Written on My Heart

by Cole Gibsen

No. Nee. Nein. Niet. There aren’t enough languages in the world to convey all the ways I want to decline. Instead, I shake my head and feel my way around the doorframe. “I’m going. Now.” I slip into the hall, where I finally open my eyes. The mattress springs continue to groan behind me.

  “What’s her problem?” I hear the guy ask.

  “She is so uptight,” Selena answers. “You have no idea. She was actually up at eight this morning to clean.”

  “I bet I could loosen her up,” the guy answers.

  Selena’s giggle is the last thing I hear before I stumble down the hallway. The smoke in the living room has grown thicker, burning my lungs and stinging my eyes. I spot a knocked over beer bottle by the edge of the couch. The amber liquid pools on the light beige carpet, but no one seems to notice.

  It seems impossible, but I feel as if the mess has multiplied in my brief absence. Towers of cans and dishes appear to grow before my eyes, reaching for the ceiling until I’m sure they’ll crash down and bury me alive.

  Droplets of sweat prick the back of my neck as I spin around, searching for paper towels, only to find the naked cardboard tube tucked in the sink with the dishes. Shit. I pull open the cabinet doors, searching for a dish towel, a rag, anything I can use to clean, but there’s nothing.

  I rake my fingers through my hair. The rational part of me realizes I no longer live at home with my stepdad. But the damaged part of my brain, the biggest part, screams at me to clean this up or there’s going to be hell to pay.

  “Hey.”

  I let my fingers fall and glance up to find Diamond staring at me over the back of the couch. A look of concern is etched across her face. “You okay?” she asks. “You want a drink or something?”

  No. I most definitely am not okay. Each breath I take pulls tight across my chest like a rubber band on the verge of snapping. “I…uh…I gotta go.” Because I do. I have to get the fuck out of this apartment before I spiral into a panic attack the size of which would surely send me to the ER.

  Diamond shrugs and turns her attention back to the television, sinking deeper into the cushion.

  With trembling fingers, I reach into my pocket and withdraw my keys. The spasms that shake me make the metal tinkle together like wind chimes.

  “Yo, blue eyes,” the guy on the loveseat calls. “If you’re going out can you pick up some more beer?”

  Instead of answering, I push through the front door and slam it behind me. It’s late, well past midnight, but I can’t stay here. I withdraw my phone from my back pocket. Usually, I wouldn’t dream of using my prepaid minutes for anything but an emergency, but in a way, this is. I scroll through the contacts until I find Emily’s number.

  Are you still at that party? I type.

  A few seconds later, she replies. Sure am. Change your mind about coming out?

  I don’t hesitate before writing back, Text me the address and I’m there.

  “They were having sex?” Emily screeches in that loud way people do when they’ve had a few to drink. “Right in front of you? And they asked you to join in?”

  I nod and Emily howls with laughter, drawing curious glances from those around us. The kitchen is overflowing with people pushing their way to the makeshift bar set up on the island. “Somebody get this girl a beer,” she shouts, pointing a finger at me.

  As if by magic, a tall, thin guy appears in front of me with a red plastic cup. “Here you go. What’s your name?” He practically shoves the cup into my face.

  “Her name is not on your fucking life.” Emily slaps his hand away, sloshing brown liquid onto his wrist.

  “Fuck!” He withdraws the cup and scowls at her. “What the hell?”

  “We don’t know you,” she answers. “That means any drink you give us must have the lid still on or the tab not popped. Who’s to say you didn’t put something in there?”

  I blink at her. I’m a little surprised, as well as impressed, that despite being visibly tipsy, she still has enough sense to think about things like that.

  “Like I would want to drug you,” the guy says. “Fucking bitch.” He turns to leave and Emily holds up both hands with middle fingers extended. He walks up to two guys in the corner of the room. They glare at us.

  Nervous knots twist inside my stomach. I grab Emily’s hands and pull them to her side. “Em, maybe you could bring it down a notch before we get into trouble?”

  She throws her head back and laughs as if I’ve said the funniest thing in the history of comedy. “Please. This is my party and these are my people.” She throws her arms wide, accidentally slapping a female passerby across the chest. I mouth an apology to the girl, who sneers as she squeezes past.

  Emily reaches around me and plucks a can of beer off the counter. After popping the tab, she thrusts it at me. “Here. Drink this. You’ve earned it after the night you had.”

  I start to argue, but between putting up with Lane, coming home to my destroyed apartment, and walking in on my roommate in the middle of—well, whatever the hell it was—I really do want a drink. I take the can from her and swallow the lukewarm liquid in a long draw. When I finish, the can is significantly lighter and my head just fuzzy enough that the memory of that guy’s naked, pimpled ass fades a fraction. But not enough, so I finish the can.

  Emily laughs, takes the empty can from me and hands me a new one. “That a girl.” She takes a drink from her own beer. “I’m so glad you decided to come out tonight. I figured you’d need a drink after spending time with Lane, but I had no idea your night was only going to get worse. Speaking of—” She grabs my wrist. “How did the tattoo turn out?”

  Still holding the can, I push my shirtsleeve past my elbow, exposing the plastic wrap beneath. “It’s only an outline until tomorrow when I go back for the shading. You weren’t joking when you said your brother is good. When this is done, it’ll be like the other tattoo never existed.”

  She grins and drops my wrist. “I told you he’s the best around. It’s going to look amazing.”

  “Yeah, well, thanks.” I slowly roll my sleeve back into place. Once Chris’ name is covered up, I’ll be able to wear short-sleeved shirts again without being reminded of one of my biggest mistakes. “With the way my money situation is, I don’t know when I would have been able to do this.”

  Emily waves my words away. “Don’t mention it. I’m happy to help out a friend.”

  Friend. The word sinks through my body like an anchor. I quickly swallow another gulp of beer. I haven’t had any real friends since middle school, when my mom remarried and we moved a hundred miles away. Sure, there were girls I was friendly with, talked to, and even ate lunch with. But there was no one I spoke with outside of school, or invited over to my house. First, because I wasn’t allowed to have friends over, and second, I was scared people would find out what was going on inside the locked doors of my home, scared they would take me away from my mother, who I had to protect.

  So I kept myself closed off from others, and for what? To have my mom stand by and say nothing as my stepdad doused my belongings with lighter fluid in the backyard? To wind up living in an apartment not even a hazmat team would enter?

  Fuck that.

  I lift my beer can. “To friendship.”

  Emily taps her can against mine. “To friendship.”

  I tip the beer back and chug the contents until the memory of the bonfire flames—always lurking in the recesses of my mind—are all but extinguished. Until I no longer feel the need to check every knob around me to see if it’s been locked, and the ever-tightening band of fear looped around my chest loosens.

  It’s only then, when the world spins in a blur around me, I find I can finally breathe.

  Chapter Five

  Lane

  It takes me nearly fifteen minutes and two circles around the block before I find a place to park within walking distance of the house party. As soon as I open the door to my truck, I’m assaulted by the pounding of a bass beat. I cringe. “Fucking idiots,” I murmu
r. They might as well call the cops and invite them over, for all the noise they’re making. I just hope I can find my sister before the police do show. What would Dad’s old work buddies think if they found me hanging out with a bunch of underage drunks?

  Annoyance winds around my shoulders. I shouldn’t be here—Em shouldn’t be here. She’s lucky Harper’s out with her friends and I’m able to check on her and drive her (most likely) drunk-ass home.

  As I round the corner and spot the mass of people spilling out the front door of the house and onto the lawn, my hopes of getting in and out quickly are dashed. I exhale through clenched teeth. With a rare night alone, I should be in my garage, underneath my ’69 Chevelle with a beer in one hand and a wrench in the other—not playing babysitter for a bunch of shitfaced kids doing keg stands on the lawn and fucking in closets.

  The thought pushes a memory to the surface of my mind. A blanket of coats lies under my back. The air is thick, hard to swallow. I can’t see anything except for the strip of light leaking beneath the closed door. Probably a good thing because with all I drank, the room would surely be spinning. Her lips, sticky with gloss, glide down my neck.

  “Yo! Lane!” A voice calls out, dragging me from the past. I swallow the knot in my throat and look up to find a redheaded guy clutching a red Solo cup and pushing through the partygoers who are milling about on the lawn. “So cool you could make it tonight.” His eyes are glassy and he wobbles on his feet. “Can I get you something? Beer?” He grins widely. “Oh, I know. A shot of Jäger!”

  I make a face. “God, no. I’m not here to party, Pete. I came to find my sister and take her home.”

  “Aw!” Despite being in his early twenties, Pete still resembles the freckle-faced kid who used to follow his brother and me around on his bike when they lived next door. His brother Michael was always daring him to do stupid stuff like jump across the ravine in the woods and poke the neighbors’ sleeping dog with a stick. Pete never turned down a dare, either. As a kid I thought he was brave. Now I’m pretty sure he was just a dumbass. I glance at the girls clustered together by the porch steps. They look like sorority girls. God, please let them be old enough to be sorority girls. If not, it’s apparent Pete hasn’t outgrown his knack for doing stupid shit.

  I nod my head over my shoulder. “They legal?”

  His grin widens and he shrugs. “Who cares? They’re hot.”

  “Doesn’t matter if they’re hot. If they’re underage and the cops show up, you’ll still go to jail.”

  “You’re worried about cops?” He blinks at me, lines of confusion pinching his brow. “What happened to you? You used to be cool.”

  If he means I was once an idiot, too, he’s right. Apparently I’m still cool enough to resist the urge to smack him. Instead, I grunt and head for the house. Some lessons can only be learned on your own. I only hope Pete doesn’t learn his the hard way—like me.

  A girl with curly bleach-blond hair steps in front of me and holds out a shot glass. “Hey sexy, want to do a body shot?” She tucks the glass between her breasts. I pause because, even if I’m not cool anymore, I’m still male. The added pressure of the shot glass squeezes her boobs against the neckline of her shirt—already tight from the strain on it. If this girl so much as sneezes, there’ll be no stopping the boobsplosion.

  As the guys around me creep in for a better look, the initial excitement of a potential flashing wears off, leaving me feeling slightly exhausted. Maybe it’s because I have Harper, or maybe it’s because I’ve been working my ass off lately, but in all my twenty-six years, I’ve never felt as old as I do now. “Not interested,” I say. Even if I didn’t have Harper, the girl might as well have “Jail Bait” tattooed across her tits. Unlike Pete, I like to think I’ve wised up in the last ten years. I’m not about to go to jail for a nice rack.

  Apparently the girl doesn’t get the hint because she grabs my arm. “Wait. You have to lick me first.” She tips her head back and douses her cleavage with salt. Several guys behind me groan appreciatively.

  Fucking idiots. All they see are D-cups and a nice ass. Once upon a time, I would have, too. But I’ve been down that road. Now I see her, and every girl like her, for what they really are—drama. And I don’t want any part of that anymore.

  “You’re wasting your time, angel,” I say, as I brush past her on my way to the door.

  She huffs. “Queer.”

  Several people snicker.

  Just like I thought. Drama. I enter the house without looking back. Inside, people are clustered together so that I have to turn sideways to push my way through. In the living room, a stereo blares and people grind together, a pulsing mass of flesh and limbs.

  All of this feels eerily familiar. I brace for impact as a memory I’ve fought to keep buried slams into me. Ten years ago, at a party similar to this one, I’d been standing in a corner, clutching a lukewarm beer in my bony sixteen-year-old hands, when my eyes drifted across the crowd of dancers and landed on her.

  She’d been barely sixteen herself, with caramel-colored hair and bubble-gum-pink lips. Even now I can still remember the taste of them, sweet like strawberries.

  I shake my head as if to dislodge the ghost of her from my memory. I’m not about to let her haunt me again. Still, my breathing quickens and I glance quickly around to make sure she hasn’t materialized. I rub my hands down my face, annoyed that I allow her to get to me after all this time. Absently, I bring my hand to my collarbone and touch the name inked into my skin. Some scars run so much deeper than a needle can drive ink into flesh.

  “Hey man!” A fist bumps my bicep. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  I’m glad to focus on the dark-skinned guy in front of me. I can’t remember his name, but I recognize him as one of Pete’s friends from high school—a former football player, only now he’s sporting the very distinctive buzz of a military haircut. “Hey.” I force a smile. “You enlist or you just sporting the haircut to get girls?”

  He laughs. “No. I’m in the Army now. I’m back home for a couple of weeks before they send me to Afghanistan.”

  “Man.” My smile dissolves. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” He shakes his head. “I love what I do, and I get to see the world.”

  I nod. That much I can understand. Before Harper, I was filled with wanderlust myself. After high school, I had plans to drive across the country and backpack around Europe before starting college. Of course, none of that happened—not the traveling and not college. Life has a funny way of putting you on a different road before you’ve even realized you’ve gone off course.

  “Buy, hey!” The guy hits my arm again. “I hear you’re making quite a name for yourself.”

  “I do all right.”

  “More than all right from what I hear. I’m real happy for you, man. I remember how messed up you were after—” He bites off the words and I stiffen. I’ve worked hard to prove I’m not the fuckup everyone thought I was all those years ago, but this guy’s proven once again, there’s no running from your past.

  “Anyway,” he continues, “I’m not surprised you’re doing so well. I remember your drawings when we were kids—they were amazing then. I’ll have to stop by your shop before I leave. I’ve been wanting a tattoo for awhile and it seems only right you should give me my first one.”

  “Yeah. You should do that.” I search over his shoulder for any sign of my sister. “Have you seen Em?”

  He laughs. “Man, some things never change. You do realize she’s an adult, right? You don’t have to watch over her anymore.”

  I snap my gaze back to him. The heat from my glare makes him stagger back a step with his hands up. Obviously this guy doesn’t have a younger sister or he’d know there will never come a day when I don’t watch over mine.

  “I meant no offense, Lane,” he says, all the humor gone from his face. “She’s in the kitchen.”

  “Thanks.” I don’t wait for him to say anything else before I turn for the do
or. I’m not trying to be an asshole, but I only have three hot buttons and this guy pushed two of them: my past mistakes and my sister. Lucky for him, he didn’t mention Harper, or I wouldn’t be walking away.

  By the time I reach the kitchen, my muscles are wound tight with anxiety. The sooner I find Em and convince her to leave, the better. The room is small, and it doesn’t help that people are clustered together so tightly they’re practically climbing on top of one another to get to the keg.

  There are shouts from the opposite corner, and I turn to find a small group of people crowded around the kitchen table playing cards. It’s there where I spot my sister, eyes glassy, cheeks flushed, and her laugh a pitch too high.

  Beside her is the girl Em brought into my shop for the cover up. Ashley, Ashlyn, or something. There’s no point asking her now. Given the way she’s slumped back in her seat, her eyes vacantly staring at the ceiling, I’d be surprised if she knows her name.

  The other four chairs are occupied by guys holding cards, though the boulder of a man closest to Ashley-slash-Ashlyn appears far more interested in her than the cards in his softball-sized hands.

  My fingers curl into fists and I inhale deeply through my nose. Just great. Instead of one drunk girl to take care of, I now have two. Ignoring the cries of protest, I push through the crowd until I reach the table’s edge. “Em? What’s going on?”

  “Lane! We’re playing asshole.” She grins up at me and places her thumb on her forehead and everyone around her does the same. “Ah-ah!” She removes her thumb and waves a finger at me. “I’m the president, so now you have to drink!” She picks up her cup and holds it out to me.

  I ignore it. “I’m not playing, Em.”

  “Bah!” She sets the cup down, but not before sloshing beer over the sides so it trails down her hand. She licks the amber liquid from her fingers and turns to the guy beside her. “Lane’s a party pooper.”

  “Not yet.” I reach over the stack of cards and grab her cup. “Now I am.” Before she can protest, I march to the sink and dump the contents into the drain.