It's Our Secret

by W. Winters

  Dean makes a show of looking over his shoulder in the direction I keep checking out before shifting to block my view and standing a little closer. His broad shoulders tower over me. This is the second time he’s been this close to me, and it only makes me want to be closer.

  I can smell his unique, sexy scent and feel the heat in his eyes when I meet his gaze. It’s a heady combination. To have someone you’re innately drawn to so close. To know they want something you also want. But to also know with complete certainty it’s the last thing you should do. The temptation heats the air around us and turns everything to a blur of white noise.

  “I don’t need a better chance,” he finally answers me, his eyes narrowing. “I already told you, I want you and I’m not going to stop until you’re screaming my name just how I want to hear it.”

  “So confident,” I say, although it comes out differently than I’d planned. It was supposed to be sarcastic but instead, there’s a hint of reverence.

  “Come to the party,” he tells me like it’s a command and ignores the voices on the field. The ones calling out for him to head back. I use that as my excuse to leave.

  “You go play, and I’ll see you this weekend,” I answer him without thinking.

  “You’re leaving already?” he asks me and I nod.

  “I’ve got shit to do now that I have plans for tomorrow.” He likes that; I can tell by the way he smiles, and it does something to me. Something it shouldn’t.

  “Twenty sixteen Broom Street,” he tells me, but I already know the address.

  8

  Dean

  “So, what do you think about college?” Dr. Robinson asks me. He lowers his thick, horn-rimmed glasses and sets them down on the notepad in his lap. “Is it a good change?”

  My right ankle rests on my left knee as I sit back, running both my hands through my hair. “Yeah, it’s different. It’s good.”

  “Talk to me about it,” he says, prodding me for more. He’s good at that.

  “I don’t want to disappoint Jack, and I’m grateful. I still don’t know what I want to do, though.”

  “Well, it’s only been a week and I’m sure Mr. Henderson wouldn’t have sponsored you if he thought you’d disappoint him.”

  “We all know it was a favor to my uncle. I live off favors,” I say flatly, although I don’t look him in the eye. My gaze is on the ceiling fan in the center of the room. When I close my eyes, I can just barely feel the soft breeze. I wonder if anyone else in college feels as lost as I do. Like this is their last chance. I’ve been on my last chance for years now, so maybe this is my version of normal.

  “Do you think you don’t deserve it?” he asks me and I lower my gaze so I can meet his eyes. His expression is one of curiosity.

  “A free ride to college isn’t something I ever thought I’d get.”

  “And anger management? How about that?” he says, shifting in the seat of his dark brown leather chair. “Is that something you thought you’d get?”

  A low chuckle makes my shoulders shake. “Yeah, that makes sense to me,” I say with a grin.

  “How do you think this is working for you?”

  “I feel good,” I answer him and hope the gratitude comes through. “It’s nice to just say the shit I’m thinking.”

  “Have you thought more about my last suggestion?” he asks me and I shake my head.

  “Well, yeah, I’ve thought about it,” I say, correcting myself, realizing I was answering no to the wrong question. “I’m not doing it, though.”

  I left my mother’s house six years ago. From there I survived by hopping from friend to friend. Crashing at my uncle’s when he’d let me. I haven’t gone back to that hellhole my mother calls home and I don’t plan on it.

  She doesn’t want me there, so why would I?

  “You don’t think your mother would be interested in seeing your progress?” he asks.

  “I don’t see it as progress,” I say.

  “Why’s that?”

  The answer is obvious. College isn’t a job. There’s no worth to it. No value in it.

  I don’t know what the hell I’m doing with my life. I’m not offering anything to anyone. I’m just … here. How is that progress? It’s better for me, don’t get me wrong. It’s not better for anyone else, though.

  “I don’t see the point to it.” I pause and swallow thickly, bending forward and repositioning so my elbows are on my knees. I can feel the stretch through my back, loosening my tight shoulders and coiled muscles. “I like the team, I like the gym.”

  “The physical release?” he asks me, and I can’t help but think of Allison.

  My fingers interlace as I nod. “Yeah, the physical release,” I say and look up at him to keep from thinking about what I’d do to her if I got the chance.

  “And you think you need this physical release?”

  “I need something,” I answer quickly. I don’t tell him the truth. About how all that shit puts me on edge. How it makes me need more. How that alone will never be enough. Deep inside I know it, but I don’t admit it.

  “Anything else?” he asks as if he read my mind.

  “Nothing yet,” I tell him and falter, but decide to talk about her. Why the hell not? It’s better than talking about my emotions. How easily the hate comes out. How I can’t control the shit I say and the shit I do sometimes.

  Well, maybe not so much that I can’t, but that I don’t want to.

  “There’s this girl,” I start telling him while I pick up a fidget block from the glass coffee table. It’s pointless. A block of buttons and switches that do nothing, but it keeps my hands busy.

  “She’s real flirtatious and cute. We have chemistry together.” After seeing his brow raise, I add to clarify, “The class.” It’s quiet as he scribbles on the notepad.

  “I keep running into her,” I tell him. “I guess she’s on my mind because of that.”

  “You’re seeing her?”

  I shake my head. “Nah, I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Have you been physical?” he asks me.

  I tell him the truth, but in my head? Fuck yeah. Imagining getting her under me has been a good distraction.

  That second day of class, she was dressed in a tight shirt and a short little skirt.

  The shirt wasn’t see-through like I was fantasizing about, but with the blue plaid skirt, she was working that schoolgirl look. She did a damn fine job of it too.

  All during class, all I did was think about everything I could do to her. How I could bend this shy girl over the desk so easily.

  Every time she readjusted in her seat, I imagined being behind her, lifting her ass up and positioning her just how I wanted. I could hear how the desk would scrape across the floor as I pounded into her.

  It only took a few minutes before I was rock hard and eager to see just what I’d have to do to get under that skirt.

  The second class was over, Little Miss Brunette, my personal tease, was gone before I even shoved my notebook into my bag.

  “Why do you think you’re drawn to her?” he asks me, pulling me from the explicit thoughts running through my head.

  “She’s got a mouth on her,” I reply and think I should elaborate on how it’s what she says, more than her body, that gets me going. Hell, either way you look at it is accurate.

  “So, you’re going to pursue her?” he asks me, picking up the notebook again to jot something down.

  If by pursue her, he means fuck her until my cock is spent, then yes, that’s what I’m planning.

  I don’t tell him that though, I just nod my head once when he looks up.

  “So, you have your workout sessions, your rugby team, you have a love interest,” he lists then pauses as I snort, but I clear my throat and gesture for him to continue.

  “Have you thought about changing your major?” he asks me then adds, “It’s just something to keep in mind. I know it’s still early, but undecided is not exactly what you want from this experience, is
it?”

  “No, I definitely want to figure shit out,” I say and toss the fidget block back on the table. “I feel wound tight, like I just need something.”

  “What do you need?” he asks me.

  “I don’t know,” I tell him honestly. “I want to know, though.” I nod my head, swallowing back the disappointment, the fear that I’ll never know what I need to get over this anger. Or worse, that it’s just too late.

  I have a good idea why I’m like this. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. But I don’t know how to change and even worse, I don’t know what I’ll be like when I do change. And that scares the shit out of me.

  According to the good doctor, college is where you go to find out who you are. So far, I’ve learned I’m a man who has a vivid imagination when a sexy piece of ass wears a short plaid skirt to class. There’s a shocker.

  9

  Allison

  “Your flowers are dying,” I say out loud although there’s no one else here. My fingertips brush against the soft petals on a single bloom that’s still alive. “This one will be dead soon too,” I say and pause, letting my hand fall. “This window will be good for you, though,” I add as I water the first plant and then the next in the large bay window. It faces east and there’s plenty of sun.

  This was my grandmother’s therapy. Plants need to be talked to, she used to tell me. I thought she was crazy, but I did it anyway.

  And when she gave me a violet of my own, I took her advice. Shame the thing’s dying. Maybe I should talk more.

  My throat feels dry and itchy when I stand back, no longer busying myself.

  “Miss you,” I whisper. “You wouldn’t be so proud of me if you were here, though,” I say. I spent most of my first year out of high school with my grandmother. She needed someone and I did too. She’d have liked this house, I think. I’m happy I was able to rent it. The price is good, but the location is everything. It’s exactly where I need it to be.

  For the longest time, Grandmom was the only one I talked to. I’d work at the bakery, take care of Grandmom and then go home to sleep. It kept me busy and somehow my grandmother rubbed off on me. Over time, it became easier to refuse to let anyone in.

  Maybe it’s because she’s a hard woman too. Or was. She knew how hard it is to give even a little piece to anyone. Opening up a little inevitably means breaking down.

  She was tough and she showed me how to survive being this way.

  But now she’s gone and I’m here all alone.

  The click of the air conditioner is met with the curtains swaying. They’re bright white with bluebirds scattered across them. This is the only area in the entire house that’s decorated; it’s supposedly the dining room, but the table that came with the sparsely furnished place is strangely small for such a large room. And I don’t have any desire to put in any effort anywhere else. I can’t stand to be here any longer than I need to be.

  At that thought, I head to the kitchen for a cup of tea.

  The electric kettle is Grandmom’s too. Another reminder.

  The plants, the tea ... well, maybe that’s it.

  Standing at the laminate countertop, I look around the mostly empty kitchen. I don’t even have cutlery. But that’s okay, I don’t think I’ll be staying here long. “I brought your plants, though,” I say out loud like a fucking lunatic. Does it make it any better if I know I’m unwell? I tell myself it’s for the plants. Talking out loud to my dead grandmother is so the plants can grow. Yeah … okay.

  The kettle beeps and the light goes off, so I go about my business. Tea and then research. I pause after pouring the hot water into the porcelain cup, remembering Dean.

  He’s definitely a man who leaves an impression. I smile into the tea, drinking it unsweetened and loving the warmth as it flows through my chest. Dean’s also a wanted distraction.

  “You’d hate him, Grandmom,” I say with my eyes closed. “Or maybe not,” I say then shrug and remember how she gave me the advice to get over one man by getting under another. It was only a joke to her but I think she was onto something.

  With each sip of tea, I think about Dean. His large, strong hands. The way he likes to pretend he’s not wound tightly when it’s obvious he is. The hot tea is a soothing balm, but getting rid of this wound called Dean requires more than a mere hot drink. I should know.

  Just as I’m starting to relax, just as I feel a bit sane, my phone rings in the living room. My pace is slow, and all the good feelings are replaced with ice.

  There’s only one person who calls me and I don’t want to talk to her. I will, but all she’ll get are the pieces of me that remain. The remnants of who I used to be. She made her choice, and now we both have to deal with it.

  I take my time tossing the used tea bag into the trash, where it hits an empty box of hair dye. I absently twist the brunette curl dangling in my face around my finger as I walk to my phone. I don’t want to look like the girl I once was. I don’t want to be her anymore. Dyeing my hair helps.

  “Hello,” I answer the phone, setting the cup down on the floor and sitting cross-legged to look out the sliding doors at the back of the house.

  “You answered.” My mother sounds surprised, and maybe she should be. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard her voice.

  “What’s going on, Mom?” I ask her, feeling a sense of loneliness I haven’t felt in a while. Maybe it’s not the anger that keeps me at a distance from her. Maybe it’s just because she’s a reminder of what happened.

  “I wanted to let you know I bought you a sofa.” Her voice has a feigned sense of happiness to it. Like she can pretend we’re okay and one day we’ll be back to normal. “I need your address so I can send it. And a TV stand too. And if you need anything else …”

  “Mom, you didn’t have to do that,” I tell her simply. It hurts when I talk to her. Physically hurts. Because I still love her, but I hate her too. I can’t forgive myself and she’s the one who led me down that path. I’d rather hate her than hate myself.

  “I wanted to, and I know that you quit working when … she passed away four months ago, so money must be tight. If you need any …” my mother falters then continues, “I don’t know what you have saved, but I can send you—”

  “I’m fine.” I hated that job at the bakery anyway. It was just killing time and numbing the truth of what I needed to do. It’s not like I was going anywhere running the register.

  “Will you let me send them to you?” she asks me and it’s the anguish in her voice that makes me cave.

  It’s not that I want to hurt my mother. I know she’s in pain like I am. I just don’t want to be around her. I don’t want to forgive her because then it would be like what happened was okay.

  And it never will be. Never.

  “Sure, I’ll text my address to you,” I agree mostly out of guilt.

  “Thank you,” she says, and I think she’s crying on the other end of the phone.

  “Are you okay?” I ask her.

  “I just miss you; I miss your grandmother too.”

  “I miss her too … She’s in a better place now.” I say the words, but I don’t mean them. They’re only for my mother’s benefit. If it wasn’t for my grandmother’s death, I’m not sure my mother and I would even have a relationship. It’s been six years of hardly saying a word to each other. For most of them, I lived under her roof. Both of us keeping busy and ignoring each other.

  I remember when I started sneaking out how she pretended I wasn’t.

  I kept pushing and she let me get away with murder. She didn’t want to fight me. She didn’t want a reason for us to argue. It’s the guilt that does that. Either that or the shame.

  “I have to go, Mom,” I tell her as I watch the leaves on the trees behind my house gently sway with the wind. It wasn’t until I moved in with my grandmother that my mom admitted our relationship was strained. She likes to pretend, but I don’t have the strength for that. Or maybe it’s the other way around.

&
nbsp; “Well, call me,” she tells me hurriedly before I can hang up. “If you need anything.”

  “I will,” I answer, although that’s not going to happen. I already know that and I’m sure she does too. “Thank you for the furniture,” I add. “I really appreciate it.”

  “You don’t already have anything, do you?” she asks me. “It didn’t seem like you packed much.”

  “No, I didn’t. Thank you.”

  I end the call as fast as I can. I know Mom wants to talk. But she’s saying all the wrong things.

  Then again, I am too.

  I’m holding back; I know that much is true.

  I know what I need to do, but it hurts to think about it. It’s going to change everything, and I don’t know who I’ll be after it happens.

  And that’s what scares me the most. When this is over, I don’t know what will be left.

  10

  Dean

  Foam spills over the rim of the red Solo cup as I fill it. It falls into the bucket with the rest of the spilled beer.

  The last time I had a drink from a keg was at a party for my uncle’s company. He’s in construction and so was I until I got set up with Jack Henderson, Kev’s uncle and my uncle’s friend. That beer was in celebration of hard work. This beer is just because we can drink all night and not give a shit.

  And it’s the first of many to come. Cheers to that.

  I down the cold beer and put my cup back under the spigot to fill it up again.

  A pretty little thing sidles up next to me, letting out a small laugh when she bumps her ass on my thigh. Like it was an accident and she was just reaching for the corkscrew on the countertop in front of us.

  “My bad,” she says with a smile and throws her hair over her shoulder as she grabs the corkscrew. She looks back at me one more time as she walks away in her tight faded jeans and tank top that rides up, showing off the tramp stamp on the small of her back. It’s a tribal design around a rosebud. Probably something she picked off the wall of the tattoo shop.