by Ashley Love
He finally snapped to with a jerk as if I’d startled him. He coughed a few times before lifting his head and his eyes peeked open but all I saw was red and blue, the whites of his eyes completely overtaken with angry veins.
“Your nose is bleeding.” I swiped my thumb above his upper lip and showed him.
“For real?” His voice was deep and throaty, and when he licked his lips he made a face and wiped his palm across his chin and looked at the red on his hand. “Damn.”
“Lex.” I shake his shoulder and he groans, his face screwing up. His eyes open and when I look into them I sigh with relief as it begins to fade away. I smudge at the blood on his skin with my fingers and when he sees it he sits up instantly, his hand coming up to his face.
We now sit there and stare down at the blood on both of our hands, blood-stained fingers and palms, and our eyes meet again and I wonder if in this moment he’s back in that same ratty hotel suite. A slow drop of blood splats onto his white T-shirt and snaps me from my thoughts. I’m trembling slightly, barely able to manage more than a whisper.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Somewhere in my head there was a double meaning there.
20
“Goddamn stain,” I grumble, spraying the offensive blob with Shout and rubbing the fabric together to agitate the liquid. It’s been about an hour since Lex fell back asleep after we cleaned up his face and I took his blood-stained shirt to attempt removal of the red blotch. I know he doesn’t care if there’s a stain on his shirt, but cleaning is one of the domestic cycles I’ve fallen prey to. I swear to God I think I’m OCD sometimes. Especially now when after the first round in the wash I can still see a faded orangey-yellow remnant dotted on the white fabric. It’s enough to drive me fucking bonkers.
I toss it back into the wash and put it on soak. Fucking stain. I’m tempted to throw some bleach in there for good measure. That’ll teach that motherfucker a lesson.
As I close the lid to the washer the shrill ring of the apartment phone makes me jump slightly. I dart into my bedroom to answer before the second ring, all too mindful of Lex still asleep on the couch.
“Hello?”
“Hi, dear.”
It’s my mother. The little sneak, she knows my apartment phone doesn’t have caller ID so she always dials it instead of my cell when she wants to catch me off guard. Call me a bitch but I screen my cell calls like crazy. I guess she finally caught on.
“You’re not busy, are you?”
“Umm, not really. Just doing some laundry.” Lex’s laundry. I leave that part out.
“Good. I wanted to talk to you about this area rug I found…”
I roll my eyes as she jabbers on about bohemian rugs and I get lost in her talk of throw pillows and drapes, nodding even though she can’t see me. She’s on this kick about decorating my place. Part of me still doesn’t really get why she’s doing it but then she’ll say things like, “I just think a fresh start for you is a great idea,” and I know exactly why she’s fucking doing it.
When I hear noise in the kitchen I’m also pretty sure changing up my apartment isn’t the only fresh start she wants me to make.
“What the hell? C’mon you piece of shit…” Lex’s voice floats faintly down the hall. I crane my neck to see out the door even though there’s no way I can see into the kitchen from my room, but I’m curious as to what in the hell he’s making a mess of in there.
“Leala, are you still there?” my mother’s voice snaps in my ear, startling me slightly.
“What? Oh, sorry Mom, yeah. I thought I heard someone…at the door. What were you saying?” I press my forefinger and thumb to the bridge of my nose and squeeze my eyes shut. God, this is so annoying.
“Leala! Can you come in here for a sec?” Lex shouts, and my eyes fly open widely, the hand that was at my face now smacking against my forehead. This is going to end badly, I can feel it. I wait a breathless beat, hoping she didn’t hear him.
“I was saying if you’re not busy like you said earlier, we should go take a look at some of these wall tapestries I found at a discount store. They’re in surprisingly good condition and the price is great,” she prattles on, not even paying mind to his voice. Thank God.
“Mom, I…I can’t today. I’m sorry,” I stutter in as apologetic of a tone as I can muster, and when I open my mouth to speak again, my bedroom doorway is suddenly darkened by a tall figure. A tall, lanky, ex-inmate figure. Fuck.
“Leala! I’ve been yelling for you for like five minutes, what the fuck...” His voice fills my room angrily but slowly fades out when he sees that I’m holding the telephone receiver to my ear. “Oh. Who’s that?”
“Who is that?” My mother is in my other ear instantly. Shit shit shit.
“Mom, I have to go.” This is not happening to me.
“Who is that, Leala?”
“Oh shit…” Lex mumbles quietly when he realizes what’s going on.
“Mom, you know who it is.” I finally sigh, hanging my head in defeat, and Lex slinks out the door slowly, and I wish I could duck for cover like he is.
“My God, I can’t even believe you. Leala! Your sister told me he got arrested! What is he doing at your house?” Her shrill scream makes me tug the phone from my ear slightly.
“He got released,” is the best I can offer.
“He’s going to jail!” she wails into my ear and my blood starts boiling. If anyone knows how to get my fucking temper up besides Lex, it’s my own flesh and blood.
“He’s not going to jail! He’s going to rehab!” I shout, stomping my foot for good measure.
“Oh that’s so much more comforting.” She draws her words out, dripping and saturated in sarcasm.
I snap back defiantly. “I really don’t see why it’s any of your business.”
“I guess it’s not. You obviously want to keep ruining your life…you’re doing a great job,” she says flippantly.
“Oh how mature.” I almost pout as I sink down into the edge of my bed and glance into the hall to see that Lex has indeed disappeared somewhere into the apartment. I wish I could disappear.
“Me, immature? I’ve afforded you every opportunity that I can to try and fix your life and this mess you’ve managed to perpetually find yourself in, and look at you…just look at yourself, Leala.”
“I’m not doing anything wrong!” I choke out in almost a laugh. She really fucking amazes me with the way she overreacts sometimes. I mean, I’m just giving the guy a place to stay.
“Have you ever heard of guilt by association?” Oh God, here she goes. “You’re trying to better yourself, Leala, and you keep hanging out with that boy, and he’s no good for you and you know it. How do you think that makes you look?”
“Oh God, Mom, this isn’t like high school when everyone thinks we’re friends because we sit at the same lunch table.”
“No, this is real life where no one is ever going to take you seriously until you get your shit together. You just keep hanging out with trash all the time and see where it gets you in life. Because one day, I can assure you, you’ll wake up and look at yourself and see what everyone else sees, which is trash just like him. If you really want to change your life, I would just consider this little affair over between the two of you.”
I’m quiet for a moment when she says it, because as mad as it makes me when she does this, it hurts more than I’m willing to admit.
“I have to go,” I finally say quietly.
I only hold the phone long enough for her to say, “Yeah, I bet you do,” before I hang it up.
God, this sucks. It really fucking sucks. I want to cry, I want to be upset, but I knew it wasn’t right for me to let him stay here. I knew it when he asked me, and now everyone just has to keep throwing it in my fucking face that they know, too. They know I’m making a mistake. Everyone always seems to see my mistakes. There’s no good Samaritan here, no, no, just a girl harboring a fucking fugitive
or something. You’d think he was some serial killer rapist the way she was going on and on about me letting him stay here. And trash? I think that was a little harsh.
Fuck her. What does she know?
Now I’m mad, and I push up off of my bed with a huff and stomp into the kitchen only to find Lex standing there scratching his head utterly clueless, and while on another day I might find it comical or maybe even cute in a weird way, right now I’m so beyond annoyed I can barely manage to keep my voice down when I ask, “Okay, now what the fuck are you trying to do?”
“Well, I know I’m not so much of a dumb fuck that I can’t work a coffee machine. This thing is fucking possessed.” He points at the coffee maker and I give him that you’ve-got-to-be-fucking-kidding-me look.
“You don’t even drink coffee,” I deadpan. Did he really cause all of this drama over this?
“Doesn’t it kill a hangover?” he says simply, as if it were the most logical and obvious answer and I just wanna smack him around.
“You haven’t even been drinking!” I snap, flailing my arms around a little and he looks at me like I’m crazy and honestly I kinda feel that way right now.
“Well I feel fucking hungover and I wanted to make some fucking coffee okay? Fuck. Obviously that didn’t happen. And why in the fuck did you tell your mom I was going to rehab?”
I drop my elbows onto the kitchen counter and bury my face in my hands, my voice slightly muffled as I shake my head repeatedly. “I don’t know. I don’t even fucking know.” I groan, not even able to muster a response in my swimming thoughts. I just want it to go away, all of it.
“Well you’re a bitch for that,” he says matter-of-factly but still keeping a light lilt in his voice as he points a finger. “Because now if I go to jail it’s because you fucking jinxed me! Because you’re too scared of your mother to stand up to her. All you had to say was, fuck yeah he’s going to prison, and I’m gonna wait for him to get out so go fuck yourself, Mom.”
I don’t even look up at him. Honestly sometimes I can’t even justify his ludicrous notions with a reply. “I don’t even wanna talk about this anymore. Really I don’t.” I sigh pathetically, head still in my hands, and I hear him echo my sigh.
“Well then can you fix this piece of shit or get me some Tylenol or something? And I’m starving, can we please eat?”
“What do you want?” I ask quietly, defeated.
“You don’t have any cheese dogs do you?” He pulls himself up onto the counter and it almost makes me smile when he says it, just because it seems so ridiculous.
I stand up straight and give him a sideways look. “Ew, no. I hated those things.”
“You ate them all the time!” He laughs and it really does make me smile this time. Sometimes I hate him and love him at the same time for being able to make everything shitty go away, even if only for a moment.
As I turn to open the fridge I make a face just thinking about his absurd affinity for those disgusting hotdog wieners with cheese in them. “Bullshit! You ate them all the time.” I narrow my eyes at him, but in fact I remember a time when I would never open the fridge without seeing a pack of those stupid things laying around just waiting for him to devour.
“Well whatever, they’re fucking delicious. And convenient.” He swings his legs a little back and forth, looking at me impatiently as if he’s waiting for me to serve him, and I’ve had enough.
“Ugh. Please just get out of here. You’re bugging the shit outta me,” I groan, grabbing his arm and dragging him down from the counter like he’s five years old or something.
“I’m hungry,” he barks as I push him out of the kitchen.
“I heard you, would you just give me a fucking minute?” I sigh, and he shuffles into the living room, flopping down onto the couch.
“What are you making?” I hear him click the TV on and rap lyrics fill the apartment. I peek my head through the opening over the bar and see lots of ass and cars and I shake my head. All he ever watches is that gangster shit.
“Nothing if you don’t stop rushing me,” I fire back, assembling some bread and cheese and turning on the stove, rummaging for a pan in the cabinet. I figure his best chance at actually keeping food down is to go for something mild. Grilled cheese sandwiches it is.
“Well, take it easy in there, ya know? I mean I’m hungry, but my stomach feels kinda fucked up,” he says uneasily, and I don’t wanna tell him I already know. I already know everything he’s going through, and while part of me is happy he’s finally just biting the bullet and trying to quit, a bigger part of me knows he’s only been awake and fighting this for a few hours, and it’s not going to get better. At all.
I bring two sandwiches to him on a paper plate and he stares at them for a minute as if he’s not sure that eating is a good idea anymore. He takes the first bite slow, like theres a bomb detonator in the bread or something and he’s trying to pick just the right spot to prevent it from blowing up in his face. Once he chews and swallows he downs the rest of the sandwich, bite after bite after bite, and I’m not sure he’s even breathing but it’s like he can’t get enough. He goes through the second sandwich with the same speed and I know he’s trying to feed that urge, that fire in the pit of his stomach that tells him more, more, more. Normally he feeds it with drugs but today it’s a fucking grilled cheese and it’s not enough but it’s all he has. When he finishes he sits back like he’s completely spent.
“You okay?” I ask cautiously and he just nods, a quick fast nod like he’s on speed, or he’s a bobblehead. He won’t tear his eyes from the TV. He crosses and uncrosses his legs and he bites his fingernails and taps his heels on the ground and my stomach gets tight because he’s fucking tweaking and I’m a little scared. I can just imagine him going into a seizure or some shit; just what I need right now.
“Do you have a cigarette? Or a beer or something?” He finally looks at me and I know that feeling, like you wanna take the edge off but somewhere inside you know it’s not gonna go away. He wipes his hands on his jeans and scratches at the palm of his hand before biting his nails again and he’s making me fucking twitchy just watching him.
“I might.” I get up and go back into the kitchen. I open the fridge and push aside a carton of orange juice and a few containers of leftovers because if I have any beers they’re in the back of the fridge for occasional consumption. I’ve been trying to stay away from them. I feel bad when I don’t have any, and when I come back into the living room to tell him I might have some cigarettes in the sock drawer of my dresser, which really when I think about it is a stupid place to put them, he’s not there.
“Lex?” I call curiously into the apartment and the sound of coughing from down the hall makes me pace quickly in that direction to find him.
He’s doubled over the toilet when I open the bathroom door. I watch him for a minute, arms resting over his head against the seat, and after he flushes he stands up and stumbles to the sink, dipping his head into his hands to wash his face, swishing water around his his mouth and spitting it out. My heart breaks for him, and I wonder if this is how he felt, watching me suffer, wondering if I was going to be okay, if I was really going to make it. He looks up into the mirror over the sink and the pain in his eyes stabs me in the chest, and he looks away as quickly as he glances into his own eyes.
He sees me in the mirror over his shoulder and when his gaze meets mine I suddenly feel like I’m intruding. He turns around quickly to look at me.
“Sorry.” I back out of the doorway nervously.
“It’s wasn’t the food, it’s just—”
“I know,” I cut him off quickly, because part of me knows he really doesn’t want to talk about it.
I turn and walk to my bedroom quickly, tears stinging my eyes because I can hardly bear to see him so weak. I take a few deep breaths and tell myself to get my shit together before I find a pack of cigarettes tucked away in the drawer of my dresser just as I suspected. An old stale
one I occasionally smoke on in a moment of weakness.
I bring them back to him quickly along with a lighter and he takes the box with a nod before going back into the living room and grabbing his sweatshirt, pulling it over his head and stepping out the door quickly. I just lean against the hallway wall, dizzied and trying to contain everything I’m feeling, and I try not to cry.
When I finally realize he’s been outside for a while, almost an hour, I open the door and peek my head out to check on him, to make sure he hasn’t disappeared or something. He’s sitting on the steps leading up to the apartment, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up over his head, red embers glow on the end of a cigarette nestled between his fingers.
“You’ve been out here for a while.”
“Smoking these fucking things so I don’t punch you in the face or snort a pound of blow right now,” he replies flatly without turning to me, and he takes a drag from his smoke. I see the pack laying empty at his feet. He releases his head lazily and exhales up toward the sky. Some of the smoke blows toward me and I fan it away.
I look at him for a long moment before realizing how fast his back is expanding with his breaths, before I notice how his hand trembles as he holds the cigarette. He’s fighting it, he’s fighting it hard, and I feel for him. I slip outside and push the door closed until it clicks, the cold January air hitting me suddenly and I wrap my arms around myself before taking a seat next to him, our shoulders touching. He doesn’t look at me. His hand shakes.
He’s warm sitting next to me, and he blocks the wind a little so I lean closer, resting my chin on his shoulder tentatively, but he doesn’t move or push me away. He just looks straight ahead, and I look at him from the side, his profile outlined strongly against the setting sun in the distance. He takes another drag and blows it out the side of his mouth, away from me, and the smoke curls around our heads but I just sit there, warm next to him, his sweatshirt soft under my chin.
