High Beams

I ran the red light. Not what I normally do, granted, but today I was late. Late, late, for a very important date, I couldn’t help but think, out of habit from watching Alice in Wonderland forty million times in the past four years. I knew that if I didn’t hurry, Shirley would kill me. This month alone, I’d missed our son Liam’s Christmas pageant and a parent-teacher meeting Shirley asked me to attend. I couldn’t miss his fifth birthday party, too.

I was supposed to have picked the two of them up half an hour ago to bring them to Chuck E. Cheese, where fifteen other kindergarteners were waiting. Yesterday, when I promised my excited son I wouldn’t be late, Shirley had pulled me aside and said, “This is important to him, Jason.”

“I know that,” I grumbled. I hated when she told me what to do, what’s important. Three years of marriage had completely demolished any desire I might have had to sit back and let a woman control my life, and now that the divorce was official, I was happier. And, if you asked Shirl, just as unreliable as I’d been when we were married. I couldn’t even tell you how many times I promised Liam I’d try harder, do better, not let him down. He was still so little, but I could already tell he knew what I said was empty. I didn’t necessarily mean to lie to him. I have just always sucked at prioritizing.

I knew, if I didn’t get there quick, they’d leave without me. Shirley assured me of that, the day before. So I ran the damned red light.

Immediately a symphony of red and blue exploded behind me like a thousand angry firecrackers. I cursed loudly as the siren picked up, and obediently pulled over.

The cop sauntered up to my window. “Do you know why I pulled you over?” he asked.

I hate when cops ask that question. Plus I was already pissed, sure that I’d let my kid down yet again, so I snapped, “No doubt you’re gonna tell me.”

The cop hesitated, then said, “You ran a red light back there. License and registration, please.”
I handed it to him without looking at his face. I wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. “I’ll be right back with your ticket,” the cop said before walking away.

I looked at my watch. 5:43. The party had started thirteen minutes ago. I slammed my hands against the steering wheel, cursing again. Okay, so whatever. I’d buy Liam some new Hotwheels, a container of new Leggos. I’d take him to the zoo, the arcade, the movies, wherever he wanted to go. I’d make this up to him. No problem.

The cop came back and handed me my ticket. “You have a nice day,” he said, almost snidely, and it was all I could do to keep from flipping him off. I drove off again and was at a safe distance before I picked up speed. Out of spite, I flashed my headlights at the first car I passed, a blue Hummer H2, to warn him of the upcoming cop, feeling a bubble of vengeful glee as I did so. Take that, I thought, and continued on my way to Shirley’s.

Her car wasn’t in the driveway. I cursed for a third time in ten minutes, did a U-turn, and sped off towards Chuck E. Cheese. Maybe, if I was less than half an hour late, I could repair the damage with a single present or trip. Maybe Liam would be having so much fun right now, he would forget. Maybe, just maybe.

Naturally, traffic was backed up for a good mile before Chuck E. Cheese. I couldn’t believe my bad luck. Did the universe want Liam to hate me? “C’mon, c’mon,” I groaned, resisting the urge to honk and cuss. Whoever said patience was a virtue clearly didn’t have a son whose mistrust hung between them like a veil.

A good ten minutes later, the source of the back-up could be seen. A car accident, surrounded by police cruisers and a couple of ambulances. Both cars in question were so totaled, I couldn’t see how anybody could walk away from it, and morbid curiosity insisted that I slow down to look. What was left of a navy-colored Hummer had apparently T-boned a rusty Ford Taurus.
It suddenly felt like someone had reached down my throat, yanked out my heart, and forced me to swallow it. That piece-of-shit Taurus, even in its devastating state, was unmistakably Shirley’s piece-of-shit Taurus. I swerved over to park on the shoulder, and ripped myself from my car, hurrying closer to the accident, speechless…

“Sir, you can’t stop here,” a policeman said, holding out his hands. I paid no attention. Beyond him, I could see a policeman wrenching open the door of the Hummer. The driver spilled out, blood dripping down his face, but conscious. With him, a couple of empty beer bottles rolled out and shattered on the pavement. Paramedics were removing something from the backseat of the Taurus—a piece of me ripped away as I saw my little boy’s face. His eyes were closed, his body slack, and the look on the EMT’s face couldn’t be plainer. It was the undeniable, polished face of death, the flip-side of life’s coin. Just yards away, they were wheeling Shirley on a gurney. A paramedic was checking her pulse as they hurried to the ambulance, shaking his head.

The Reason.

The door to the bar swooshes open, and in stumbles a man who looks like he’s already had a few too many. With him rolls in a rush of cold air, like a cool sheet being flicked above you and settling down over your legs. You can’t help but roll your eyes at this man. Pathetic, you think, taking a gulp from the drink before you.

Of course, you’re here, alone. So who’s the pathetic one? There’s a reason why you’re alone—or maybe a thousand reasons—but does it matter? Being alone is like a brand on the flank of a cow. It’s there, despite why, despite how the cow feels about it.

Besides—and this is the really strange thing—you can’t remember, exactly, why you’re here alone. You know you’re pissed about something. You only ever go to bars when you’re angry. You usually remember why, though. Not tonight. You can’t remember where you were an hour ago, what you did this morning…you just have a burning desire for more beer. Which in itself probably accounts for your lack of memory. Oh well. As long as you keep drinking, who cares about the reason?

The drunk man looks blearily around the bar, sees you, comes over. His stride is uncontrolled, the signs of booze breaking it up, jerking it around; his hip lightly knocks against someone seated at a table. They curse at him, looking over their shoulder, but he pays no attention. At first you think maybe he’ll walk by, but no, he’s clearly making a beeline right for you. You grip your drink a little more tightly, setting your face into a scowl. Maybe if you look like you’re bad news, he’ll take the hint and back off.

No such luck.

“I gotta tell you the truth,” the man says, sinking into the seat beside you. You can’t help but be impressed with the way he just wilts.

“I doubt that,” you answer, not even looking at him.

He studies your face, eyes sunken. A bead of sweat trails down his temple, and he’s breathing a little hard, as if he ran to this bar. As if he’s been running, trying, for another life. There’s something distinctly familiar about the way his lips form his words, the way his hand rests on the table. Was he a client of yours, at one point, perhaps? Maybe you know him through your wife? God help you keep track of her friends…even now, you can’t remember a single one of their names…it even takes you a moment to remember your wife’s name. You set your drink down, thinking you should take it easy. For some reason, thinking about your wife makes you agitated, though you’re not sure why. Did you two have a fight? Is that why you came to this bar? It’s possible. It wouldn’t be the first time alcohol made you completely forget about an argument, so that the next day you acted like everything was fine while she gave you a mysterious silent treatment. Yeah. You should definitely take it easy.

“Listen,” the man says, concentrating to keep from slurring his words, and you look up again. You’d almost forgotten he was there. “It’s not what you think, man…you just gotta listen to me.”

You look around. The exit is directly behind him. You could just get up and leave, but who knows what this guy will do? He might reach out and punch you, for all you know. Besides, despite yourself, you’re curious. And it’s not like you can think of a better place to be. You’ll give him a chance. “Go on, then,” you grumble.

“Yesterday, I talked to her, you know? We just talked. It was okay, everything was okay, and we thought we’d go out to lunch together or something, you know?” the man says, rocking back and forth on his stool a little, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He keeps rambling on as such, about a woman you don’t know and their lunch date. You zone out after a few minutes. Maybe this guy’s just drunk and lonely and needs someone to vent to. Hell, maybe he even thinks he knows you, owes you something. Maybe you’re nothing more than a pair of ears to him. So, what? You’ll humor him. After you order another beer, of course.

“…completely innocent,” the man is saying as you tune back in. “I swear. We weren’t planning nothing. Believe me, man. Please believe me.” He’s staring at you intently, pleadingly.

“Okay,” you answer flatly. “I believe you.”

He blinks. “You do?”

“’Course I do,” you respond.

He sits up a little taller, and continues, far more animatedly than before. Yeah, you think. He definitely just needs someone. Who doesn’t? Wouldn’t you grab at the chance to talk openly to someone, without fear or judgment? Maybe you should try stumbling into a random bar one day, drunk, and chatting up the first person you see. And, damn, the things you’d probably end up saying…you’d probably bear your soul. Confess to every wrong you’ve ever committed.

“And today, dude, I still wasn’t planning nothing,” the man says. “I just got up, showered, you know…thought about stopping by, just to say hey…I mean, hell, I’ve got a wife, kids, you know? I wasn’t gonna do nothing…but she answered the door in this sexy little shirt, hair all mussed up, and invited me in…”

Your interest peaks. This isn’t just some random story. This is getting juicy.

“And I regret it,” he rushes on, “man, I regret it so much. It was never supposed to happen. I…I just…” He runs a hand through his hair, which is dark and wild, messed up by a gust of wind. Or by cheating on his wife, you think. He’s stammering, grasping at the air for words, and finally says, “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, don’t apologize to me,” you say. “Talk to your wife about that.”

“But…” He looks confused. “You’re not mad?”

“I don’t even know you,” you tell him.

“What? Ethan…”

You freeze. “How do you know my name?” you ask, the question that preps your world to fall apart.

The man just stares, and suddenly has no more words.

Like a flash, realization hits you. You remember everything in a bright, vibrant explosion: walking along the sidewalk, shuffling through the slush, rummaging in your pockets for your key. Entering your house, seeing your wife, and this man—this man—the best man at your wedding, your best friend…how could you have forgotten? How can denial have blanketed you, blossomed around you, formed who you are and how you think…?

Denial breaks like glass. You watch as your fist lashes out, severing the delusion, pummeling the reason and connecting with betrayal’s jaw.

Michael.

The lumpy couch brings him no comfort. What’s worse, his remote is currently hidden somewhere inside it, tucked between the cushions, or maybe kicked underneath. Michael knows this like he knows he has to unplug the microwave and re-plug it back in before it will work; like he knows a thick hangnail will bleed if you tear it off. It’s a fact—something he doesn’t need to test in order to prove.

He also knows he doesn’t have the motivation to get up and find it. So he’s stuck lounging on the lumpy couch, watching Primetime. Some soppy story about family secrets. Like the world doesn’t have enough problems without listening to the complaints of others.

Michael rolls over to look at the clock. Eleven. Half an hour before he can call Jolene. He scratches his head, deploring at the thinning hair there. Rogaine could take care of it, or so his neighbor tells him, but what’s a bald head, at his age? It’s enough trouble working in cramped cubicle from nine to five, feeding his niece’s cat when she and his brother are out of town, getting up to find the remote.

The seconds tick slowly by, and the Primetime episode shows no sign of getting more interesting. Maybe he could call Jolene early tonight…but no, he can’t break their precious ritual. Their ritual—it’s all he has, really, all he can look forward to.

Jolene is his dream girl. She’s gorgeous, at least in his mind, like the women on teeth whitening commercials. She’s smart and charming and funny, too. If it wasn’t for their evening conversations, Michael wouldn’t have a whole lot to look forward to. Nothing, really.

Finally—finally—it’s eleven-thirty. Michael reaches over and flips the lid of a greasy pizza box up off the phone. He dials the number from memory alone, tapping his fingers impatiently on his thigh. A few more moments, and this day won’t be a waste.

“Hi,” a sensual voice purrs into his ear. “You’ve reached Thirst. What can I do for you?”

“Connect me with Jolene, please,” Michael says, and relaxes against the lumpy couch, a smile on his face.

What I'd Been Told

The air chilled, like the Earth was being lowered into a bowl of ice. The wind—which, moments before, had been warm as a pillow—cut around me, biting into me, suddenly laced with razor-toothed knives. I looked up to see a dark cloud covering the sun, crossing it out, a black crayon dragged back and forth by an unforgiving child. I’d watched the cloud approach from miles away, black as the smoke from a burning city. The day had been bright and warm; now, everything around me was tinged with purple lead.

The first heavy drops started falling, smacking and splashing against my cheeks, tangible tears. More and more drops followed, until I could hardly see for the rain, until pulling my sweater around me did nothing. It rained like it did in the movies—except I knew that, in movies, the rain wasn’t actually water and was instead milk so the cameras could pick up on it. This wasn’t Hollywood. This was real life, and these were just genuine, cold, tasteless raindrops. I tipped my head back and opened my mouth. My mother used to tell me not to do that. Every rain drop has a grain of dirt inside it, she would say. I didn’t care, at this point. The rain soaked me to the bone, the filth embedding itself into my very skin. And I didn’t care.

The wind whipped and whirled around me now, making me its slave. I sat down, into the mud, not caring how dirty it made me or how frigid I would become. I was already dirty and cold and nothing could change that. Why not embrace it? Love yourself, I’d been told. Did this count as loving myself? Grabbing fistfuls of muddy grass, letting the rain run down my scalp, shivering as it trickled down my neck…surrounding myself in all things miserable…keeping myself where no one could reach me. Did it count?

Lightning flashed, a cut ragged around the edges, a temporary traumatism across the dark sky. Thunder crackled and rippled as soon as the lightning had gone, and I thought I could almost feel the earth shaking underneath me. I thought I could almost taste the trembling beads of angst that filled the air around me. I laid back, hoping that if I took in too much, I’d be released. If I grabbed for more than I could handle, I’d simply…not. Not handle; not be. Not think. I would become the storm, and the storm would become me, and no one would notice or care.

The storm passed quickly. It seemed to only last a few minutes, as most horrendous things do. In the scheme of the universe, how long does pain last? How long does losing a loved one hurt? Seconds. Mere seconds and nothing more.

All of a sudden, sunshine was kissing my face. I was still drenched, but I didn’t feel cold.

My hands were still covered in mud, clotting and gritty in between my fingers, but I wiped them on my jeans and they were clean again.

I looked up.

The storm cloud—that powerful temptress—was already heading off to rain somewhere else, leaving the sky endless and bright and renewed blue. Lifting my face to the sun, I felt like I’d swallowed some of it, a warmth that spread from within. Light can quench your thirst much more effectively than water, you know. I closed my eyes to soak it up.

And this is how it is when you tell me you love me.

beginning of "Dear Mom,"

PART ONE
EVERETT

CHAPTER ONE
DENIAL

The first major question I can ever remember asking my father is, “Dad, where does the rain come from?”

I was five years old, and in those days we lived in Middleton, Washington, where it rained more than it didn’t. I remember this day, this question, because my sister Lucy was just a wiggly tiny baby, and it was right after Mom left. Couldn’t have been more than two or three weeks. I’d been sitting by the window in the den, which overlooked the driveway and the street. Lucy was in a baby seat on the floor, making nice gurgling noises. When Dad walked in the room, he smiled at her—a small smile, but the first one I’d seen on his face in weeks. Then he looked at me.

“Matthew,” he said. “What are you doing?”

I was waiting for my mother, of course. That’s always what I was doing, and looking back now, Dad must have known that. But I was just a kid—a sad, confused, lonely kid—and I wanted Dad to think I was tough. So I lied. I said, “Watching the rain.”

Dad sat down next to me. His face was kind. I’d walked in on him crying more than once those past weeks, and I hadn’t liked it. I liked him better this way, when he was just being my good old cheerful dad. “That sounds like a fine idea,” he said, and we sat there, father and son, watching the rain run rivers down the street.

I wanted to ask where Mom had gone, when she was coming back, didn’t she love me anymore. But I didn’t want to ruin the moment or make Dad upset. I didn’t want to make me upset, come to think of it. So more to end the silence than anything else, I said, “Dad, where does the rain come from?”

He looked a little surprised. I usually saved questions like those for Mom, because she gave the simple answers kids loved. I asked her why the sky was blue; she said to match my eyes. Dad always went into long scientific explanations for the phenomena I questioned. He may be an ironworker, but that’s just to support Lucy and me, and Mom too. Dad is one of the smartest people I know, and I was glad then for a long explanation about the water cycle. The timbre of his voice comforted me and eased the anxious feeling I had in my belly. As he talked, I scooted closer and leaned against him. He put his arm around me and kept talking. He didn’t have to assure me that everything would be all right. He didn’t have to tell me where my mother was, or when she was coming back, or if she loved me, because right then, it didn’t matter. It was just me and my dad.


***

I don’t really know when my mother hit rock bottom, since I was so young when it had happened. I don’t know when her duties as wife and mother got to be too much. I was blind to a lot of it, I think, because Dad had tried protecting me, and because I was three, four, and five, and up to my eyeballs in Power Rangers and Ninja Turtles and toy trucks and gummy bears. I was selfish, I suppose. Aren’t all little kids selfish, though? That’s how they are. They’re leeches, expecting their parents to drop everything to play, get them juice, tell a joke, buy a toy. They don’t understand about jobs, stress, money, fatigue, or, in my mother’s case, drugs. They think, with full certainty and little logic, that their parents’ lives do, will, and should revolve completely around them, and that a fistful of wilted wildflowers, a bear hug, a crinkled Valentine covered in glitter, repays their parents entirely.

And maybe it does. I’m not a parent, so I wouldn’t know. I’m just an eighteen-year-old kid who’s made some bad choices, if you ask my probation officer. If you ask my dad, I’m a good kid overall, I’ve just got shit for brains. If you ask my mom—well, I have no idea what she’d say. She doesn’t even know me. She’d probably say something sappy though, like how my eyes match a summer’s sky, or how she and I used to play leapfrog in the front yard until the porch light came on. That’s just how she is.

Then again, I’m probably more selfish now than I was at five. At least back then I gave little things back, thinking it made me and my parents even. Now I don’t give anything back because I know I don’t have to.

I remember the first time I got in real trouble with the law. I was thirteen years old and a cop had caught me outside the town’s Shole Elementary School. He said I was vandalizing, but if you ask me, spray-painting “AS” before the school’s name added some comic relief and was actually a great improvement overall. The cop brought me to my house first, woke up my dad, and explained angrily what a screw-up his firstborn was. Dad stood there in our kitchen, rubbing his eyes and patiently listening to the cop rave on and on. Then he just said, “Okay, officer, what do we do now?” Dad came with us down the station, leaving Lucy, who was eight at the time, with our neighbor. As soon as we got there, we had to fill out paperwork.

“Mother’s name,” the pig barked.

“Don’t have one,” I responded.

Dad looked over at me, and the pain on his face almost made me regret saying it. Almost.

I had meant it, though. Mom had never been there for me or Lucy or Dad. She’d been there. Sometimes. For herself. When her borrowed or stolen money had run dry and she needed a place to crash. But it was never for long, never permanently, no matter what she’d promise.

I hated her. Hell, I still hate her.

The last time I saw Mom—about five or six months ago, I’d say—we had a huge fight. We’ve been having those more and more. It’s gotten to the point where she’ll call and I’ll just hang up. No explanation, no regret, that’s how little I think of her. But she had come for one of her visits. I don’t know why. She’s remarried, still on drugs, but she’s got money for them now and doesn’t have to leech off us. So I really don’t know why she keeps coming by. I’ve made it plenty clear exactly what I think of her. I know that for a long time, Dad let her come crawling back for Lucy’s and my sake, and for an even longer time, I put up with her for Lucy. Lucy hero-worshipped Mom, and she’d get worked up every time Mom left, like it was a horrible surprise. More and more lately, I’ve seen a change in my sister. She’s thirteen years old, and she’s developing that icy bluntness in her eyes I adopted at age eight or nine.

So, the fight. Mom had come around and was sitting in the kitchen with Lucy as I came in from Brett’s. Lucy looked relieved to see me, and Mom put on this huge smile. “Matttteeeewww!” she cawed.

Can I just be the first to say that I hate the way my mother says my name? Like it’s something sticky she’s trying to smear off, that’s exactly how it sounds. I tossed my keys and pack of cigs onto the counter and nodded at my sister. “Hey Luce,” I said, then stepped to the fridge and opened it.

“Aren’t you going to say hello to your mother?” Mom asked.

More than her absence, more than her choices in life, what I hate most about my mother is how she acts like she deserves my respect. She honestly thinks she does, which is not only ridiculous, it’s offensive. And she’s always pulling the mother card too. Calling herself “your mother.” As if I like to be reminded of that.

“Well, I wasn’t planning to, no,” I said.

“How was your day?” she asked. I swear. Like we were just a normal family. It made me sick.

“Don’t you mean, how was the past two months?” I asked. “Two months, Mom. That’s the last time I saw you.”

“I came by last month but you were out—”

“Coming by once a month doesn’t make you my mother or my friend,” I snapped. “Where’s the child support check, Mother? Or was a measly check too much to ask for, too?”

Mom’s eyes got fiery. “I’m doing my best, Matthew,” she said fiercely. “I know I’ve made mistakes, but—”

“No, not made. You’re still making them. You haven’t changed. You’ll never change.” I grabbed my keys and cigs again, ready to get out of there.

“I am making changes in my life—”

“You’ve got a husband to pay for a few expensive habits,” I spat, “so maybe you won’t keep burying us alive with bills. Those aren’t changes that make you a decent human being.”

Well, you get the idea. I’m not the sad little boy who waited by the window for months on end…or the second-grader who was too ashamed to admit to his teacher about his absentee mother, so he went along with the class and made a Mother’s Day present, which he kept on his dresser for a whole month before throwing it away…or the third-grader who was actually hopeful about his mother sticking around this time, so he made a Mother’s Day present with his class again, and brought it home, again, only to find that his mother had packed and left that morning…or the fourth-grader who faked sick the whole week before Mother’s Day to avoid this problem altogether…no. I’m not that boy. I may not like who I see in the mirror all the time these days, but at least I know what I want. Or, more to the point, what I don’t want. I don’t want her. I don’t need her.

And that’s a fact.

beginning of an untitled something

Chapter One

They tell you to go out with a bang. My question is, how do you know when to go out? And isn’t that the same thing as giving up? And if that’s the case, is it even possible to quit with a bang? Quitting loudly, or quitting softly…the end result is the same. You’re surrendering.

They say that honesty is the best policy. I want to know, for what? War? In my experiences, honesty has never led to any good. It hurts. It can wound even the toughest soldier, and there’s no armor against it. Except maybe denial.

They want you to believe that love is the best thing on Earth. Maybe it is. I know it’s pretty great; not much can compare to loving and being loved in return. You better pray, though, you don’t love two people who pull you in opposite directions. Love, when used like that, can literally tear you down the middle. It’s great, yeah, but powerful.

They tell you that you can do anything you dream, if you believe. My question is, do you believe what you’ve been told your whole life, or do you break away from that? If so, how? And if not, why? And what if, your whole life, you’ve been told to believe you can’t go anywhere?

What then?



I stretched out on my back, across the patchwork quilt that served as his bedspread, and looked up at the water damaged ceiling, yellowed from his little cousin overflowing the bath above one too many times. I tilted my head back and looked, upside-down, at the small window. Through the cracks in the broken mini-blinds, I could see the blue, blue sky outside. The room was dim; the moss green walls appeared darker than they actually were. We liked the room dark, though. It made the candles on the floor light that much brighter.

The glowing ember of Ashton’s cigarette waggled at me as he spoke. His words began to blend together, as they always did in these lazy afternoons, but I knew if they suddenly stopped, I would miss them. He sat, cross-legged, idly shuffling a deck of cards. His sandy brown hair, tinged with purple highlights just to piss people off, fell into his dark eyes as he watched his hands move, seemingly of their own accord. Back and forth, back and forth, the cards flowing through them like water.

I turned my face to study him, the serious line of his mouth, the straight slope of his nose and the slight definition of his cheekbones. I watched the way his fingers deftly flew over the cards, the way his foot wiggled under his left knee. It was strange, as it was always strange, looking at Ashton. I knew if I tried to shuffle the cards that fast, my fingers would fumble over one another and the cards would go flying. I knew if I dyed my hair that color, my mom’s anger would have been enough to make me dye it back; if I was smoking that cigarette, I’d be coughing nonstop. I was only seventeen, but I knew that I loved Ashton. I knew because he finished my sentences, he smoothed my hair back before he kissed me, he was a thousand things that I could never be, and, because of that, he completed me.

This was no ordinary lazy afternoon in Ashton’s aunt’s house. I had news, news that settled in my stomach, a bubble of excitement waiting to burst. I had to pick just the right moment to tell him, though. It had to be perfect because, well, this news was pretty perfect.

“Ashton!” his aunt Lydia called, her voice ringing through the closed bedroom door like a tropical bird’s. “Is Allie staying for dinner?”

He looked up at me suddenly, his charcoal-gray eyes flashing, a half-smile forming on his lips. “You up for it?” he asked.

It’s not like I wasn’t up for it. It’s just that I knew I had to go home. “Can’t,” I said.

He blinked, then looked back down at his cards. “Dinner with the parent tonight?” he asked.

That was something Ashton did, and I’m not sure he even knew he did it. Ever since I’d met him—when he moved here, after moving out of his mom’s place in Chicago—he’d referred to anyone’s mom or dad as “the parent.” Almost like it should be a proper noun. Like it was something that needed no other explanation.

“Yeah,” I said, then sat up and scooted closer to him, crossing my legs, face-to-face. I placed my hands over his knees and said, “Ashton.”

“Allie?” he said back. The card-shuffling slowed, but didn’t stop. “What’s up?”

“I might have a record deal,” I said, and with those words, let the bubble burst.

The cards flew in a thousand directions. Swiftly, he snubbed out his cigarette with his thumb, tossed it carelessly aside, then framed my face with his hands and kissed me. “Allison Gallagher,” he said approvingly. “You rock.”

“I know,” I answered, grinning wide. He touched the dimple in my left cheek—a habit—then kissed me again. I could taste the thick, burnt flavor of cigarette smoke, and something under that, something sweet and salty that I knew was Ashton himself. I broke away from the kiss and said, “Nothing’s definite yet. Remember that contest I won? And that judge who said he could help me out?”

“Remember how I said I’d break his face if he lied?” Ashton said, raising an eyebrow and making me laugh.

“Yeah, well, he gave me a call. Said he’d pay for me to live out in Los Angeles, studio time, everything. He knows this producer who’s interested, and—” I paused to take a breath. “It could be a shot.”

Ashton beamed at me. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s amazing, Al.”

“Of course, it could be fake, too—”

“But if you don’t go for it, you’ll always wonder what could have happened,” he pointed out.

“I know. Then, of course, there’s my mom—”

“You really think she’d say no to this?” Ashton asked.

I shook my head. “She’d never say no to anything,” I said. “But I can’t just leave her. And there’s no way she’d move to California.”

“Not even if it’s what you want more than anything?”

More than anything. I studied Ashton’s face, even though I could see it in my mind’s eye as clear as a photograph. He was the flip side to my coin; he could read every mood I had as easily as if it was written on my forehead. And he was right, I did want this, more than I’d ever wanted anything in my life.

But I thought of Mom. I didn’t want Mom, because I had her. You can’t want something you have. If I didn’t have her, though, would I want her as badly as I wanted to sing?

Ashton reached out, touched the end of my long braid. I’d spent about fifteen minutes earlier braiding my hair in his mirror, seeing him in the reflection, smoking on the bed behind me. I’d twisted and tucked my hair around and around and tied it with a rubber band to keep it out of my face. Now he twirled the end of it in his fingers gently, like if he handled it too roughly, the whole thing would unravel and come apart. “This is about you right now,” he said quietly. “Only you.”

He was wrong, though. It could never only be about me. There was no such thing as only me, as long as she was in the shadows of my past.

Based on a Blue Story

His eyes were blank, and it was like looking into a mirror. I felt as empty as the amber pools set into his face. Once upon a time, I thought that if you took everything I was, and added just a little more sarcasm, lots of liquor, a British accent, and, of course, the Y chromosome, you would have him. Here with ihm now, I could see that wasn’t the case. He and I had never had anything in common, other than a desperate need for each other that had long since faded into…this. Nothing. Our emotions had merely been a morning mist that had disappeared once the sun got too hot for it to bear.

He swished his drink around and around, around and around. His fidgeting in general had alwasy driven me nuts. There had been a time where I could have covered his hand with my own, settled him down with just a look or a change of tone or a soothing stroke to the back of his neck. But that had only been a time, and was no more.

“She’s not you,” he was saying. “I mean, I don’t think she’s…as good as you are. But I don’t know.”

How ironic. Just two weeks ago, he was practically listing all the ways his girlfriend was better than me, more suited for him than I had been.

“Lately, she’s been shallow and jealous,” he said.

Of course, I had never been those things. According to him, I’d just been too young and we never could have worked. When he started dating Cheryl—who was a year younger than me—after two or three other girls who never could have worked—I moved on. It had hurt like hell, but I’d had no choice. I was many things, too many things that clashed with whatever he was, but patient wasn’t one of them. At least not anymore. And I was not shallow or jealous. How could I have been, to be so subdued by him? Shallow—that would have meant I’d felt about him the way he’d felt about me. Clearly not the case. And jealous…that would have meant I would have seen all this coming, and I hadn’t…at least, I hadn’t let myself.

“She knows all about you,” he said, shitty compensation. “She knows you’re important to me.”

Funny how my importance to him always seemed to be measured by how often he mentioned me to his friends—once a week would suffice—or whether or not the whore of the hour knew my name. It had taken awhile to learn, but I finally had: I wasn’t important to him unless he needed me, for whatever reason. After all this time, now and then I was still the only person he could turn to, the only person who put up with him. I was his best friend. He had never been mine.

Swish swish swish. I watched him swirling his vodka, which he always took straight. Hard liquor was nothing to him. He would pour it directly into his eyes if you dared him to. Pain and drunkenness were in his nature; they came hand-in-hand. He was, after all, the boy you couldn’t forget at parties, the one who would try to walk down a flight of steps on his hands, or heat up coins in a fireplace and put them in his mouth, so long as there was an expectant audience watching.

He was making me restless. I shifted in my seat, wondering if he was going to get to the point of this meeting. As it was, we only saw each other every couple of weeks. We only saw each other when he needed something.

“So,” I said. “What’s up?”

His eyes rose level to my face once more. They were heavy, weighed down with alcohol and—could it be?—guilt. But no. He couldn’t be guilty, because to him, he had never done anything wrong.

“Stuff,” he grunted. “Family stuff.”

Guilt could, however, weigh me down. Self-induced paralysis.

It’s not your fault, I told myself, closing my eyes for a moment. It’s not your fault you haven’t been there for him as much as you used to. He has people to go to. He just chooses you because it’s safe. But it’s not your fault if you’re not always there. It’s his.

He finally stopped messing with his damn drink and said, “This is still uncomfortable, isn’t it?”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “This will never be comfortable,” I said.

“We can’t talk anymore, can we?” he asked.

“That’s on you. I don’t care.” For once, I meant it. I’d stopped missing him, any part of him. I’d stopped wishing against all reason to rewind time and have it how it used to be—because I was finally understanding that how it used to be wasn’t even that great. I’d stopped hoping the old him would shine through somehow. I’d stopped putting him up on a pedestal where he’d never deserved to be. And, slowly, I was creeping back to life. He wasn’t going to ruin that, as hard as he might try.

“I want to keep talking to you,” he said. “It’s not on me. I don’t want to lose you.”

I downed the remainder of my drink. “The thing is,” I said, my throat constricted from the burn of alcohol, “it’s not up to you, whether you lose me or not.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s what I’m saying. It’s not up to me.”

“I never said it was. I meant, it’s your fault.” I stared him right in the eye. Six months ago, this wouldn’t have been an option. Provoking him like this. Six months ago, I would have already started to back down. This wasn’t six months ago, though. I wasn’t six months ago.

“Maybe it is,” he answered, shoulders sagging. This was where I was supposed to comfort him, apologize, assure him that he was a good person, inflate his ego a little. I remained silent. “I’m sorry I’m such a dick,” he said, caving. Man, if I had only known this six months ago. That was the thing about him. He was aggravating as hell. He spun you up and cut you loose. But if you gave him the slightest taste of his own medicine, he wound up gagging on it and surrendering. “I…I never meant to. I’m just confused. I need to figure out where you fit you into my life, I guess. You and Cheryl both.”

“I’m not something you can fit into your life,” I snapped. “I’m not something you bought. I’m not a pet or a piece of furniture, for God’s sake.” I pushed his drink away from him, sliding it across the tabletop. It left a thick streak of condensation behind. “When are you gonna start owning up to what you did to me?” I asked in a low voice.

His eyes darkened, and I knew he was about to turn it around on me. Like he did with every dispute. Somehow, no matter what we were arguing about, it was always my fault. He could run over my grandmother, but if I got upset, he was no longer to blame. “You know,” he said, “I’m not half as bad as you say I am.”

“Maybe not,” I retorted, “but you’re not half as great as you think you are, either.”

I stood up and—with perfect timing—Cheryl sauntered into the bar. She spotted him and walked over, smiling. Her smile only faded a little as she saw me. I wanted to shake her. I wanted to warn her. I wanted to ask how the hell she could be jealous of me, since I only saw him once a week, tops, and since she was the one screwing him. Then immediately I wanted to ask how she couldn’t be jealous of me. I was free. She was just beginning to be trapped.

“Hi,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. It was such a familiar gesture, I almost laughed. Hadn’t I done the exact same thing? Hadn’t I tried to stake my claim on every part of him, no matter if there wasn't an inch of him that truly belonged to me?

He didn’t even look at her. He just looked up at me. “Don’t leave,” he said.

“I left six months ago,” I answered. “When you got over me. Remember?” Then I left. I left him to deal with his own shit, for once in his life. I left him to explain to Cheryl why I was there, why I had ever been there. Hell, I would have liked if he’d explained that to me, but no matter. I left because I didn’t need to stay, not anymore, and because hey, I had learned a thing or two from him, after all.

L.D.B.

The little girl had a smile that made the scarlets and golds and purples of the setting sun look about as impressive as a dull crayoned-out drawing from the dusty interior of a forgotten trunk, yellowed around the edges. Her eyes shimmered with every excited word she spoke, and although she was only about three feet tall, her personality could reach the moon.

She’d let herself into the bedroom early in the morning, as the rest of the house was sleeping, and tiptoe up to the bed. Her hair would be in crazy curly-Q’s that framed her face, and if you pressed your nose against the soft locks, you’d still be able to smell her baby sweetness, something that, unlike highchairs and bottles and diapers and teething rings, she had not yet lost from infancy. You couldn’t use the word “baby” around her, though, or she would furrow her brow indignantly and insist she was a big girl. Big enough to brush her own teeth and count to ten and sing the alphabet while riding in the backseat of the car, kicking her little feet into the plush back of the seat her mother sat in.

She’d come right up close to the bed, and lean in to your face, and whisper, “Are you sleeping?” Her breath would smell of sleep. You’d open your eyes, and she would smile.

Then you’d be on a journey, to the doctor’s, or to go get coffee. The bed became the car, and the little girl was the doctor, pilot, driver, and conductor of every game. During your routine checkups, she would examine you, and somehow always diagnose you with a shot and a bandaid. She was an expert at shots and bandaids, and wanted to be a doctor when she grew up. Sometimes you would be required to drive to the various errands, and she’d give you the directions. “Left. Left. Right. Left. Right.” Sometimes you’d get arrested by the police for driving without a license. Police, in the little girl’s opinion, were bad and scary.

“No, no,” you’d say, slightly disturbed by this. “Police are good. They get rid of the bad guys.”

Still, when she impersonated a policeman, she would adopt a deep, menacing voice and cross her arms a lot. And when she insisted that you arrest her, she would pretend to cry.

Her idea of safety was to run to you when her family started yelling. You weren’t related to her, but maybe that’s why you were safe: neutral territory. You’d bring her to the bedroom and close the door and turn on the TV, and distract her as best you could. She’d sit on your lap, slumping against you, her sleepiness becoming an anchor, her gentle breaths and the way her hand rested on top of yours as soothing as a mug of tea during a blizzard. She could be a monster, throwing fits and crying and carrying on, but you’d just have to remember her in this moment, and you’d forgive her and love her completely.

She cried when you left, certain that you came over every weekend to see her and her alone. And maybe you did. She ran to you, arms flung wide, wrapping them around your neck as you picked her up. You always picked her up. Even when she was getting bigger every day, all you did was vow to get stronger.

She loved going places. You were her copilot, and you’d sit beside her in the car, and play the I Love You game.

“I wuv you,” she would say.

“I love you,” you would answer.

“I wuv you.”

“I love you.”

Everywhere she went, she’d hope to see a puppy, or a merry-go-round, or a really fun toy to play with. She understood about money and hated when Mama didn’t have any, because, after all, the lack of money could be solved simply by reaching into a purse. She could sing along to any of her favorite tunes, mostly including Fall Out Boy and Dora the Explorer. If she didn’t know the song, she’d make you sing, because you were big and knew every song there ever was. She told stories about caterpillars and swingsets and swimming in big lakes, and playing outside was her favorite, but she hated the scary hose. Her mother could shush her all she wanted, but if you shushed her, she’d cry. She’d reach for your hand, and it was tiny in yours, but you never wanted to let go. You hand-fed her barbecue chips while the others watched a movie. The only catch was if her mouth was closed it meant it was a red light, so you had to wait till it opened and the light was green. She used to eat anything that was offered to her, as long as you called it “ketchup.” Now she’d eat pickles and chicken and ice cream, but nothing sour. She presented you with drawings and hair scrunchies and various other presents you’d cherish forever, and she’d open a notebook and have you write her name over and over and over again. naya.

You haven’t seen her for two years now, and you’re sure she’s completely lost that baby innocence you remember. You’re sure she’s changed and grown. You’re sure she looks different now, and maybe if you saw her in a crowd, you wouldn’t recognize her. She certainly wouldn’t recognize you. And if you’d known, the last time you saw her, that it was the last time you’d see her, you would have done something—anything—differently. You would have looked her in the face, your favorite home fry, the little girl who wuved you, and you would have begged her to remember you. But as the days pass, as they turn into months, and the months into years, you’ll think back to all the times she’d break down and cry as you left, pounding on the window as you got into your car, carrying all the signs of a baby girl who’s been betrayed. You will be glad she can’t remember you and think that maybe you chose to stay away. You’ll be glad she doesn’t miss you like you miss her. You’ll wish for all the best things for her, although you’ll never be certain if she gets the best, you’ll never know if she’s truly okay. You’ll never pat her head to reassure her, or let her win every race, or protect her from barking dogs and loud noises and scary monsters in the closet. But as much as it hurts, you’ll never forget her, and that’s the most important thing. The only important thing.

Shoot The Messenger.

The painter dipped her brush into a cup of water, then dabbed it delicately onto her pallet of paints. The color red she chose turned to a liquid bright as blood, melting onto the bristles like molten candle wax. With a precise, controlled stroke, she pressed the brush against her canvas, scarring it with a bold stripe, like a cut, right across its surface. How fitting, she thought, pleased at the mental image. Sitting down to paint was, in many ways, like sitting down and slicing open a vein.

The picture was always already there, on the canvas, long before she painted it. She just had to find it. Then the colors came to her and if everything was perfect, she’d get a finished painting out of it all. If she couldn’t find it, if the colors didn’t come to her, though…well, she might as well get up and do laundry because there was no use in forcing it.

Today, it turned out, was not a day to paint.

She sighed, giving up and replacing the brush to its cup of water. Then she stretched and stood before the open window facing the woods. The gentle wind that bit her face with the first traces of autumn smelled like burnt pine, a smell that always reminded her of her father. Fall in general reminded her of her father. Drying out, shriveling up, turning from bright and new to old and detached.

She hugged herself, settling into a chair by the window, wishing Brian was home. But he’d be gone for another five days yet. And he’d been right, of course, when he’d said space would be good for them. Hadn’t she, in fact, been looking forward to him leaving, looking forward to having some time for herself, to paint and to think? Hadn’t she taken comfort in the fact that, as he left with wet eyes, she didn’t need him half as much as he needed her? But then, if all that were true, why did she miss him this much?

It was true that she didn’t need him. If her cold, unyielding father had taught her anything, it was not to need anyone. Still, she wanted Brian. She cared about Brian. Lately, she’d even been toying with the notion that she loved Brian. She might as well need him.

Brian had never been her match made in heaven or her knight in shining armor. He aggravated and saddened her more than he charmed her. He could hardly save himself, much less any damsel in distress. In fact, if he’d been anyone else’s but hers, she would have hated him. His hair was always falling into his eyes and he was constantly adjusting it with his fingers to make it fall just right. The hair itself was jet black, dyed that way every couple of months. When he smiled, his whole face changed, the way an empty room changes once it’s filled with people. But the smile was always rare and fleeting, and when he wasn’t smiling, he looked bored, tired, mainly sad. He fidgeted a lot—tapping his fingers, picking things up and rolling them around in his palms, playing with his lip ring, sometimes until it bled. He was always drinking something—usually alcohol or tea—and he could make you laugh without breaking a sweat. He could be sweet when he wanted, but he talked about himself too much and made jokes at all the wrong times. He got easily excited about things, which could be nice, except it meant he got equally as easily sad. Most of the time, he was his own worst enemy. But still, he checked himself out in every available reflective surface, and he made his jokes and swore too much, and you’d never know unless you had to how insecure and sad and selfish he could be.

They were polar opposites, it seemed. She was thoughtful; he had a memory as feeble as his empathy. She guarded her words carefully; he spewed half-baked and sometimes cruel opinions out without thinking anything through. He made her so angry at times, she wondered how she managed to go through a day without killing him. And yet despite his flaws, it was Brian she kept coming home to, Brian she knew would keep coming home to her. He saw her when no one else seemed to, and it very nearly made up for everything.

She didn’t realize she was nodding off until she was jolted awake hours later by the ringing phone. Stumbling into the dark kitchen, she picked up the wretched thing, cursing whoever would call so late—past midnight, in fact. “Hello?” she mumbled into the receiver.

“Is this Brian Turner’s residence?” an unfamiliar voice asked.

“Yes,” she responded slowly.

“And who is this?”

“Brian lives with me,” she said, and that was all.

“This is Dr. Newton at the Cambridge Memorial Hospital,” the voice said, and her heart caught tightly in her throat. She could feel the very walls around her tremble, as if their home was merely made of cards, as if any small whisper of wind could cause the entire fragile thing to collapse. “Brian was in a car accident earlier this evening.”

“But—but he’s okay,” she choked out. “He’s fine, right, and I can come get him—”

“I’m so sorry,” the voice said, not sounding as sorry as it should. “He’s alive, but I’m afraid he’s very much injured.”

“Injured how?”

“Essentially, he’s brain dead. We’re keeping his heart beating and his lungs working, but there’s an extremely small amount of brain activity going on.”

“But there is some?” she asked. “There’s hope?”

“There’s always hope. However, situations like these…it’s doubtful you’ll ever know the man you used to know.” A pause, and then came another useless, almost insulting, “I’m sorry.” This bodiless voice knew nothing about sorrow. It knew nothing about Brian, not how she knew him anyway. It didn’t know the way his smile, though appearing only on his lips, could light up his eyes, or how she always melted a little when he said her name, or how even during the worst of fights, she slammed a few doors and cursed everything from his messy hair to his birthday and still knew she wouldn’t change a thing even if she could. It knew nothing. It didn’t know that just hours ago she’d kissed Brian goodbye without worry, without hesitation, so certain he would come back to her. And now…he was gone. Not physically. But all the same, the person she might as well have needed was gone.

Hanging up the phone, she found herself walking, slow and careful like an elderly woman. Walking and not heading anywhere. She recalled how Brian’s face had looked right before he left. Sweet, sad, full of promises. Full to bursting with every promise they’d ever made each other. She didn’t need to see that face again to know it was different. Everything was different. The very ground beneath her was different. And still, she walked. Outside, across the freezing lawn, into the shed, darkness billowing around her, as thick as a mattress. Why had Brian gone, anyway? He didn’t even like to hunt that much. His work friends got him into the sport. Why had he gone? Had it been just to get away from her? Had he, then, finally gotten his wish?

She reached out without seeing, without even feeling, tenderly picking up one of Brian’s hunting pistols. It was cold and heavy in her hand. And then, the artist who needed no one, the woman who’d nearly been in love, put a bullet into her head.