Douse (Book One: At the Edge of a Hurricane) (12 page)

CHAPTER 22

Bishop
shuffles the deck of cards. He flicks an ace to me and then the rest come
arcing onto the pool table. He puts his hands underneath his chin and closes
his eyes, thinking.

“If
you want to move on,” I say, “then it’s all got to go.”

“All.
You’re right. I’m just looking at everything I’ve done is
all.” Bishop sweeps the ace back into the deck. He thrums his fingers on
a queen of hearts.

“It’s
hard at the start.”

“I
feel like a drug addict. My dad was a smoker. He never quit. Said it was too
hard.”

“This
you can.”

“The
money.”

“I
get you entirely. But it’s for the best. I’m not doing as much work
either on my end.”

“Receptionisting
keeping you busy?”

“More
or less. I took your suggestion actually. I’m going to make a portfolio
to show my boss.” I reach over the pool table, plucking the deck out
Bishop’s hands. I enlace my fingers with his, strumming my thumbs across
the ridges of bone there.

“I
still think it’s stupid,” Bishop says. “Have to give
everything up because of the law.”

“That’s
the way it works. Unless you want to get busted.”

Bishop
unlaces his fingers and wobbles off his metal stool. He drags his hand over the
table, slowly gathering them up.

He
throws them all away.

They
go into plastic garbage bins and bags. I help zip the fullest ones while keeping
track of shelves. “We have only five more boxes to go,” I say.

Bishop
wipes his eyes. It’s not like he’s losing a child, but rather,
suffocating his child, choking once, then letting a breather pass, then choking
again, harder, until no pulse can be recorded.

Now,
see, that’s how Caddy must feel about me. Instead though, I am his sister
or mother fading out by choice.

“I’ve
found work already,” Bishop says. “There’s this local church
actually. I can help on the weekends. And then on the weekdays there’s
this other place, a bar.”

“The
country boy can bartend? You drank with me before, but are you supposed
to?”

“Not
really. Not because of religious reasons, but because…well okay,
it’s because of religious reasons. You get used to living a certain type
of lifestyle in accordance with all the rules. Sometimes I have to break them
for pretty girls.”

“That’s
understandable. And pretty cute, too.”

“Really?”
Red tinges Bishop’s cheeks. “I thought you’d wouldn’t
like it.”

“It’s
your choice. I can respect that.”

Bishop
steps over the trash bags and bins and comes to my side. He plants a kiss n my
nape, and it’s as if a timed bomb goes off, an explosion of heat and
vapor erupting across my skin and thrusting towards my soul. Whenever he kisses
now, an intensity never before experienced thrives. Casual sex could never
compare to opening up emotionally. Casual sex could never compare to having an
actual partner, day by day, someone to grow with and love.

Possibly
love.

“I’m
happy though that you’re letting me do this with you.”

Bishop
shakes open another billowing trash bag. He bends down to grab more boxes. With
every box that enters these bags, he becomes less and less reluctant.

“I’m
glad too,” he says finally. “New beginnings for both of us. It’ll
be fun.”

“Just
remember we’re not giving it all up immediately. We’re just taking
good, big steps. Little leaps.”

“You’re
sounding positive these days.”

“My
friend. I tell you, you’d call her a blessing. I count her one.”

After
we wrap up about half of the room’s boxed gambling paraphernalia, we
rest. We rest on the pool table, again with our legs swinging like pendulums,
just sitting and snuggling close.

“Sometimes,
I blame them for being so religious,” Bishop says. “They used it as
their royal flush. Whenever I did something bad, bam, that’s when
they’d pull out their power plays. What?” he says, noticing me
smiling.

 “It’s
funny. My parents were atheists. I used to say they were devout atheists, and
then…my Dad pinched me for saying that.” Bishop glances at my scar.
An unspoken current flows between us—he knows, not just a pinch occurred,
but far more in that house. “They were controlling, like yours. They
wanted me to follow their strict rules. I guess it doesn’t matter, religion
or not, bad parents are bad parents.”

“Bad
people are bad people.”

“Overprotective,”
I say. “That’s a vicious way to live. No risk. No fun.”

“So
you don’t regret starting up?”

The
table creaks and I listen to each creak, as if they were the cogs in my head
turning, spinning cogent thought. “No,” I say, “no, not at
all. If I did things differently, I wouldn’t even be who I am today, and
then I might’ve never met you.”

“That’s
sweet,” Bishop says, dropping bombs all over my neck again—every
kiss is a dewy point of light that blinds me. To be caressed in a loving way,
it’s just…so relaxing and surreal. “Really sweet,” he
says. “You smell good. I love your natural scent.”

“Yours
too. You’ve done a lot for me. I can’t really express how much I
appreciate you spending time and everything. Doling out on dates. Taking me to
places I’ve never been to. You’re—” and I hesitate to
say the word “—fantastic.”

“You’re
better. I’m like stale bread.”

“No,
never. You’re more like a grand pizza. I still have to taste all the
ingredients. There’s still so much to know.”

 Bishop
keeps up the kissing, and he touches my hip tenderly, cinching his fingers at
the smallest areas of my waist—he jolts me upright with his touch.

“To
be honest,” he says, “I don’t even know why you like me. You
approached me first so confidently. You didn’t even hesitate, just walked
up right to my face.”

“You’re
handsome. You’re sweet. I really, really like you.”

Another
unspoken current passes through the air. You can just tell when another human
holds back what they want to say.

Love.

“I’m
falling for you,” he says. “Is that too soon? Is that crazy?”

“I
feel the same. Never different, the same, Bishop.”

“Good.
Because I think about you all the time.”

I
push Bishop back so that I can see his face. “My turn. Is it crazy to say
I’ve dreamt of you?”

“Not
at all. You can’t control those.”

Bishop
presses me into his chest, where the shelf of muscle lies, thick and bulging. I
bite through his shirt, landing a blow on his nipple, and he squirms. I shock him.
I awe him. I bite harder and Bishop blows air through clenched teeth, trying to
stabilize ourselves on the table.

“After
all the work we did today,” he says, “we should probably go relax
somewhere. Like the bedroom relax.”

I
clasp a hand around his chest. “We’re on exactly the same
page.”

CHAPTER 23

Caddy.
The more I think about him, the more I realize how he was the first man I ever
felt safe around. He didn’t want my body, he only wanted friendship. It
didn’t matter that he was gay or had a disfigurement, he was always
there, crooning at night when I cried over another hookup, and ready to please
when crying about my past. He was the eternal shoulder I rested on. Even though
he might harbor bad vibes towards me now, we did start our business together.

“I’m
sorry you feel bad, but can we please come to a truce?”

Caddy’s
in the kitchen, brewing coffee, though unlike all the other times he’s
brewed coffee, he doesn’t brew for two but one. “Maybe,” he
says.

“Maybe?”
I catch myself before exploding into a nagging tirade. How to approach this
matter without him shutting down? I sense him doing so soon. “A truce
meaning compromise. At the very least, understanding. I don’t like these
cold wars in the house anyway.”

Caddy
grips his mug loosely while presiding over the coffee maker. “Been
studying up on international politics?” I leave my face blank.
“Cold wars,” he says, “International Relations, my
major.”

"I
see you're lightening up a bit."

Caddy
yanks the pot from the maker and pours a mean mug of coffee.
"Hardly," he says.

"We
don't have to be like this." I motion to the empty tiles separating us.
"Can we please go back to the way things were?"

"We
can try."

"Try?"
I restrain the bitch in me from lashing out. 

Try?
He can't be civil and simply go along with change. He has to mention
"try" which gives him an out if he doesn't like how things are
going. 

"Then
I'll just try too," I say. "We can both try."

"I'm
not even angry."

"I've
gotten no answer from you explaining your logic."

"Logic?
Girl." Caddy takes a furious gulp from his mug and wipes clean his
slippery lips. He puts down the mug, then saunters back out of the kitchen,
arms akimbo.

"I
don't even know what we're arguing about."

"Listen.
You should know why by now." Caddy’s arms fall to his sides, and he
opens his mouth limply. “I just don’t want to lose my
friend.”

The
apartment rocks with the bombastic vibrations of an enormous marching band.
Trumpets blare, trombones burp low notes. Drums pound and cymbals clang.

Then
the cacophony silences and from the hall calls Piranha. "Sorry! [Something
something] wrong volume setting!"

Caddy
and I grope out surroundings and rise. We exchange vicious glares, but the
corners of our mouths can't help but point upwards. Our cheeks simultaneously
lift, and then smiles abound. I laugh, my belly undulating alongside my
writhing legs.

“She’s
so weird,” Caddy says. “But I love her.”

I
walk to the couch slouch on the armrest. “Where were we?” I say,
patting the seat next to me.

Caddy
smirks. “I hate you.”

“I
know you’re angry. But nothing will change. I promise. You won’t
lose your friend. She’s still here. She just wants everybody to have
better lives. And not have to live in tiny apartments with roommates in order
to save money.”

Caddy
grabs his coffee and sips, tilts his head. He flushes his cheeks out with
caffeine and swallows, gulp after gulp. “I was being rude. I’m
sorry.”

“Caddy.”

He
stumbles over and swings the coffee mug around my back. With one great squeeze,
he presses us together. It’s not the warmth from the mug heating us up.
It’s understanding, comprehension lighting our spirits.

“I’m
sorry,” he says. “If I get bitchy like that again you have get at
me. I’ve just been stressed.”

“We’re
all stressed. This place, the times. Bad job market, no money. It’s
tough. I feel what you’re feeling. It’s the crunch of life.”

“Yeah.
It’s tough, girl. I’m tired is all.” Caddy throws back his
head and drinks the last of his coffee, gurgling the last bits. “I have
more work to do.”

I
watch him set the mug in the sink and turn for the hallway, but then he twists
around.

“One
day I want to be in the real world. Working a real job. With real stuff going
on.”

“You’re
going to apply?”

“I
might. I was just jealous of you, girl. You’re so great that you
don’t even realize it. Beautiful, smart, hard-working.” Caddy
twists back around, then says, “Just don’t get bitchy like
me!”

CHAPTER 24

Piranha
cooks American prawns. She’s stewing another American chicken soup, and
in the oven bakes an American turkey. Freshman year, and Piranha was the most
awful cook ever. As an adult, she might as well go be a sous-chef or apply to a
culinary program.

“Ah,
you’re trying to persuade me too?”

“Maybe.
You work at the grocery store, but are you going to work there forever?
Full-time? Manager?”

“I
like working on the website with Caddy. I’m happy. Though.”

“Though.”

“Though
cooking fulltime would be awesome. It’d be swell. Learning all the
television stuff. Making food for celebrities. I’m not good enough for
that but eventually it could be.”

“The
President?”

Piranha
raps the edge of a pot with her ladle. “Oh! Yes. I’d be dead if
that was the case. The President? Any President. Who cares about the
politics.”

“Sorry
if we disturbed you.”

Piranha
cups her hand over her mouth and whispers. “Tell him not to be in
politics. He doesn’t argue very well.”

I
laugh. “He admitted fault. That’s more than most.”

“True,
true.” Piranha adds salt to the soup. She puckers her lips after tasting
it. “I’m glad you’re both not sour at each other
anymore.”

“It
took effort. He wouldn’t yield. Until you blared you music.”

Piranha
winks at me. “You’re welcome.”

“You
did that on purpose.”

She
winks with the other eye, except honestly, it looks more like half her face is sloughing
off. She involves her cheeks too much.

“I
did.”

“You
don't only make things from scratch. You know how to fix relationships."

“Any.
Just come to mama Piranha and I’ll help you.” She turns off the
stove and wraps her hands around the oven handle. I find her the oven mitts and
glove them on her. A squiggle of steam thrashes out from inside as she
retrieves our main dish. “You are great,” she says. “The
entrée of our lives.”

“You
guys are better than me.”

“Wrong.
You’re revolutionary. We’re stagnant.” She lies the steel pan
holding our turkey onto the counter, where steam wisps carry away to the living
room like thin war banners.  “You’re straightening
everyone’s lives out for the better. It’s admirable.”

“Thanks,”
is all I can say.

“Never
thank me for something so obvious,” she says. “You should recognize
how great you really are. All the time.”