Our Hearts Will Burn Us Down (19 page)

She pushed herself against him, straddled him, pulled at his belt, and unfastened the buckle. He felt his jeans tugged open, then her hand beneath the band, her fingers skirting the crevice between boxer and skin. He let her. His hand against her skin, her shorts strewn to the carpet. This was nothing they'd never done, an entire summer back before a week that had become a separate life,
everything in her bedroom or his car but sex. She pushed herself onto him. His hand underneath her. She pushed herself onto him and he stopped her, his hand to her chest.
Are you sure?
he asked and she pressed herself against him and he held her back again:
Are you sure?
She looked at him for a moment, lucid, her eyes the same as he'd always known them: not taken by heat, not clouded by the listlessness of retreating to her room but hard and clear and hers.

I'm ready, she whispered. I've been telling you. I'm ready.

She pressed herself back onto him and he let her, let her weight sink down onto him. His shirt half-undone, her hands gripping his shoulders and the cushions behind him. She lowered herself slowly, with force, a sharp gasp of breath as he felt himself push. Then she moved against him and he pulled her to him, her face, her mouth a condensation. Her breath pulsing in beats that quickened as he moved.
Wait,
he wanted to say but she clutched him against her, whispered
it's okay.
Beyond the window, above Sarah's head, branches wavered at the tree line. His body shuddered, the trees breathed.

Are you okay? he asked and she slid from him to the couch. She nodded and leaned her head to his chest and he felt exposed, his jeans open, her shorts on the floor.

Was that dangerous? he said. The only thing he could think to say.

He had no condoms, no reason to think he'd need them.

I went on the pill a few weeks ago, she said, and Nick imagined the past weeks and beyond that an entire summer of heat-soaked months. How everything he'd learned from the movies was nothing he'd ever known: sex the center of everything, a magnetic field, a looming question between every teenager. How he hadn't even known she'd started swallowing a small pill, everything about him always so much inside his head that he hadn't taken notice. How she'd been right. Nick looked at Sarah and only wanted to be near her, nothing more. He reached for her hand. She let him take it.

Why didn't you tell me? he asked.

I wasn't sure we'd need it. And besides, it didn't seem to matter to you.

It matters, he said. I'm glad you're feeling better.

She laughed. I'm feeling better. And you?

The sun pierced the bay window, an angle already on its way toward setting. The days were growing shorter, Nick knew, wind and sun whipping through the trees. Nick glanced at the mantel clock and knew Sarah's mother would be home soon.

Good. Nick traced her knuckles with his thumb. But I should go soon.

You can stay for dinner.

I can't. My parents need me to watch my brother.

Are you okay? she said. The first time she'd asked.

His brain turned back to the folder in his car, the photographs and newsprint.

I'm fine, he said. As fine as anyone else right now.

She didn't respond and when he looked up, he saw sadness in her face.

I'm fine, he said. Really. This is wonderful. You are wonderful.

She watched him.

I'm fine, he promised. He heard his own words fill the room.

CHRISTINA ARRIVED HOME
to her father still at work and her brother gone, a handwritten note left on the kitchen counter:
at Brian's.
Her brother's best friend, a freshman Christina knew hadn't been at school that day, home sick and watching the events unfold on the news from his living room. Christina glanced into the garage and saw Simon's bike gone and thought to call Brian's house but the need escaped her. Simon surely knew to be home before dusk.

Christina pulled open the refrigerator door and rummaged through two Tupperwares, containers of leftover Hamburger Helper and cold spaghetti. Her father hadn't shopped, had barely cooked in the entire week they'd been home, a busy season at Boeing with
third-quarter sales. She pushed past a carton of eggs, a half-full container of yogurt. She felt a lack of hunger in her gut clash with the compulsion to eat. To pass the time. To not think of what her friends had finally told her: that Ryan wasn't good for her. To not think of the photographs of each home splayed across the table at Paul's Books, news articles on the fires and the shooting and sub-articles on gun control, the legality of purchasing a lethal weapon. Articles on mental health.
Who was Caleb Raynor?
She didn't want to know anything else about Caleb Raynor, the news insistent though she could have told them who he was: nothing. Someone who had blasted all of their lives apart. She closed the fridge and noticed the answering machine blinking on the kitchen counter.

She played the message and stopped midstride when she heard it. Ryan's voice.

Christina, pick up. If you're there, I need to talk to you.

She pressed
DELETE
. Moved down the hallway to her bedroom and closed the door, a stone in her stomach. She knew his voice well enough across two years. She knew that tone, a calm field before a thunderstorm rolled in. She knew how his face took on a stillness before he unleashed something awful. Before he rolled down the window of his car after she slammed the door and started walking away:
you fucking bitch.
The vacancy in his face. The lack of warmth. The same lack she heard in his voice on the recording, a lack she'd have avoided by not calling back if there wasn't a knock at the front door.

When she opened it, he stood in crutches. A maroon Buick idling in the driveway behind him, Ryan's doubles partner Chad Stapleton behind the wheel.

We should talk, Ryan said.

A brief spurt of elation broke through her dread. That he was here, on her porch. That he'd made the effort in finding someone to drive him, his cast an obstruction, an obstacle he'd overcome to bridge the streets between them and talk to her.

I guess we should, she said. You haven't called in three days.

Yeah, this isn't about that.

She didn't invite him in. Dread pooling. She knew then what he'd come to say.

I don't think we should do this anymore.

Stomach gutted. Do what?

This. I can't do this anymore.

What exactly is it you can't do?

I can't be with you. It's not working.

Yeah, it's not working. Where the fuck have you been for three days?

Oh, I'm the one who was supposed to call? You threw a picture at my face. I was fucking shot, Christina. And that's what you do?

She didn't respond. The evening's cold air blew in through the open door. She glanced beyond the front porch to the Buick, where Chad sat watching them.

Look, I'll be leaving soon anyway, Ryan said. For college.

You mean in a year.

We wouldn't have lasted the distance and you know it.

Christina kept her eyes on a pine tree in the front yard.

Where do you think you're going? she said. Where exactly are you going? No college is going to want you on their tennis team now.

He didn't respond and she felt dirty. Mean. A shell of herself.

She glanced up at him. Look, I didn't mean—

Fuck you.

Excuse me?

I said fuck you, Christina. Fuck you. You don't know shit. You've never known shit, just a poor little rich girl. Go cry to Mommy and Daddy that I hurt your feelings. Or maybe just Daddy, Mommy way out in Edwardsville. You know what you are? Just a little bitch. You've always been nothing but a little bitch. Nothing but a fucking crybaby.

Go, she said. Get back in the car and get away from my house.

That's right, he said. Be a fucking baby about it.

She kept her eyes on him, the stone in her stomach a flamed rock. Kept herself from saying something awful. From being him. She gritted her teeth.

Don't ever come here again, she said.

You can fucking count on it. You can—

She slammed the front door. There was nothing but noise. The wind outside. The quiet of the house, a siren in her ears. She leaned against the door until she heard the Buick pull away and gun down her street. She didn't think to put on shoes. No coat. She moved through the kitchen and into the garage, the concrete cold beneath her bare feet. Her brother's bike gone, her father's car. Hers alone in the closed one-car garage where she'd parked when she'd come home from the bookstore, that she'd planned to move before her father came home. She pulled open the door of her car and climbed into the backseat, the silence a womb. She lay down, the same upholstery that had held her body and Ryan's so many times across the summer, nothing but skin. She pulled her hands inside her sweatshirt's sleeves and curled her knees to her chest. Exhaled thin wisps of white, the first time all fall that she could see her own breath, a phantom broken loose through the sealed air of the car.

ZOLA HEARD HER
mother come home through the garage, from her spot on the living room couch where she'd watched the sun set. The clouds had dispersed through the late afternoon, leaving behind a haze of gold in their wake. Zola had watched the gold flatten and disappear against the silhouettes of trees and tried to forget what she'd said to Christina and Nick and Matt at Paul's Books.

I brought movies! her mother shouted from the kitchen.
Back to the Future. Can't Hardly Wait.
I even got a new release:
Bend It Like Beckham
. Anything you want to watch.

Zola heard plastic bags rustling in the kitchen, then smelled the sharp scent of curry. Her mother appeared in the doorway, two aluminum containers in her hands.

I got Indian takeout, too, she said. Chana masala.

Zola took a container from her mother's hands. You didn't have to do this.

Do what?

All of this. Order food. Rent movies.

But I wanted to. Long day at work. I could use the break as much as you.

No scary movies?

No scary movies.

But Halloween's only two weeks away.

I thought we should keep the scary out of our living room. At least for now.

Zola's mother sat down on the couch. She placed her container on the coffee table and hesitated. She finally set her hand on Zola's knee.

It won't always be this way, she said. This will get better.

I know.

They'll figure this out, Zola. They'll find who's doing all of this.

So you think it's someone?

I don't really know. I don't know what's going on in this town.

They took Eric Greeley in for questioning.

Did you know him?

Not really. But I'd be surprised if he did anything wrong.

Zola's mother smiled thinly, but Zola saw them anyway: hard lines of worry. The sea of anxiety her mother hid with movies and takeout. Zola saw in her face the flashed creases that vanished in her daughter's presence but would sink back past dark, when she retreated to her bed and lay awake imagining the school, the teenagers, the homes. How there was nothing in this world, no movie,
no amount of love that could keep her daughter safe. How Zola threatened her mother with every breath she took by being alive, being here. By being something to take away.

It's okay, Mom. Do what you need to do. Go to work, get things done.

I will. We both will. But tonight, let's just watch movies.

Zola chose
Back to the Future
and they settled into the couch with their takeout containers. A movie Zola hadn't seen since childhood: a DeLorean. A time machine. She pulled a plastic fork to her mouth and heard a soft rustling in the kitchen. A sound like paper, then a metallic clang. She sat up, alert.

Mom, what is that?

It's nothing. Go on, eat your food.

The clanging sounded again, then a tapping.

Mom, there's something in the kitchen.

Her mother sighed, set down her container. I wanted to wait until later.

Wait for what?

Well, I guess the cat's out of the bag.

Her mother disappeared into the kitchen. Zola followed her in and saw nothing, the counter and the kitchen table as they always were. Then she noticed her mother bent to the floor beside a small metal cage.

Zola crept to the edge of the cage and peered in. A rabbit, a white baby lop. Pulling water from a dispenser, tugs that rang out a rapid-fire banging.

Who's this?

I got her for you. I wanted her to be a surprise.

Zola rested a finger against the bars. The rabbit edged toward her and sniffed.

She's only eight weeks old. I got her at that shelter where Matt's mom volunteers.

Did you see Matt's mom?

She wasn't in. But I told them to send her our regards.

Zola peeked in at the rabbit. What's her name?

You can name her yourself. I thought you could use a little friend.

How long have you been planning this?

It was an impulse. I picked her up after work, with everything she'll need.

Zola glanced beyond her mother and saw a bag of straw, cage bedding, an extra water bottle. You didn't have to do this, she said.

I know. I wanted to.

The rabbit circled the cage. Can I hold her? Zola asked.

Sure. The shelter said the more you hold her, the sooner she'll get used to you.

Zola reached for the cage door. Hesitated.

Go ahead, her mother said. It's okay.

Zola unfastened the latch and pulled down the door, a series of bars that became a small ladder. Zola didn't want to reach in. She waited for the rabbit to inspect the open door and climb out. She held her palms open. The rabbit nosed them. She waited for the rabbit to hop into her hands. When she felt the rabbit's feet on her palms, she raised its body from the cage.

See, she's not afraid. The shelter said she was friendly.