If You Stay

by Courtney Cole

  As I gather my wits, I hear a thumping sound, loud and frequent.

  Whump.

  Whump.

  Whump.

  I crane my ears and follow the noise. It’s coming from downstairs in the basement. Curious, I pad lightly down the wooden stairs and find Pax in his underwear, punching a punching bag that is hanging from a ceiling beam. I didn’t even know it was down here. But then, I’ve never had a reason to be down here before.

  He’s sweaty and his muscles bulge and flex as he repeatedly punches at the bag. Over and over, with all of his strength. He doesn’t even notice that I’m standing here watching him. He’s focused solely in front of him.

  Whump.

  Whump.

  Whump.

  My heart feels shredded and I suck in a breath. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help him. I tiptoe back up the stairs and slide to the floor, sitting against the wall. I can hear him still, punching. Over and over and over. I’m afraid he’s going to hurt himself, or tear a muscle. But I know he won’t stop, not even if I ask him.

  I sit for at least another hour, my elbows on my knees, my face in my hands. And then the pounding finally stops. There is silence and then there are footsteps on the stairs.

  I look up just as Pax emerges.

  He looks down at me, then bends down and scoops me up.

  He’s sweaty, but I don’t care. I lean my face against his chest.

  Wordlessly, he carries me up the stairs and into the bedroom where he strips off his underwear and reaches for me. I’m surprised, but I fold into his arms. If this is the way he needs comforted, then so be it. I’ll do anything to take the hurt off of his face.

  His lips crush mine, hard. I kiss him back, but I quickly realize that this isn’t going to be our normal sex. This is hard and primal. Anguished. He bends me onto the bed, and slides into me from behind with no foreplay. I wince just a bit, but it doesn’t take long until I am wet.

  He slides in and out; hard, rough, fast.

  He grips my ass and thrusts harder.

  My hands grip the comforter on the bed and I stare at it. Pax isn’t really here with me. This isn’t him. This is just him trying to block everything out. I know that, even if he isn’t telling me.

  It doesn’t take long before he shudders against me; straining, pushing.

  He falls with me to the bed and when I look at him, for just a second, it is Pax again. His eyes are open and wide.

  “I’m sorry,” he tells me softly, clutching me. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”

  I don’t know who he is really apologizing to, me or maybe even his mom. I just don’t know. But I don’t care. I stroke his back as he shakes until he finally is still. He lies there for the longest time before he climbs out of bed and closes the bedroom door behind him.

  I don’t follow. I know he wants to be alone. And for the life of me, I don’t know how to help him.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Pax

  Hours turn into days.

  I don’t know how many and I don’t give a fuck. All I know is that I can’t turn the emotions off and I can’t un-see the memories that are in my head now.

  My father tries to call, but I don’t speak with him. Mila answers and turns to me but I look away. I don’t want to hear from him. Fuck him.

  Dr. Tyler tries to call. But I won’t speak with him, either. Mila asks, then she turns away, speaking softly to the doctor. But I don’t give a fuck about that, either. They can say what they want.

  And Mila.

  Fuck.

  My stomach clenches at the thought of Mila. I’m causing her pain, too. Because I can’t be the person she needs me to be right now. I can’t drive back to the doctor’s and sit with her while we discuss my feelings. Instead, I’m an asshole. Because that’s who I am. That’s what I do best. There for a while, I tried to pretend that I wasn’t, but my true colors are showing now.

  I’m a fucking dick.

  Nothing I’ve done so far, though, has caused her to leave. I don’t want to talk, I pace instead of sleep, I drink too fucking much and I even angry-fucked her. She didn’t leave. She just looked at me, so understanding and soft, and said she wanted to help me however she could.

  What the fuck?

  My stomach clenches. As angry as I am at life, I don’t want to hurt her.

  I turn to her now, to where she is curled up on the couch reading.

  “Mila, you really should leave,” I tell her abruptly. “I’m not fit company. I think it would be best if you went back to your place while I work through this.”

  She looks at me, wounded. And my gut clenches again. I know I have to do this. I’m only going to hurt her in the long run anyway. I might as well do it in one fell swoop. A clean break. She starts to protest, but I interrupt.

  “It’s fine to leave me. I’m through the worst of it. You have a life to get back to, a job. Your sister needs you. Please. I need time alone. You can call me tonight.”

  She looks uncertain and my heart twinges.

  Fuck, how I hate this.

  But this is what I deserve. I don’t deserve someone like her.

  She stands up, reaching up to touch my face. I close my eyes for just a minute, but then steel my resolve and open them again.

  I stare down at her and remove her hand. That hurts her, I can see it.

  It’s for the best.

  She finally nods.

  “Okay. If that’s what you need,” she says uncertainly. “But call me if you need anything. And I’ll come back tonight after I close my shop and check in with my sister.”

  I nod. I walk away before I stop her from leaving.

  I hear her car pulling out of the drive and I throw my glass of water at the wall. It shatters and I replace it with a bottle of Jack.

  This is what I deserve.

  My chest feels like it is crushing me and I fight to swallow. There is just so much to deal with. I don’t know where to start. So fuck it.

  I grab the bottle of Xanax from the counter and head to the couch with my whiskey. I drop into a heap and pop the top off the pill bottle, taking several and washing them down with the Jack.

  I drink the rest of the bottle.

  I close my eyes and for once, there is nothing there but blackness. I breathe a sigh of relief and I finally sleep.

  When I wake, it is morning.

  I know that because morning sunlight pours through the windows.

  I wince and sit up, rubbing my temples.

  I slept through the night. With no nightmares, no thoughts of my mother. I smile, my lips stretching tightly. Suddenly, it’s clear. I can’t handle the issues on my own. I need my old friend, Jack. And my new friend, Xanax.

  X marks the spot.

  I pick up my phone and glance at it. Three missed calls, three voicemails and twelve texts, all from Mila.

  Are you alright?

  Pax, answer your phone.

  Please answer your phone.

  I’m worried about you, Pax. This isn’t fair. Answer your phone.

  They pretty much all say the same thing. I punch in one answer.

  Don’t worry. I’m fine.

  After I get a fresh bottle of whiskey from the kitchen, I pop more pills in my mouth, three of them. Then I add two more.

  It isn’t long before the blackness comes back. I welcome it with open arms. I sing to it, I croon to it. I cradle it in my arms. I do whatever the fuck I want to do to it because it’s blackness, the darkest of nights, and it doesn’t care. If I am alone in the dark, nothing matters. I can’t hurt anyone but myself and I fucking deserve it.

  I close my eyes and let the darkness cradle me. It can fuck me for all I care.

  ********

  Mila

  I can’t think straight. I accidentally didn’t charge a customer at the store. So after that, I gave up and turned my sign to Closed.

  I sit by the window of my store, staring out at the happy people walking down the sidewalk. They don’t kn
ow how good they have it. Their lives are so easy.

  I try to text Pax again, but like the four days prior, there isn’t any answer. I’ve driven out there, pounded on the door, called him, even cussed into his voicemail.

  No answer.

  Only once. Don’t worry, I’m fine.

  He’s not fine. And no one seems to care but me.

  I’ve thought about calling the police to have them check on him, but I doubt they would. He’s not doing anything illegal, so what can they do? It’s not illegal to drink yourself into a stupor. And the only thing he has in the house, to my knowledge, is the prescription Xanax. I once again wonder at the wisdom of prescribing that to Pax.

  When I had asked Dr. Tyler about it, he explained that he had prescribed it because Pax isn’t an addict.

  “He’s not addicted to any substance,” the doctor had said. “He simply hasn’t formed proper coping mechanisms for stress. If he feels like he can’t cope, I’d rather him take a Xanax during the short term while we’re working on these issues rather than seek out illegal drugs. Plus, you’ll be there with him. Everything will be fine, Mila.”

  But I’m not there anymore. And things aren’t fine.

  I see an image of Jill’s open, dead eyes and shudder.

  That could have been Pax. And I’m terrified that if someone doesn’t do something, that will be Pax.

  With shaking fingers, I pick up the phone and do the only thing I can think of to do.

  I call his father.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Pax

  I am falling, falling, falling.

  It is black and dark and I can’t see, I can’t think, I can’t feel. But that’s how I like it. If I can’t feel, then nothing hurts. So I keep it that way.

  If I wake, I drink myself back to sleep with a Xanax chaser. It isn’t long before I’m in the black again, drifting pointlessly along, sleeping without nightmares.

  Only blackness.

  I sigh. This is where I belong, where the dark is timeless.

  Painless.

  The light is painful. The light is where I see her face and know how I failed her.

  I’ll stay far away from the light.

  Forever.

  It isn’t worth it.

  I start to close my eyes but realize that they are already closed, so I smile.

  This is where I belong.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I open my eyes blearily, trying to focus. I look around at the room. I’m in the living room and I seem to be wearing the same clothes that I’ve been wearing for a while. What woke me? It’s dark outside, so it wasn’t the sun.

  I reach for my whiskey, but find that the bottle is empty.

  Fuck.

  That means I’m out. I’ll have to make a trip to town.

  And then I hear what woke me. Pounding on the door.

  My heart twinges. I know it’s probably Mila. She’s been here a hundred times this week, trying to get me to open the door, but I never get off the couch to do it. She doesn’t need to see me this way. She doesn’t deserve to be here like this.

  The pounding gets louder, very loud.

  Fuck. She’s pissed now. I’m impressed with the strength she’s using on that door.

  And then, there’s a loud crack and something breaks.

  What the fuck?

  I stand up and the room spins. I haven’t been on my feet in a couple of days. I steady myself and re-open my eyes. When I do, I find my father standing in front of me. He is clean and shaven and dressed in jeans.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask him. “Did you just break down my fucking door?”

  My father’s jaw clenches. “That’s what happens when you don’t answer it for a week. Your girlfriend called me because she was worried. Get in the shower. We’re going to talk.”

  I glare at him. “Fuck you. The time to talk was years ago. In fact, you’ve had any number of chances over the years to talk. But you didn’t. And now I don’t want to talk. Get over it.”

  I try to shove past him, to walk through to the kitchen, but he grabs my arm.

  His grip is strong and determined.

  “Take a shower,” he says slowly and deliberately. “You smell like piss. Get clean clothes on and come back out here. We’re going to talk. Now. Today.”

  I stare at him and he stares back. He’s not backing down. And I do smell like piss. Finally, I look away.

  “Whatever. I do need a shower.”

  I leave the room without looking back. I step into my shower and let the water run over me while my fucking head pounds. I can’t remember if I drank any water this week at all. I actually don’t remember much at all about this week. Every time I woke up, I simply took more pills and drank more whiskey.

  I wash, shave and get dressed.

  Then I make my way to the kitchen, where I chug two bottles of water. Even after that, my mouth is still dry so I must be pretty dehydrated. I take another bottle of water with me to the living room, where my father is waiting for me.

  He’s cleaned the place up while he waited, picking up the empty bottles of whiskey from the floor. He’s sitting in a chair now.

  He stares at me as I enter.

  He’s grim and sober and I find that I suddenly don’t want to have this conversation.