by Jay McLean
Deranged.
Insane in the membranes.
“Okay, let me get dressed.”
If at any point in my life, past or present, someone has or will call me crazy for being awake at 2:30 in the morning, on my knees in muddy sludge while digging a hole in a garden bed using a fucking spoon to bury a dead mouse, I’d bet all the money in the world that they had yet to meet the magic that is Andromeda Reynor.
“Do you think he would’ve felt any pain?” she shouts over the sound of the rain, grasping the handle of an umbrella she keeps forgetting to cover me with. In sleep shorts, cowboy boots and a Chuberet hoody, the girl who’s never looked sexier says, “I didn’t think it through. I didn’t want to hurt him, you know? I just wanted him gone.”
“I doubt he felt it,” I yell back, picking up the trap by the edges, trying not to make contact with the victim of our ambush. I drop it in the shallow grave and cover it up again, then find a random stick to mark its placement. I get back on my feet and stand next to my broken-hearted girl.
“We should say something,” she says.
“Like a eulogy?”
She moves closer to me, lifting the umbrella so it now covers us both. I don’t bother telling her that it’s too late. That I’m already drenched. And that I don’t care that I am. Because being here means being with her, and rain, hail or shine, it’s the only place I want to be. “You should do it,” she tells me.
I run a hand through my soaked strands and try to come up with something to ease her pain. “You were a great mouse in a house...” I start, and she giggles, the sound causing my heart to leap. “...and I hope you find your spouse in a blouse...”
Another giggle erupts from deep in her throat, and she leans into me, her head resting on my chest. “I know you think I’m being pathetic,” she says.
“I don’t think that,” I tell her honestly. Then add, hoping to show her just how unpathetic I think she is, “When I was a kid, I found a bird in the yard. Its wing was all mangled and...” I trail off, realizing that I hadn’t felt even a tinge of anxiety or timidness since she knocked on my door.
“And what?” she asks, eyes moving to mine.
I exhale slowly, hoping the feeling will last. “And I scooped it up and brought it to my room. I was probably seven or eight at the time, and I didn’t know anything about animals; I just knew I had to try to fix it. So I layered glue where I thought it would help, but it didn’t. The bird just lay there, dead, eyes open. Then I used sticky tape and still nothing. And then I thought, maybe if I throw it out the window, its fight or flight instincts would kick in, you know?”
“You didn’t?” Andie asks, words stretched in disbelief.
Shaking my head, I tell her, “Christa caught me just in time and asked what I was doing. I showed her the bird in my hand, and she smiled at my pathetic attempt to save him. She told me it was too late, and I didn’t believe her. She left the room and returned a minute later with this toy doctor’s set she’d gotten for her birthday that year, white robe and everything. She had the plastic stethoscope around her neck, and she smiled at me, introduced herself as Doctor Morgan. A vet. She grabbed the cushion from a chair we had on the landing and laid in out the floor, then she motioned for me to put the bird on it. She messed around with it for a bit, pretending to inspect it, lifted its wings. She used the stethoscope, pretended to listen for a pulse. When she was done, she just looked up at me and frowned. She said, ‘You did a great job, Noah, but the bird—he’s old, and if it wasn’t his time, you sure would’ve made him fly again.’ I cried like a baby, and she held me throughout, patting my back and telling me it was okay. She was only three years older than me, but in a way, I feel like she raised me. She said we could bury it, just like Mouse in the House. So we did.”
“She sounds amazing, Noah.”
“She was.”
“And she loved you so much.”
I inhale deeply. “She did, and she would’ve liked you a lot.”
She turns to me now, her front pressed against mine, her head back, eyes shining, burning through my insecurities. “How do you know that?”
“Because I’m up at 2 am, in the pouring rain, digging a hole in the mud for you.”
Her smile is sad. “Do you like me, Noah?”
“Yes.”
She steps back, releasing me completely. “Maybe that’s because you don’t know me.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Andie’s Past
Matt was the first to drop the L word. I’d snuck over to his house one Saturday when my grandparents were asleep, and Milky was off being Milky. After making love in his bed, he held me in his arms, and he said, “You know I love you, right?”
No, I hadn’t known he did.
It was at that moment I questioned how I felt about him. I’d given him my virginity, yes. But at that time, I wasn’t in love with him, and I was okay with that. I wasn’t one of those girls who had grand plans about how my first time would be: the love of my life, rose petals, open fireplace and declarations of marriage and babies.
When Matt would leave for business, I’d miss him. When he was home, I found myself lying in bed, phone clutched in my hand, wanting to sneak out just to be with him. A couple of times, I actually did. I was barely in the door when he’d have me naked, against a wall, a table, couch, floor. Wherever he could have me just so he could have me.
He was as obsessed with me as I was him.
We were infatuated.
Drunk on liquid danger.
Drugged on physical pleasure.
We captivated, dominated and controlled each other. It was a game of push and pull, and it went both ways. I envied anyone who spoke to him; he hated anyone who was near me.
We craved moments of isolation so we could touch, tease, torment each other to the point of explosion.
I immersed myself in his touch, in the foreign words he’d whisper in my ear when I came around him.
He once said that he got off on how taboo we were. Him at twenty-seven, me at sixteen. His forbidden desire, he called me.
I was good.
He was bad.
And when we were together, we balanced each other out.
That was love, right?
Matt asked me to go on the pill soon after he told me he loved me. He wanted nothing between us. He wanted to feel all of me, and I felt the same. So I agreed. Because that’s what love is.
I skipped school the following Monday, and he took me to a Family Planning Clinic two towns over. Not because he was embarrassed to be with me, he said, but because our love was no one’s business. That weekend, my grandparents went to visit my grandma’s sister in Charleston and wouldn’t be back until late Sunday night. Milky said she was going to throw a party. I told her I’d go to a friend’s house.
I did.
Kind of.
I went to Matt’s.
We spent the night together, half the time I was riding his face, something he loved; the other half, he was riding me.
Then I lay in his arms until I fell asleep. I woke up a few hours later needing to pee, and he was sitting up in his bed on his computer. “Work?” I asked, making my way to the bathroom.
He waited for me to do my business and walk back out before he answered, “Yes.” But he sounded stressed, and of course, he would be. Why else would he be up in the middle of the night working?
I looked at his laptop screen. He had a spreadsheet open, a list of suppliers, vendors, wages, and commission. It was basic economics, but his numbers didn’t add up. “Is this for the t-shirt thing?” I asked.
“T-shirts?”
I stared at him expectantly. A few weeks earlier, I’d finally had the courage to ask him what exactly it was he did for a living. “Entrepreneur” looked great on a resume or an IMDB profile, but it wasn’t in any way specific. He told me he ran a t-shirt business. You know, the ones with humorous slogans and pictures. Like the ones with a picture of a T-rex and the words I hate arm day. He had
vendors all over the state selling his merchandise, kind of like pop-up shops set up on street corners downtown. I’d asked him if he could take me to one. He’d said yes. That was the last he spoke of it.
He tore his gaze away from the screen and looked at me, eyes narrowed in confusion. Then he blinked, reared back a little. “Yeah, babe. T-shirts.”
I continued to look over the spreadsheet, mentally calculating the formulas he had set up. It wasn’t until his slight chuckle cut through my thoughts that I realized how lost I was in it. “Your little math brain’s lighting up like a Christmas tree.”
I rolled my eyes at him and pointed to the screen. “May I?”
“Have at it.”
Matt watched over my shoulder as I pulled up a new spreadsheet and transferred his data across. For a guy who apparently makes good money selling merchandise, he really had no idea what he was doing. He smiled sheepishly every time I told him what he’d done wrong or when I offered advice on how to make more profit. Like I said, simple economics. Supply and demand. Location, location. I could’ve talked numbers until the sun came up, but he stopped me by shutting the laptop and stripping me naked, his mouth between my legs his way of showing his thanks. And for the first time, I wasn’t just his girlfriend—his forbidden desire. At that moment, I was his equal. And that feeling had me hooked on hope.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Matteo Rossi
I may as well have been in a rape van full of puppies. That’s how fucking easy it was to get you to surrender to my every demand. You just didn’t know you were doing it.
T-shirts? I mean, come on. For a smart girl, you were pretty fuckin’ thick when it came to me. You were a good lay, though, I’ll give you that much. Always disgustingly wet, hot and ready for me. And tight. Fuck, you were tight.
The night you worked on my spreadsheets, swear I fuckin’ got hard thinkin’ about all the money you’d be makin’ me. You wouldn’t stop talking, and I couldn’t stop lookin’ at you. No denying you were beautiful, all sweet innocence and more brains than I knew what to do with.
I went down on you to show you my appreciation.
You came screaming my name, fingers gripping my hair, and I loved every moment of it.
When I came up for air, and you offered to do the same for me, I declined.
First time that ever fuckin’ happened.
It was also the first time I actually thought about what my actions would do to you. I didn’t love you. Not for shit. But I think, that night, it was the first time I realized I cared about you. And it’s not like I didn’t know you or like you. It would be impossible to spend every single second together with my cock deep inside you. We talked some. Watched TV and shit. Things boyfriends are supposed to do with their girlfriends. We’d sit down in the den on the big sectional sofa. You’d curl into me, all soft and sweet, your hand on my stomach while I had my arm around your waist. You’d laugh at the funny scenes in the movie, sometimes snort, and it was cute, you know? How sixteen-year-old girls are supposed to be.
I woke up late the mornin’ after you reworked my entire scheme to you walking into the room wearing nothing but my shirt, holdin’ a tray. You smiled at me, the way you did sometimes when I knew I had you in the palm of my hand. “Breakfast,” you said, your voice hoarse from sleep.
You made me breakfast in bed.
Another fuckin’ first.
We spent the morning in bed together, eating the food you’d made in my kitchen. And we talked. Laughed. Enjoyed each other’s company as if it were completely normal.
That’s when I knew I had to cut that shit out.
Move to the next step.
And fast.
A conversation with your grandpa and some paperwork later, your grandparents and I waited for you to get home from school. Your eyes widened when you saw me—all relaxed and shit on the sofa in your house. I gave you the slightest head shake, a warning not to blow it.
You didn’t.
Such a good girl.
As agreed with your grandpa, I offered you a job. “Two nights a week,” I told you. “Whenever you’re free. Sometimes more. Sometimes less.” I don’t think you blinked once while I spoke, so I kept going. “I don’t have money to pay you,” I said. “But I have the deed to my car. That yellow Mustang. I know it’s old—”
“You’re going to give me your car?” you asked, all doe-eyed and loved up. Luckily, your grandparents didn’t pick up on it. But your reaction was what I’d hoped for. Yes, I was givin’ you a car. I also knew your brat of a sister was always using your shared car and never let you near it.
Your cheeks bloomed pink, and if we were alone, I knew you’d be on me. You always wanted me. “When do you want me to start, Mr. Rossi?”
Fuck, you were good.
You sat in your new car that night, your hands on the wheel, your smile so big that for a second I let myself have that moment. I’d made you happy, and regardless of what you think of me, that filled my fuckin’ heart with pride, baby.
“I can’t believe you’re giving me this car,” you said.
“It’s just a car,” I told you. “Besides, now you can come see me whenever. And that—that’s a gift for me.”
I’m going to be honest now, which obviously isn’t something you’d expect from me. That day, when I saw your eyes light up, when you leaned across the car and kissed me slowly, carefully, like you were takin’ me in for the first time, when you told me you loved me, too... that was the day the lines got blurred. The day I could no longer tell my own bullshit from truth.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Andie’s Past
Matt sat on the couch in his den, sipping on danger as he stared down at me with a look in his eyes the same as the liquid he was consuming.
I was on my knees in front of him, begging him to calm down. “You’re being irrational,” I said, doing my best to hide the waver in my voice. It was rare that I’d witness Matt angry. The two times previous were because he’d seen messages on my phone from other boys. They weren’t guys I was interested in or vice versa. They were people I’d met through school who were on the same college path as me. That didn’t matter to him, though. The first time, he’d given me a warning. Like I was some fucking child. The second, he threw my phone across his kitchen, denting his fridge and shattering my phone. He went out the next day and bought me a new one and told me not to do it again.
At seventeen, the idea of the man you’re dating getting worked up and jealous and possessive over you—it’s kind of a turn-on, you know? Or maybe that’s just me. Maybe that’s part of my weakness.
“So go,” he said, blinking slowly, the alcohol already burned into his system.
“What am I supposed to do?” I whined. “It’s a favor to my grandparents.”
“It’s a date, Andie. Don’t be fucking stupid.”
“Don’t call me stupid! And I don’t know what you want from me! Am I supposed to tell them that I can’t because what? I’m dating someone else? I’m dating you?!”
“Go on your fucking date!” he yelled, swirls of liquor spilling from his glass. “I don’t care!”
He did care.
Obviously.
But I had no choice.
My grandparents had asked this of me. It was important to them. Sometimes I wondered if status meant as much to them as it did to Milky. We weren’t well off, but my grandmother liked to pretend we were. And pretending was a game every one of the Reynors liked to play. But behind closed doors, it was another story. Growing up, I’d hear the things my grandmother would say about my parents: failures in every sense of the word. I didn’t necessarily agree with them. But then, I didn’t really know them. I just didn’t like that she was so openly disapproving of the people who brought us into this world. And Milky—she’d been begging me to go so she could get a foot in the door. She kept asking my grandmother why it was me and not her that she’d thought of when the opportunity came up. My stupid set-up date was an heir to million
-dollar estates. Perfect for Milky. Not for me. But, my grandmother had other plans.
“Matt.” I sighed.
“Get the fuck out of here, Andie. We’re done!”
I’m not going to say it didn’t hurt. It did. Matt was my first boyfriend, and I did love him. He’d given me a job. He’d given me a fucking car. He’d given me more pleasure—both physical and emotional—than I knew what to do with.
There were times I’d been in a mood, and he’d notice, ask me to tell him about it. It didn’t matter what my issues were—if I felt like I wasn’t doing well in a class or even if Milky and I were fighting—whatever it was, he always listened. Always cared. He never made me feel like the age gap was an issue. Those past few months, he’d treated me like his equal, and he never let me see myself for anything less than he saw me. But maybe that was the issue, you know? Maybe I just needed to be seventeen. And maybe the creeping around behind people’s backs was getting to be too much.
I cried over the break up far more than I’d like to admit. The man never called. Never asked for me back. And so for two weeks, I walked around feeling pathetic and forgotten. So when it was time to go on the date, I went. But, my heart wasn’t in it. I was simply using the date as a distraction from how I was feeling. Like yesterday’s news, yesterday’s trash.
We met at a restaurant downtown and were seated by the window. Sean, my date, said and did all the right things. We spoke about our plans for college and what we wanted to do with the rest of our lives. He was perfect. And slowly, I started to rid my mind of the thoughts that had kept me so down...
Until knocking sounded against the window where we were seated, and Matt was there, dark wildness in his eyes, baseball bat in his hand. He looked liked he hadn’t slept in weeks, his usual scruff transformed to a thick, dark beard. I chanced a peek at Sean, who was sitting there, eyes the size of saucers. “This your car?” Matt yelled, pointing to a blue BMW parked close to the building.
