by S. Massery
“You were moaning,” he says gently. “And not in a good way.”
I shake my head, still bent over. I can’t seem to catch my breath. Vaguely, I’m aware of the tears pouring down my face. I want to douse myself in ice.
He climbs out of bed and kneels before me. It’s then that I realize we’re naked, and I need clothes. There is way too much vulnerability in this room.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. It’s too forceful. I edge around him, grabbing a t-shirt out of my dresser.
“Are you okay?”
I can practically feel my mother’s glare. Admitting to anything other than perfection is a cardinal sin. I’m not sure why her etiquette is rearing its ugly head now, of all times. Her presence is so thick in my mind, I can almost envision her in my room. Sitting in the chair by the closet, eyes raised, waiting for me to fuck up.
That was the way of it growing up.
Sixth grade, my first crush told me I was fat. I cried on the bus; I cried when I got home. She sat there and watched me, and then said, “Tears don’t help you. Cry if you must, but do it in the privacy of your own home, and then move on. Better yourself.” She folded her arms. “Fat? Do you think you’re fat?” I shook my head, paused at her expression, and then nodded. “We’ll get you a gym membership, then.” Like a good daughter, I nodded again. Yes, mother, a gym membership will solve all of my problems. Thank you.
I blink, and she vanishes.
I’m losing my mind.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“That’s the third time you’ve said you’re sorry,” Avery says. “What… was it a bad dream?”
I gulp and block out what it felt like. The dream has evaporated, but phantom fire traces my skin. “A nightmare.” Inhale, exhale. I shiver, and rub my arms against the sudden goosebumps. “I just need water. You should go back to sleep.”
He stares at me for a second, before crossing the distance and wrapping me in a hug.
We haven’t hugged in a while, although we’ve done… everything else. It feels like being wrapped in a warm blanket. It reminds me that I’m still here. “Charlotte, I wouldn’t do that to you. I’ve got you, okay, babe?”
I nod against his chest. When we do climb back into bed, I keep my face pressed into his chest. We’re so close, it’s hard to breathe, and my breath gets stuck in my lungs until I roll away and let him spoon me. I close my eyes, but I know sleep will be a long way off.
For as long as I can remember, I have had intermittent nightmares. I can go months without a nightmare, and then one week I’ll have four or five. They all make me feel like I need to scrub out my brain to forget the way they make me feel: helpless. Alone. Terrified.
The last time it happened was almost a year ago. They had been about someone breaking into my house and tying me up while they ransacked my house. I hadn’t even lived in a house, then, but my crazy mind had me living in a huge house filled with jewels that the robber took his time sifting through. Each night, it was the same and yet different: the robber wore pajamas in one. I tried to run away in another. The robber beat me senseless in another.
After that one, I woke up with a bloody nose.
Early morning light filters in through my blinds when I finally give up on sleep. I let Avery’s arm fall off of me. It’s too early for him to be stirring, and he rolls away from me. I watch his peacefulness for a minute; I count the spaces between his inhales and exhales. I feel the press of a headache against my eyes. In all this time, I’ve never dreamed of being on fire, like Jared used to dream. It feels like a line in my imagination has been crossed, from uneasy to frantic.
I slide out of bed and walk into the bathroom. I turn the shower on and shuck off my clothes. Once I’m under the coldest water that I can handle, I wait. I feel the choking, closing of my throat that precedes the tears. So many tears, so little time. Who knew a girl could cry so much?
I cough, remembering the burning feeling on my legs. This dream scarred Jared for years. I would wake up to his screams when he lived in our house. For some reason, I was always the first one there. I would grip his hand as he panted, paralyzed flat on his back, until he could move. He would be covered in sweat, practically dripping with it, his bed soaked, too. I had no problem, at such a young age, inviting my best friend to sleep in my bed. We would fall asleep on opposite sides of my bed, an ocean of space between us, except for our interlocked fingers.
“It was just a dream,” I say out loud. I need to hear the words bounce back at me.
Out of the shower, my skin is too pink. I get halfway into my work clothes before I realize that it is Saturday, and I groan inside the closet. Avery watches me from the bed, awake now, with a curious look on his face.
“Do you want to talk about it?” His voice is low.
“Nope.”
He nods. He understands, maybe, that I am not trying to push him away. I just can’t replay it one more time in my head. I’ve started to lock it away with the rest of the nightmares.
“Breakfast, then?”
“Please,” I say. I’m grateful that he lets it go so easily. He gets out of bed and kisses me—the first time he’s done so without going to the bathroom, first. I lean into him, opening my mouth, when I smell and taste what he’s been hiding: the worst morning breath in the history of bad breath.
I force myself to smile at him when we pull away. He says something about meeting me in the kitchen, and he disappears into the bathroom. Bad breath, I muse. I suppose I can deal with that.
“What are your plans for the day?” Avery asks as he walks into the kitchen.
I look him over. He changed from sleep shorts into sweatpants, and graces me with a sexy smile. “I’m not sure,” I say.
He hums. A deviant look gleams in his eye. “We can figure something out.”
29
Things are surprisingly easy.
Yes, we bicker a bit. Yes, his morning breath continues to irritate me.
But beyond that, we mesh well together. We like most of the same foods and understand the same jokes. It feels comfortable. It’s easy to sink into a routine around him. We make plans for our future: dates, sleepovers. He even asks me if I’ll go to a Halloween party with him, which is weeks away. It makes me feel safer. I’ve been curled into a protective ball for so long, it’s nice to stretch my wings a bit.
Three nights after my nightmare, I have the dream again. It’s worse, though, because I can’t wake up until my hair starts to burn. Avery isn’t there, and I throw up in the toilet before stepping into the shower—in my pajamas—and forcing myself to stand in the cold water until I can’t stop shivering.
Once I’m back in bed, I pick up my phone, dial, and then squeeze my eyes shut until I hear his voice.
“Charlie?”
I bite down on my lip before I say, “How did you know it was me?”
“My mother would never call at two in the morning,” Jared says.
I pull back and look at the time on my phone. I’m an idiot. “Did I wake you up?”
“No. I don’t sleep too much these days. They were just changing my bandages. Again.”
“Someone else wouldn’t call you at two a.m.?” Like your girlfriend?
“A lot of friends have jumped ship in the past few months.”
I cock my head, even though he can’t see me. “You act like it happened months ago.”
Jared pauses. “Did your mom not tell you—”
“Tell me what?”
“The accident happened two weeks ago. I have a lot of burns, but it was manageable. But then, my leg got infected on top of bronchitis. We decided to amputate when they couldn’t get the infection under control.”
My heart is galloping out of control. “Fuck,” I mutter. I didn’t mean to swear—it slipped out—but it felt freeing to let out my anger. “My fucking mother.” It made me want to throw something. He’d been alone, this whole time, injured? Not that I would’ve wanted to call him a month ago, or even when my mother first sugges
ted it. But she had made it seem so… immediate. Devastating.
It was devastating.
“Sorry, Jared.”
He chuckles. “No, it’s okay. It might not have been a priority for my parents to tell your mom. I, for one, didn’t want everyone in the old neighborhood to know.”
“You wouldn’t have wanted me to know?”
“Not you, Charlie. You’re the exception.” He audibly swallows. “The last time we talked, you were so quiet.”
“Yeah, well….” I don’t want to tell him that Colby had a lasting impact on my silence. As far as I know, he doesn’t know Colby and I ever interacted beyond that time Jared almost beat his face in.
“Charlie.”
I jerk. “Yes?”
“I’m assuming there’s a reason you called?”
Oh. I pull my damp hair to one side, twisting it around my fingers. “Do you remember those dreams you used to have? Of being…”
“On fire?”
I whisper, “Yes.”
He sighs. “Yes, of course I remember.” They became my reality, he doesn’t say.
My face burns. “How did you get them to stop?” I am such a wuss. Jared endured years of those dreams. I had two and am ready to call it quits.
We’re both silent for a minute, remembering our past.
“It took some time. Eventually, I realized that the fire wasn’t just… fire. It was fear that was eating me alive. So, in the dream, I became my own hero. My own firefighter.” And then he became an actual firefighter.
I nod, because it makes sense. In a dream, no one can save you except yourself.
“Why are you asking?”
Now, I don’t want to tell him. I don’t want to admit that I can’t seem to save myself from his horrors.
“You’re not having those dreams, are you?”
I blow air through my lips. Jared used to do this thing where he’d ask me a tough question, and when I refused to answer, he wouldn’t talk. He would just… kill me with silence. Young me, who couldn’t seem to shut up around him, hated it. He does it now. I can hear his steady breathing, but neither of us says anything for a full minute and a half.
“Fine, yes,” I admit. “I’ve only had two. But I’ve had nightmares for so long, off and on.”
“You never used to have nightmares.”
It started because of the pills, I think. That’s what my parents blamed it on, after Colby was arrested and my stash was found. I went through a wicked withdrawal, and that was when the nightmares started. The therapist I saw throughout high school and part way into college only moderately helped. Nothing fixed it except riding it out. I would hate to think that I’m back to that… to letting my fears take over.
“They started in high school. After—” I can’t force the words out. I’m not sure how this went from me asking for help, to me… being vulnerable.
I don’t like being vulnerable.
“This conversation is going downhill,” Jared says. “You don’t have to tell me. I just—I wish I had gotten out of my own ass when we were younger. I regret losing our friendship.”
I close my eyes. This is why I shouldn’t have called in the middle of the night. Now, we have all these emotions that are going to come out of the woodwork. I can’t judge, in this moment, how I feel. Talking to Jared is reminiscent of a past life that doesn’t quite fit. I hate that his voice is a balm against the memory of fire.
“Jared… I was a mess in high school. Capital M.”
“Why? You weren’t a mess before I left…”
“I don’t really want to talk about this,” I bite out.
His silence reminds me that we aren’t friends anymore. I’ve struck him speechless. And then, “I’m just glad that I’ve talked to you twice in a week, Charlie.”
“Me, too.”
When I was younger, I blamed everything surrounding Colby on Jared moving away. The notebook holding my letters to Jared pops into my head; I thought that, by putting the words down on paper, Jared would realize I needed his help. It was my mistake, though, because he wasn’t a superhero. I shouldn’t have attached unrealistic expectations to him, especially at fifteen. When I left for college, my parents cleaned up my room and made it suitable for guests. They took most of my stuff—clothes, trinkets, the like—and boxed it up, to be stored in a closet in the basement. I’m sure that notebook is tucked into one of those boxes, and if I read it now, I don’t think I’d recognize the girl who left herself between those pages.
“I wish things were different,” he says in my ear. “But we can talk about that another time.”
I glance at the clock, surprised that we have been talking for more than a half hour.
“You’re right,” I say. All at once, I’m afraid to close my eyes again. My past nightmares suddenly seem easy, compared to burning alive. I shiver. “I’ll let you go.”
“Are you going to be okay?”
I choke on a laugh. “Me? You’re the one missing half a limb, Jared, not me. I’m peachy by comparison.”
He is silent for a second. I wonder if I’ve crossed a line. But then, “It isn’t a competition, Charlie. You’re allowed to not be okay, even if my being not okay happens to be a thousand times worse than yours.” I imagine he would then wink at me to lessen the blow of his words. It still hurts to hear.
“Goodnight, Jared.”
30
I stare out at the sea of people and swallow. I am not a costume person. Hell, I’m not really much of a holiday person, in general.
Avery stands next to me, and maybe he’s shocked into silence because he loosely holds my hand and keeps his mouth closed. The club, which his friend Steve insisted that we go to instead of the party Avery originally invited me to, is packed. Orange and black lights flicker over the dancing crowd from the DJ booth. I feel the pulse of music in my ribcage, threatening to take over my heartbeat. It makes me long for the quiet of my apartment, the safety of my bed.
“Danny Zuko! Looking good, dude!”
Avery turns, and Steve pushes through a group of zombies with a girl following close behind him. The guys do some sort of weird guy greeting—back slapping, fist bumping—while the girl and I stand watching them.
Steve grins at me. “And this is your Sandy, huh?”
“Charlie,” I supply, at the same time that Avery says, “Charlotte.”
Steve raises his eyebrows. “Okay, yeah. Cool. This is my girl, Larissa.” She steps forward and shakes my hand and Avery’s. She is dressed as Wonder Woman—the old red-white-and-blue version—and her long black hair falls to the small of her back. Steve has on a white dress shirt and black rimmed glasses. At my confused look, he pulls apart his shirt to reveal the blue, red, and gold emblem of Superman.
“Nice,” I say. Avery nods.
It was my idea to go as Danny and Sandy from Grease. I opted for pre-transformation Sandy. It was easier, and I already had most of the parts—a white blouse, sweater, and I found a long, pale yellow skirt at a thrift store. But now that we’re here, I’m hot. The fabric feels heavy on my skin; the end of October in Boston isn’t as chilly as I had hoped it would be. With bodies pressing in on us, the temperature is warm and humid.
We follow the couple into the depths of the club. Steve has a friend who owns the club, and he managed to reserve us a table. As soon as we sit, girls start approaching the two men with their cleavage bared. It’s like Larissa and I have turned invisible, although she holds her poker face better than I can.
“I’ll be your dangerous Sandy,” one girl—dressed as a vampire—croons to Avery from behind us. She leans in dangerously close over the back of the booth. I can smell her cheap, fruity perfume.
He makes a face, says, “No, thanks,” and wraps an arm around me. It only takes a second for the vampire girl to register his rejection. She glares at me before spinning away.
Larissa—Wonder Woman—leans across the table. “So, how did you and Avery meet?”
I glance at Avery. “We me
t in New York a few year ago,” I say. She makes me repeat it, louder, and then she nods.
“That’s cute! So you guys are boyfriend and girlfriend?”
I catch Steve nudging Larissa with his elbow. “Seriously?”
She laughs. “Just harmless questions! Stevie and I met here, at this club! I’m a waitress here most weekends.” She watches us with eyes that are a little too sharp for comfort, and I don’t answer her.
In truth, I can see how she would be able to work here and be good at it. Her body is alluring: small waist, big breasts, and curved, flared hips. She has yet to stop flipping her hair around. I wonder how tangled it must get, how often she has to tell Steve to get off of it. I feel like a nun compared to her. While she has barely any clothing on, I have a full skirt and blouse. Lame.
In my ear, Avery asks, “Want to dance?”
No, I think. But he managed to get me into a costume and to agree to come to a club. I may as well make the best of it. I nod, and he grins.
“See you guys later,” he shouts to Steve and Larissa. They’re already turning into each other, and they look like they’re about to devour one another.
Once on the dance floor, I try to let the music overtake me. I shake out my limbs, move my hips, but I feel awkward. Avery looks at me for a second, already dancing, before he steps forward and wraps his arms around me. He pulls me tightly to him, our whole bodies touching, and he moves us slowly. I wrap my arms around his neck and let him lead.
It only takes a few minutes for me to become lost in the feel of us moving together. The song changes to sometimes with a better beat, and Avery spins me out and back to him. We laugh together, and the rest of the night blurs together.
The next morning, it hurts to open my eyes. I cover my face with my hands, groaning. Avery rolls into me, burying his face into my neck.
“What happened last night?” I ask. My voice is hoarse and scratchy. I remember dancing, and Steve handing me a drink—some sort of vodka concoction—and the rest is a blur. How we got home is a mystery.
