I have to make my body move or I’ll die. So I curl my toes inside my sneakers and bite my lip.
“There’s a lake right behind you. Through the woods. It should take care of both your problems.”
I shake my head at him and get a hold of myself. “I know you think you can make me do things but I’m not jumping in the lake for you.”
“Not today.”
I roll my eyes. “Not ever.”
Then, something happens that I thought was a myth.
I see the lines on the corner of his eyes. Three deep ones. They twitch just as his strawberry mouth pulls up on one side.
It’s not a smile. Not per se. It’s amusement – pure amusement – in its very thin and basic state. But it’s there and I feel myself flushing.
With pride, no less.
“Are you going to let me in?” I ask, hopping on my spot impatiently. “I’m dirty, as you said. And I need a little break before I go back to the roses.”
Frankly, I’m dying to see the inside of his cabin. Like, what am I going to find when the outside is so neglected and falling apart.
He doesn’t move, of course.
In fact, he leans against the doorjamb, crosses his ankles and folds his arms, his bottle getting tucked at his side.
“When did I hire you as my gardener?”
“You didn’t. I’m doing this for free and out of the goodness of my heart.”
“And what did I do to deserve that?”
“Absolutely nothing.” I raise my eyebrows. “I’m doing it because I’m awesome and fabulous and a hundred other words that you probably never use for me.”
He hums, as if really thinking about it. “Yeah, those are not the words that I use for you.”
I give him a sweet smile. “I was right. So…” I gesture toward the hallway. “Can I get some water?”
“Are you stupid?”
I draw back at his question. “What?”
“How is it that the entire world is afraid of me and knows to leave me alone but you don’t seem to care?” He nods, as if coming to a conclusion. “You have to be stupid. That’s the only explanation.”
I climb up another step so now we’re even closer. In fact, we’re the same height. I look into his dark brown eyes as I whisper, “I’m going to tell you a secret about me.” His frown is curious. “You know what’s my favorite fruit?”
“Is that the secret?”
“It’s strawberry. And you know what else?”
“What?”
I smile. “I’m allergic to it.”
“You’re allergic to your favorite fruit.”
“Uh-huh. But I still eat it if I’m in the mood to throw up. You know what that means?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
He looks lazy and relaxed and so freaking delicious that I have to stop a second and gather my wits before answering. “It means I’m a masochist, Mr. Edwards. I like the pain. The pain doesn’t scare me. You don’t scare me. And let me tell you another secret – masochists like me? We have really tasty skin. You can eat me up all you want. You can eat me up a hundred different ways. I’m gonna like your teeth and your tongue and I’m gonna fall in love with the sting of it all. You’re my Strawberry Man. At least, that’s what I call you in my head.”
There’s a certain heat radiating off his sleepy, bare skin. Thick like molasses, and I’m reveling in it.
Reveling in the treacle that’s sliding down my bones and his smell and his nearness.
He flicks his eyes down to the side of my neck and I feel him there. I feel the sting of his teeth that he hasn’t given me. The wetness of his tongue that I’ll never know.
“I’ll keep that in mind, Jailbait.”
Jailbait.
It’s supposed to be this stigma-filled word. It should horrify me and it would, if he hadn’t said it with… a fondness, almost. Or at least, with some lightness injected into it and if I hadn’t felt it in my belly.
“You do that, Strawberry Man.”
Then, he puts a period in the conversation with another glug of his whiskey.
“You know you really shouldn’t drink first thing in the morning.”
“You know you should really mind your own business.”
I laugh.
I don’t know why but I do, and something changes in him for a second.
Something goes both soft and intense on his face. He swallows like his throat is dry when I know it isn’t; he just took a huge swallow of that dreaded whiskey.
He drops his eyes to my mouth, as if willing me to laugh again. Willing me to stretch my lips, and it’s such a crazy thought that he wants me to smile for him that I speak. “Mr. Edwards?”
He jerks up his eyes and almost glares at me. He takes a violent pull of his liquor before growling, “I don’t like loud sounds first thing in the morning. So keep your laughter to a minimum.”
I’m so confused as to what just happened that it takes me a few seconds to realize that someone has knocked at his front door.
Someone is at his door.
Someone is at his door.
Oh Jesus Christ.
I’m not equipped for that. I’m not equipped to handle knocks at the door.
Okay so, along with not being able to enter through the front door, I kinda get spooked when someone knocks at the door as well. Back in Connecticut, as soon as I heard the bell, I’d lock my room, dive into my bed, put my headphones on so I wouldn’t hear why someone was there. Or if someone was there for me, gossiping about me downstairs in the living room. It has happened during the initial days when the story had just broken.
And now someone is here and I don’t know what I’m going to do because I’m this close to losing my shit.
Right in front of Mr. Edwards’s eyes.
Oh God.
No.
No, no, no.
I can’t have my doomsday brain ticking up right now.
I try to breathe normally. I try to purse my lips, press them together lest my heart jump out of my mouth and smack Mr. Edwards in the chest. I even try to control the flush that’s rapidly covering my throat.
Oh God, please. No. Please, please, please.
I’m usually fine. Why is this happening right now? Why in front of him?
Not to mention, he is frowning.
He also takes a step back and I think it’s because he knows I’m losing it by the second. He’s finally realizing what a basket case I am.
Which is so not true.
I’m fine.
Fiiiiine.
But no, that’s not it. He hasn’t realized it yet.
Oh God, he hasn’t.
Because he’s not paying attention to me. His thoughts are far away, probably on that someone at the door, and to prove it, he whirls around and leaves. He strides down the hallway of his cabin and goes to the front door.
Just when he turns the knob, I flip around and plaster myself on the wall, hiding away from sight.
I hear the door open, followed by Mr. Edwards’s voice. “Richard.” He sounds bored. “What do you want?”
“I’m surprised to see you’re up so early,” the man, Richard, says.
“When you knew there was a possibility of me sleeping, why did you come?”
Richard chuckles. “To wake you up.”
“Well, as you can see, I’m up and about. So you can go back now.”
“Not so fast.”
A few seconds of silence and creaking of the floor as if someone is shifting legs on the spot. And then, “Please don’t tell me that’s what I think it is.”
“I won’t,” Mr. Edwards says.
“Have you been drinking?” Richard’s voice has grown louder. “Never mind. Don’t answer me. I already know.”
“Why are you here?”
“Whose car is out front?”
I freeze at that.
That and gasp. Or almost gasp because I have t
he presence of mind to whip a hand over my mouth and catch it.
I swear I hear an imaginary clock ticking as I wait for Mr. Edwards’s answer.
“No one’s.”
“You’ve got company?”
My heart jumps in my throat and I press my hand on my mouth harder. Will Mr. Edwards tell him yes? Would he bring Richard out back to see me?
Oh God, I can’t see people without my disguise.
I can’t.
I can’t talk to them. I can’t look at them.
Richard will know who I am. He’ll know what I did, how I ruined things for Mr. Edwards.
He will. He will. He will.
As irrational as the thought is, I can’t shake it; then, I hear a sigh, followed by the words that bring me sweet relief.
“What do you want, Richard?”
A few beats of silence again before Richard answers, “The football camp starts next week, Graham. I’m here to make sure you know that.”
“I know.”
Richard makes a non-committal sound. “It’s surprising given that you’ve hardly been to any of the meetings.”
“I’m handling everything remotely.”
“So maybe your assistant forgot to mention that to me. When I had my chat with him this morning.”
“How do I know what my assistant forgot to tell you?”
“I’m not here to fight with you, all right? My daughter’s in town. I’m taking her and my wife out for a nice lunch. I don’t want to ruin my day.”
“Then don’t.”
“Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page. I want you to come in to school tomorrow so we can bring you up to speed, all right? I’d like my coach to get with the program. The one he’s supposed to have come up with himself.”
There’s a thread of sarcasm in there and it’s so thick that even I’m cringing.
I hear a sigh, a long one. I have a feeling it’s from Mr. Edwards.
“All right, look. The camp doesn’t start until next week. Which means I’ve got time. Just email me the program and I’ll go over it in my own time.”
“Do you think I’m stupid?”
Nothing except shuffling of feet and I can very well imagine that Mr. Edwards is either clenching his jaw at Richard or scratching his beard in a way that makes other people feel stupid.
“Yeah, I do. Why, haven’t I been clear enough about it in the past?”
“Graham, I’m going to level with you. I’ve known you a long time. You’re my friend, okay? I’m glad to have you back in town. Even though I don’t know how you live in this miserable house or how you’re still alive when you’re such a giant asshole that I want to kill you on a daily basis, I’m happy. But we’re not in high school anymore. Or at least, we’re not the ones going to high school anymore.”
“Yeah, I value our friendship too.”
“Now you listen to me, I’m not going to stand for any more of your bullshit. You show up for the camp, on time, fucking sober, okay?”
“Or what?”
“Or you’re fired. I’m not kidding around. I’ve tried to be nice. I’ve tried to be patient. I’ve overlooked your drinking on the job, your unprofessional conduct and the fact that you don’t show up or if you do, you show up late. And I don’t want to remind you but I’ve even overlooked what happened back in Connecticut. You were accused of having an affair with a student. A minor, Graham. I know it’s not true. I know that. But it doesn’t matter. It does not look good period. But despite it all, I gave you a fucking job at my school. I risked my reputation for you. Because you’re my friend and I wanted to help you. But it’s time for you to pay me back for that. It’s time for you to pay me back for the favor I did you. Because it was a favor, understand? Don’t make me regret having your back.”
The silence is slashed with heavy breaths.
A second later, I hear rapidly moving footsteps, followed by the loud bang of the door closing.
I’m glad it was loud. Otherwise I would’ve given myself away. My broken, loud sob would’ve told everyone that I was here.
Listening and hiding.
The girl who ruined Mr. Edwards’s life. The girl with poison lips and stupid teenage dreams.
He was right the other night. I took away his peace. I am a nightmare. A nightmare he can’t forget or outrun or out-sleep.
Not when he’s reminded of it at every turn. Not when he has to live with it.
Tears are streaming down my face, too quick for me to wipe them off. But I do. I do wipe them off because I didn’t come here to cry.
I came here to face him. To face his wrath, to face what I did to him.
I came here for him.
And he needs me now. I have to go to him.
In a daze, I come away from the wall I’ve been hiding behind. I climb up the steps in a trance. I walk down the creaking hallway that he took not ten minutes ago.
I reach the living room just as I hear another sound. Louder than the bang of the door. Shriller, higher. It’s the sound of something being smashed and wrecked into countless pieces.
It’s the sound of Mr. Edwards throwing his liquor bottle on the floor.
He’s standing at the kitchen island. The island that’s buried under tens and tens of liquor bottles. They are littered almost everywhere. On the counters, by the trashcan. The smell of alcohol hangs thick and heavy in the air.
When I look back at Mr. Edwards, I see he’s watching me. His chest is heaving and that burly body of his has somehow grown in a matter of minutes.
“Are you an alcoholic?” I ask in a small voice, knowing the answer already.
Each time I’ve seen him, he’s been with a bottle. He drank so much whiskey just now but hardly anything happened to him.
He looks sober. Except for the tangy, addictive smell and the dilation of his pupils, I can’t see any more effects.
Actually, no.
I’m wrong.
There are effects. He’s lost weight. That’s why his cheekbones look sharper now. There are even little pits under his eyes.
Now that I understand this, I can see him clearly.
I can see how he’s let himself go. How long his hair is, messy and dark. How untamed his beard is. How angular his jaw looks. How his collarbone juts out, how his entire body has been reduced to sharp bones and muscles. No room for any softness.
He looks savage. Beautiful but uncivilized.
My hobo slides down my shoulder and thuds down on the floor, beside the broken glass. “I heard everything.”
At this, he widens his stance, his mouth parting as he drags in a charged-up breath.
“You are an alcoholic, aren’t you? I mean, ever since everything happened. I gave up drinking and you’ve taken it up. And you hate schools too, don’t you? That’s why you don’t show up.”
I have to take a pause because I see his chest vibrating.
“I hate schools too,” I continue because I want him to know that he’s not alone. “I hate corridors and students and teachers. Everyone with their judgement and their gossiping. I went there once after… everything happened, to see the principal, and I hated every second of it. I hated the smell, the air, the lockers. Everything.”
I went back to school to tell Principal Jacobs that it was me who did the wrong thing. The building was empty, save for a few people. I didn’t meet anyone on my way to the principal’s office, but I could still feel my skin crawling. As if they were all watching me.
“That’s not it, though, is it? You don’t only hate schools, you hate everything. You hate your roses too. Is it because I was trying to steal them that night? Is that why you don’t take care of them anymore?”
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, feeling so small and so vulnerable.
“They remind me of you,” he rasps at last, jolting the breath out of me.
“Your roses?”
“Yeah.”
It’s a hoarse sound, his
yeah. It’s both sad and angry. It’s tortured. Anguished.
It squeezes my heart so much that I think it will explode. The veins will burst. The chambers will collapse. My heart will self-destruct.
“And that’s why you hate them now, because you hate me,” I conclude on a whisper, wondering how many girls dream of being someone’s rose and how many of them cry when they really become it.
He flinches; it’s a big flinch.
As if I slapped him. As if I smacked his chest or kicked him in the gut.
As if I sliced his skin by uttering those words and I don’t understand.
Isn’t that the truth?
He does hate me, doesn’t he?
His features rearrange themselves in a flash and I don’t have time to wonder about inconsequential things. They morph into what they always are when I’m around.
Cold and sharp.
“Yes, I’m an alcoholic now. Yes, I hate schools. Yes, I don’t take care of roses. Are you going to say sorry now?” he lashes out. “That’s why you came. You told me that, right? To apologize. So are you going to get down on your knees and beg for my forgiveness?”
“I...”
“Is that your plan? To get down on your knees and beg me to forgive you? To do my bidding, plant me new roses, sacrifice yourself? What if I ask you to crawl around on your knees? Are you going to do that too? Are you going to follow me around like a lost little puppy? Are you going to take every cruel thing I do to you before it gets through your head that this whole thing is not worth it? It’s not worth it, okay? So leave.”
Somehow, his rapid-fire questions, his callous words fill me with more determination. A new, solid kind of determination.
He’s hurting.
It’s plain to see. He’s in pain and he’s lashing out and it’s my doing.
So yeah, that’s my plan.
To beg for his forgiveness. To take every cruel thing he does to me. Because even if he doesn’t believe it, this whole thing is more than worth it.
It’s so worth it and I so feel it in my bones that I get down on my knees. I don’t even think about it. I do it just because it was something that fell out of his mouth.
And when I do get down on my knees, he frowns.
He almost stumbles back as if this time I shot him with a gun and the bullet went straight through his heart.
DREAMS of 18 Page 12
