by Coralee June
“I’m not much of a partier,” I answered before staring up at the stars. “You?”
“I’m not really a fan of them. It’s just a bunch of sloppy, stupid kids.”
I snorted at his gruff declaration. “Are you a student at Mountain Prep?” I asked. Turning to face him, I watched his chest rise and fall in beat to his breath. A long, pregnant pause filled the space between us, and then he chuckled.
“Nope. I graduated a while ago.”
“Ah. So you’re a creeper waiting on vulnerable, drunk high school girls,” I nervously teased as I reached for my phone. I might be reckless from time to time, but I was taught to read a situation, and something felt dangerous in his presence.
“Nah. I’m just looking out for a...friend. I wanted to be near in case something happened.”
“That’s what they all say,” I joked, but there was a sense of honesty to his tone.
I could practically feel his eye roll, though I couldn’t see it. It was pitch black outside. “So, if you’re not much of a partier, why are you here?” he asked.
It was a pretty personal question, and my flight or fight response perked up, waiting to see what I’d do. If I had wings on my back, I’d be midair. “I felt like escaping for a bit tonight,” I finally replied. Maybe it was the darkness of night, adding a sense of privacy to our conversation, or maybe it was the fact that I couldn’t see his face, making our entire exchange feel anonymous. I’d never see this man again. I didn’t even know his name. It felt like I was in a confessional all of my own. I didn’t need a cathedral, I needed the night sky.
“Why?” His question was simple but felt weighed down with curiosity.
“It’s a hard day for me,” I whispered. “It’s...it’s my eighteenth birthday. I don’t really like birthdays.”
He went silent, as if debating my words. It was an overshare, but I had the crutch of alcohol boosting my confidence and making me bold.
“Why not?”
The words got stuck in my throat. My tongue shriveled up and died on the spot, leaving his question to linger unanswered between us. Because I don’t like to celebrate being alive when my entire family is dead.
He pushed himself off the tree and took a step toward me. I felt myself leaning closer to him. “Sometimes the only way to stay sane is to ignore how you feel. I used to count the blades of grass in my backyard. I’d shove my headphones so deep in my ear and turn up the volume as high as it would go until my skull rattled with the heavy beat.”
I nodded my head. Even though I hadn’t told him what was bothering me, he got it.
The strange man took a step closer, and the spark of a very, very stupid idea settled in my stomach. “I do stupid shit to forget…like kissing strange men in the woods,” I hinted as my lips stretched into a drunken smile. I also made friends. I broke up with boys that loved me. I talked to strangers until my throat was raw, picking apart the little nuances that made them tick so I could focus on something else for a while. He counted blades of grass; I collected and discarded people.
I didn’t know if this man was beautiful or dangerous. I just knew he could pass the time between the painful beats of my heart, and right now that was enough.
He took another step closer. A rough palm cupped my cheek. He smelled like the woods. His presence felt steady. Time stretched, and his palm grew hot against my flushed skin. I breathed him in like I’d been holding my breath all night.
There were many types of kisses in the world, and I’d had my fair share. Something told me kissing this man would feel like pure anticipation. I loved the kisses that happened after hours of thinking of them. I might have only spent a few minutes with this man, but the building desire blooming within me felt like an eternity. “I’m not going to kiss you,” he finally whispered before pulling away.
I found myself leaning closer, trying to minimize the distance between us. “Oh? Why not?” I asked.
His chuckle sounded like bells and mischief. “Because I’m not some creep preying on vulnerable, drunk high school girls.”
“Roe!” my uncle yelled, snapping me out of our strange moment. I whipped my head toward the driveway and frowned when I saw my uncle standing by the hood of his Camaro, tapping his foot impatiently at me.
“Sorry,” I began. “I gotta g—” I twisted to face him, but the stranger was gone. “Go,” I whispered to myself before shaking my head. He was already gone? I guess I wasn’t the only runner at the party tonight.
“Roe! Get your ass over here!” Uncle Mack yelled again. I took a deep breath, then released it with a sigh, silently thanking the stranger for the brief moment of forgetfulness.
ROE
Uncle Mack was shifting his weight from one foot to the other on Nicole’s crisp front lawn, all while staring daggers at me through the shadowed night. I forced a sense of sobriety through my body, praying he didn’t see how the world seemed to tip sideways with each staggering step.
“You’re drunk,” he grunted the moment I was close enough for him to get a whiff of my breath. “You know I hate it when you don’t update me on your whereabouts. And I especially hate when you pull shit like this.” He was a predictable man that thrived on routine. Always up at four in the morning, he started his day with espresso as black as his wardrobe and then spent the rest of his day acting more like a personal bodyguard than my caregiver.
“I don’t have to update you. You can just track my phone, Uncle Mack,” I teased before reaching into my pocket and pulling out the smartphone beacon he’d relied on since I was ten.
Uncle Mack was brusque but affectionate. Kind but distant. We’d tested the sentimental bullshit when I first moved in with him eight years ago. He bought me frilly clothes and struggled to make up for the lost time, but it felt hollow. I didn’t even know he existed until Mom died.
In the beginning, we both forced a relationship for the sake of survival. Uncle Mack was a gruff guy, not ready to take on a tween. I was a traumatized girl, not capable of handling any more upheaval in my life. Once he realized that I wasn’t looking for a friend or father figure, he stopped tossing stuffed animals in my face and taught me how to curl a fist.
“I might have had a bit to drink,” I admitted while cupping my forehead. Was I slurring? I wasn’t so sure. I blinked twice and peered up at him as swaying bodies passed us by. They clutched red cups like trophies as my uncle pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Get your ass in the car. We’re going home.”
“You don’t want to stay and take a couple of shots? You look like you could use it,” I mocked as he gently grabbed my arm and steered me toward his Camaro. Uncle Mack was old, with a crooked nose and broad shoulders that seemed to carry the world. He had a beer gut but was handsome, in a weathered sort of way, and was about as cuddly as a cactus.
He was all I had, and that was enough. Permanence trumped affection.
“You don’t even like parties. Crowds make you anxious, that house is pounding with bubblegum pop music, and you hate listening to anything that isn’t classic rock. Why the hell are you doing this? I had a long ass day at the yard. The boss makes me work a double, and you decide to go all rebellious for the night,” he cursed before wrenching open the passenger door of his sleek car and guiding me inside.
Once I was safely seated with my seatbelt on, he slammed the door shut, and I watched him circle the car through the windshield. Each stomp on the ground and muttered curse had me smiling to myself. We both knew why I was out tonight. He was just kind enough not to bring it up. My birthday was a sad reminder that his sister was dead.
He got in the driver’s seat and turned on the car, the roar of his engine masking the grunts swirling in his throat. “Come on, I never party. Think of this as a rite of passage,” I argued while leaning back and closing my eyes.
“Right. Usually, I have to drag you out of parked cars,” he replied with a disgusted shiver.
Again—personal bodyguard. My uncle was the biggest cock block in t
he world. He liked to pretend I was a virginal, innocent little dove, spreading my wings in a secluded garden away from pollinating bees. His attempt at keeping me out of trouble was cute. Too bad I was addicted to the high of feeling wanted and spent my free time exploring meaningless flings.
He lectured me as we drove home, reminding me of the dangers of underage drinking and scolding me for not telling him where I was. “You’ve always been wild, Roe. I was just hoping you’d grow up a bit this year. Especially since you dumped that pothead. What was his name again? Hank? Jacob?”
I laughed. “Joel?”
“Yep. That’s the dumbass,” Uncle Mack replied with a nod.
He pulled up to our tiny house and put the car in park, twisting his bulky frame toward me with a furrowed brow. “I just worry about you, is all. You’re impulsive and naïve. You don’t make my job easy.”
I frowned at his use of the word job. I’d always felt like a job to him. I knew he cared about me, but there was a sense of responsibility in our dynamic that always made me feel uncomfortable. He didn’t ask to raise his niece. He didn’t ask to be burdened with my issues. But I literally had nowhere else to go.
I still remembered the first night I moved in.
I’d slashed my hand on broken glass while unpacking my nearly empty backpack. I remember crying to my uncle as crimson life poured from the cut. He washed it with a rag and wiped my tears with his course thumb. His care was tender yet foreign to me. I was so used to screams and overdramatic wails. The slightest injury would send my mother spiraling, and I’d be forced to kiss my own paper cuts as she rocked on the floor.
But Uncle Mack saw it and stayed calm. He was considerate and careful. It was jarring, and once he finished cleaning it, he patted my head and said, “I’m not putting a Band-Aid on it, kid.”
“Why not?” I’d asked him through broken sobs. It wasn’t a big cut; I think the idea of hurting was more painful than the actual laceration. I’d been conditioned to fear pain. I’d been conditioned to run like hell away from it.
“You gotta let your damage breathe, Roe,” he’d responded with a sad, affectionate smile. He probably thought I’d sliced myself on purpose. The line was crisp and long, too straight to appear accidental. He didn’t ask, though. I wasn’t self-destructive, at least not in the physical sense. My issues were all emotional.
Let your damage breathe.
Let your damage breathe.
Let it fucking breathe.
I guess that’s why I’d kept my heart wide open all these years. The broken thing pounding in my chest had become a symptom of my existence. Some said I was too much, but they didn’t get it. I was just airing out my trauma for the world to see.
Shaking my head, I pulled myself out of those intrusive memories and cleared my tight throat. “I’ll do better,” I lied before unbuckling my seatbelt and shuffling outside. We walked in uneasy silence to the door, and once inside, he went to the kitchen and grabbed a beer, cracking his neck in exhaustion before sitting down at the table. I watched him with a grimace. He’d been working a lot lately. I cleared my throat. “Uncle Mack?”
“What?” he grumbled.
“Thank you. For, uh, everything,” I began while shuffling on my feet. Thank you for taking me in. Thank you for being normal. Thank you for raising me. “Goodnight,” I then whispered.
He hesitated, with his hand under his chin and words clogged in his emotionally stunted throat. “Hey, Roe?” he asked, making my blood pressure spike.
Don’t say it.
Don’t say it.
Please, don’t say it.
The last words my mother ever said to me were Happy Birthday, Roe. I could still hear her raspy voice. It felt like a curse, and I refused to lose Uncle Mack, too. Superstitions might be dumb, but I was raised to cling to them.
“Yeah?” I answered back while squeezing my fist until my nails cut through my palm.
He paused, likely hearing the pain in my wavering voice. “Goodnight.”
I wobbled down the hall to my room and shut the door. With a shaky exhale, I braced my back against the wall and slid down it, privately thanking him for not bringing up what day it was. Uncle Mack learned long ago that birthdays were a sore subject for me. My father died the day I was born, and my mom joined him precisely a decade later. It was better for all of us if we just pretended today didn’t exist.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a lighter, flicking it on just to stare at the dancing flame. “Happy birthday, Roe,” I whispered out loud to myself before blowing it out. I didn’t bother to make a wish. I watched the burning hope extinguish.
Maybe it was melodramatic and counterproductive to pretend that another year around the sun hadn’t passed, but I guess I still felt like the ten-year-old shaking her lifeless mother’s body. Maybe one day I’d eat cake and blow out my candles like an ordinary girl. Maybe one day I’d settle into love and find a sense of intimacy that didn’t feel temporary or send me running for the hills.
But not today.
ROE
“Morning,” I said while settling onto the cozy couch and bracing my bare feet up on the coffee table. Unsurprisingly, I didn’t sleep well last night. I kept seeing her. Lifeless and cold with foamy vomit pooling out of her mouth. I woke up clenching my teeth so hard I just knew they would crack.
“More like afternoon,” Uncle Mack retorted, knocking me out of my memories. His voice was laced with hard sarcasm. It always irked him when I slept in late, probably because he couldn’t sleep past five. His body was hardwired to be an early riser.
“Not all of us have to wake up at the asscrack of dawn, Uncle Mack,” I joked roughly, refusing to admit that I’d gotten probably two hours of sleep. I spent most of the morning lying in bed and thinking about how fragile everything in life was. My mother’s memory was a hard stain to shake.
Uncle Mack was flipping through channels on the television and leaning back in his recliner. Our home was a simple three bedroom with a nice deck and a spacious yard that had a generous view of the mountains. If I were being honest, it looked like no one even lived here. We didn’t hang photos on the walls or decorate it in any particular style. We filled it up with functioning furniture, takeout, and a flat-screen TV.
“You hungover?” he asked. The eagerness in his tone hinted that he was looking forward to my pounding headache and dry mouth. If he hoped that I’d learned my lesson, it didn’t work.
“Sorry to disappoint you, but no,” I quipped with a smile while gathering my shoulder-length caramel hair and piling it on top of my head in a messy bun. “I’m still young, which means I don’t get hangovers.” I patted my stomach with a sly smile. “I’ve got that nice metabolism. You just look at a beer and you’re grumpy for weeks.”
“Watch it,” Uncle Mack replied with a puff before crossing his arms over his chest. It wasn’t my fault he was an old fart. “I guess we should discuss your punishment,” he then said while giving me a pointed stare. Ah, the punishment.
“What’s the damage, old man?”
Mack stroked his beard like he was trying to come up with something sinister. “No phone for a week?”
Good. I didn’t have anyone I wanted to talk to anyway. “You can do better than that. I mean, I was underage drinking, Mack.”
“You’re right. Grounded for a month.”
“What exactly is your definition of grounded? Because as it stands, I don’t really go many places anyway.”
“Good point,” Uncle Mack replied, not even bothering to deny that he was strict as fuck. I had to be creative to get around his bullshit rules. It had become a fun game of cat and mouse over the years. “No pizza for a month.”
My mouth dropped open in shock. “Pizza? You’re taking away pizza? What kind of monster are you?”
I grinned at him for a moment, rolling my eyes at his ridiculous punishment. He’d be ordering a deep-dish within the week.
Most kids my age wouldn’t appreciate Uncle Mack’s overbe
aring nature, and even though it annoyed me sometimes, it was nice to have someone who actually gave a fuck.
He turned to look at me in that speculative way of his. Even though he was grumpy, he was still very intuitive and aware. Uncle Mack was always assessing me and observing the room. He probably already cataloged the bags under my eyes and the yawn threatening to escape my lips. “You sleep okay, kid?”
I swallowed, debating on pretending I didn’t hear his question. If I ignored him, he’d press the issue, and we’d both then be forced to awkwardly attempt stumbling through a discussion about my issues. “Nah. You know how October fourth goes.” I was proud of myself for expertly avoiding the word birthday.
Nodding, he didn’t offer any words of comfort or empathy but still relaxed at my explanation. We had such a unique relationship. We were comfortable with one another, but Uncle Mack knew every fine detail of my habits, my fears, my self-destructive ways. He didn’t prod, mostly because he had the emotional range of a coffee cup and was repelled by the vulnerability, but he cared.
Someone knocked on the door, a loud pounding that made me turn my head. “Can you get that?” my uncle asked while scratching his belly and rolling his neck. “It’s probably the FedEx guy. I ordered a new part for the Camaro, and someone has to sign for it.”
“You’re always tinkering with that thing,” I said. Getting up, I adjusted my tank top and sleep shorts while making my way to the door.
I could hear Uncle Mack’s cell phone ringing from the living room, and he answered it with a gruff what.
