Crossing

by Stacey Wallace Benefiel

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “I don’t know why I told Brynn to tell Liam to come to me! What the fuck was I thinking?” I peek around the corner of the proscenium arch and scan the audience for Liam and then Lee just to be sure. He’s not here. Wah-wah. “I should be on my way to Boise right this minute instead of standing here nervous as fuck, about to spill my guts to a bunch of strangers.”

  “They aren’t a bunch of strangers,” Rebecca says, pacing and rolling her neck. “You know at least sixty percent of the audience.” She grabs my arm, not unkindly. “And you better check your mad ideas about running away. You’ve got to live through one performance and then you can go wherever the hell you want. Tonight, your brilliant ass belongs to me.”

  She pulls me into the hallway outside the costume shop. “Let’s warm up.”

  I kabuki lion and squinchy lemon my face like I mean it.

  X

  I run off stage, ripping my shirt off over my head and throw it to one of the dressers. She catches it while the other dresser slips Elizabeth’s scrunched up magenta sequined halter down my raised arms. The show is going well, I’ve made it to the last scene and my heart is only moderately crushed, pulverized, whatever, that Liam didn’t show. I’m compartmentalizing the grief to deal with later, when I write my second one woman show about how I’m literally never loving another human being ever again. I choke down the Dixie cup of water that’s shoved in my face, and charge back onto the stage, a line of drag queens from RUMORS in formation behind me.

  The lights come up and Liam, dressed as Liam, is standing there, facing me. His chest is rising and falling deeply, like he’s trying to control his breathing. The audience audibly gasps, but the drag queens don’t, which is assbackwards and tells me instantly they were in cahoots.

  Liam’s got a red, raw scar along his jawline that my lips instantly want to kiss. I bring my hand to my chest to steady my heartbeat. No way am I gonna cry.

  “Brynn told me about the note you put in my hand at the hospital.” Liam holds an uncapped tube of lipstick out to me.

  I take it and step as close to him as I dare.

  His mouth falls open into an “O” and I touch the Perfect Red to his lips, sliding the color over the top and then the bottom, entranced. He brings his hand up and takes the lipstick from me, making up my mouth.

  There we are.

  “I thought the finale was supposed to be a musical number,” some guy in the third row whispers to the lady next to him.

  Liam smiles and turns to face the audience. “This isn’t the end.”

  X

  I lean in closer to the dresser mirror and tug down on my right eyelid with my left hand while sweeping the gel eyeliner across it with my right. I stand back and regard my handiwork, like what I see, and do the left eye.

  Liam comes in wearing my leopard robe, really our leopard robe at this point, and hugs my waist from behind while I apply mascara. He kisses that spot on my neck and says, “You look beautiful.”

  I meet his eyes in the mirror and then check out my reflection. My nose is more crooked than it was a year ago. I’m not any thinner. My hair is still brown, brown. There are days when I wish chin implants were an affordable option, but Liam’s right. I look beautiful. I turn around in his arms and hold the mascara wand up. “Want me to do you?” I ask and then kiss the scar along his jawline on the left side of his face – all part of our morning ritual.

  “Nah, not today. I’m not feelin’ it.” He presses his lips to mine and I drop the mascara over my shoulder onto the dresser before sliding my arms around his neck.

  Ever since he started working as a performer at RUMORS over the summer, he hasn’t felt like he needed to be Lee out in public or in the bedroom as often. I honestly don’t care either way, and I think him knowing that has made all the difference.

  I untie the belt on the robe and slip my hands inside it, skimming my fingertips across his warm skin. He kisses me harder as my hands move lower.

  “I can’t believe I’ve only known you for a year,” he says against my mouth.

  I smile and trail kisses along his jaw to his ear. “Happy first day of school.”

  “Mmm hmm,” he hums, pulling me back toward our bed.

  “We’re going to be late,” I say, laughing, not really caring.

  Liam grabs the edge of my shirt and pulls it off over my head, mindful not to completely ruin my updo. He slides my bra straps off my shoulders and brings his lips to the tops of my breasts. “I love you more than Archeology of Mesoamerica,” he says, unbuttoning my jeans.

  I take a step back from him and push my pants and my underwear off. He scoots back onto the bed and rests on his elbows. I retrieve a condom from our dwindling supply in the bedside table and toss it to him. He only takes a second and then I’m climbing up his body, kissing his neck, his chin, his mouth. “I love you more than Exploratory Data Analysis.”

  He grabs my hips and settles me on top of him, slipping into me. “Exploratory, huh?”

  X

  We run up the steps to Villard Hall, hand in hand. We missed our first classes, but there’s no way we’re missing Acting IV with Maren, especially since the theatre department has given us a pass for not completing several weeks of Acting II and III. We jam past a girl in the hall, going toward the Little Theatre.

  “Uh, hey guys,” a familiar voice says from behind us.

  I turn around and come face to face with a bald India. She brushes her knuckles over her head, ducking her chin.

  For the first time ever, I don’t find her threatening. Maybe she hasn’t been all along? I chuck her on the arm. “Fuck you for looking even more beautiful without hair.”

  She raises her eyes to mine and grins. “Thanks. I’ve always wanted it this way, but it’s a big change.”

  “You’re taking Acting IV, right?” Liam asks.

  India nods. She stands up straighter and puts that hand of hers on her hip. “Of course. You two ready to be upstaged?”

  The three of us face the doors to the Little Theatre. Liam opens one side for us and India walks in first.

  I raise my arms above my head to form a circle.

  Liam sticks his tongue out at me. “You’re weird.”

  I kiss his scar as I breeze past him. “And you’re pretty. Yay for us.”

  The end.

  Author’s Note

  Pure and simple, I wrote Crossing because I needed to. I’d had this strange, funny, personal story to tell for nearly eighteen years, but figured it would never see the light of day.

  I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Martha Alderson’s The Plot Whisperer and Colleen Hoover’s Hopeless for giving me the nudge I needed to write my story down. I was reading those two books at the same time and dreaming bizarre dreams about the Universal Story and beautiful boys who help tragic girls find themselves, when I woke up one day with the entire plot of Crossing in my head. I texted the ideas to my e-mail while I cooked my daughter eggs, and by that evening, I had a detailed six page outline.

  That was the beginning of March and I completed the final draft on April 22nd.

  When a lot of the stuff that happens in a novel actually happened to you, the writing is a whole hell of a lot easier. My heart had already broken and repaired over many of these things long ago – others still stung.

  I found myself wanting the Happily Ever After For Now for Dani that I didn’t get for myself. That was a hard day that turned into hard weeks that brought on a big change in my life. But the great part about writing this book was that I had more examples of times I had overcome bad situations than times I had given up.

  Liam is based on my first real boyfriend, with added characteristics from all of the amazing guys I was lucky enough to act with at the U of O in the mid-Nineties. I was a little bit in love with all of them, so it only seemed right.

  India is based on a woman that is currently a semi-famous actor on a popular TV show. I can’t bring myself to watch it, although everyone I know th
inks it’s hilarious. Apparently, it’s Always Sunny where she is.

  The poem, Physical Therapy, that Dani finds in Chase’s envelope was first published in the Hickman Review in 1993. I’m kind of shocked that they printed it, but hey, it sure gave me a glimpse of my high school self right when I needed it.

  As you might have guessed, the whole acting thing didn’t work out, but the writing thing sure did. So, instead of thinking about things, writing them down, and then performing them for a hundred people, I get to publish them and reach thousands.

  Thanks for reading Crossing. I hope you all have someone who wants you every time you walk in the room.

  Stacey Wallace Benefiel is the author of the Zellie Wells trilogy, the Day of Sacrifice Omnibus, The Toilet Business – a collection of humorous essays, the Penny Black trilogy, and multiple short stories. She sometimes goes by S.W. Benefiel or Reina Stowe, but knows she’s not foolin’ anybody. Stacey lives in an orange house in Beaverton, OR with her two young children who have old people names. When she’s not writing, thinking about writing, or driving the kids somewhere, she’s at CrossFit lifting heavy things and cursing the inventor of the Burpee.

  For more information on Stacey and her books: http://staceywallacebenefiel.com

  Thanks dpgroup forum.

  Standing “O’s”

  Mike – “Do you think I’m crazy because my jacket is on inside out?”

  Susan Kaye Quinn and Magan Vernon – Every author should be lucky enough to have her own personal sex scene editors. Thanks for helping me not write porn.

  Chanda Hahn, Angela Carlie, Lisa Nowak, Stephanie Van Raden – Thanks for bringing me reinfreshments so I could keep writing and finish Crossing without succumbing to assholia. At least ten chapters of this book should be dedicated to vegan cupcakes, brownies, and Portobello mushroom fries. #sunriverwriter

  Lisa Nowak, RaShelle Workman, J.R. Pearse Nelson, Angela Carlie – Here’s to my beta readers – my hand-holders.

  Gracie, Christel, and Kim – Gawd. The’plex. Everything happened there. I’m still finding blue fake fur lint on my black pants.

  Sarah Scott – Thanks for reading everything I’ve ever written and being in my corner no matter what.

  I thought I might never find a creative community like the one I had during my theatre days – so glad I was wrong. Hugs and high-fives to my indie author friends. You are my people! Especially the Indelibles and the members of PacNWYA.

  Fist bumps to my friends at CrossFit Body and Fuel in Beaverton, OR. I totally wrote this book for time and got a PR.

  Enjoy Crossing? It would help me out tremendously if you would leave a short review. As an indie author, word of mouth and written reviews are the best ways for new readers to discover me.

  Can’t get enough New Adult Contemporary Romance? Check out the first two chapters of Touching Melody by RaShelle Workman!

  1

  Maddie

  Today is an Anniversary

  The tattoo studio is covered in art. It’s on the walls, the worktops, everywhere. Two guys are behind the counter, sitting in black chairs, while the artist’s do their work. The repetitive noise of the guns, jabbing needles into skin, over and over, fills the room.

  A guy is getting a word tattooed on one of his biceps. Not sure what it says, but the artist has completed an F and is working on the U. The other guy’s ink is nearly finished. His is a blade with a snake winding around it. Both men have blank, faraway expressions.

  I know that look, and I envy them momentarily.

  “Come on,” Tony says, eyeing the others. “Let’s go back here.”

  I follow Tony through the open area, and down the hall. He closes the bright yellow privacy curtain and faces me. “Maddelena, right? Take off your shirt and lie back.”

  “It’s Maddie,” I say, nervously. I’ve done this before, but I’m still edgy, mostly because Tony’s a new guy. Raffie, the guy who did my other tattoos, is on a required leave of absence, and won’t be back for three to five years. Two with good behavior. I can’t wait that long.

  He grunts his acknowledgement.

  Taking the scrunchie from my wrist, I pull my dark hair in a high bun. Yank off my gray tank, exposing pale skin and a white bra. I grimace at the cold air. It makes my skin tighten, prickle with goose bumps.

  And I’m grateful. Because I know what happens next. I’m anxious. Excited, even.

  Today is an anniversary, and not one filled with happiness, balloons, and good feelings. Seven years ago today I found their bodies. Seven years ago I found them dead. It feels like yesterday. The pain is raw, and rips at my heart. Scratching. Shredding. My lips and hands tremble at the pain. It’s going to swallow me. Eat me alive from the inside, claw through my veins and sinews like a deadly virus.

  I want to shout at Tony. Tell him to hurry. Scream, “I can’t take any more.” That I need pain to redden my skin, make the outside hurt as much as the inside.

  His brows crunch together, and he’s staring at me, at my already inked up skin.

  “Is there a problem?” My teeth are clenched. They have to be because if I open my mouth, something other than words will come out. Sobs. Or worse.

  His lips press together in a thin line. “No,” he answers, but his attitude tells me he’s lying.

  I take a deep breath. Lay back in the dentist-type leather chair. By the look on his face I know he isn’t concerned with the pain thrashing inside my body. He can’t see that. He also isn’t looking at my barely B cup breasts.

  His eyes are focused on my other tattoos. I already have four. And obviously he really checked my driver’s license to verify my age. I’m barely eighteen.

  He sits on a rolling stool, and turns away, muttering in Spanish. He’s a big guy, brawny, and is wearing a white wife-beater with holey faded jeans. His face is all hard lines, bushy eyebrows, and thick lips. On the bridge of his nose is a pair of thick black glasses, and over the tank is a tan buttoned sweater.

  There’s only so much you can tell about a person from the way they look. Clothes can be deceiving, as can the way a person does their hair, or even the makeup they wear. One thing I’ve learned though. If the eyes are the windows to the soul, then shoes are the official gatekeepers. Tony is wearing black flip-flops.

  It’s like he can’t decide between nerd and hottie. The weird thing is the look works on him. He has a tattoo of a dragon along the back of his neck. It’s breathing fire. One eye staring at me. And I can almost hear the condemnation. The words Tony can’t say because it’s none of his business.

  Plastic tears away from plastic, and then there’s a snap of surgical gloves. More tearing plastic, and he’s pulling out gauze. He squirts rubbing alcohol on it. The smell tickles my nose. It momentarily drowns out the stench of old cigars and Chinese food from the restaurant next door.

  “You want it here?” He presses one gloved finger just below my belly button, in the place we’ve already discussed.

  I look down anyway, to verify. “Yep, that’s right.”

  He rambles something in Spanish as he wipes the area with the wet gauze. It’s freezing, and my body automatically tenses, before I allow myself to relax. It’s coming. The bracing, all consuming pain. Soon it’ll hurt. It’ll hurt so bad that after a while it’ll stop hurting, and I’ll be numb. I’ll be numb everywhere.

  Hurry. Hurry. Hurry, my mind screams.

  He nods, and his eyes rake over my other tattoos.

  The first is a quote inked in calligraphy: I love because I am loved. It sits just below my bra on the left side of my torso. The second is in the same place under my right breast. More writing, this time in cursive, but the words are less sweet. I am nothing. The third is below it, on my ribcage. The kanji symbol for hate. I’m hoping he doesn’t know what the character means, but something tells me he does. The fourth tattoo starts at my left hip. My pants cover part of it. Five stars. The first is the largest. They get smaller as they go up, past my waist, the final star resting on a rib.


  The tattoo Tony is doing today will be fully colored. The first tattoo I’m getting with color. It’ll be an iris flower—a symbol of faith—with thorn-covered vines curling on either side.

  More plastic ripping and then he brings over a razor. “I’d walk you through what I’m doing, but it looks like you know the drill.” His words are filled with accusation. He doesn’t approve.

  “I do.” I raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to spill his thoughts. He wants to, I can tell. He wants to ask me why someone so young would already have so many tattoos. Why I would subject myself to such permanence at such a young age.

  Instead he grumbles words I don’t understand as he runs the disposable pink razor over my skin. When he’s finished, he tosses it in the trash and wipes the area clean with more icy cold gauze.

  The alcohol dries quickly, disappears, and I wish my pain could vanish that easily, but it can’t. It won’t.

  Tony takes the paper transfer of the iris drawing he’s created on his computer, and places it on my skin. Then, just like a press on tattoo, he rubs it on. When he pulls away the paper, I glance at the flower.

  He looks at me. “Is that gonna work? Last chance.”

  “It looks great,” I say, and lean back, allowing my head to rest against the back of the chair. I could tell him to put it anywhere, as long as it’s on my body quickly. Because the truth is I don’t care about placement. For me, tattoos aren’t about art. Inking my body isn’t my form of expression. It’s about pain. They are my medication. When it’s over, I’ll be able to breathe easier. It means I’m healing. Getting better.