Suffer Love

by Ashley Herring Blake

  I almost laugh. “Josh? Um. No.”

  “So why did you hook up with him?”

  I blow out a breath, disturbing a strand of hair so it grazes my cheek.

  “Were you drunk?” Sam asks when I remain silent.

  “No. I don’t drink.”

  He hands me a Splenda and I stick the little yellow packet in with the others. “Why not?” he asks.

  “I just don’t. I don’t like how I feel when I do. I hate that loose my-head-is-floating-three-feet-above-my-body sensation. It makes me feel like I need to heave into a paper bag.”

  “Okay. So why Josh?”

  I press my fingertips to my thumb until they whiten, remembering Josh’s breath on my skin, the way he temporarily unsnarled the mess in my head. “Why does a girl need to be either madly in love or drunk to kiss a guy?”

  He frowns, his forehead creased in thought like he’s pondering black holes. “Um. She doesn’t.”

  “That’s right. She doesn’t, and I was neither. Josh was there. He was nice. He was a distraction, all right? That’s it.”

  “A distraction.”

  “Yes.” I pull on the ends of my hair, working my fingers through a tangle.

  “From what?”

  I continue to detangle my hair, stalling from giving an answer because I don’t have one. Kat’s asked me the same question a million times, and I don’t have an answer for her, either.

  “Do you want to talk about something else?” Sam asks.

  “God, yes.” I let a nervous laugh slip from my throat.

  He leans back lazily, propping his ankle on his knee. “Enough of this heavy shit. Tell me something about you I would never guess.”

  “Something you’d never guess?”

  “Yeah, like a funny quirk or a weird phobia or obsession. Although I already know you have a compulsion toward organization.”

  “I do not.”

  He holds up the color-coordinated sugar container. “Would you like to ask Suzanne for a job?”

  I laugh and yank the container out of his hands. “All right. But you first. Tell me something unexpected about you.”

  He smiles and taps his chin in thought before jutting his forefinger into the air. “I’m afraid of spiders.”

  “Wrong. So am I. So is half the world. Try again.”

  “Damn, you’re bossy.”

  “Come on, Baker Boy, quit stalling.”

  He laughs, then purses his lips while he thinks for while. In the café, the breakfast crowd thins out as the sun lifts higher into the sky. Finally, a small smile cuts into his cheeks and he drops his eyes. He looks almost shy.

  “All right, here’s something. The only people who know this are Livy and my friend Ajay, and he’s weird enough that he doesn’t judge me.”

  “I’m intrigued.”

  He draws a breath and presses his fingertips together. “Last year, we read Romeo and Juliet in my English class. It wasn’t the first time I had read it, but for some reason I became obsessed with it. This past summer, I watched every film version a million times and I dragged Livy to any live performance I could find.”

  “That’s it? A lot of people like Shakespeare.”

  He shakes his head. “I even drove down to this rinky-dink town in south Georgia from Atlanta and back in one night to see a production—if you could even call it that—at some podunk theater that served beer and peanuts. It was the only thing I read for four months. When I finished it, I’d just flip back to the beginning and start again. I can quote the whole thing from memory. I’m okay with admitting I took it to an unhealthy level.”

  “Why did you love it so much? Don’t tell me you’re a sappy romantic.”

  He smiles grimly. “It wasn’t the romance. I know that’s what it’s about for most people, but not for me. And I’m sorry, but that play is anything but romantic.”

  “Then what?”

  He props his elbows on the table, his gaze turned inward. “It sounds stupid, but I think it was just about how sad it was. It was comforting. My parents were going through all this shit right when we studied the play and . . . I don’t know. It made me feel less alone. Like if two people who loved each other that much still managed to fuck everything up, then maybe the way my parents destroyed each other wasn’t so bad. It was like this weird sort of hope in reverse.”

  “You liked that there are no happy endings. For anyone.”

  He shrugs. “I guess I’m better suited for Shakespeare’s tragedies.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I got over it.”

  Looking at him now, I’m pretty sure he’s not over it. Not even close. I want to ask him what happened with his parents, but if he’s anything like me, that question is more unpleasant than a stomach virus. So I swallow my curiosity.

  “Sorry,” he says, pulling on his ear. “I didn’t mean to get so morose. I should’ve just told you that I still sleep with the stuffed duck I had as a kid.”

  I laugh. “Do you?”

  He shrugs as he studies my face. “Okay, your turn.”

  I shift in my seat, not sure I have anything interesting to tell that I’m willing to part with. “There’s nothing unexpected about me.”

  He leans forward and gives me a lopsided grin. “Everything about you is unexpected.”

  He holds my gaze, locking me in place. I’m relieved when he finally slides his eyes away and clears his throat, but I keep watching him, half hoping he’ll press me for an answer.

  “Do you want to go back to school?” he asks.

  Without hesitation, I shake my head. I may barely remember my own name right now, but I know I don’t want to go back to school. “No. Can we . . .” My gaze drifts to a server writing lunch specials on a chalkboard. I look back at Sam, his expression curious. “Can we go to your house and hang out? Watch a movie or something?” The words fall from my mouth like rain—I felt them coming, smelled them in the air, but there was nothing I could do to stop them.

  Sam’s mouth drops open a little. “You want to go back to my house?”

  “Is that all right?” I swallow as I wait for his reply. I’m not even sure what I want it to be. I’m just about to revoke my request when his brows dip into his eyes and he answers.

  “Yeah. Sure. Why not?” He stands so quickly, his chair cracks onto the floor, scaring the toddler into spilling his paper snow on the ground. “Crap,” Sam mutters, and runs a hand down his face. The toddler starts wailing and Sam bends to pick up the chair and the paper. “It’s okay, little man.”

  I kneel to help him, accepting a thank-you from the boy’s harried-looking mother. When we finish, I edge Sam’s hard stomach with my elbow, trying to play off his sudden nervousness. “Don’t get any ideas, Sam Bennett. I just want to hang out.”

  Pink splashes over his cheekbones as he throws up his hands in surrender. He smiles that lopsided grin. “I wouldn’t dream of getting any ideas.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Sam

  Okay, I would dream of getting ideas. In fact, I’ve dreamed up several ideas in the past week since I’ve met Hadley St. Clair, and none of them are of the PG-13-rated variety. It’s not like I haven’t heard that she’s fooled around with a few guys in school, but what that entails exactly, I don’t know, nor do I want to. It’s none of my business, right? This girl is beyond off-limits, but suddenly the whole idea of her with Josh—or any other douchebag—makes the back of my neck itch.

  As I drive Hadley to my house, I start really brooding over the whole thing. Josh has never mentioned specifics about him and Hadley, but I’m almost positive Jenny is the cheerleader he’s been mooning over during lunch all week. If he liked her so damn much, why the hell did he mess around with Hadley? And why the hell do I care?

  We pull into my driveway, and Hadley jumps in her seat as I jerk the keys from the ignition. Her movement startles me out of my fog, and I turn to look at her. A lawnmower cranks up next door and we sit in its rumble as I try to figure out why the hell I’m so fu
rious with Josh, want to slash Sloane’s tires, want to crush every guy who even looks at Hadley below the neck.

  “Sam?”

  Her expression is open, but behind her eyes, there’s this whisper of uncertainty. Then she smiles a little and it’s like a clap of thunder. I feel an almost painful jolt in my gut coupled with this vision of Hadley in my house again, this time pressed up against me on the couch while we watch some lame movie I can’t even remember the name of because she’s taking up all the space in my brain and the only thing I can think about is Dear-sweet-Lord-please-just-let-me-touch-her.

  Holy shit, Sam.

  And just like that, I know I can’t invite her in my house.

  Ever.

  “Um . . . you know what?” I say. “I just remembered that I have to turn in this paper for Humanities. It’s already late.”

  Her eyes darken, but I swear I see a flash of relief. “Oh. Okay, that’s fine. We can go back to school.”

  “I’m really sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” She gives me another smile before turning her face away toward the window.

  We drive back to school, letting some song I don’t even like all that much fill the awkward silence that’s sprung up between us. God, I hate this. I should’ve kept walking when I saw her at her locker this morning. She didn’t need me to swoop in to save her from a bunch of sex toys. I would’ve felt like an asshat, but at least I wouldn’t be such an angsty cliché right now.

  When I pull into the school lot, we say goodbye. She thanks me for helping her and I thank her for taking me to the Green-Eyed Girl and it’s all so polite and weird that I want to punch a hole in my dashboard. I watch her duck into the building, a cavern in my chest so huge, I’m sure my next breath will flip me inside out.

  I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, trying to figure out what to do next, how to get rid of this torrent of clashing emotions in my gut. School is the last place I want to be. Besides, if I see Josh right now, it’ll just remind me what a complete idiot I am. I check the clock. A little before noon.

  I should just go home. Pump some loud, angry music through the house, cook something complicated that’ll take me hours, and make Livy happy. Or I could find a batting cage and hit until my arms ache. Playing with the guys on Wednesday was enough to prove I could use the practice.

  But I know I won’t do either of those things.

  Forty minutes later, I’m sitting outside Nicole’s house in Nashville.

  The first time I slept with Nicole was the night everything blew up. Livy was an incoherent mess and I had driven her to her friend Caitlin’s house. Mom and Dad weren’t talking to me, and when they weren’t alternating between screaming and tears, they were smothering Livy like they were afraid the air in the house would kill her.

  Nicole and I had hung out a few times in groups. She was friends with Sara, and Ajay wanted me to get with her so we could be one of those nauseating inseparable foursomes. I’d never felt much when I was with her. She was beautiful, she was fun, but there was no real connection between us. She used nonwords like “supposably” and “irregardless.” I think she did this mostly to annoy me, because she was in the top five of our class.

  That night, she called at exactly the wrong moment. Or maybe the right one, I don’t know. Either way, I unloaded everything on her and she told me to come over. When I got to her house, her parents weren’t home, because they’re both real estate agents and are never home. She didn’t say a word. She just took my hand and led me into her bedroom. This became a regular occurrence for the next few weeks. Things got too thick at home, I’d get Livy to a friend’s house and I’d always end up at Nicole’s. I don’t even know her middle name.

  Hadley’s is Jane. I’m not sure how the hell I know that.

  Now I punch the glowing orange circle next to Nicole’s front door so hard, my thumbnail splits.

  “Sam Bennett, oh my God,” Nicole says as she opens the door, her eyes wide with surprise. “What are you doing here?”

  “Hey, Nic. How are you?”

  “I’m great now. How’d you know I have early release from school?”

  “Lucky guess.” Or not. I texted Ajay on my way here and asked him and then ignored him as he proceeded to blow up my phone with a bajillion versions of What the hell are you doing?

  She opens the door wider and I slip past her. She looks incredible, as always. Slick, straight blond hair, green eyes like a cat. Smooth, tanned skin that I remember felt like silk under my fingers.

  “You look good,” she says as she closes the door.

  “Thanks. You too.”

  “To what do I owe this visit?” She leans against the wall, her hips popped out into the space between us.

  I shrug and look around her house. It’s still dark and woodsy and open, like one of those ritzy lodges at ski resorts. “Just wanted to say hey.”

  “After four months?”

  “I just got back into town last week.”

  She purses her lips and pushes herself off the wall. “Well, well. Welcome home.”

  I follow her into the living room, drawing cedar and a leftover smoky scent from the wood-burning stove into my lungs. We sit on her blue and red plaid couch and watch one of those house renovation shows she always loved, chitchat mindlessly about baseball and her theater group and school. It’s always easy with Nicole. Nothing complicated, nothing twisted or contrived or hidden. Simple.

  And predictable. After a while, she clicks off the TV, leans into me, and sweeps her lips over mine. I pull her closer and squeeze my eyes closed as I kiss her. She tastes like watermelon lip balm, a trace of clove cigarettes. We end up on her blue and white striped bed, our clothes on the floor and my hands in her hair. Her room is exactly the same, the floor littered with screenplays and SAT prep books and her million pairs of shoes.

  “I missed you,” she whispers into my ear as she slides on top of me, straddling my hips.

  I have a sudden flash of Josh’s lying face and I almost swear out loud. Not exactly the image I want in my mind at this particular moment. But there he is and then there’s my mom’s lying face and my own lying face and then there’s Hadley’s dark eyes, and even Livy worms her way into my rapidly clouding thoughts. I know I should stop this. I should just kiss Nicole one more time and leave, but the creeping oblivion on the edge of my thoughts is like a drug.

  Fighting through Nicole’s warm breath on my neck, I find a moment of clarity, a piece of truth that I need to give her because I can’t seem to give it to anyone else. I push her hair back from her face so I can see her. “Nic. I don’t think I can give you anything other than this. I’m just not . . . I just can’t.”

  We stare at each other for a few seconds, our bodies pulled taut with anticipation. Then she reaches for the condom on the nightstand. She tears it open and leans in close to my ear again. “I didn’t exactly ask.”

  Soon I’m lost in her skin and scents and sounds. She could be anyone. I could be anyone. There’s only a mass of sensations between us. There are no minds or hearts or effed-up twists of fate or blame or guilt. Colors don’t even exist here. Just shade after shade of gray, with me hiding in between them.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hadley

  Mom always said she never understood Dad’s and my obsession with swimming. A runner since she was a girl, she couldn’t fathom pushing your body to the limit without sweat, without the wind in your face and shifting scenery to prove that you’re attaining something, getting somewhere. She came to all of my meets, but whenever they confined her to an indoor pool, Dad clad in his West Nashville Wahoos hoodie and whistle and determined brows, Mom would sit in the bleachers and try to look interested, devoted to me but not so much to the sport itself. I don’t think she so much as blinked when I quit competing.

  But for me, swimming is freedom. I love the feeling of weightlessness with control, speed without impact. The water hems me in above and below, and I can cut my body through the pool and
fly.

  Tonight the water is a relief. Stroke-stroke-stroke-breathe. Stroke-stroke-stroke-breathe. Twenty-four freestyle strokes per fifty meters. Not bad. Not great, either, but after months with avoidance as my only motivation, I’m probably a little out of shape. A tiny sliver of water edges into my goggles, but I keep moving, extending my arms to their full length and willing my body forward. If I stop and surface, my eyes will automatically swing to the clock on the cement block wall. If I see the time, no doubt tick-ticking toward the mandatory St. Clair dinner, I’ll have to go home, because there’s this part of me that sort of wants to be there just to see if my mother will actually show up. And if I go home, I’ll probably just walk into an empty kitchen, waiting around with Jinx for one of my parents to stumble through the door with takeout.

  For the past two weeks since the vacuum incident, I feel like I catch only little glimpses of Mom. A blur of color as she whips into the kitchen in the morning for coffee, and then whips back out. A quick peek when she gets home long after dinner right before she disappears into her room. She haunts the house, more memory than flesh.

  Any words spoken between my parents are either about who can pick up the dry-cleaning or my mother setting passive-aggressive bombs for Dad to walk right through, turning our house into a minefield.

  Oh, I love digging soggy food out of the sink’s drain.

  Oh, I wish I taught college so I could work three hours a day a few times a week.

  Oh, I just read this fascinating article in American Literary History. Jason, didn’t you submit a piece to them a while ago? Whatever happened with that?

  Dad meets all of this with heavy sighs, hands raked down his face, and even an hour-long call to Liam, my parents’ therapist, during which I overheard phrases like coping mechanism and acute stress. But he doesn’t speak to my mother about it. No arguing or blaming or name-calling. Everything’s quiet and razor-sharp.

  So I keep swimming.

  When I’m about 250 meters in, a girl dives into the lane next to me as I turn. She carves through the water gracefully and soon we’re swimming side by side, spurred on by each other’s presence and speed. The old thrill of competition surges through me, that familiar rush of adrenaline and anxiety and determination. My lungs burn as my body pivots perfectly with each stroke, but this girl keeps pace with me, edging me by a half a head by the time we’ve gone 200 meters. At 400, my body feels boneless as I plunge into the wall a split second after she does, surprised that she also stops, as if there were an agreement on the length of our race.