by Haley Jenner
I pull the back collar of my shirt upward, over my head and from my body. Her scent is all over it, rubbed into the material from my body. The sweet hint of strawberries clouding my mind and making me ball the cotton into my fist in frustration before throwing it forcefully into the basket by the shower. Ma will wash it tomorrow, and all hint of Aubrey King being draped across my body will be gone. From the material at least, unfortunately, my memory can’t be as easily wiped away with soap and a spin cycle.
Shedding the rest of my clothes, I treat their existence much the same as my shirt. Angered by their presence in my life and more importantly, my want to smell them, to inhale her scent. I stand at the bathroom mirror, eyes skating over my naked body. I take in the red marks from Aubrey’s teeth, the scratches decorating my back, passionate caresses from her fingernails and I will myself to regret them, to despise their visibility on my body. But I can’t. I feel like I’m drowning in a tidal wave of dread. Apprehension that maybe not tomorrow, but over the days to come, her marks upon my body will disappear, and I’ll be left with only the haunted memories, with the what ifs of what could’ve been, if she’d just thought I was worth it.
I move my hand upward, wrapping along the side of my neck, fingers pressing on my pulse point. The small spot of skin Aubrey’s lips would seek. I remember the feel of them resting there, kept still to hold the rhythm of my heart within her body. She’d stay there for long minutes, eyes closed over as she let the steady beat course along the skin of her parted lips, into her mouth and echo silently into her body. I didn’t realize what she was doing the first time it happened. I thought she was panicking about what we’d done, regretting what we’d shared, but then she’d slowly kissed the spot her lips had rested, a smooth caress onto my skin, her tongue sliding across to taste. In that moment, I knew it was something more, something more personal, more intimate. After that first time, every time she did it, her fingers would mirror the pattern of my pulse, right over my heart. I don’t think she even realized she was doing it, always completely caught up in that personal moment.
Squeezing my neck tightly, I resent the memory, the sadness that’s overcome me knowing that I’ll never feel that again. Pulling my hand away in a tight fist, I punch at the wall beside the mirror, cracking the plaster.
I’m not a violent person. My temper isn’t unmanageable. I’m the calm one, the one that can always see reason. Always laid back and happy, but right now, all I can think about is breaking things. Relieving the built-up frustration, anger, and disappointment in how this has all unfolded by causing physical damage to something else. Breaking something to move the focus away from my bleeding soul. Normally I’d fall into my music, lock myself away and play until my hands were cramped and aching from holding my guitar. But even that doesn’t entice me, not right now. Now, I need my release in another way, and my brother is the only person I imagine would understand that.
Stalking from the bathroom and into my room, I throw on the first pair of jeans I stumble across. Searching for my cell, I flick Archer a text and go out back to wait, nervous energy pulsing through my veins. Cracking my knuckles, I watch the grass wondering how the fuck I’m going to explain what I need.
“Kid,” Archer’s gravel draws my attention, and I turn on my heel to seek him out. Dressed much the same as I am, his torso is naked, jeans hanging low on his hips, feet bare.
Our physiques are starkly different, and for a brief moment, I reconsider my need for pain. My height is greater than his, slightly, but he has me on bulk, easily. My body is slender; I work out, but the muscle built on my body is lean. Not Archer’s. His is built with thick walls of muscle, and he’d easily have thirty or forty pounds on me.
“I wake you?”
Shaking his head, his eyes skate over my restless movements.
“Annabelle crashed?”
Nodding at my question, he moves closer, trying to read my intention.
“Hit me.”
His feet cease their approach and his whole face morphs in disbelief. “The fuck, Kid?”
“Hit me,” I repeat, my voice quiet, but the desperation I feel easily leaking into the words.
Understanding stains Archer’s features, and he sighs loudly. “Been you,” he lifts his strong jaw in a single tip of his chin. “I don’t know what’s got you to this point, but I wanna inflict pain to whoever caused it.” He assesses my posture, my fidgeting, and sighs. “You think you want that pain, but it ain’t healthy, Jake.”
“Hit me,” I urge, desperately. “Just this once.”
“Fuck me,” he mutters, his hands pushing through his hair, bracing the back of his head, his biceps bulging under the crack of his knuckles.
“Please,” I whisper into the night. “I just… Music won’t cut it, and I feel so fucking twisted inside, I need another outlet. I need to push it out. Don’t make me look for a fight somewhere else. I came to you because I knew you’d get it.” He considers me for a moment longer, and I hate the silence, the indecisiveness in his face. “I need it.”
“You think you do,” he stonewalls, his forehead creasing in uncertainty.
“Does it help? The impact? The pain?” I push, moving closer.
“For a split second,” he answers immediately, his words honest.
“Then help me. Give me that second of relief. Hit me.”
He blows air from his nose forcefully, and I relax slightly, his gesture giving me the indication that he’ll concede. “I ain’t gonna hit you,” he starts, and I close my eyes in defeat. “But, you can hit me.” My eyes blink open, quickly, scanning his face. “Keep away from the face, don’t wanna explain any of this to Belle, bruises on the body I can blame on the work site.”
“I don’t—” I begin, but he cuts me off.
“Trust me, being able to connect your fist helps more than being on the receiving end.” He waits a beat, a breath for me to move, but I don’t. “I’ll add, I get this, the need to feel in control by using your fists, so right now I’ll give you it, but eventually, you’re gonna talk to me about what’s fucking with your head. Understood?”
I nod mine in agreement, and he moves closer, raising a single brow in challenge, his lips quirking to the side in a small smile. He’s getting off on this. As much as he’d deny it, he enjoys the adrenaline his body produces in the excitement of a fight.
I reconsider for a moment, for a single second before I let the festering anger cloaking me, overtake my doubt. My fists flex with agitation, and I roll my shoulders under the tension. I let Aubrey’s face come into vision, and at first, I feel an overwhelming sense of sadness, of loss. Then I recall her words, no one important, spoken so easily, so freely, without concern and my sadness is quickly replaced. Replaced with the burning rage I’ve felt for months, at myself, at her, at David.
I start with David. With the way I’ve heard him speak to her. The way he dismisses her work, her feelings, her thoughts, so thoroughly without a single consideration to what that does to her. I hate him. Hate that because of Aubrey’s deep-seated fears, he wins. He gets to hold onto one of the most amazing women I’ve ever met, without the slightest effort. That thought alone fires my temper, and I swing out, connecting with Archer’s abdomen. My fist feels the twinge of pain from connecting with solid muscle and it feels good. Only for a split second, but it’s a second I’ll take. I hit again, just under his ribs and he grunts quietly from the impact, eyes closing over in the discomfort it brings.
From there, I forget myself. I attack David. I attack Aubrey. But mostly, I attack myself. I hit Archer’s body, every punch powered by the revulsion I feel for myself. I grunt with each effort of my punch, echoed only by Archer’s rough exhales of air when I connect painfully enough. I let the pain of every shared moment with Aubrey, with every forbidden touch, every impermissible feeling I have for her release with the force of my fist slamming into my brother.
I don’t know how long he lets me continue, but my body lags in fatigue. My swings are less coordi
nated and my blows no longer cause even the slightest discomfort, not to me or Archer, making me desperate. This obviously shows because Archer steps into my space, hugging my body to his and ceasing my attack.
I struggle for only a second before sinking against him, a tortured sob breaking from my throat. Hitting his chest, my face a mixture of sweat and tears, I feel broken.
Archer gives me this too. This broken moment that will be shared only between he and I. This brief moment of nothing, where I want nothing more than to sink into the abyss and stay there.
“It feels hopeless. Right now, anyway.” Archer pushes me back, meeting my eyes. “Awful as it feels, hitting rock bottom isn’t always a bad thing, kid. Acknowledging it helps.” I wipe the tears from my eyes using my thumb and forefinger. “Only way to go from here, is up.”
Swallowing deeply, I nod at his declaration.
“Guessin’ it’s about a somebody?” he asks cautiously, and I nod again. His head bobs lightly in understanding. “Wanna share the who?”
I don’t answer, verbally or not and he smiles in consideration. “Imagine, she’d be worth it if it’s messin’ with you this much. Wanna tell me about why she’s put you in such a state?”
Exhaling heavily, I watch him for a beat before answering. “Turns out my feelings were stronger than hers, she doesn’t actually want me.”
Shock plagues his face as he shakes his head. “Kid, if you’re this messed up, feelings are reciprocated on her end, no way you’d be this fucked up if they weren’t. You wouldn’t read something that wrong.”
“Yeah, well, I did. It’s done. Was done well before it should’ve even started.”
I step away from his space, hands on my hips as I look over his skin. “Did I even do any damage?”
He laughs. It’s quiet in the night, his head turning to the side in amusement as his body shakes with the effort of his laugh. “There are a few sore patches that’ll no doubt bruise up.”
We’re silent for a moment as we share a small smile. “Feel any better?”
I think about his question and try to find an honest answer, but I can’t. I can’t actually determine if I feel better or if I feel worse. In all honesty, I feel a little numb. So that’s what I tell him. His lips turn up as he considers my words, nodding lightly.
“You know you need me, I’m here. Even if it’s just for you to throw a few punches, within reason,” he smirks, and I return it easily. “Jake, you’re a good man. The best I know. I know there is something bigger goin’ on than you’re letting on, I get that’s your business, and you’ll share when you’re ready. But, if this woman can’t see that pushin’ you away is the biggest mistake of her life, maybe I was wrong, maybe she ain’t worth it.”
He watches for his words to connect, coming closer to hold the back of my head and pulling me into a tight embrace before leaving me standing in the backyard of our childhood home, no closer to understanding how that fuck I let myself get here, or how to go about piecing my life back together.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Aubrey
“These are great, Aubrey,” she smiles, and I force myself to return it. She’s too caught up in reviewing the images to notice the tightness in the gesture, the force behind it. She turns back to the task at hand, and I let the falseness in my face drop, my features once again taking on the emptiness I’ve lived in for days.
No one important.
How could I be so fucking stupid?
I massage my temples to try and release the build-up of tension clouding my mind. It’s useless, it’s been getting worse since Jake left me sitting on a cold concrete floor cursing my own stupidity.
No one important.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, startling Josie, my client.
“Huh?” she turns back to me, eyes wide.
“Just talking to myself, sorry, Josie, I have this… splitting headache,” I trail off, at as loss as to how to put my current emotional state into words.
“Oh no. I’ve taken up too much of your time anyway, just got caught up in looking at all the shots you took,” she smiles coyly and I smile despite myself, her enthusiasm infectious.
I hate photographing product. Despise letting my art, the greatest part of my inner soul, be used to sell to a consumer. But this is different, photographing clothes lets me still focus on the person, if the mood is right. Finding the right moment where the clothes are no longer an item for sale, but build confidence in a person, become part of who they are and how they hold themselves. It helped that Josie was an up and comer, not a big corporation. She’s down to earth and loves her work, just like I do. Loves making people look good, feel good about themselves. I’d agreed to work with her almost immediately, the spark in her eyes when she spoke about the line, too hard to let pass.
“Not at all. Check through them all, let me know if you want any redone or more taken and we’ll organize it,” I instruct, throwing my few belongings into my handbag and moving in to kiss her cheek.
“Thank you, Aubrey. Really. I love them. I’ve been so nervous starting this line and second guessing every piece, but looking at them here, on the models, I’m… nervous, but excited and pumped to get it seen.”
“Josie, your line is amazing. Totally expecting a pair of those ankle boots when you can manage it.” I wink, and she nods enthusiastically.
“Yours,” she laughs, two dimples framing her wide smile, causing a constricting pain in my heart.
Offering her a small wave, I leave her, head bent over the stock of images that’ll hopefully launch her clothes into the mainstream.
Folding into my car, I throw my bag onto the passenger seat in frustration, pushing my palm into my chest where my heart aches.
No one important.
Dropping my head into my hands, my fingers dig into my scalp. “You’re a fucking idiot, Aubrey. A stupid fucking idiot,” I spit out, punching my steering wheel, causing the horn to blow, further infuriating me. “Shut up,” I yell at it, punching it again and again. “SHUT UP!”
My screams morph into loud uncontrolled sobs and I gulp air into my throat, trying to get a handle on my hysteria.
What the fuck is wrong with me? How did I let myself get here? How did I find myself trapped with no justifiable idea of how to escape? I’m stuck. In my head. Outside of it. I’ve been collared, fooled into a situation I feel completely powerless against. No matter what way I turn, what avenue I take, someone suffers.
I haven’t heard his voice in days, and I feel like a whole part of me is missing. That something so large, and significant has vacated my life without warning, and I can’t seem to catch my breath over the panic.
I could look at photos, watch videos I’d selfishly taken when we were together, but that would make my need to reach out greater, and for one of the first times in my life, I’m filled with self-doubt as to what his reaction would be. Would he even answer? Or would he ignore me, the pain from my stupid fucking words too great for his pride?
Is he lost like me? Does he feel as though he’s suffocating from the distance I’d forced between us? Or has he pushed me to the recess of his mind? Cast me into the shadows of his conscience, finally seeing that I’m not worthy of his affection? I’d like to say love, but Jake Dean should never love someone like me. Does he love me? It would warm my heart to say yes, that I think he does. That I wasn’t alone in my feelings because I do. I love him. With every single portion of my being. That’s what makes it harder and harder each and every time to remember that I’m not allowed to love Jake. That I’d made a decision years ago and unfortunately for me, I have to live with it, because without my knowledge I fell into David’s well-constructed plan. But even the conviction behind that argument is starting to wane. With every day that passes without contact, without hearing his voice, hearing him say my name, being able to touch him, I forget who I’m trying to protect by staying.
Not him. Definitely not him.
Not me. Most certainly not me.
&nb
sp; Dad. Only Dad. Would he understand? My continual betrayal over his love, over his support. Would it finally end? Him always being there as a constant, as someone in my corner, if he knew I made a selfish decision for love that would affect him so greatly? Would he see it as slap in the face? That my heart couldn’t love him enough? Would he hate me?
Sitting in my car, blues filter through my stereo speakers. Steve’s influence. I can’t stand the classical shit my dad listens to.
The empty coffee cup beside me, the Americano I’d swallowed down before my meeting. Like Mom. Dad questions my ability to drink something so bitter constantly. Always trying to get me to try herbal tea because that much coffee for someone isn’t healthy.
Even my camera taunts me. The greatest love of my life guilts me because it’s not that path Dad had wanted for me. When I was little, he’d talk to me about being a corporate, like him. He’d admire my work ethic and tell me I’d run companies one day. It broke my heart when I had to tell him I wanted to take photos for a living.
Fuck, how could I be such a disappointment to someone I love so dearly. Not in the ‘bad decision, life’s a mess, can’t sort my shit’ kind of way, but going against everything they’d hoped for me.
But worse than any of that, if I choose Jake, if I leave David, the aftermath for the ones I love could be diabolical and I’m not that heartless.
Maybe not noticeable to everyone around me, but my life is that mess. I’m being strangled by my own bad decisions. My life is a complete and utter disaster, and in my late twenties, I’ve realized I have no idea how to sort out the shit storm that is my life.
The shrill call of my ringtone echoes through the confines of my car and I suck in a deep breath, blinking rapidly to pull myself together. Searching through my bag, I locate my cell and laugh quietly at the irony of the moment.
“Hi, Daddy,” I smile affectionately into the line.
“Sweetheart.” Dad’s voice is softened by his smile and a little of the pain surrounding my heart eases with the knowledge that in this moment, he loves me. “I’m sorry I missed our weekly call last night, work is intense at the moment. Very busy, I’m sure you understand.”
