did and even got a scholarship handed to him he was so good. Until he got in a wreck drinking and driving with his buddies and fucked up his leg. He lost everything and has been angry at the world ever since. Especially since I got a free ride to any college playing ball.
“You’re a nobody,” he murmurs, heading back to his spot on the couch. I hate how he hangs the love for the game of ball over my head all the time.
“I never asked for the scouts to come out and watch me. You did!” I point at him. My arm smarting from his abusive grappling moments earlier. It makes no sense to me that he called the scouts to come watch me, and then resent me when I’m handed an offer. It’s as if he needed to hear the scouts reject me so he knew that I wasn’t as good as him, but when they wanted me like they had wanted him, it was a slap in the face for my dad, and that’s when the snide remarks started up.
“It’s what your momma would have wanted.” He groans, flopping down in front of the TV, shoving his hand down his jeans to adjust his junk. Hearing him talk about my mother, I swear a tooth just cracked from my gritting down on it so hard. My mother was the kind of mom that showed up to every game, face paint on and in the stands cheering me on. But when she died… so did my love for the game. I can’t look at a football without seeing her face and hearing her scream my name with pride.
“It’s not what I want anymore,” I sneer under my breath.
“It’s not about you! It’s… It’s all of us…” he slurs, his head lolling to the side like it’s too heavy. I shake my head, confused if he acts this way because he misses Mom, or if this is just his drunken nature.
My mother, father, and I all shared the passion for the game, but my father took it to another level. If I lost a game, Mom would just pat me on the back and say “Next game!” Dad, he let me know how much of a disappointment I was to him. Mom was always there to help smooth over the wounds Dad caused but after her death, the wounds got deeper, and now I can’t stand on a field without feeling like the game is just a burden.
Heading down the hall again, I close my door locking it behind me. Pulling my shirt off, then my jeans, I toss them on the floor. The moon is shining through the blinds right onto my bed, lighting up the space just enough to see. Reaching the window, my hand grabs the wand to close the blinds and I spot a shadow on a roof next door.
I still.
Pushing the blinds out of the way I pull
the window open and see River sitting on the roof of the big house that used to belong to an old couple with a cat. I can’t remember their names. They kept to themselves mostly. They had people come out and mow their yard, bring them groceries. We hardly ever saw them until they died in their sleep and were taken out on a stretcher.
Watching River, she has a long flowing skirt dancing around her legs with the night’s wind. Her head tilted up looking at the moon in awe. My teeth skim my bottom lip as I watch her get lost in the stars of the night.
Who is this girl, and where the hell did she come from?
Her shoulders lift as if she’s taking a deep breath and she picks something up beside her. Paper and pencil, and she focuses on it. The way her hands move, it looks like she’s drawing, or sketching or something.
Her hand slows, and she tucks a wavy strand of hair behind her ear. Slowly her head lifts and eyes draw to mine. My heart beats, and like an idiot, I panic and drop the blinds back in place, stepping to the side of the window.
Real smooth. Real fucking smooth, Warner. I chaste myself. Jesus.
Done with the night, I plop on the bed and roll away from the light of the moon and the girl that won’t escape my mind.
But the intricate ink of a stringed ribbon around a sexy ankle haunts me behind my eyelids as I try and fall asleep.
After tossing and turning for an hour, I turn over on my side and sigh. The moon is brighter than ever tonight, and I can’t ignore my growling stomach. Pulling on some jersey shorts and a ripped up shirt that should have been tossed in the trash a while ago, I head into the kitchen for some food only to find my dad passed out on the floor right in front of the fridge.
Out of all the places he could pass out he does it right where I want to go, I don’t even want to chance waking him up. I grab my keys and decide to hit up a convenience store for some junk food. I could use the drive to clear my head anyway.
Pulling out of the driveway, I place my arm over the back seat and begin to back up until the truck suddenly bumps. I slam on the brakes, jumping out to see what is going on, I find River holding a small dog with blood covering them both. Her eyes are wide with panic, and tears filling her eyes as she looks at me for help.
I just hit her dog! FUCK!
Blood drains from my face, my hands behind my head as I stare at her kneeling beside her hurt dog.
“Get in!” I tell her, thinking on my toes.
She glances up at me, tears in her eyes.
“You fucking asshole!” she snarls through clenched teeth.
“I said, get in the fucking truck, River!” I snap. She doesn’t hesitate and jumps to her feet, scurrying into the passenger side. Cussing me out under her breath the whole time.
Getting in, I kick the truck in reverse and jerk us out of my driveway heading toward the town’s vet. He lives in the back of the Vet Clinic building so I know he’ll be there.
Side-eying River, my stomach knots. I feel terrible, but she looks amazing. Like a wild flower child, but covered in blood.
“I’m sorry River, I didn’t even see you guys!” I try and explain.
“Oh my God, is she going to be okay?” Her hands tremble as she holds her pup, her lips quivering with fear. I want to tell her yes but with all the blood, I don’t know. The dog lays in her lap limp, and I swallow the panic building in my throat.
“Yeah, the vet is really good here. He will take care of it,” I assure her. Her eyes snap up to mine, tears staining her cheeks. Freckles dust her face, a natural glow illuminating her face. Just looking at her emerald eyes, I can feel her pain and fear. Shit, I didn’t hit her too did I?
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She nods, glancing down at her dog. For some reason, I want to cup her face and tell her everything is going to be fine. To trust me, but I don’t know her like that. I know nothing about her.
Silence fills the truck and her eyes fall on the dainty piece hanging from my rearview mirror. Her headband, the one she left behind the night we hooked up. The road bumps and rocks us as our eyes meet, and I can’t hold it back anymore.
“It’s you, isn’t it. The girl from that night?”
Her head lowers, and she opens her mouth to speak, but then shuts it.
Yeah, it’s her alright.
Pulling into Dr. Mark’s clinic, it pulls us from the intense space between us. The lights in the small building are off, only a small headlamp over the company sign lit up.
“They look closed,” she whimpers. Getting out, I hurry to her side of the truck and open the door, my hand on her shoulder, I try and focus on helping her out and not how soft her skin feels.
Once she’s out and has the dog securely in her arms, I race up to the front door and slam my fist into it over and over.
“Dr. Mark!” I holler. After the fifth time yelling his name, the lights inside kick on and he opens the door.
“It’s her dog, it’s been hit,” I tell him. Placing his glasses on his tired face, he looks over my shoulder at River, then the dog.
“Come in. Come in.” He waves us in. As soon as we step inside, he takes the dog from River.
“Have a seat, I’ll be back,” he tells us, and that’s when I notice he’s wearing cat pajamas.
River turns to me, lost, confused, and scared. Stepping up to her, I wrap my arms around her. The smell of her lavender and spicy smell brings me to the night in the tent. It’s a smell I’d never forget.
Her face in my shirt she cries before suddenly pushing me a step backward. Her face is red, her eyes like dynamite.
“You asshole!” She slaps my chest, and I raise my arm to block her relentless hits. After the fifth slap, I catch her hand mid-swing and turn her back flush with my chest.
“Easy…” I breathe into the back of her head. Her feisty attitude turning me on, I can’t help myself from getting hard against her.
“I’m fine,” she whispers. “Let me go.” Standing up, I drop my arms, releasing her.
Turning where she stands, she wipes at her cheeks, hands on her hips, she takes a deep breath. Bracelets lined up her wrists jingle together, and her tie-dye skirt looks like it was made from a horror movie.
She looks me over but doesn’t say anything. I’d die to be in her head right now, to know what she’s thinking.
After a while, we both sit, not talking. The wait for her dog’s fate making me feel nauseous. I’ve never run over a dog before, if I kill her dog, I’ll never have a shot with her.
Sitting next to me, she becomes restless and she bounces her foot, looking around the room anxiously. The postures of pet anatomy can’t be that interesting.
“What’s its name?” I finally ask, hoping conversation will ease the tension.
She looks to me, and I notice her cheeks glow and her eyes are bright green. No, they’re not just green, they have a dust of yellow around the irises reminding me of a stray black cat I once saw. It was mean and enticing. It would weave in and out of your feet, purring and when you went down to pet it, it would hiss and scratch you.
“His name is Huey, he’s a Shih Tzu. I got him for my sixteenth birthday,” she finally speaks, and my eyes fall to her lips. They’re a bit darker than the rest of her glowing skin. “I was walking her before I went to bed and he slid his head out of the collar,” she explains.
“I was getting something to eat,” I tell her and her brows furrow like my explanation of driving at one in the morning is odd.
“How old are you now?” I ask, trying to find out anything I can about her.
“I’ll be eighteen in July,” she informs, and I look to the floor. I turn nineteen in July.
I catch her staring at my arm and I follow her gaze.
There’s a big bruise that matches my father’s fingers perfectly. Sweat beads on my upper lip.
I rub at it with my hand like it will erase or something. “I play a lot of sports,” I play it off; lying. She nods as if that makes sense. Most people don’t ask questions after I tell them that
.
The back door opens, and Dr. Mark walks out. He’s still wearing his cat pajamas, his blonde hair sticking out everywhere.
“Ok, he’s sedated for now. His back leg is broke and needed some stitches. I want to keep him overnight and make sure he doesn’t have any internal bleeding though,” he explains, forehead wrinkles as he looks at me.
“Yes of course, so Huey’s going to be okay?” River asks, jumping up from her seat.
Dr. Mark’s head turns, looking at her as if he’s just noticing she’s a stranger.
“This is River, her family just moved in,” I introduce.
“Oh, that’s right.” His face lights up and he steps forward to shake her hand. Everyone in town has heard of River’s family moving in, just like everyone will know I hit her dog tomorrow too.
“He’s stable, but he’s lost a little bit of blood from that wound on his leg, but he will be fine. Come by tomorrow, and I’m sure he will be able to go home.” He looks at us both, nodding before awkward silence dropping between us all.
“Oh, how much do I owe you?” she asks, tucking her hair behind her ear like she always does. I open my mouth to object, I ran over her dog. I’ll pay.
“Oh, this one is on the house. Welcome to town!” He smiles, but it’s a bit off-putting. Welcome to the town where the neighbor almost killed your dog. This one’s on us!
“Oh, no—”
“I insist. Now, I have lots of balls to chop off tomorrow, so I better get some sleep,” he chuckles, and River’s eyes widen at his humor. That’s Dr. Mark though. Odd.
“Thanks for your help, Dr. Mark.” I slip in between the Dr. and River and guide her to the door before he scares the shit out of her. Once outside, he shuts the door and the lights inside turn off.
