Personal Effects (32 page)

It never occurred to me it could be about life.

D
AD
’
S TRUCK ISN
’
T IN THE DRIVEWAY
. I
KNEW IT PROBABLY
wouldn’t be. He’s never home in the middle of the day. But I still feel a weird mix of relief and disappointment at seeing the empty driveway.

Maybe I knew deep down this was a trial run, but I’ve been talking myself into the confrontation with Dad for the last hour, maybe even the last twenty-four hours. Now it seems like a waste of effort. Still, home, even with whatever’s about to happen hanging over me, looks pretty good. I need to curl up for a week, or at least a weekend, in my cave of a bedroom, dark, and a little too warm, and mine. Not yet, I know, but that much closer. Soon.

I let myself in the side door, halfway between the kitchen and my room, and hold my breath. “Dad?” I wait for any signs of movement. “Da-ad?” Nothing. Nothing at all. I relax a little, but not all the way, not until I’m sure.

I stop dead one step into the kitchen and drop my duffel on the floor. The sight is incredible.

All over the kitchen table, in no apparent order, hundreds of pieces of paper, all different colors and sizes, with all these folds, so they don’t lay flat. And envelopes, all these envelopes, one on the floor next to the table, with one of those red-white-and-blue return labels winking up at me. The empty box on the floor makes my stomach flip.

I can hardly understand, let alone believe, that Dad did this. I sidestep my way to the closet in the hallway, never taking my eyes off the table, littered with failed condolences. I open the hallway closet slowly, and see exactly what I expected to see: nothing. The empty box in the kitchen, the letters . . . Dad opened them. He opened them all.

I rest my forehead against the closet door. I turn my head and glance into the living room. My knees go weak. I can’t move closer, and I can’t back away.

Dad’s TV is in pieces. It’s on the floor, on its side. The screen isn’t just broken: it has a hole in the middle of it, and the glass all around it is crackled and ragged, like he put his foot through it, or maybe a bat or something. The TV stand is in pieces, too. And whatever used to be on the hutch in the corner is now scattered debris next to and around it, and the hutch door is hanging by one hinge. All around the living room, stuff is broken and in pieces on the floor. There’s a fist-size hole in the far wall.

I backpedal into the kitchen, like if I turn my back on the destruction, or take my eyes off the TV, something will attack me.

Once back in the kitchen, I’m confronted again by the letters. I don’t know which came first or when: his decision to beat the TV down and generally smash everything of value in the living room, or the decision to open and read seven months’ worth of condolence letters, mostly from strangers.

I can only hope he read the letters second — and recently, because they’re all in one piece, and so is the kitchen.

“T
HANK
G
OD YOU
’
RE HERE
.”

Shauna catapults herself out of the house and at me before I can even close the car door. We stumble back into the side of the car with the full weight of her body thrown against mine. But when she steps back, her forehead is furrowed with worry. She shrinks in front of me, wrapping her arms around herself as if to hold her body together.

“Where have you been?”

“I had to go home first.”

Her eyes narrow to slits. “And?”

“He wasn’t home.” I don’t tell her about the state of the house.

A glimmer of softening in her eyes, but the moment and the glimmer fades fast. It’s now or never.

“Shaun, I’m sorry.” For everything. I need to tell her now, before anything else, that I am so fucking sorry for everything I’ve ever put her through, starting with ignoring her calls and working backward from there. “After the shit storm has settled, I’ll make it up to you.” I don’t promise, not to her, but I’m determined. I will make it all up to her.

I wait. She doesn’t move for a long time, but then her serious face appears. Means she has demands.

“I don’t want you to go home.”

“I know you don’t.” I brace for her outburst. “But I have to.”

“No, you don’t. I talked to Mom.” Shit. I should have seen this coming. “She said you can totally stay here until you work things out with your dad.” Shauna with a plan. “I already made up Stacy’s old room, and —”

“Shauna —”

“You can’t go back there!”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, like you’ve been fine your whole freaking life? Like all the times he’s —?”

“Shauna, stop!” She jumps. I force my voice to be as soothing as I can. “Really, I appreciate it, all of it. But I have to face him. Today.”

“And if he beats the shit out of you?”

“He won’t.” I promised myself I wouldn’t lie to her anymore. “And if he does, he does. But I have to do this.”

The anger melts away, leaving fear. “Please, for me, just stay here, at least tonight. Please?” Tears slide over her cheeks.

For the first time in a very long time, I know exactly what to do for her. I pull her into my arms and hold her as tight as I can. She turns her face against my shoulder and lets go, crying so hard her body shakes against mine. I just hold her, waiting for the waves of tears to pass. She soaks my shirt. I try not to think about how good it feels to hold her, even with the tears.

Her hair smells so good. Like Shauna, her familiar smell, and so, so good. I press a soft kiss to the top of her head and rest my face against her hair, breathing her in.

When her tears stop, I can hear the questions swirling around her brain. I run my hands over her back, feeling her shiver until I hug her tighter to keep her still. I need to do this now, before all the shit gets in the way again.

Her hands on my back soothe away the last of my doubts. I just start talking.

I tell her about Will, and Missy, and Zoe.

I tell her about Curtis. I have to close my eyes so I can keep going when her eyes go wide and wet. I tell her about the T.J. who lived there — about the pictures on the table — in that black-and-white apartment. About the pictures in my bag, of the family I never knew. About the letters in my bag, waiting to be read.

And before I can lose my nerve, I tell her everything else. I edit out Harley with a quick, decisive cut. But I hold nothing else back.

I tell her about the stalking, and how much of a stupid idiot I was when I met Celia in the library. How I floated around all afternoon, so proud of myself, like a moron. I tell her about Will’s coming home, and about cursing out Celia, and trying to hit Curtis. I tell her about thinking about leaving, and Curtis’s bringing my bag back, with everything inside.

I describe every screwup, every look, every stupid thing I did. It just pours out of me until I run dry.

I try to tell her about that last night with T.J., when I did everything wrong, but the strangling ache in my throat cuts me off.

She starts shushing and trying to talk over me, but I can’t let her until I say what she really needs to hear.

“God, Shauna . . . I’m such a fuckup.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yeah, I am.” I’ve fucked everything up. Everything. And no matter what I do, it’s just gonna get more fucked up. “I can’t . . .” The air catches in my chest.

“Shh.” Soft breath against my skin. Her hand curls into my shirt over my heart, anchoring her to me. “You’ll work it out. I’ll help you.”

“I’ve been an asshole, and I know I screwed up, and I have no idea what I’m gonna do, and you’re —”

“It’s going to get better. Maybe not tomorrow, or next week, but eventually, it’ll be better. And I’ll be here, but you’ve got to deal with it — with . . . T.J.”

I flinch.

“He’s gone. And I know it sucks. But you can’t keep trying to pretend that everything’s OK.
That
’s fucked up.” She smiles. “And not that Pinscher didn’t have it coming . . .” She bobs and weaves until I feel my mouth turning up. “But if you keep trying to pretend that everything’s OK, you’re gonna explode again.”

“Or turn into my dad.” Fuck. I can feel the panic coming. I try to pull away, but she won’t let go, so I hide my face in her hair.

She pulls back and tugs at my shoulders until I meet her eyes.

“You’re not him.” She leans up closer. “You are
nothing
like him.”

I want to believe her.

“Nothing,” she whispers.

I shiver. My fingers won’t stop rubbing at the worn-soft denim of her jeans. My palms mold over the curves of her hips, fingers pressing in.

A slow smile lights up her face. She shifts up on her toes. “Trust me,” she says, her lips moving against my chin. Her breath flutters over my lips. I gulp it in, my gut lurching with the breath. “Kiss me?”

It takes only a little tug at her arm to pull her close. I bend my neck to press my mouth to hers. Harder. She makes this sound, like humming in her throat, and opens her mouth. And then I don’t know who is kissing who. But she tastes kind of sweet — not grape, more like honey. The spark of contact sends an electric current straight through me. My hands clutch at her hips. I’m kissing too hard. Teeth. Her fingers on my jaw, guiding my mouth. I let her lead. Quick kisses, moving like a dance. Then there’s a rhythm, a give and pull to it, and her fingers slide into my hair. When she breaks the kiss to breathe, she blushes to the curls around her face.

“Wow,” she whispers.

I can’t form words, too focused on breathing and dealing with the hot, heavy ache.

A car door slams. We jump apart.

I frantically look around, bracing already for my or Shauna’s dad. But after several gasping breaths, it’s clear no one is here. My pounding pulse is slowing, nothing like the pulsing pleasure-heat-pressure of before.

Her laughter floats around me, soft, gentle, warm like her hands. Her fingers roughly rub at her overheated face. I tug at my jeans. A mischievous smile forces her cheeks to curl up toward her eyes.

My stomach growls loudly. I can’t remember the last time I ate. And it’s getting late. “Listen, I really think it’ll be OK at home, but just in case, can I hang on to the car for one more night?”

“Sure.” She steps a little closer and her fingers reach out, as if to take my hand, but she just touches a bit of my shirt instead. “You’ll bring it by tomorrow?”

“I have to work, so it would have to be before or after.”

“After’s fine,” she says, before taking another halting step closer and sort of leaning toward me. “Mom and Dad have to go visit my aunt. They’ll stay in Jersey for the night. So come by anytime after work. We could hang out.” Her eyes flicker up to mine. “Or something. Maybe order in some Chinese for dinner?” Her face is red. She’s studying something on my shirt now, her fingers still worrying the edge of it.

“Sure,” I say, but the word gets mangled, what with the lack of air and all the blood diverted from my head. “Sounds good.”

“OK.” She is so happy. And beautiful.

She holds my stare. A slight tilt, chin higher, angled perfectly, and it’s all the invitation I need. This time I have to break the kiss or lose it, right there in her driveway. She buries her face in my shirt before pushing away from me.

“Go.” Her hands slide down my arms and away. “And call me later.” Her serious face is very serious, but she can’t hang on to it, and the big smile ruins it. But I will — I’ll call her, right before bed. Can’t wait.

Back in the car, I give her one final wave. She pushes her hair off her face, then tucks her hands into her back pockets. A huge grin on her face. I’ve known her practically my whole life. I know her sounds, her smiles, the way she moves and talks. Now I know how she tastes and feels: better than every good dream and fantasy I’ve ever had. Nothing bitter or wrong. I’ll go home, where fucking anything could happen. But tomorrow night I’ll be back here. With Shauna.