I’ll receive money for living expenses through financial aid, but since I have a year to make up for and a loaded class schedule, I won’t be able to work for extra money.
“It won’t be easy, but I want to be a doctor,” I say. “And I want to be with Pen.”
Uneaten breakfast goes cold as morning burns into afternoon. We talk for hours, and eventually call my parents over to join the discussion. They’re as surprised as the Finnels and justifiably nervous. Dad wants me to take the responsibility living with someone with chronic depression requires into consideration.
“There’s no need to rush, Son,” he says. “Why not wait a semester or two until you adjust alone first?”
“She doesn’t remember to take her medications on her own, Dillon. If you’re going to take care of her, you can’t let her stay in bed all day. What about therapy and other doctors’ appointments? It’s not like you’ll just be down the street. I won’t be able to help…” Sonya trails off, turning toward her frightened-looking husband for support.
“I can’t spend another year without her,” I say honestly. “She’ll be okay with me. We’ll be fine together.”
Ultimately, they accept that this is our lives and our decision, and reluctantly, agree to be supportive.
Even Wayne.
“Don’t think I won’t come out there, boy,” he huffs.
“Seattle isn’t that far,” he puffs.
“You mess around, boy, I’ll come after you, boy.”
Dillon closes the last box and writes Pen/Fragile on the side before shoving it in the corner with the rest of them. After tossing the packing tape and marker onto the mattress, he falls to my side on the floor and rests his head in my lap.
I tickle my fingers over his scalp, resting my palm on his forehead before gliding my hand along his cheek and his jawline. After packing all week, tonight’s our last night under our parents’ care in Castle Rain. My walls are bare and the closet is empty, and in the end, ten boxes are all it took to sort my life.
Dillon yawns, closing his eyes and rubbing his hands over his face. “We’re finally packed.”
Dad walks by my room, throwing a blue peanut M&M at Dillon before making his way downstairs.
“Watch where you put those hands, boy,” he mumbles.
Taking my room apart after living in it for nine years was grueling, but I found things I forgot I even had, like old pairs of sunglasses and a sweater Dillon lent me when we were in junior high. I rediscovered pictures, music, and old yearbooks. Every single time I found some lost treasure, it had a story that usually connected to Dillon.
They were nice reminders.
Despite turning my life upside down, I’ve had a near-normal week mentally. Dad hasn’t let the freak kid next door spend the night again, but sleep comes easy knowing Dillon’s no longer out of reach. Our reconciliation was simple. There was never any other choice. We just are.
“Nervous?” my boy asks. He takes my hand and kisses my knuckles.
Tilting my head back against the wall, I close my eyes and say, “Not even a little bit.”
“Are you sure you’re ready to live with me? I can’t always promise to leave the toilet seat down.”
“Just don’t let me fall in,” I whisper, feeling calmer than I have in an entire year.
Dillon rises from my lap and situates himself in front of me. I sit crisscross, never opening my eyes. Loving the way my blood rushes under his touch, I can feel as his lips hover above my face and his fingers dance over my eyes. The hairs on my arms stand straight and follow his lingering trace. My eyes flutter and dance, wanting so badly to open to see how perfectly beautiful he is.
“You’re such a dream,” he says softly into my ear, caressing the back of his fingers across the roundness of my cheek. “Do you know how much you mean to me?”
I pull my bottom lip between my teeth and turn my face into Dillon’s, rubbing my nose along his too-perfect jawline. Drowning in the faint scent of aftershave and toothpaste on his breath, I sink into affection and open myself with hopes that we can shut the door and be quiet enough to make up for lost time.
Climbing onto his lap, I spread my legs around his waist and hold on to his strong shoulders. Sweet kisses softly sweep along the curve where my shoulder and neck meet, up the side of my throat.
“Can we?” I ask, tilting my head back and swaying my hips.
Hard beneath me, the boy next door sighs and answers, “These boxes need to get into the moving truck, Pen.”
A prickling spark of anxiety pierces my heart, catching my breath and turning my warm blood icy. It’s a feeling of insecurity that disappears as soon as it comes, leaving me wary of its violent return and tendency to ruin entire weeks of my life at a time.
I won’t sabotage this.
I’m stronger than my disabilities.
“Get my shoes and I can help,” I say, sliding off Dillon’s lap to catch my bearings.
He stands, adjusting his shorts with a wink before placing size seven faded black and white Chucks at my feet. I untie the dingy laces and slip them over my mismatched socks, retying the left with a loop, swoop, and pull, and the right with bunny ears. He takes in my appearance—holey cut-off shorts and a throwback band T-shirt—and smiles.
“I’ve seen this before. Moving trucks and first loves.”
“Only loves,” I say.
“Better fucking believe it.”
Dillon lifts a box, kissing my cheek as he walks by. He doesn’t make it out of the room before my dad’s on his case.
“Watch your language in my home, boy,” he orders.
“Don’t think you’re too old to spank. I’ll give you the ass kicking of your life,” he says.
“You better not be using that language around my daughter, boy,” he warns.
Then…
“Fuck, no, I’m not helping you pack that truck so you can take my only daughter away from me.”
Our full-sized mattress is too small for us, and the toilet leaks. The refrigerator is always empty, and we’ve had ramen noodles for dinner every night this week. I swear the tenants in the apartment above us move furniture and host dance competitions all night long. I’ve broken two broomsticks banging on the ceiling, trying to get them to shut up.
In the four months since we moved here, and despite living three hours away, Mom has made the drive from Castle Rain to Seattle once a week like clockwork. She cleans, even though we don’t have much space or furniture, and she cooks, even though we don’t have much food. The woman who gave me life makes sure my prescriptions are full and called around until she found a therapist to take my case.
I don’t have the heart to tell her it’s wasted effort. Maybe I’ve grown out of it or maybe it’s because Dillon’s given me a fresh start, but I mostly feel better and have stopped taking the medication.
With the exception of some anxious moments here and there, I haven’t suffered a depressive episode once since we moved out on our own and truly believe that part of my life is behind me.
Miracles happen.
I’m just not willing to share this enlightenment with my parents yet.
“Taking your meds every day was part of the deal, Pen. Don’t you think you should talk to your doctor before you stop taking them?” Dillon circles spaghetti noodles around his fork, suspiciously eying the only meal I know how to cook before shoveling it into his mouth.
“They make me feel loopy and tired all the time,” I say, pushing red sauce covered pasta around on my plate. “Why doesn’t this look like it does when my mom makes it?”
“Because it’s missing meat and seasoning, and I’m pretty sure you didn’t boil the noodles long enough.” Green eyes I adore look up at me, and he takes another bite of tasteless, undercooked spaghetti like it’s the most delicious meal he’s ever eaten.
“There are other ways I can deal with this,” I say. Not willing to brave the food I spent minutes making before my boy got home from school, I set it down onto the
coffee table and lift my feet onto the couch. “I’ve never felt this good, Dillon. It’s different this time.”
Our apartment smells like cinnamon and spice and Christmas trees. There are cheap cardboard cutouts of a fat Santa and Frosty the Snowman hanging from the walls and fake out-of-a-can snowflakes on our one window Sonya stenciled on to make our small space less struggling student-like and more winter wonderland.
My mom sent up a few boxes of old ornaments and strings of twinkling lights Penelope hung up in our room because our bulb burned out until her Dad showed up with a tree we don’t want.
“What do you mean you’re not getting Penelope a Christmas tree?” he yelled hours before he unexpectedly arrived with a noble fir that’s too tall for our living room ceiling. “The top needs to be cut off. I’d do it, but I don’t have a saw.”
“Neither do I,” I said, already freaking out about the needles all over the place.
Wayne looked at me from under his fuzzy brows and said, “What kind of man doesn’t own a saw, boy?”
It’s not decorated. I don’t have time with school, and Penelope doesn’t even remember it needs water. It’s already turning yellow, so I spend more time worrying about it catching on fire than enjoying the nostalgia and tradition the stupid tree is supposed to provide.
Our first Christmas on our own won’t amount to much, anyway. We agreed not to get each other gifts this year because times are tough. Penelope wants to get a job, but I disagree.
“There’s the coffee shop down the street, Dillon. We can use the extra money,” she says.
“We have everything we need,” I say, picking a Christmas tree needle out of her hair.
“Except good food and shampoo. We ran out,” she replies, brushing needles off the front of my shirt.
She needs more time to settle, and school is more important than working. Penelope starts classes at the community college after winter break, and if the tree doesn’t spontaneously combust and melt us both in our sleep, I want to make sure she’s able to handle one responsibility, not two.
I’m pretty sure our intake of chicken-flavored ramen is dangerous, but it’s my responsibility to make sure Pen is mentally sound, especially since she’s not taking her medication.
My girl shakes her curls loose. “I had to use dish soap on my hair this morning. It was weird.”
We made this agreement about the gifts, but it’s not one I could abide by. I spent the entire week shopping at every store in town, and even looked online for what I needed.
Coach Finnel wanted us in Castle Rain last night, but with some convincing, Penelope talked him into a morning arrival instead. Now it’s five in the morning, and I’m sneaking out of bed so I can put her gifts under the dead tree. There are boxes hidden under the couch and in the stove she doesn’t use. Presents are in my dresser drawers and in the trunk of my car.
I may have gone overboard, but I love her.
She doesn’t wake up, so after a couple of hours of waiting, I start being purposely loud. I take a shower with the door open and shut the closet doors with extra force. After turning the volume on the TV loud enough that the people above us start pounding, I’m surprised she doesn’t come running out of the room. Breaking broomsticks on the ceiling is her favorite.
“Penelope, wake up,” I give up and say.
“Go away,” she mumbles. She swats at me, rolls over, and groans.
“I got you something, but you have to get up.”
“It better be in the form of an orgasm because we agreed not to get each other anything, Dillon.”
The girl with tired eyes follows me out to the living room and sits on the couch, scowling at her pile of presents. I happily watch, and my heart beats steadily as she chooses the poorly wrapped gift on the top and peels back the candy cane striped paper. I got her a sweater and a backpack for school and a few notebooks and other supplies she’ll need. I also got her a new pair of green Chucks, a blow dryer, and a few books she wanted.
When she reaches for the last box, I become nervous and sit at her feet.
“Is this the spice rack I really wanted?” Penelope shakes it.
I don’t remember her ever saying anything about a spice rack.
“Just kidding.” She laughs, ripping the paper apart.
I watch carefully as she opens the box.
Madness sucks in a sharp breath and covers her mouth with both of her hands as her sparkling brown eyes start to water.
“It’s been a while since you’ve owned a pair, so you don’t have to wear them if you don’t want to. But I thought they’d help since you’re not taking your medication anymore.” I take the box and pour out every single pair of colored and shaped glasses I could find onto the couch so she can see them all. “I’ll never take these away from you.”
Penelope chooses red heart-shaped ones like the pair she had when we were kids and slips them onto her face.
“What do you think?” she asks. “Do they still make me invisible?”
“You’ve always been clear to me, Pen,” I say, looking back at my reflection in her shades.
“I just got off the phone with your sister,” Pen mumbles around a mouthful of suds and bristles.
Hot water rains from an old showerhead and pours down my back, easing some of my stress, but low water pressure and a full schedule prevent every ache from washing away.
School’s hard, and with one year in, it feels as if this shit will never end. The road ahead of me is too long, and it feels like I’ll always be a student. Dad promises all hard work pays off in the end.
In seven to ten years.
Pen tears open the plastic shower curtain, standing in front of me in nothing more than a pair of panties and a tank top that her right nipple is kind of sticking out of.
“You don’t care?” she asks, talking out the side of her mouth.
Her hair is in a high, messy ponytail and a pair of pink sunglasses sits low on her nose, displaying her round eyes.
“I’m just trying to shower.” I cover my junk, laughing as the shampoo bubbles slide over my shoulders.
The right side of her lips bends up, and color flushes her cheeks. Nothing is perfect, some days are better than others, and some months are better than most, but no matter how she’s feeling, she’s always into sex.
Dad says it’s because of endorphins. When she has an orgasm, it’s like having a natural, instant anti-depressant.
So we do it a lot.
It’s part of the process.
Pen removes her glasses and sets them to the side. The hair tie is next to go. Then the tank top is over her head, and the panties are off. She’s naked and stepping into the water with me.
I wrap my arms around her small frame, pulling her under the water. Pen kisses my chest, under my chin, and on the corner of my mouth. She tells me I’m sexy and that she loves my hairy thighs.
“Hairy thighs are not sexy, Pen,” I say, kissing down her neck, down her chest. She leans her head back.
“Yours are,” she whispers, gripping my arms.
Hooking my hand underneath her slippery knee, I lift her leg over my hip. Pen stands onto her tiptoes before she wraps both legs around my waist and covers my mouth with hers, gasping against my mouth as I enter her fully.
I watch through hooded eyes as a blush spreads from Pen’s cheeks down to her chest. She whispers my name, tilting her head back and parting her lips.
This is a far cry from two punk kids crying over stupid shit, smashing cement and boarding up windows.
It’s love.
Always has been.
Always will be.
When my sexy, hairy thighs start to cramp, I lean Penelope against the shower wall and use it to push harder, love deeper. She pulls my hair and begs for more … begs and begs and begs until she screams for me to stop, but I don’t.
As she whispers sweet nothings into my ear, I come undone inside of madness. Pen pushes my wet hair out of my face and forces me to look right at her as I
come.
She smiles and bites her lip.
When we’ve both calmed down, I feel right. She sets herself back down onto her feet, pushing me away playfully so she can wash her hair. I kiss her back and her shoulders. We laugh and everything is good. Then she drops the bomb.
“Like I was trying to tell you earlier, I spoke to your sister. She had some news.”
“What?” I question skeptically.
“She and Kyle eloped last weekend.”
She’s not better.
There’s no cure for this.
Sunglasses don’t make sadness invisible, and sex only does so much.
Madness is back with a vengeance, and we’re going crazy.
I left her this morning when I shouldn’t have. She can’t be alone unless she’s feeling aware, bright, and content, and Penelope was none of those things when I walked out the front door of our apartment before class.
I called my sister and asked her if she could drive up to Seattle to be with my girl for the day. She couldn’t, but promised to call in and check on her with exhaustion thick in her tone. Penelope’s depression has held Risa hostage for the better part of a month. She’s made the drive more times than I can thank her for.
“Can you stop?” the girl sitting next to me in class says.
Tapping the tip of my pen on the top of my small desk and bouncing my foot under it, I look up and come face-to-face with bothered eyes.
“Sorry,” I mumble, marking off pages in my textbook I’ll have to reread later tonight.
After sitting through an entire day of lectures, this is my last class, but a heavy sense of dread coats me from the inside out. The thought of Penelope lying in bed alone, a ball underneath a mound of blankets, makes my skin crawl and I can’t concentrate.
Has she gotten out of bed yet?
Did she eat?
Is she breathing?
This inability to control her emotions and sadness paralyzes me. All I can do is worry, wanting so badly to make her life easier and feeling guilty because I can’t.
True Love Way Page 18
