In Control (The City Series)

by Crystal Serowka

  Wren wiped away my tears, hanging on my every word. Each description made his jaw clench, and I knew he was holding in his anger.

  I swiped at my eyes with the back of my hand, but it was no use. “After it was all over, I immediately moved off of the bed. I couldn’t bear to feel the fibers stick to me. I couldn’t handle breathing in his scent leftover on my sheets. I lay face down on the concrete, completely exposed. I was relieved that it was over, but at the same time, it felt like he was still there, all over me, under my skin like a parasite.”

  I was hyperventilating. I tried taking in deep breaths, but wasn’t able to. The more I tried, the worse it became. Wren quickly ran out of the room, saying something about the kitchen. I remained on his bed, my chest heaving in pain, as tears continued to stream down my face.

  When he returned, he held up a brown paper bag, forcing the opening over my mouth and nose. “Breathe in and out,” he ordered.

  I took a breath in and out, the bag collapsing and filling with each one. I did this several times until my breathing seemed to go back to normal.

  “K, I’m here for you,” Wren said, sitting back down and taking my hand in his. “I’m so sorry that happened to you, and I now understand why you’re so closed off. It makes sense.”

  I wanted to tell him that what happened that night when I was thirteen turned me into a different person. My innocence, the only thing I felt was truly mine, was ripped from my hands. The innocence could never be replaced, but it made me a stronger woman. I learned from it and ever since then, a man has never used my body for his own pleasure.

  Wren and I sat in silence for a few minutes. I guess we were both processing the things that had been revealed. I was half expecting him to say that I was too fucked up and he couldn’t stay with me, but those words never came. Instead, he just held my hand, occasionally saying things like, “I’m so sorry,” and, “I want to kill him.”

  “I haven’t seen him since the day I left their house. He was in the back of a police car, actually.”

  My mind ran to Andrew. He would be ten now, and I thought about what he must look like. Had he grown into his chubby cheeks? Did he still have freckles scattered over his face? Was he still the same charming and gracious child he used to be? I hoped that the Hendersons never got him back in their care, and instead a loving couple welcomed him into their home.

  Wren rubbed the small of my back, the soft strokes bringing me comfort.

  “Will you tell me something?” I asked, needing to change the subject.

  Wren looked at me as if he knew exactly what I was going to ask him. His hand stopped moving on my back. He threw his shoulders back, his face remaining stoic. “I know what you’re going to ask me,” he predicted.

  “Then save me the breath and tell me.”

  Wren’s eyes moved across his beige walls. He opened his mouth to start speaking, but promptly closed it.

  “Would you rather I ask the question?” I persistently asked.

  “Kingsley,” he said abrasively, “why do you want to know about this tattoo so badly?”

  “Why?” I repeated. “Because it’s a part of you. Because every time I ask, you shut down. Because it’s the only tattoo you haven’t told me about!”

  The tables were turned and now Wren’s secrets were on display. To some people, it would be odd not sharing every detail of your life with the person you love, but for us, me mostly, we were able to skirt past the deep details from our pasts and focus more on the present. Now, it felt like I’d opened up the floodgates, and I wanted to know every part of Wren’s past that I could.

  “The L stands for learning. The O stands for overcome. The V stands for violence. And the E stands for envy. Learning to overcome violence and envy.” Wren touched the inked letters on his knuckles as he explained. “I got them one week after I moved to New York. I was in a really bad place; I’d just gotten out of a four-year relationship.”

  Wren knotted his fingers through his hair, tugging at the short strands. “The girl, Paige… I found out she cheated on me with our mutual friend.” Wren took a deep breath before continuing again. “I beat the shit out of him. I only stopped hitting his limp body because four guys dragged me away. The guy I beat up, Reese, didn’t press charges, thankfully, and a week later I was in New York City. The tattoo is just a reminder to not take the violent road ever again.”

  Wren had mentioned Paige’s name once before, though I never knew how long they had dated. The jealous girl inside of me was raging to be set free. I wanted to track her down and claw her eyes out. What kind of girl would ever cheat on a guy like Wren? The moment I met Wren, I decided to keep my legs closed to every other guy in the world.

  “Where does this slut live?”

  Wren laughed quietly. “Way to lighten to the mood.”

  “I’m actually being serious.” Images flashed in my mind of me stepping on her throat with my high heel, and I smiled, wishing I could somehow print the picture and put it in a frame. “I have some really sharp heels that I’d love to test out on her.”

  “Maybe you should also get this tattoo,” Wren offered.

  “Nah. One of us has to be the violent type, and I think I like having that title.”

  Snow covered the streets of Brooklyn, and everywhere I looked, I saw nature at its purest. The snow was new and glowed pristinely in the sunlight. For a moment I was jealous of the snow, but then I remembered that like all things clean, it too gets trampled and turns into slush.

  Porter held my hand as we crossed the street, carefully treading the piles of snow. My boots weren’t exactly new, but Mrs. Henderson brought them home for me last week, reminding me again that I wouldn’t be getting another pair of shoes until summer.

  My relationship with Porter had more downs than ups in the last month, and I placed all of the blame on myself. We’d been having sex for two months now, and with each time, it only got harder for me. I became distant, not wanting to try new things. My lack of motivation drove Porter to other suggestions, such as drinking more beforehand. He thought that if we were both drunk, I’d be more into it, and what I wanted to tell him was the more I drank, the more horrific the images would be from the night it happened.

  But I would never tell Porter about that night. He believed my first time was two months ago, and I would never take that away from him.

  Porter’s parents were finally starting the remodel of the building they purchased, which meant Porter and I had to find other places for our after school activities. It seemed like we’d been all over the city lately, testing out areas that were safest, trying to find a place where no one would discover us. We found that the bathroom at the supermarket was risky because there were too many stalls. The movie theater was dark, so we thought we’d be able to get away with a lot there, but the large crowds detoured us from even trying. The one place we found safest was the bowling alley.

  Once we ordered our shoes, the employee gave us a polite nod and told us our lane number. We headed in that direction only to take a quick right into the restrooms. These bathrooms were individual, so no one else could walk in.

  Porter grabbed my waist and pulled me into his body, immediately working on lifting my shirt.

  “Wait.” I tugged my shirt back in place, slightly pushing Porter away.

  “What the hell, Kingsley?”

  “I’m sorry, I just...” I sat down against the wall, bringing my knees up to my chest. “Just give me a few minutes, okay?”

  Porter huffed out his annoyance, but sat down next to me. He pulled out his flask, then mine, placing it on the ground in front of me.

  “Geez,” he snapped. “Have a drink.”

  I studied the container, wondering how many times it’s been filled with whiskey. Too many times to count. Our relationship seemed to go from holding hands and debating which syrup to put on our pancakes to what type of whiskey we would try next. The one time I told Porter that I didn’t want to drink, he threw a fit and told me to stop acting
like such a baby. I wanted to know where the old Porter went. The one who told me how to sign the word delicious and how to make the best root beer floats.

  I think everything with Porter became harder when he turned all of our childlike days into serious ones. I used to leave the Hendersons’ house looking forward to seeing Porter because I knew he would be treating me to something brand new. We’d visit a local bakery and munch on desserts until our stomachs were going to burst open. We’d sit in his living room for hours playing Monopoly and argue over who got to be the banker. In the end, he always gave in.

  When high school began, our relationship started a new chapter. Porter looked to his guy friends and saw that they weren’t playing board games in the evenings but experimenting with things I didn’t even know existed. I was thankful that Porter only wanted to try alcohol, because when I sat with him and his friends at lunch and they all talked in hushed voices about how awesome it was to get high, or how much fun it was to snort lines of coke, I was terrified Porter would give in to the pressure.

  “Just have some of your drink,” Porter suggested. He grabbed the flask and handed it to me, practically putting it to my lips.

  I took it from his hands, annoyed at his persistent behavior. Porter wanted me to get drunk. He wanted me to lay there on the dirty restroom floor as he touched me. I took a large gulp, barely able to swallow it down. My reflex was telling me that it didn’t want any of it. As the liquor traveled down my stomach, a pang of guilt hit me. I should be grateful to even have Porter in my life. He’s loved me for 167 days. That’s way more days than anyone else ever had.

  I smiled at Porter and he smiled back. In those seconds, I saw the boy I fell in love with.

  His hand reached over and began rubbing the inside of my thigh. I took another gulp of the whiskey, wishing it would kick in sooner so that I didn’t have to remember any of this.

  “Can we just talk for a while?” I asked, holding onto his hand to keep it from roaming.

  “Umm...I guess.” Porter took his hand back, placing it in his lap. He turned to face me, and judging by the look on his face, he expected me to do all of the talking.

  “How’s basketball going? Have you gotten better at your three-pointers?”

  Porter gave an aggravated laugh. “Yeah.”

  I nodded, wishing he wouldn’t make this so hard.

  “How’s English? Has Mr. Green handed back your essay on Of Mice and Men?”

  “Yup,” he answered quickly.

  Ten minutes must have passed and I continued to receive one word answers. I took another sip of whiskey and began feeling the warmth emitting from my cheeks. I pulled Porter’s hand in mine, running my finger along the softness of his palm. It felt magnificent. I moved up his arm, and he watched me with a smirk on his face.

  “You’re so soft,” I complimented.

  I turned to face him and traveled up to his neck, running my fingers just under his hairline. It felt as if my fingers were made of tiny electrons, and each time I touched his skin, it let out a spark.

  I began laughing. Not just light chuckling, but cracking up. Alcohol had never made me feel this good. My entire body felt like it was rolling on a cloud made up of cotton candy. The lights in the room seemed to have gotten brighter since we’d first walked in, and I squinted to look at Porter.

  “Did the lights just turn on?” I asked, still laughing about nothing.

  “Come here.” Porter pulled my body closer and began kissing the side of my neck.

  “Mmm... That feels good. I love you,” I murmured.

  Porter didn’t acknowledge my comment, he just continued kissing me. He took my face in his hands, pushing his lips onto mine. Everything was made of pillows. His lips were like cushions I could sleep on all day.

  “I love you,” I repeated. Then I laughed more until Porter had to cover my mouth.

  “You have to be quiet,” he reminded.

  “Okay, fine, Mr. Bossypants.”

  The floor was cold beneath our bodies, so we placed our clothing underneath us, covering our skin with Porter’s wool peacoat.

  “You feel nice,” I whispered, running my palm against his chest.

  I was on top of Porter and the feel of his skin against mine was indescribable. I’d never been this relaxed before, especially when we were both naked. Porter rolled me onto my back and began kissing me harder. The whiskey had definitely taken effect, and I was feeling more comfortable in my own skin than I ever had before. The haunting images weren’t at the forefront of my mind, and for once I was able to focus on only Porter.

  After a while, and a few knocks on the bathroom door, Porter rolled off of me. I wanted more of him. I had a craving in my stomach that couldn’t seem to be filled. I leaned over to Porter and kissed his neck slowly.

  “Kingsley, stop,” he ordered.

  “Stop? What do you mean?”

  “Let’s go.” Porter dressed and stood up. He looked down at me and waited for me to follow his commands.

  “Let’s just stay here longer. Make love to me again, Porter.” I tried reaching out for his hand, but he backed away.

  “I’m serious. We’ve had our fun. Now let’s go.”

  I was confused. My body felt alive all over, but my brain was telling me something was wrong. I placed my hands on my cheeks, feeling the warmth. I was tempted to laugh and sing and dance all at the same time, but my mind was trying to get through to me and tell me that something was happening to me.

  “Porter, I’m confused. My hands feel like they’re made of marshmallows.”

  He kneeled down in front of me and offered his hand. “You’re gonna be fine. I put a little something in your drink to relax you, but you’ll go back to feeling normal soon.”

  I couldn’t have heard him right. He didn’t just say that he drugged me.

  “Wait, what?” I looked at the ground and began laughing even though I didn’t want to.

  “C’mon, get dressed.”

  Porter walked over to the sink and turned the water on. As he washed his hands, I tried putting on my clothes. After a few unsuccessful attempts at putting my pants on, I finally had them buttoned. I put my shirt and my shoes on and hastily zipped my coat up. Even though every breath I took felt serene, I tried taking in Porter’s admission. He said he drugged me, but why would he do such a thing?

  The cold air hit my skin when we left the bowling alley, and I smiled at the snow on the ground. The crunch underneath my boots made me think of a song I heard on the radio, and I began humming the melody. Porter walked silently by my side, and when I tried reaching out for his hand, he put it in his pocket. The farther we walked, the less euphoric I felt. Instead of the cold air feeling pleasant, it started feeling horrible. My hands didn’t feel soft anymore, and the sunlight became an annoying sight.

  Porter and I walked in silence, and as I came down from whatever I was on, my list of questions grew.

  “Wait. Stop,” I said, grabbing onto Porter’s arm. “Why would you do that? Why would you put something in my drink?”

  He faced me, but his expression showed annoyance in my question. “You’ve been so uptight lately. I figured it would be good for us to experiment with a little ecstasy.”

  “Good for us? What about what’s good for me?” I screamed.

  Pedestrians pushed passed us on the sidewalk, some telling us to move our childish argument somewhere else.

  “What about what’s good for me?” I repeated, quieter this time.

  “You either want this or you don’t. I want to have fun. Experiment. If you want to be boring and childish, then maybe you shouldn’t be with me.”

  His words felt like a needle stabbing me in my veins. I wanted to take a breath, but felt like I was suffocating. Porter stood and just stared at me, waiting for me to say something.

  The boy I loved so much was going to give up on me, but there was no way I could give him up. Porter was my drug of choice and if that meant changing, then I’d do it. I fell in love
with him the moment he smiled at me, and it was that smile that would get me through the rest of my dark days.

  So I told Porter that I wanted to have fun, too.

  I woke up in Wren’s arms the next day and thought back to the conversation we had the night before, to the secrets we shared. I felt partially exposed and expected Wren to freak out, but he didn’t. In my mind, he was supposed to call me a whore and tell me that it was all my fault that it happened. Some days, I felt like maybe it was. Wren didn’t do any of those things, though. Instead, he held my hand and told me how much I didn’t deserve it.

  “You’re awake,” Wren whispered as he reached up and touched my cheek.

  “Yeah, I’ve been up for a while. Just thinking.”

  “What about?” he asked.

  There was concern in his tone. Wren knew me so well he was probably wondering when I was going to burst out of the room and run away. There were parts of me that were tempted, but I needed to show him that I was finally ready for that kind of love. The real kind.

  “What we talked about last night.”

  Wren brought his body closer to mine and squeezed my frame tighter. He didn’t say anything else, because nothing needed to be said.

  We heard his mother and father downstairs. I thought I heard laughing, but how could that be after the fight they had last night? If it were Wren and I, it would have taken much more time to go back to normal. Or what we considered normal, anyway.

  A few months into our relationship, Wren was standing outside when I left dance rehearsal. We hadn’t made any plans to meet that afternoon, and seeing him there infuriated me.

  “What are you doing here?” I’d asked angrily.

  “I came to surprise you,” he said, though the smile on his face disappeared when he saw that I didn’t look so surprised.

  “I hate surprises. You can’t just show up!” I screamed at him in front of Juilliard, making my independence known to all of New York City.