After Math

by Denise Grover Swank

  Tucker.

  The only light on the outside of the house is the fixture at the side door. He’s in the shadows, but from what little I see, he’s upset. And he’s alone.

  My breath catches in my chest as I consider doing something so unlike me it’s alarming. I attribute it to the alcohol in my blood even though I haven’t had a drink in almost an hour.

  One of the guys behind me bumps into my back and groans as he stumbles. “Sorry.” He laughs and returns to his game. The ball bounces on the table, and they break into a loud cheer, but I’ve moved to the side door, my hand on the doorknob.

  Outside, the cold air seeps through the silk shirt I’m wearing. I wrap my arms around my chest and walk toward Tucker, who is on the far side of the Dumpster. His hand is up to his face.

  “Marcel. Man, don’t do it. Please.” Tucker’s words are heavy with emotion. He hunches forward over his knees, his other hand grabbing a handful of hair.

  Tucker must not like what Marcel says because he jams his phone into his pocket and pummels the bin with both fists. He releases a loud cry as his body wracks with sobs.

  I take several steps closer, about six feet away, feeling like an interloper as I witness his breakdown, yet I can’t make myself walk away. “Tucker.”

  He doesn’t hear me, taking his frustration and pain out on the metal box. His hands darken with blood.

  “Tucker,” I say louder and with more force.

  His fists still beat the metal, but their speed and force weaken. He turns to me, tears streaming down his face. “I couldn’t stop him.”

  The ice covering my heart cracks and sorrow, hot and heavy, flows through my veins. “I know. I heard.”

  “I tried, Scarlett. This is all my fault.”

  I move closer, a foot away. He reeks of alcohol. “It’s okay, Tucker.”

  He shakes his head in an exaggerated movement and stumbles sideways. I grab his arm, and he reaches for me with bloody hands.

  “It’s not. It’s all my fault.” A fresh batch of tears floods his face, and I wonder how much he’s had to drink.

  “Tucker, you need to go home.”

  His head lifts higher, as though he’s listening for something, then his shoulders droop again. “Yeah.” He reaches into his pocket and winces as he digs for his keys.

  “You can’t drive. Where are your friends?”

  His face tightens with anger. “Those fuckers aren’t my friends.”

  “But they came with you. They can help you get home.” Yet I wonder if that’s true. They seemed as wasted as Tucker when they came in.

  “I’m not going anywhere with those fuckheads.” His words slur and he stumbles again.

  “You have to go somewhere.”

  He scowls and removes his keys. “I told you I’m going home.” Dangling his keys in the air, he heads to the street.

  “Tucker, wait!” I run next to him and grab his arm, tugging him back. I don’t know why I’m getting involved. Maybe I’m worried Tucker will kill himself as well as innocent people on the road if he drives in this condition. Or maybe it’s because I’m surprised that Tucker Price could break down like this. Or maybe it’s a combination of the two. Whatever the reason, I can’t stop myself. “Let me take you.”

  He turns to me and raises his palm to my cheek. “Sweet Scarlett.”

  My stomach tightens when his hand touches my face. “Will you let me drive you?”

  He continues to watch me, remaining silent.

  I slowly take his keys, worried I’ll spook him if I move too quickly. “I have to tell my friends I’m leaving. Wait here.” I lead him toward a plastic chair and push him down. I start to ask him about his coat, then remember when I saw him come in, he wasn’t wearing one.

  I have no idea how I’ll explain this to Caroline, although I’m sure Tina will be thrilled.

  Caroline is still sitting with the two guys she was with when I went outside. Her legs are crossed and she’s leaning forward and laughing. She looks happy. When I approach, her happiness fades away. She must see something on my face that worries her. “Is everything okay?”

  I force a smile, and fist my shaking hands. “Of course.” I pause. There’s no way Caroline will approve of me taking Tucker home. I’m not sure I approve, yet I still feel obligated, for whatever reason. But I know who will. “I’m looking for Tina.”

  Caroline nudges her head toward the hall. “Last time I saw her she was headed for the bathroom.”

  “Thanks.”

  I grab my coat and find Tina coming from a back bedroom, brushing her hair from her face as Kyle sneaks around the back of her, adjusting his shirt. I’m not even going to think about what she’s been doing. “Hey, Tina. Tucker Price has to be at least a point-one-two on the blood alcohol meter, so I’m going to take him home.”

  Her eyes narrow as the corners of her mouth lift into a wicked smile. “I knew you had it in you.”

  “No,” I protest. “That’s not it at all.”

  “You’re a big girl, Scarlett. Have fun.”

  I could argue with her more, but I’m worried Tucker will wander off. “Tell Caroline, okay?”

  “Be safe.”

  I had no intention of putting myself in a position where safety was an issue. But I nod and head out the side door. Tucker is where I left him, mumbling to himself.

  “Tucker, let’s go.” I grab his arm and pull.

  He struggles to get up, and I wonder how drunk he actually is.

  “Where’s your car?”

  His unfocused eyes look up and down the street lined with vehicles. Then he laughs. “It’s at home.”

  I blink. “What?”

  “I didn’t drive.”

  What the hell have I gotten into? I consider leaving him here, but his hands are covered in blood, and I don’t trust him or anyone else in the house to take care of cleaning him up. “Come on, we’re walking.” If nothing else, the cold air and exercise will clear his head a bit if he doesn’t freeze to death without a coat. I wonder how long the thermal shirt he’s wearing under his t-shirt will keep him warm. I loop my arm over his.

  “Where are we going?”

  “My place.”

  He shoots me a wicked grin. “I didn’t think you were that kind of girl, Scarlett.”

  My brow furrows with irritation. This was a stupid idea, but it’s too late to turn back now. “I’m not. I’m taking you there to clean up your hands since you were stupid enough to use a giant metal garbage can as a punching bag. Then I’m calling one of your friends to take you home.”

  “I don’t have any friends.” His words are slurred and sound hollow.

  “What are you talking about? You have tons of friends.”

  “They’re not really my friends.”

  So Tucker is a melancholy drunk. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. The person I see every time I tutor him isn’t the person I see in class or on campus. There are two sides to this mercurial boy, and I fluctuate between being intrigued and wanting to run. I cast a glance to the person trying to walk a straight line for the two blocks to my apartment, and I want to take off in a sprint.

  Sometimes being responsible sucks.

  We walk an entire block in silence. The only sounds are the click of my boot heels and Tucker’s awkward breathing which comes out in gasps and huffs. He releases a groan, then leans over and vomits on the street.

  I scrunch my eyes closed and breathe through my mouth, trying to settle my now-queasy stomach.

  After several seconds, he wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and resumes walking again.

  “Do you do this often?” I ask.

  He laughs. “Yeah.”

  I think about the nastiness he left on the road behind us. “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  “Maybe because barfing in the street doesn’t sound like my kind of fun.”

  His eyebrows rise and fall in a playful manner. “What is your kind of fun, Scarlett?”

  I don’t
answer, knowing he’d think me even stranger than he already does.

  “Well?”

  I had hoped he’d be too drunk to press the issue, but the walk seems to be sobering him up. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  I inhale through my nose and imagine my nervousness leaving my body with my exhale. “Math. I like doing math problems.”

  We walk several steps in silence before I sneak a glance at him. He’s watching me with a strange look in his eyes, devoid of amusement or malice. Curiosity. “Why?” he finally says.

  “They calm me.” Why I answer truthfully is beyond me. I find myself incapable of telling Tucker Price falsehoods, which seems irrational. Tucker Price seems like the kind of person who is used to hearing and speaking mostly lies all day long.

  Maybe that’s why I feel compelled to tell him the truth.

  “Your major is math. You tutor several days a week. I can’t even imagine how many problems you must do. What makes you so anxious that you need that much calming?”

  I’ve been truthful up to this point. Why lie now? “Life.”

  He doesn’t respond.

  I wait for the familiar rush of panic and adrenaline when I’ve embarrassed myself, but it doesn’t come. Why? My eyes shift to him, and the look on his face isn’t just sympathetic. It’s as though he really understands.

  Chapter Six

  Several minutes later we climb the staircase to my apartment. I worry that Tucker will fall down the stairs in his stupor, but he only trips once. When we reach my apartment, he leans his shoulder into the brick wall as he watches me fumble with the lock. I push the door open and wait for him to enter. The soft lamp light from the living room welcomes us in from the cold.

  He waves to the opening. “Ladies first.”

  More surprises. I go inside, and he follows, shutting the door behind us.

  I go into the kitchen, my stomach churning. I’m suddenly unsure this was a good idea. “Sit down at the table, and I’ll clean up your hands.”

  He obeys, sliding a chair across the floor closer to the wall and landing in the seat with an oomph.

  I take off my coat and lay it across the back of another chair. “I need to get some towels.” When I come back from the bathroom with several hand towels, I wet one with warm water and lay the rest on the counter. I reach for his right hand and begin to tenderly pat the now-drying blood.

  “Why are you doing this?” he asks.

  I’d love to know the answer to that question myself. “You can’t do your homework if you can’t hold a pencil.”

  He slides down in his seat, leaning his head back and shutting his eyes. “Strictly professional reasons.”

  “Of course.”

  We both know it’s a lie, but he doesn’t call me on it.

  When I get most of the blood wiped away on his right hand, I sigh. His knuckles are swollen and purple. “I think you should go to the ER and get x-rays. You might have broken your hand.”

  The back of his head is propped against the kitchen wall, and his eyes are closed. “Good thing I don’t need my hands in soccer.”

  “Tucker, I’m serious.”

  One side of his mouth lifts into a smirk. “So am I.”

  Shaking my head, I open the freezer and look for a bag of something frozen to put on his hand. The freezer is unsurprisingly bare. Caroline and I exist on mac and cheese, spaghetti, and ramen noodles. I have to settle for a partially used bag of pizza rolls. I set Tucker’s hand on the table, cover it with a washrag, then top it with the bag.

  He sits up in alarm, as though I just woke him. “What the fuck?”

  “I’m trying to help you, but I won’t if you’re going to cuss at me.”

  He closes his eyes again. “You’re cute.”

  Incoherent Tucker is back.

  I clean up his left hand, relieved to find the swelling and bruising aren’t as bad. When I finish, I put his hands together on the table, scoot the washrag to cover both hands, then adjust the bag on top.

  “You should be a doctor, Scarlett.”

  I move to the sink and wash out the towels. “Nah. I’m just exceptionally practiced at cleaning up injuries.”

  “Your old boyfriends get in a lot of fights?”

  “No. My mother.” There goes my filter again.

  One eye cocks open. “Your mother was big into fights?”

  My chest tightens. I don’t like talking about this. Why am I so truthful with this guy? “Let’s just say she was on the receiving end.”

  His other eye opens, and he focuses his full attention on me. Something flashes in his eyes, as though he’s seeing me for the first time. I’m not sure I like it.

  I turn around and get a glass and fill it with the water pitcher from the refrigerator. “You need to drink this. And we need to call one of your friends.”

  He groans, and leans his forehead into the edge of the table. “I told you I don’t have any friends.”

  I don’t want to argue this point with him again. “What about your roommate?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “Fine, then I’ll call a cab.”

  His head rotates from side to side, still leaning against the table. “No.”

  “Tucker. You have to go somewhere.”

  His head rises. “Can I just stay here for a little bit with you?”

  I press my back into the counter while I study his face. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  Confusion scrunches his forehead. “Why?”

  I gesture toward him. “You’re Tucker Price. You’re…” I shake my head. “I’m not like that, Tucker. I’m not that kind of person.”

  The emotion on his face shifts to a look that resembles contentment. “I know.”

  Something in his eyes tugs on my heart, unraveling the seam that separates us a bit more. I don’t feel threatened by him. I don’t even get a feeling that he’s looking for sex. It’s something deeper than that.

  “Can I stay for just a little bit?” he whispers. “Please.”

  This is the worst idea in the history of ideas, yet I can’t stop myself from nodding. He looks so lost. “Okay.”

  He tries to get up and almost falls on his face.

  “How much did you have to drink tonight?” I grab his arm and help him stand.

  “Not enough. Not nearly enough.”

  My plan is to take him into the living room, but it’s obvious he needs to lie down. I stop in front of the hallway and close my eyes. I should call a cab right now.

  “Scarlett.” He sighs, resting his cheek on top of my head.

  “Come on.” I lead him to my room and turn on the lamp on my nightstand. “Don’t get any ideas.”

  I push him so that he’s sitting on my bed, and he lays down, grabbing my hand and tugging.

  “I told you not to get any ideas.”

  “Just sit with me.”

  I sit on the edge of the bed, his hand still wrapped around mine. His eyes are closed as he buries his cheek into my pillow.

  “Tucker?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Who’s Marcel?” I expect him to get angry or tell me to mind my own business.

  “My brother,” he mumbles.

  “What was he going to do?”

  We sit in silence. His breath is less ragged than it was outside, but still has the shallow rasp of a drunk person.

  “Ruin his life. And it’s all my fault.”

  A soft snore comes from his mouth, and his grip relaxes on my wrist. I sit for a few moments then start to pull my hand away, but his fingers tighten. “Don’t go,” he slurs.

  “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  His grip tightens. “Promise you’ll come back.”

  I pause. “Okay. I will.”

  His fingers relax, and I pull free, easing off the bed and wandering to the bathroom. I pee and wash my hands, looking up to see my face in the mirror. The girl in the reflection looks just like me, but she can’t be me.

/>   The Scarlett Goodwin I know would not have Tucker Price in her bed.

  But then again, I don’t. He’s lying on top of the covers, and I have no intention of having sex with him.

  I hear the front door open, and Caroline comes in. “Scarlett! Where are you?”

  “What are you doing home so early? You were having fun.”

  “I was worried about you. Tina told me you took Southern’s man-slut home.”

  I watch her as she takes off her coat, unsure how to answer.

  She lifts her gaze to me as she tosses her coat onto the sofa. “Did you really take him home?”

  “Define home.”

  My meaning sinks in, and her eyes enlarge to twice their size. “No, Scarlett. Please tell me you didn’t.”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  Her face hardens. “Then what is it?”

  I sigh, uncertain what it is myself. “I’m not sleeping with him, if that’s what you think.”

  Relief washes away her fear, but wariness remains. “Then why is he here?”

  “I found him beating up a Dumpster, and he was so drunk he could hardly stand. His hands were a mess, and I don’t know…I felt sorry for him.”

  Her mouth drops, and then her eyes narrow. “You felt sorry for Tucker Price?”

  “There’s something more to him, Caroline. Something no one else sees.”

  “How drunk are you?”

  I sigh. “I’m not drunk and it’s not just tonight. I’ve seen it before when I tutor him. He seems so sad. And lonely.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Is that what he’s doing to try to get you to sleep with him? Playing Mr. Sensitive?”

  “I seriously doubt he has to play anything to get girls to sleep with him, Caroline. So why would he waste the effort?”

  I head into the kitchen and clean up the mess I left.

  Caroline follows me in. “Why is there blood on those washrags?”

  Turning my back to her, I wash out the rags in the sink again. “I told you that he beat up a Dumpster.”