Make It Last

by Megan Erickson

  But he managed to hold firm. Because she’d chosen this consequence the day she decided to sleep with another man.

  He gave her a quick two-fingered salute. “See you around.”

  And then he walked away.

  Chapter 2

  TATE SCRUBBED THE counter with the damp rag. She was pretty sure there was a spot on the counter, but it was hard to tell with her eyes being all leaky and blurry and emotional and stuff.

  She huffed and leaned her head back. Deep breaths. In and out. In and out.

  Sometimes it felt like she hadn’t taken a decent breath in four years.

  She blinked her eyes at the ceiling, steeling herself. It’d been a long time since she cried. Despite wanting to every night when she collapsed exhausted and heartbroken in her bed.

  But of course he had to come back. Waltzing down the street like he fucking owned it. Looking better than he ever did.

  Back when he was hers.

  Before she blew it.

  She willed the tears back and renewed her efforts scrubbing the countertop.

  Cam had always been attractive, but he always had this look about him, and she knew he’d be downright gorgeous once he grew into his body.

  She’d been right.

  His hair was shorter now—military shorter—but he’d put his earrings back in his ears. He had those same dark eyes and beautiful skin. And now he had bigger muscles, and she swore she saw a tattoo peeking out of the sleeve of his T-shirt. Probably his new girlfriend’s name or something. She was probably perfect.

  “Did you just growl?”

  Tate snapped her head up to see her coworker Anne. “I didn’t growl.”

  Anne crossed her arms over her well-endowed bosom. “You growled at the countertop.”

  Tate narrowed her eyes. “You its defender or something?”

  Anne reached over and gently plucked the rag from Tate’s hand. Tate blew a strand of hair out of her face and turned to fiddle with the soft-serve machine.

  “I saw him,” Anne’s voice said softly behind her.

  And those three words, said with a mix of pity and something else, slammed into Tate like a sucker punch. Her hand slipped off the knob and cracked down on the old metal tray below the nozzles, taking a chunk out of her palm in the process.

  “Shit!” Pain radiated into her fingers and down her arm.

  She cradled her palm in her other hand and clutched it to her stomach, clenching her teeth, wishing this whole day would just fucking go away.

  “Tate, for God’s sake!” Anne tutted, tugging on her elbow until Tate relinquished her arm to the mother hen she’d known and worked with at the diner since she was sixteen.

  Anne didn’t say anything else to Tate, just picked up a clean rag and wrapped it around Tate’s hand while asking Margo to make sure the machine was clean of blood, before leading Tate to the break room.

  Tate pulled on her arm, but Anne held fast, shooting a stern look at Tate.

  Tate sighed. Whatever.

  She let Anne sit her down on the couch and clean the cut with hydrogen peroxide.

  After Anne bandaged it, she patted Tate on the shoulder. “All right, well, we’ll take it from here. Why don’t you head home?”

  Tate jerked her head. “What? Why?”

  Anne stood before her, hands on her ample hips, and purposefully looked at Tate’s bandaged hand, currently lax in her lap.

  “Oh this?” Tate said, holding up her hand. “Just a flesh wound.”

  “Tate.”

  “Anne.”

  “Go home.”

  And sit around the house with her sick father and her old memories? No thank you.

  “I need the money.” That, too.

  Anne pursed her lips. “You’ll get paid for the full shift—”

  “But I didn’t—”

  “Tate, if you don’t go home right now, I swear to God, I’ll put you over my knee!”

  Tate widened her eyes, because Anne looked so serious. And frankly, even though Anne had seventy-five pounds on her, Tate made up for her small size with scrappiness. She’d really love to see Anne try to spank her. She began to giggle. Which made Anne glare harder.

  Then Tate was laughing, big heaving chuckles, while Anne shook her head, smiling slightly.

  Tate finally calmed and wiped her hands over her eyes. “Thanks for that visual, Mama Bear.”

  Anne sighed. “I love you, Tate.”

  Tate ducked her head and dug her fingernail along the edge of the bandage on her hand. “I know.”

  “Quit picking at it.”

  Tate rolled her eyes. “I’m twenty-three, you know.”

  “You’ll always be sixteen to me.” Anne’s smile faded, her eyes softening.

  Tate looked away, staring at the calendar on the wall. It was June now. The calendar needed to be changed from May. The calendar was full of drawings of cats in yoga positions. The cat had its paws above its head, one leg bent at knee, foot flat on the other inner thigh.

  Who thought of calendars like this?

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Anne asked softly.

  Tate wished Anne was asking about her hand, or even the stupid cat calendar, but Tate knew she wasn’t. “No.”

  “How long is he in town?”

  “I don’t know.” He’d always wanted to live in a big city, be some big hotshot detective or private investigator or something. They’d had so many dreams . . .

  “I saw him in the diner, eating with friends. It’s why . . . I told you to take a break. But then I heard voices and saw you outside talking to him, so I guess my plan didn’t work.”

  She’d quit smoking years ago, but all today she’d felt off. And that was when she turned to the electronic cigarettes. Just holding them helped ease her anxiety. Still a poor substitute for the real thing, but she’d never pick one up again. Tate shrugged and gave Anne a weak smile. “It’s okay. I appreciate you trying to protect me from an awkward situation.”

  Anne bit her lip. “Go home, sweetie.”

  This time Tate didn’t argue. She hugged Anne and waved good-bye to Margo. She went to the bathroom, managing to wash her hands without getting her bandage wet. When she looked in the mirror, she saw dark circles under her eyes, freckles so stark against her pale skin. She needed to get some sun. Lie out in her backyard or something. She snorted. When did she have time for that?

  As she walked to her Jeep, she untied her apron strings, cursing when her fingernails kept slipping on the tight knot, her movements awkward with the bandage. When she reached her old red Jeep, the rust spots near the tires growing each day, she wrenched open the door, hopped inside and slammed the door shut. She threw the apron into the backseat and leaned her head back, rubbing her hands over her face.

  It was only two hours away from the end of her shift, but routine was everything in Tate’s life right now. Her dad didn’t expect her home until after work. She could . . . go to the lake. Or go shopping. Or . . . something for herself. Her fingers gripped the steering wheel as the birds in her rib cage beat against the bones. Maybe that’s what she needed to feel like herself again.

  Her phone rang. She dug into her purse and answered it without looking at the caller ID. “Hello?”

  “You need to come home.”

  Her brother’s voice, irritated and maybe a little panicked, shot those birds down. They flopped to the bottom of her stomach. Dead weight in her gut.

  “Is he okay?” she asked, jamming the key in the ignition and praying this wasn’t the day old Jeep gave up the good life. The engine turned over and Cecil purred her broken rattle.

  “I don’t know. He fell in the bathtub. I mean, he wasn’t taking a shower or whatever. He was in there and somehow tripped on the mat and into the tub. And he’s heavy and it’s awkward and I can’t lift him.” The frustration was clear in Jamie’s voice, and Tate floored Cecil, rocks pinging the brick wall of the diner as she roared out of the lot.

  “I’ll be home in five, Jamie.
Just stay with him.”

  She pushed the thought of a lazy day at the lake out of her mind, way out. Those dreams were for another time. Another life.

  This was her life now.

  She pulled into her driveway and hopped out of her Jeep, hitting the ground running. She took the porch stairs into her house two at a time and threw open the front door.

  Deep voices sounded from the direction of the bathroom and her heart pounded. Two voices, two conscious voices, so that was a good sign.

  She pounded down the hall and skidded to a stop in the doorway of the bathroom, breathing hard with anxiety and exertion. Scared to death she was going to see her father bleeding or broken.

  Instead, she saw Jamie sitting cross-legged in one end of the bathtub and her father sitting in the other end, legs stretched out in front of him.

  And they were both licking spoons. A carton of nearly empty ice cream between them.

  She blinked.

  “Hey baby,” her dad wheezed.

  “Yo,” Jamie said, lapping happily at his spoon like a damn dog.

  Once Tate unhinged her jaw from the shock of what she was seeing, she narrowed her eyes at the two men in the tub. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

  “Language,” her dad warned.

  Tate threw up her hands. “I was scared out of my mind! I raced home, pushing Cecil way past her limits because I was worried about you, and you two are here enjoying a treat!”

  Jamie held his spoon out to her. “Want some?”

  Tate tried to kill him with a death glare.

  Jamie scrunched his lips to the side and then lowered his hand back into his lap. “That’s okay, it’s a little freezer-burnt anyway.”

  Their dad nodded at Jamie. “And I like moose tracks better than Neapolitan. Baby,” he said, turning to Tate, “put some moose tracks ice cream on the grocery list, will you?”

  Tate ignored him and pointed at Jamie. “You. Out of the tub.”

  “But I’m not done my ice—”

  “Get. Out.”

  Jamie wrinkled his nose and stepped out onto the bathmat, grumbling.

  “Now help me get Dad out of the tub,” Tate ordered.

  “I’m comfy where I am,” her dad said.

  Tate ignored him and ordered Jamie to stand beside her. Bracing their feet against the base of the tub, they hauled their father to a standing position by pulling on his arms.

  He tried to shrug them off weakly. “I can step out myself.”

  “Oh really?” Tate said. “Just like you got into it so gracefully?”

  He huffed, and she rolled her eyes.

  With Jamie’s help, they were able to help him out of the tub. They led him down the hallway and deposited him in his recliner.

  Jamie left to throw away the ice cream container while Tate stood in front of her father, hands on her hips.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  He eyed the bandage on her hand. “What happened to you?”

  “I asked first.”

  “I’m older than you.”

  Tate sighed. “I cut my hand on that dumb ice cream machine. So I’m not too happy with the ice cream gods today.”

  He squinted up at her. “So does that mean no moose tracks?”

  “Dad—”

  He held up his hand with a chuckle, then winced and tucked his elbow into his side.

  Tate took a step and knelt down beside the chair. “Dad, come on, tell me. What happened?”

  He didn’t look at her when he talked, but stared at the blank TV screen. “I was in the bathroom, using the facilities, and I guess I slipped on the tub. I caught myself with one arm on the bar but I banged the hell out of my elbow.”

  Tate angled his arm to get a look at the joint. The area was already swelling, a bruise starting to form. As if he didn’t have enough to deal with already, who knew how long this would set his recovery back. But she didn’t say that. “Okay, Dad, give me a minute and I’ll get you some frozen peas.”

  “I think we only have corn.”

  “Fine, then, corn.”

  In the kitchen, Jamie was rummaging in the fridge.

  “Hand me some peas or corn or whatever we have, will you?” Tate asked.

  Jamie opened the freezer and tossed a bag of frozen peas at her. She caught it as it hit her chest. “Ow.”

  “Sorry.”

  She smacked the bag on the counter to break up the frozen pea clumps. “His elbow is pretty wrecked.”

  Jamie didn’t say anything, his movements jerky at as he pulled out a packet of sliced turkey to make a sandwich.

  Tate took a step closer. “Hey, he’s okay—”

  The slam of a fist on the counter cut her off. “He’s not okay, Tate. He’ll never be the same.”

  Jamie’s hazel eyes were pained and pissed and Tate hated seeing him like this. He’d been such a sweet kid, but the last four years had been hard on them, and he’d grown into a brooding and out-of-control seventeen-year-old. She didn’t know what to do with him.

  “Look, Jamie—”

  He whirled on her, the knife in his hand flinging mayo on the counter. “I’m done talking about it.”

  She kept on, despite the angry flush rising up his neck like fire. “I’m glad you called me. I get that you were freaked out—”

  Jamie slapped his sandwich together and turned to walk out of the kitchen.

  “Jamie—”

  He glared at her over his shoulder. “Quit acting like the glass is half full, Tate. It’s empty, and no matter how much sunny optimism you pour in it, it’s just going to keep leaking.”

  And then he was gone. She flinched when his bedroom door slammed.

  She wanted the time to fall apart, to curl up in a ball and cry and feel sorry for herself, but she didn’t have that luxury.

  She had to work. And take care of her father, whose body had been ravaged by lung cancer and was now currently in a remission that felt as fragile as an egg. And parent a seventeen-year-old boy-man who looked at her like an annoying sister rather than the closest thing to a proper guardian he had.

  She grabbed her father’s oxygen tank from the corner of the living room. They still had it from when his condition was worse and she liked to think it gave him a boost when he was feeling weak.

  He rolled his eyes when he saw it, but kept quiet as she wrapped the bag of peas in a towel, then placed it on the arm of his chair. She nestled his elbow onto the makeshift cold pack. “At least twenty minutes, okay?” she said, handing him the remote.

  He nodded and then took the nasal cannula from her, placing it in his nose while she started his oxygen.

  “You should be careful when you’re in the bathroom,” she said quietly.

  She made sure he was settled and as she turned to leave, he muttered, “I’m sorry.”

  Tate closed her eyes as the word pierced her chest. She didn’t know what he was apologizing for. Smoking a pack a day for years. Not taking care of himself. Falling. It didn’t matter. She loved him with everything she had. She didn’t blame him for her life. It was what it was.

  “I love you,” she said, brushing her lips across his forehead.

  “Love you, too, baby,” he answered, his breathing evening out with the extra help.

  She walked down the hallway of their small rancher as the sounds of deep bass pounded through the thin walls of her brother’s room. She checked her bandage in the bathroom, glad to see the bleeding had stopped. Then she sequestered herself in her room and shut the door.

  She unstrapped her shoes and collapsed onto her bed on her back, staring at the ceiling. Her whole body felt like it weighed three hundred pounds and she wanted to melt into her mattress, let her skin fuse to the fabric so she never had to get up again.

  Her fingers itched for a cigarette, even though she hadn’t smoked since the day after they’d gotten the diagnosis. She’d burned through the rest of her pack, literally, alone in a secluded area of a local park. Crying as she stomped o
n the last butt, she’d vowed never to smoke again. And she didn’t, except for the electronic cigarettes every once in a while. Like today.

  She rolled her head and stared at her small television set in her room, her eyes scanning her video game system, Catharsis, and stack of games. She sat up with a groan and reached out to look through the discs, trying to decide which game she could get lost in for a little while. To forget about real life.

  Her gaze was drawn to the one game she’d hidden behind all her others. Utope sat dusty and lonely in its spot out of view. She’d thought about throwing it away so many times. But a part of her took comfort in knowing that imaginary life was still there if she ever wanted to return to it.

  Of course, it was just all pixels and coding, but in that world, she and Cam had a house and a dog and money. And a leopard-print rug in the bedroom that Cam had hated but she’d insisted looked perfect.

  Her hand stretched toward Utope. Maybe she could pop in the game just for a little. She hadn’t played it in four years, thinking it was really creepy to return to the game where she and Cam had created a whole fictional life they’d eventually hoped to make nonfictional.

  But then her father’s voice called to her through her bedroom door. And she snapped her hand back. And returned her thoughts to the real world where they belonged.

  Chapter 3

  CAM TOSSED HIS keys into the metal dish on the table beside the front door and toed off his boots. “Ma!” he called, and listened for her answer.

  “In here!” came her voice from the direction of her bedroom. Cam walked up the stairs of their small, two-bedroom town house they’d rented since he was in high school. He heard rummaging and cursing and rolled his eyes.

  He stopped in her doorway and leaned a shoulder against it, crossing his arms over his chest. His mother was bent over, digging in her closet like some sort of gopher. “Ma, what’re you doing?”

  She straightened, her gray-streaked black hair escaping the headband decorated with a large fake flower bloom. She wore a flowing flower-print dress that would have been ugly on anyone else. But not his ma.

  “I’m looking for my sandals,” she answered, jutting a hip out and putting a fist on it in classic Teresa Ruiz–annoyed mode.