Play On

by Michelle Smith

  “Go check on your girl,” Momma calls down from the office. “Be careful out there.”

  My shoulders slump as I turn toward the stairs. “I’m sorry. I’m just—”

  “Worried. That’s okay. Go on. Make sure you let me know how she is, all right?”

  “Will do.” I yank the door open, cringing at the wind and water smacking my face as I make a beeline for my truck. After hopping in and cranking up the wipers, I speed through downtown.

  I grab my phone from the passenger seat, hitting redial over and over, but Marisa’s not answering, just like she wouldn’t answer the other dozen times I’ve tried calling today. And now my panic mode has shifted to full-blown freaking out. Pressing the gas down as far as it’ll go, all I can do is pray there’s no bored cop on the back roads today. Avoiding hydroplaning would be nice, too.

  A twenty-minute drive only takes me ten. I swerve into Marisa’s driveway just as the sky opens even more. Thunder crackles with the roaring wind, and I’m soaked in the few seconds it takes to sprint to her porch. My clothes cling to my skin as I ring the doorbell. No answer. I ring it again and again and again. I even bang on the screen door for good measure.

  The door finally swings open, and Mrs. Marlowe stares at me, not seeming surprised at all that I was maybe ten seconds away from kicking down the door. “Yes, Austin?” she asks.

  “Marisa,” I say on an exhale. “Can I see her?” She looks like she’s about to argue, so I add, “Please, Mrs. Marlowe. I’m goin’ crazy here. I haven’t talked to her since yesterday, and even then she was all down in the dumps and upset, and when Momma told me she was sick I panicked and drove all the way out here because I’m scared shitless—sorry, crapless—and I need to see for myself that she’s okay. Please let me see that she’s okay.”

  And now she looks like she’s about to cry, and I don’t know if it’s my fault or what. Things have a tendency to be my fault, so my money’s on that. She glances over her shoulder toward the stairs and steps to the side. I nearly run into her as I rush through the doorway into the quiet house. The silence is way too loud.

  “She’s up in her room,” Mrs. Marlowe says. “She’s had one of her rough days. I’ve been checking on her off and on, and all I’ve gotten are one-word answers.” She rubs her forehead. “But at least she’s answering.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat. “So—so sick was code for—”

  “Sick,” she finishes quietly. “Go on up. I’ll be outside if you need anything. I need some fresh air.”

  Without another word, I barrel up the stairs, my steps sounding like a herd of elephants. Stopping in front of her closed door, I knock gently. I’d rather break the door down to get to her, but I don’t think that’d go over well.

  “Marisa,” I call out. “It’s me. Can you open the door?”

  I’m met with nothing but silence, except for the blood pounding in my ears and the rain hammering against the roof. The dread in my gut is a level I’ve never felt before. It’s terrifying as hell.

  Screw it.

  I turn the knob, push, and get nothing. I narrow my eyes. There’s no lock on her door. She’s not allowed to have a lock on her door, so why? I try again and it won’t freakin’ open, damn it. She’s got to have something pushed against it.

  I bang on the door again. “Marisa! I’m beggin’ you, girl, open the door.”

  There’s shuffling, and the door opens just a crack. I shove it open all the way. Slowly, I step inside the dim room, illuminated only by the lamp on Marisa’s nightstand. It’s cold in here. Freezing, actually. Dressed in black pajama pants and my hoodie, Marisa paces in front of me, chewing on her nail with her eyes trained on the floor, where clothes and books are scattered everywhere.

  “Marisa?”

  She stops mid-stride, looking up at me with a gaze so broken, it breaks my heart right along with it. I inch forward, almost like I’m approaching a deer or rabbit or something, and I hate myself for comparing her to an animal, for Christ’s sake.

  I reach for her hand, but she jerks away. “You need to go,” she snaps.

  Her words are daggers. I don’t know if I did something wrong, but if I did, she needs to tell me. Preferably now, before I crumble to bits. “Marisa, what’s goin’ on?”

  Chewing on that nail again, she resumes pacing. “It’s nothing,” she says. “Nothing. I’m having a really bad day, and I want to be alone right now. Need. I need to be alone right now.”

  “Please don’t shut me out.” She stops again but says nothing, so I continue. “If there’s something you need to talk about, tell me. If I did something, tell me. Whatever’s wrong, please just tell me. Don’t push me away.”

  Her eyes finally flicker back to mine. “I’m not trying to shut you out. I just don’t want you to see me like this, okay? All I need is a night of decent sleep, and I’ll be good as new tomorrow. I swear. Trust me on this.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she shouts. “Stop asking me. I’ll be fine.”

  She is so far from fine. Holding my hands up, I take a step closer. “All right, I get it. I…” I almost say “I believe you,” but that’s not true.

  Last time something like this happened, that night in my truck, my holding her hand helped. So I grab that same hand and tug it gently, pulling her to me for a hug. It takes a few seconds, but her arms circle around my waist, gripping me tightly like she’s latching on for dear life. Closing my eyes, I breathe her in, citrus shampoo mixed with the cologne on my hoodie.

  As my eyes open, my gaze falls upon the nightstand. And right there, the world melts away. The floor disappears and the walls collapse and there’s nothing, nothing, but—

  “Marisa, what is that?”

  Her body tenses in my arms. “What’s what?”

  Pulling away, I stomp over to the nightstand and grab the tiny straight-blade razor from beneath the lamp. My hand trembles as I hold it up. “I said, what the hell is this?”

  “It’s n-nothing,” she stammers. “I wasn’t going to—”

  “You have a fucking blade beside your bed,” I shout. “So try again, Marisa, because ‘I wasn’t going to’ isn’t going to work.”

  “I wasn’t!” Tears spill down her cheeks as she steps forward. “I almost slipped, Austin. Almost, but I didn’t. See?” She yanks up her sleeves, revealing nothing but the marred skin already there. “Nothing. And I’ll be fine, I swear. I just need sleep.” Her voice cracks. “Just let me sleep it off. Please.”

  My own tears cloud my vision. My lip quivers as I set the blade back on the cluttered nightstand, next to my old lucky hat of all places. God almighty, I don’t know what to do.

  I don’t know.

  I don’t.

  “Even with my meds, I slip sometimes,” she continues, wiping her nose with her sleeve.

  She slips. So this—this is slipping.

  “I thought I could work through it on my own this time because things have been so good lately,” she rushes to add. “But I’m calling my doctor first thing Monday, okay? I swear, Austin. You’ve got to believe me.”

  There’s an awful lot of swearing going on. Dad swore in his letter. That swear didn’t mean a thing once he drove his truck off a bridge.

  The letter. Marisa’s notebook.

  I can’t breathe.

  “How long’s it been?” I manage to ask. “Since this… this ‘slip’ thing started?”

  She presses her lips together, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Not long.”

  “How long?”

  She seems to struggle as she answers, “A little over a week.”

  My mouth drops open. “Are you shittin’ me? And you said nothing? I’ve been right here the whole damn time, Marisa!”

  Her lip trembles, and now tears are sliding down my cheeks. Shaking my head, I storm past her to the door. But I can’t leave. I can’t look at her, either—not without completely breaking apart. Instead, I grip the doorframe and stare down at m
y feet.

  Breathe. Breathe. Damn it, breathe.

  The front door slams closed downstairs, and her parents’ voices mingle together. I sigh with relief. They can fix this. They’ll know what to do.

  Marisa lets out a sob. I whirl around, finding her on her knees, her face in her hands. No, no, no. I rush forward and fall to my own knees, wrapping her in my arms and holding her to my chest as she cries. I want to protect her from whatever’s going on in that head of hers. God, I want to make it go away more than anything. I wish I could save her. Fix her. Something.

  But I’m helpless. And that’s the worst feeling of all.

  “I’m so sorry,” she cries. “I’m so sorry I let you down. I always let everyone down. I don’t know why I do these things, Austin, but I’m so sorry. Please don’t leave me. Please.”

  “Marisa,” I whisper, blinking away my tears, “you didn’t let me down, baby. But I’m going to call your parents now. I’ve got to.”

  “No.” She pulls away to look into my eyes, her own wide and frantic. “You can’t. You can’t. They’ll send me away again. I can’t go back to the hospital. Please. I told you, I just need the night. I didn’t even cut. I didn’t.”

  More than anything on God’s green earth, I want to trust her. I want to wrap her in a blanket and pretend tomorrow will be better. But I can’t.

  “I believe you. But what happens when I leave? What happens if I leave and you don’t go to sleep, and you have those same thoughts again? What’ll you do?”

  “I’ll call you,” she whispers, but it comes out as a question with zero certainty. And that’s the only answer I need.

  I press a kiss to her forehead, my lips lingering there because, Lord, I don’t want to let her go. But I can’t fix this. I’m in way over my head here. Staring into her eyes, I yell, “Mrs. Marlowe!”

  She looks at me like I’m both nothing and everything. Like I just committed the worst betrayal she’s ever experienced. It destroys me. Hell, it fucking kills me.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, my voice wavering.

  My head whirls as two sets of footsteps thunder up the stairs. Within seconds, Marisa’s dad is snatching her away from me, gathering her up in his arms like a baby. And after he hurries from the room with my girlfriend against his chest, I finally know exactly what “slipping” means.

  Mrs. Marlowe inhales sharply. She moves to the closet, grabs a bag, and begins stuffing clothes inside methodically, like this is nothing new. Like Marisa’s going to a freakin’ sleepover.

  “You should go,” she says, not bothering to turn around.

  I somehow manage to stand without falling back on my ass. Without Marisa in here, the room feels even darker. Empty. Dead. “Where’re you taking her?”

  “Hospital,” she says. “Again.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s no telling what she’d do if we didn’t take her. I think you know that.” She zips up the bag and starts for the door, still not meeting my eyes. “We don’t ask questions anymore, because there are no real answers. It’s just life these days.”

  How is she so calm right now? “I’ll ride with you,” I tell her. “Hell, I’ll drive myself.”

  She stops in the doorway, hanging her head with a sigh. Finally, she faces me. “This isn’t something you want to see. Do yourself a favor and go home.” She walks toward me, her lip quivering. “Do you know what’s going to happen at the hospital, Austin? They’ll give her meds that may knock her out for hours. There’ll be a revolving door of doctors and nurses. She’ll have to see a psychiatrist and likely a therapist before they even think of letting her walk out the door. If they let her out the door anytime soon, considering her history.”

  The room spins. My stomach churns. Everything’s off its axis because this can’t be happening. This can’t be happening to me, to this girl who’s knocked me to my knees in two months, to what we had—have—brewing between us.

  Taking a step forward, I open my mouth to tell this woman how much I care. How badly I need to be there with Marisa tonight. To be there for her. But the only thought my brain can formulate is, “Mrs. Marlowe, I love her.” Saying the words doesn’t feel weird. It doesn’t feel out of place. It feels right. I just wish I could have told Marisa first instead of her momma.

  She doesn’t roll her eyes. She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t scoff. She smiles, one of those “you poor sap” kind of smiles. She sniffles as a tear slips down her cheek.

  “I love my daughter,” she whispers. “I love her more than life. But loving Marisa is asking for heartache. Trust me.”

  “She’s worth it,” is all I can say, and it’s the honest-to-God truth.

  Shaking her head, she says, “Go home, Austin.” And she turns away, leaving me alone in the room of a girl whose spirit still lingers here. But it’s not enough. It’s not her.

  I could’ve stopped this. If I’d just said something about that stupid piece of paper I found, things may not have made it this far. I could’ve fixed it.

  Somehow, I make my way down the stairs. Out the front door. Through the puddles left by the earlier downpour. Into my truck. I didn’t want storms today, but I got a damn hurricane.

  My phone, which is still lying in the passenger seat, lights up with a warning that the battery’s almost dead. Not surprising, since I spent half the day calling Marisa. I grab it and scroll through my contacts and hit Jay’s number. Tonight needs fixin’, and he can help make that happen.

  “Yeah,” he answers. There’s a bunch of hollerin’ in the background, followed by a splash.

  “You down at the river?” I ask, cranking up my truck. “They kept the party goin’ with that storm?”

  “Yup. A little rain ain’t gonna drown out the river.”

  When Jay starts talking like that, there’s only one explanation. “You drunk already, dude?”

  “Yup.”

  “Good. I’ll be there in a few.”

  “Need me to save you a six-pack?”

  I scoff. “I need you to save me a lot more than that.”

  “That bad? Oh, and hey, is Marisa comin’? Thought it was your night with your girl?”

  “Yeah, well, things have a habit of changing in my life at the worst damn time.” Shifting the truck into gear, I back out of the mile-long driveway. “See ya soon.”

  The thing is, we always think we have plenty of time. Then, before you know it, time’s ripped out from under your feet, and there’s nothing but you and the hum of a truck engine. Because your girlfriend was that close to offing herself.

  Again.

  chapter nineteen

  Thanks to whatever saint invented beer and whiskey, I can barely see a damn thing. I like it that way. It’s a lot better than dealing with reality, when reality sucks balls.

  The roar of the rushing river fills my ears as I settle back against the tree, next to Jay. I don’t have a clue how long he’s been here; all I know is that he was a goner when I got here. He had some fight with Brett over his brother’s wedding, which is coming up soon. Jay wants to go together. Brett thinks he’s nuts. It’s the same fight, different day. I know it’s shitty for him, but at least Brett’s not down at the county hospital right now, being poked and prodded and doped up with meds.

  “How many’s that?” I ask Jay, tossing my empty can at the trash bag and missing by a foot. Whoops.

  “Last of that six-pack.” He holds out the bottle of whiskey. “’Nother shot?”

  My stomach bubbles. I cringe. “Nah. Can’t take more whiskey. Not yet.”

  “More for me.” He shrugs and takes another swig. “Our love lives suck, dude.”

  Screw it. I snatch the bottle from him and knock it back, the alcohol burning my throat. “Tell me ’bout it,” I say, passing it back to him. “You try callin’ Brett? Talk out…whatever?”

  He shoves me. “Shush!” Glancing around, he must see that nobody gives a crap about us. The other guys are busy snaking their ways into their girls’ pants tonigh
t. With all the trucks lined up along the water, there ain’t no tellin’ how many of our teammates are getting lucky right about now.

  “You know, I figured out our problem,” Jay slurs. “What we gotta do is, we gotta stop lettin’ our lives depend on other people. Lettin’ another guy control your life is killer.”

  “Yeah. Except a guy ain’t controlling my life.”

  He snorts. “That’s right. I’m the only fag out here.”

  I wince and nudge him with my leg. “Don’t talk about yourself like that, bro.”

  “Just tryin’ to fit in with the rest of the people in this town. Don’t act like you don’t hear worse every damn day. And look at it this way: at least your girl’s not embarrassed to be seen with you.”

  “Yeah. She just tried to kill herself instead.” I grab the whiskey again and polish off the bottle before chucking it across the riverbank. “Have you noticed that? How people close to me like to kill themselves? Wonder why that is.”

  He gapes at me. “You’re really goin’ there? Seriously?”

  I shrug. “I mean, let’s talk this through. Logic and all that.” I count off on my fingers. “My dad was so nose-deep in depression that it drove him off a bridge, and I never noticed. My girlfriend, who I’ve been around every damn day for weeks, snuck a razorblade into her room without me realizing she was gonna try killing herself again. I’m a fucking jinx, Torres. Might want to run while you can.”

  He grabs my chin, jerking my face until he looks straight into my eyes. “I ought to beat your head against the tree for that. You’re not gonna sit here and blame yourself for this shit. Any of it.” He lets go of me, leaving my skin tingling. “And if you think about it, she didn’t really try to kill herself.”

  Yeah, well, I don’t want to think about it. I came here to forget. I push myself to my feet, swaying. The blood’s rushed from my head and alcohol swirls in its place. I dig my keys out of my pocket. “I gotta get my drunk ass home before I end up facedown in the river.”

  I think he tries to grab my hand, but yanks on my pants leg instead. “You ain’t drivin’, Braxton. You can barely stand.”