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Throwaway Girls

Page 19

by Andrea Contos


  But because of Mabel, because of everything I did to make standing on these cold, warped floors possible, our worlds merged. Not long enough, but better than not at all.

  And now Jake is ruining that. Ruining the only space I have left that’s mine, where I can be without judgment or expectation or having to remember which version of myself I’m supposed to be.

  For that, I want to shove him onto the sidewalk and lock the door behind him.

  “She was lucid at the time, so fuck you very much for asking!” I rip my zipper down and stomp the jeans into a pile beneath my feet because I need to do something before I do something I’ll regret.

  Jake’s fingers press into the dryer so hard the veins in his forearm bulge, and it’s only through the haze of rage that I realize we’re both standing in our underwear.

  The wind blusters outside and seeps through the gaps in the door, trickling over my skin and drawing out a shudder.

  He said I was the ocean.

  Jake’s breath hitches, and before he can exhale, he’s walking back down the hall.

  After tossing in my clothes and cranking the dryer on, I creep back into my room and throw him a towel, hoping it’s not covered in dust.

  He takes longer than he needs to drape it over himself, adjusting and readjusting so I have time to pull on a pair of leggings without feeling like I’m putting on a show.

  I’ve almost got my shirt tugged to my waist when he says, “I thought you were kidding. Didn’t figure you for a flower kind of girl.”

  I’m thrown by how quiet his voice is, how scared he sounds, and the guilt over being the cause makes my insides churn. “Is that your way of saying you don’t like it?”

  He waves me over and I pull up my shirt to reveal the whole tattoo. His fingers flit over my skin — lightly, like he’s afraid to let them land — and he scans the full length of my ribs before his mouth turns down. “It looks great on you, Caroline. It’s just —”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Jake, so help me —”

  “Is it supposed to be all … floppy like that?”

  I yank down my shirt and smack his arm for good measure. “It’s an iris, you asshole. That’s how they look.”

  “I’m the asshole? I didn’t know they made sad, mopey flowers like that.”

  “It’s not sad or mopey. It’s just not the same as all the other flowers.”

  “Because you’re not the same as other girls?”

  The bed creaks when I drop onto it. “Because to me, she’s not like other girls.”

  He nods and his elbows drop to his knees, his head bowed. “I assaulted a cop today. Probably on video.”

  It’s not like I didn’t know that, but hearing the words turns my muscles to water. “I’m sorry. For —” He shakes his head to cut me off and I talk right over him. “I am sorry, and let’s fix it, okay? Text your dad and tell him you didn’t recognize them.”

  “Yeah, but you —” His head snaps up with the realization that I did recognize them, and his innocence will make me look twice as guilty. “No. I’m not pinning this on you.”

  “Jake.” I grab his hand and it twitches beneath my fingers. “I am royally fucked. You are not. So text your dad and tell him you’re trying to help me because you’re worried about my safety or whatever, and then you say you saw this creepy dude staring me down in the aisle and you were trying to protect me, and I didn’t tell you it was Brisbane until later.” It’s an explanation mostly rooted in truth, and those are the hardest to destroy. Plus, Jake’s dad has fellow judge-people connections. It will work.

  He stares into the corner, his gaze unfocused. “I don’t know, Caroline.”

  But it’s the “I don’t know” of someone who does know.

  I grab his phone from the bed. “If you want to go to the drug house with me, just tell him you’re still trying to talk me into turning myself in. Then turn off your phone.”

  It only takes a few minutes, and when the screen blinks to black he tosses it onto the bed. “Can I ask you something?”

  “I guess you’ve earned it.”

  He laughs but it’s choked, and a tidal wave of red rushes from his neck to his cheeks. “You don’t have to answer, but … what do you like about girls?”

  It takes every bit of my emotion-suppression training to keep the laugh in my belly from bubbling up. And then I have to complete a four-count Sama Vritti to keep myself under control. “I’d imagine the same things you like about girls.”

  He scoots back on the bed until his shoulders touch the wall. “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “Give me an example.”

  “Boobs?”

  He rolls his eyes and a smile lights his face. “You have your own.”

  “You have your own tongue and I’m sure you still appreciate other people’s.”

  “Touché. But what else? And don’t name other body parts.”

  “Zero chance of pregnancy?”

  “I have no argument for that. What else?”

  I jump into the middle of the bed because the ridiculousness of this conversation is exactly what I need to stop thinking about everything else, just for a minute. Because this feels normal, like we’re back at school, but with all the layers we’ve built between us stripped clean. “It’s your turn.”

  “We’re not taking turns. You’re proving my point for me.”

  “You have a point? And you expect me to prove it for you? Mr. McCormack would be very disappointed.” Panic lances through me because he still hasn’t texted or emailed.

  Jake balls the towel and tosses it into the hallway with enough speed it thwacks against the wall. “Are you going to be honest about him and —”

  “Yes. Yes, I am going to be honest, by speaking the same truth I’ve been speaking all along. You know what’s funny, Jake? Dozens of women can come out and claim some guy assaulted them and millions of people won’t believe them, but my story has never changed and no one will believe me.”

  “You’re oversimplifying. People are just trying to protect you and —”

  “This.” I’m off the bed and pacing the floor because otherwise I’ll smother him with my pillow. “You want to know why I like girls? Because they might not agree with me but they get it. I wouldn’t have to explain this to them. And even if they thought I was oversimplifying, they’d at least start off by saying, ‘Yeah, that is fucking bullshit.’ Everybody likes to act like girls are all oversensitive and needy, but anyone who’s ever dated a guy knows exactly how fragile dudes’ egos are.”

  “You know, I’m a guy, and I’m sitting right here.”

  “And you asked the question.”

  I don’t know if I should apologize or he should. Right and wrong are so twisted together I can’t find the threads to follow to the end.

  I weave my hands through my hair and press the heels of my palms against my temples. The pressure chases away some of the tension coiling in my head, and I open my mouth to tell Jake he needs to cut his losses and go home, that there’s no way he could possibly understand, when he says, “They pay attention. Even when you don’t realize you’re angry or upset, they do. That’s my turn. My non-physical thing I like about girls.”

  I want to crawl into my bed and pull the covers over my head, let my aching body relax into the softness of sleep and denial.

  I keep trying to cast off the versions of myself that don’t fit anymore. The ones that chafe and confine. But they’re never gone. They find their way back and slip over me like chains, forcing me to break free again.

  One day, it will be the last time. One day I’ll weaken them until they’re in jagged pieces.

  But right now those chains are telling me to stay, to spend the night in this silent house with Jake — with the comfort of another quiet creature breathing next to m
e. They’re telling me to hide and pretend, to give up and convince myself it’s not my responsibility to find Madison, to burrow into the safety of these walls as the wind ravages the windows and the rain rushes against the roof, where the only things that can hurt me are the two people in this room.

  I flounce onto the bed and sit next to him, using the side of his shoulder as a backrest. “They don’t make you say the words, and they give you what you need anyway.”

  I take the shift at my back as agreement, and he adds, “They pick out awesome birthday and Christmas presents.”

  “Word.”

  “Shit you didn’t even realize you wanted.”

  “That little spot on the inside of their hip bones.”

  “That’s physical.”

  I shrug. “The non-physical stuff, guys can do too, you know? It’s personality, not gender. I guess I just never care about what package the person comes in.”

  “Except for the boobs.”

  “And hip bones.”

  “Soft skin.”

  “That little gasp when your tongue hits that spot on their neck. The way they bite their lip or their breathing goes quick when —”

  Jake mumbles, “Jesus, you have to stop,” and slides across the bed, my head smacking onto the mattress.

  When I stop laughing, I say, “I told you we had the same reasons.”

  “I didn’t expect you to go all description-porn about it.”

  “Yeah, well, clearly my hormones think I am in desperate need of action.” He’s silent so long I cram my head into the blankets to look up at him. Even upside down it’s impossible to misunderstand his thoughts. So I whack him in the head with my pillow.

  My world goes black when he ricochets it back, muffling my laughter as the bed bounces beneath me. By the time I throw the pillow off the bed and take in my first clean breath, I’m surrounded by him, tilting under the weight of his body, and I have to blink twice to take in this new view of him.

  His voice is even different. Deeper, commanding. “You said it’s the person, right?”

  “Jake, I —”

  “She’s gone, Caroline.”

  My tongue plasters to the roof of my mouth and my voice comes out hoarse. “She dumped me.”

  She abandoned me, and I still can’t find the things I did wrong. The things that weren’t enough to make her stay.

  His hand cradles my jaw, thumb brushing over my cheek. “How much time are you going to waste on someone who doesn’t deserve it? Stop pretending you don’t understand.”

  His mouth lowers over mine and the wind swells, sending an avalanche of rain against the window, each wave more savage than the last. This is the Jake the other girls talk about. The player. The alpha male. The captain of whatever team is in season.

  His tongue delves deep and his hand tangles in my hair, my nape tingling with the tension, and I do understand. I understand how he has different versions too, and I wish I knew which one feels right to him, which one makes him feel like he’s broken through his own chains.

  I don’t think it’s this one — not for either of us.

  My phone trills and we both startle, but as I go to reach for it, Jake’s pulling me back to him, his lips hot against my neck. “Ignore it.”

  “I can’t. It’s Aubrey.”

  He pulls back and I don’t have time to explain because I’m about to miss her call.

  Aubrey’s already yelling at me when I get the phone to my ear.

  I give Jake a look that says I’m sorry even though I think Aubrey just saved us both, and I grab my jacket from the armchair.

  The dryer buzzes so loud my words to Aubrey are completely engulfed, and I tuck the phone against my shoulder, ripping open the dryer door while my half-on coat flops from my arm.

  Jake’s clothes singe my hands and I barely manage to hold on to them. “Just pull into the driveway and I’ll open the garage.”

  I sprint into the room where Jake is stuck in a state of … shock? Barely constrained rage?

  He hasn’t moved.

  I drop our tangled clothes in a pile near his legs, and he says, “Aubrey is here?”

  I cover the mouthpiece and nod. “Because of the makeup.”

  He has no idea what I’m talking about, but I walk out anyway, scrambling to shrug on my coat and cram my bare feet into my boots.

  The world beyond the walls of the house is a full-fledged assault. Rain pelts my skin in a thousand pinpricks, and even the sidewalk feels slick beneath my feet. My breath escapes in clouds and tree branches sway and lurch in the wind.

  Twin beams of light split the darkness and the steady thump of Aubrey’s wipers draws nearer.

  Broken concrete shifts and crunches in the space beneath the garage handle, and I remind myself if I make it through this mess I need to send a Mabel email to Dad and tell him someone needs to come look it over. I grab the T-pronged handle with both hands and pull.

  My fingers pop free, throbbing and stinging, and I grasp tighter until the handle clicks and the door scrapes open, tilting from the bottom and rising toward the moonless sky.

  I duck inside while Aubrey wedges her car in to the empty space next to Mabel’s/mine. Her door opens inch by inch, and that’s my first clue. The second is her equally slow emergence.

  I already learned my lesson with Jake, so I cut her off before she has the chance to stand. “The house belongs to an old lady named Mabel, and I stay here sometimes when I can’t stand being anywhere else, and yes it’s safe and yes she knows.” Most of the time.

  Her eyes scan the garage — the oil-stained floor and battered tool benches, the broken window pane — and then inch toward the house. Even through the rain she registers the dented siding on the tiny one-story ranch, the split wood dangling from the side of the deck

  Mabel has a habit of asking my dad to hold off on big projects on account of her sensitive, headache-prone ears, and she always knows just how to phrase things so he’ll agree.

  Three more months, and he’ll be free to do whatever he wants.

  Aubrey’s arms lock over her chest and she nods in a way that’s nowhere near agreeable. “Sure. Yeah. Looks totally safe and appropriate for a teenaged girl to hang out in alone.”

  “Okay. Glad we had this talk. Stuff in the trunk?”

  She glares at me but hits the lock button anyway, and it only takes a few minutes to grab all her gear and make another clothes-soaking trek into the house, where Jake has managed to put on his pants but not his shirt, and there’s so much silent conversation we may as well be screaming.

  I dump Aubrey’s makeup cases onto the table and their contents scatter.

  There’s no time to soothe feelings and craft explanations. Jake is right. It’s well past time to stop pretending anything in my life could resemble normal.

  Pretending led to leaving a nameless girl in the woods.

  But if one thing makes sense, it’s that if I want to find Madison, I need to follow the connections the cops won’t. Sydney’s the closest connection I’ve got to Chrystal, and if she is alive, maybe she knows things — all the things Chrystal promised to tell me about Madison.

  I need to find Sydney.

  I need to go to The Bricks.

  And I need to look the part.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Jake veers from the highway and onto the exit ramp, tires bumping over the land mine of potholes, and Aubrey and I say, “This is the wrong exit,” in unison.

  He taps the steering wheel and clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably in Mabel’s driver’s seat. “Just have to make a quick stop.”

  “Jake —”

  “Don’t be mad —”

  “I won’t be if you just drive to The Bricks.”

  “Can’t do that.”

  “Why can you not do that?”

 
Aubrey shrinks further into the back seat as my voice rises, and I’d bet she’s regretting her decision to come with us. Jake and I both lobbied for Aubrey staying at Mabel’s, which she adamantly refused to do. I would’ve left and refused to tell her where we’re headed, but I need her to drive Jake home, and truth is I don’t really want her to leave.

  I force my brain to ignore the memory of her sitting across from me, our knees touching, while she studied me. Then she frowned and declared she didn’t need to do anything to make me look strung out.

  Jake says, “Because you’re not royally fucked. At least, you don’t have to be.”

  He rolls Mabel’s car into a coffee shop parking lot and my brain is working better than I want it to because I can think of only one reason Jake is stopping for a latte right now.

  I stare at the Porsche cooling in a lot flanked by liquor stores. “Jake. I am not talking to your dad again. He’s not some magic cure for every situation.”

  “He can help.”

  “I don’t need help.”

  He slams the car into park. “You don’t — you don’t need help? Really? Because we ran from the cops tonight.”

  Behind me, Aubrey whimpers.

  “I can fix this. I just —”

  “Caroline.” It’s the quiet in Jake’s voice that gets me to look at him. When I do, his eyes are soft. “He’s cool, okay? He came through before. With the lipstick, right? I wouldn’t bring you here if he wasn’t.”

  I know he’s thinking about all the things I’ve told him about my parents, how they are definitely not “cool.”

  “I have makeup on that makes me look like an addict.”

  “I told him Aubrey was using us as practice.” Except he barely let her put any on him.

  He glances at his watch, then to the wall of windows and the soft beckoning light beyond them. There’s a long pause before he speaks. “If you really want to find Madison, and help Mr. McCormack, maybe you should tell someone the whole story.”

 

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