Christina (Daughters #1) (3 page)

I stare at him, and his facial expression doesn’t change.

He is usually my best friend. I mean like my
real
best friend. Not the BFF you hang out with at the lunch table, or exchange idle gossip with about who hooked up with whom. No, Max and I go much deeper. We just are. Always. Best friends. I love and trust him. My aunt and uncle adopted him shortly after he and his brother came to Ellensburg. They were escaping from a really bad life in California. After that, we were officially cousins, so I spent all these years mostly with him. He tagged along everywhere I went, even when no one else really wanted him.  Not that anyone dared to be mean to him in front of me. He didn’t even try to defend himself against idle gossip or rude kids. He only fought to make money. I was the one who, more than once, ripped into someone for mistreating him, or assuming he didn’t speak English. Some even tried speaking louder to him, implying that his reluctance to speak indicated he was a moron.

I break our silent standoff. “You’re bleeding again. Sit down.”

He doesn’t comment, but sits on the closed toilet seat. There are no towels. I find a roll of paper towels under the sink and pull several sheets off, which I run under the faucet before approaching him. His eyes never leave mine as he watches my movements. His distrust is high. His fight or flight instinct is ever on alert. Except it’s usually turned on to fight. I lean over and gently touch the paper towel to his bleeding cut at his hairline. It looks like a ring or watchband sliced the skin. He has dark skin, darker than his brother even. No one knows for sure if his father was the same father as his brother, Derek.

I leave the wet paper towel there for several long, silent moments. Yes, still quiet. We often do that. We do not communicate like any other couple or friends in the world. Everything we say comes through our silences with each other. He knows how upset I get. I talk to everyone, all the time, and sometimes I prefer being with Max because I don’t have to talk or be happy, or really be anything. I can just be Christina in whatever form or mood I feel like at that moment. And stranger still, Max usually senses whatever mood I am in.

I step back and throw the wet towels in the trash before ripping off some more. This time, I drop to sit back on my heels. No way am I letting my knees touch the dirty floor in the bathroom, but I lean forward to grab his hand and bring the wet, cool towel over his bleeding knuckles. He jerks back at first. I tug harder. I lift my face to his and glare at him. He hates to be touched. Anywhere. Yet he willingly tolerates guys who are much older and bigger than him to slam their fists and feet into his vital body parts. Stupid thing to do. Stupider still, that he is afraid of
my hands
being on him. I can count on one hand how many times during the five years we’ve been best friends that I’ve actually touched him.

“You’re bleeding. Let me.” I hold his stare. He is stiff now. His back is straight and his jaw clenched. I tug his hand back towards me and touch it with the wet towel. I don’t mean to, but the sight of his bloodied knuckles causes tears to come to my eyes. I sniff and try to hold them in. It is just so wrong. He does this to himself, and yet he won’t even let me hug him. I am not able to hold his hand or…

No. I spent too much of my adolescence wishing things about Max that could never be. Things he doesn’t feel for me. Things that could include touching.

“Why are you crying?” His tone is soft, and his eyes are genuinely confused. He lifts a finger as if he’s about to trace the tears or wipe them, but he hesitates, as always, and drops his hand, as always. I lower my gaze as his usual rejection stings just as much as the first time.

I shake my head. “Why do you do this? Why do you bloody yourself like this?”

He shrugs. “I didn’t know you’d be there.”

“That doesn’t change what you did! Or what you do. I thought… I thought you didn’t do this anymore.”

“I try to make sure it doesn’t get back to you guys.”

“So you still do it? Don’t you dare lie to me. This wasn’t just a fluke, was it?”

He drops his gaze and tugs his hand from mine to wrap his other hand around the wad of paper towels. I stare at his entwined hands and feel the loss from my own. He still, after all these years, and all our times together, hates my touch. “No. Not a fluke.”

I drop my hands to my lap. “I hate you doing this. Why? I just don’t understand why.”

“I like the power,” he mutters.

“There’s no power in pain. Just stupidity,” I snap as I rise up to my feet. His gaze follows me. I can feel his burning, black eyes digging into my skin. He can handle any insult in the world, but he hates it when I call him stupid.

For years after coming to live here, Max stuttered and struggled to even make a single, normal sentence. He underwent intense speech and occupational therapy. He’d come so far, but still rarely spoke to anyone outside of our family. He mostly only talked to me. But I didn’t totally know him or understand him either. Even after all these years, and all the days I invested in trying to simply talk to Max. I’ve tried so hard to get to know Max, and still I realize that I don’t know him.

But sometimes, his actions are just so damn pointless.

I feel the barest touch on my knuckle. I glance down as if the appendage didn’t belong to me. There is Max’s index fingertip on my knuckle. I stare in wonder at the unusual sight of his dark skin against my pale skin. I want to clasp his hand in mine. I want to lean on my knees and wrap my arms around him and press my head against his chest and have him reassure me. Because when he does those things, that crazy fighting, it really scares me. I worry about what could and might still happen to him if he continues putting himself in those situations. And what if he ends up getting really hurt? I cannot handle it. He is part of my everyday life. The best part on most days. But it’s so hard to accept he might get hurt; especially when the cause would be his own
stupidity.

But right now, he’s willingly touching me. My breath catches inside my throat and I keep my lips pressed tight. I can’t move my hand even a hair’s breadth, or he will jerk his hand back. He will turn his face away from me in near disgust and it will be over. Like smoke into the atmosphere, this moment will vanish.

“I do it—” I wait. I am dying to hear what excuse he can possibly have to act like this. “Because it’s the only time I feel heard.”

I didn’t expect that. I lift my head up and again, our eyes meet in a long moment. I want so badly to lean closer and press my forehead against his and say,
I understand
. I wish I could say that to him. I want to show him how much I understand him. How much his pain means to me. How much I care that he hurts so much.

I only know bits and pieces of how Max Salazar came to be a part of my life. I know he grew up in a rough neighborhood in Northern California. I know the brother he cares about, Derek, sold drugs for their older brother in order to keep Max out of the family operations. I know from Derek that Max spent years without saying a word. He was only three when that started. He also witnessed Derek, who was then only eight, shoot their father who tried to hurt them. I know his mother was mean. I know they were hit regularly and mistreated and lived in filth and squalor. I know when help finally came, they found Max alone, in a junky apartment. He reeked and was street fighting to make enough money to eat. I know now he can’t stand to be dirty. His clothes. His car. His hands. His school backpack, all have to be pristine at all times. I know Max’s silence results from a lot of anger, and a lot of rage. I know his fights are how his rage comes out. And that is why, perhaps, they so terrify me. When I see that look in his eyes, like I saw tonight, I don’t know Max anymore. He isn’t the Max who I ride home from school with, or lounge around either of our houses, doing homework, or eating junk food. In the midst of fighting, he is totally lost to me. He is gone. I am no longer the one person who knows him best. And when I lose that connection with him, it makes me feel like he cut out my heart. I want to run under a table and cover my ears and squeeze my eyes shut as if to keep it from happening.

As if I could block out the pain inside him.

I shake my head and tears fill the bottom rims of my eyes. “You make me hurt. I hear you, Max. I hear you every day. When I don’t hear you, is when you do
this,
” I whisper, shutting my eyes on the images of Max. He looked like he wanted to kill that drunken, out-for-a-good-time, college freshman.

As always, his answer to me is silence. Finally, he asks in a more normal, conversational tone, “What are you doing here?”

He’s done. He pulls his hand off mine, or I should say, his teeny, tiny, fingernail-width touch, as if my skin suddenly started radiating toxic fumes. His eyes go blank and dull, back to Max not understanding anything. Or sharing anything. I slip my hand under my other arm as if he bruised me. I shake my head and stare him down. I wish I could hurt him as much as this insanity of his hurts me. Instead, I grab the doorknob and open it, saying over my shoulder, “Having sex. Get home safe.”

Yeah, not my nicest or my finest moment. I shouldn’t taunt Max like that. I mean, we
are
nineteen and eighteen-year-old, boy/girl best friends, but there are just some things I save for my girlfriends and never discuss with him. Sex is one of those things. And vice versa. To date, we’ve never really confirmed or denied the other’s sexual activities, or lack thereof. I highly doubt he’s done anything with anyone, however, because his fingertip on my knuckle is about all he can handle before freaking out. That, and I am the only person our age he has any kind of lasting relationship with.

But this time, I hope it hurts him. If he can come to college parties and get thrashed up and make his stupid bets, I can lose my virginity. Doubly determined now, I find Brad and snuggle up to him. He glances down, somewhat surprised. I’m not sure he realizes I ever left his side.

So I let Brad take my hand and pull me towards one of the empty bedrooms upstairs. The stairs creak and seem to shudder as we step on them. I hope they hold up. I can just see the headlines “College Crowd Killed In Freak House Collapse.” For some reason, it makes me giggle. Max would appreciate that. But then again, he always laughs at everything I say. Sneaking a glance at Brad, I don’t think he’d get it.

I have to admit my nerves are starting to gurgle in my stomach. I mean, this is kind of a big deal. It could hurt, and who likes getting hurt? That is exactly why I have to get it over with before I start college. It seems so high school to be shy and scared of sex. Not a college thing. I tried a few times with boyfriends in high school, but their clumsy groping made me laugh and that killed the mood. Brad’s groping was not so funny to date, so I’m hoping to get past that this time.

Brad leads me into one of the bedrooms and shuts the door behind us, locking it. I sit down on the bed. In a lame attempt to appease my nerves, I spring up and down as if testing the bounciness of the springs on the old, smelly, queen bed. All that accomplishes is a cloud of dust, which fills my nostrils and makes me sneeze. It smells like old lady clothes and mothballs.

I am slightly repulsed when I think about lying back on the faded bedspread. It has a dark, age spot over the floral pattern. But that shouldn’t matter. I lift my gaze up to observe the too-pretty guy I’ve been dating for the past month. He approaches me with the distinct impression we are going to have sex
right now
. I suppose his bold gaze, now sliding up and down me, should turn my insides to goo and anxious desire, right? Only… it doesn’t. His ears are a little too large and stick up on the ends. I can’t help watching those, as he comes closer to me and sets a knee on the bed before leaning over. I have no other option, so I lie back and let his chest press against mine as his lips engulf my mouth. He’s not a very good kisser, and uses a little too much tongue, delving too deep right off. He doesn’t give me a chance to even swallow my spit before he explores the inside of my mouth. He makes a slurping sound as he tries to tilt his head and move his mouth back and forth over mine.

My open eyes are staring past him at the popcorn ceiling. I try closing my eyes, but the wild back-and-forth tongue action keeps them wide open in surprise. I mean, wow!
Can he stretch his tongue out far!
I shouldn’t be thinking that; it’s making a giggle start from way down deep in my chest.
Oh crap
. It’s starting to climb up my throat. I have to giggle. I’m going to choke on Brad’s tongue if I don’t.

I push on his chest and get him off me to breathe some much-needed air. I pretend to be overwhelmed as I drop my gaze and play with his collar. I hope he thinks my smile is just me being coy, and not actually laughing at him.

Taking a chance, he ditches his shirt. That’s way better. Some of his muscles are cut and he has more manly hair than some of the naked, skinny-chested boys I’ve seen at school. I bring my hands up to glide over his shoulders and down his toned arms. He interprets my action as encouragement to start kissing me again.
Why can’t he just slobber less?
At last, he nearly falls on top of me and suffocates me. I try to wiggle around to get some air and move my legs out from under him. It might be nicer not to get smashed by his dead weight. He lifts up just enough to slip his hand under my shirt, and I kind of like it when his fingers play with one of my nipples. I always liked that though.