Drowning in You (8 page)

Come to think of it, there must
have been a few chicks named Charlee over the years. There must
have been.

Now I imagine his arm around
her slim waist.

The worst part? It slips around
the slenderest bit and wraps seamlessly around her skin.

No.
Fuck it. In my mind she’s mine. In my mind we’re
mind-blowing together. It’s just when she actually gets close my
guilt rears up and decides to remind me I don’t deserve her or
happiness after what I’ve done.

“
Great. Well
let me know how you go with the date. Wanna shower?”

Elliot agrees
too easily. He slips off the machine too easily. He says what a
hard session that was and wipes down his sweat too easily. “Sure,
I’m beat. Reckon Charlee would like this?” he asks, curling his
fist over his bicep. “Who am I kidding?” He laughs then taps me as
if he means
let’s go now. This is
over.

Why won’t he just punch me? Why
can’t I stay here forever and run that stupid belt off the
treadmill? Why isn’t the lactic acid burning me up yet?

I. Want. To. Feel. Hurt.

There’s pain in my chest
somewhere, but I can’t get it out.

I think it’s
her. My Charlee. I
know
that’s bad.

The drive home takes forever as
images of Charz waving to Elliot, groaning into Elliot’s lips and
pressing her hips against Elliot wrack my mind. I really do too
much imagining.

When I slam the door, Mom
calls, “Dex? You home?”

“
Yes.” What
else would a door opening and shutting mean?

“
You
staying?”

“
Yup.”

“
Everything
fine?”

“
Yep.” Not
going to talk about it if it’s not.

I dump my gear in the corner
and splay out on my bed, inching up to the headboard, pushing back
with my feet. Although I’ve had a shower, although these clean gym
shorts have an elastic waist and are loose as hell, my skin is on
fire and I’m sticky as shit.

Cell in hand, I just stare at
it, wondering what to say to Charlee. After an eternity of typing
combinations of “hello” and “Charz” and calling her number only to
end it before the line connects.

I finally
settle for,
’Sup?

The cell beeps before the next
minute shows up. I know this because I’ve been staring at each
second as it goes by, hanging on to the hope she’ll pick me over
Elliot.

Just finished training.
You?

Same.

I wonder what
she does. It’s obvious she does
something
to get a killer bod like
that.

I add,
Was at the gym. What do you do?

Swimming.

Charz pops out of a pool,
flicking her hair back like a brilliant streak. Water drips from
her chin, over her breast, nipple…and she falls back into the
waiting arms of that fucker. Not me.

I slam my head back but there
are only mounds of pillows beneath it. Attempting to bash out my
rage is futile. Instead I scrunch my hands into my hair, grit my
teeth, and yell wordlessly.

Sounds fun. You like to
swim?

I get no reply for a while. In
a moment of madness, I sit up and sort through my gym bag. I pull
out my gear and throw that straight in the laundry basket. I empty
the water bottle in the sink. When I’m back in my room I clean the
empty wrappers and bits of random garbage out of the bottom of the
bag and fold my bag away in the closet.

I can’t remember the last time
I emptied the bag within a day. That’s why I have three sets.

Finally, I let myself check my
phone. She must have replied by now. Surely.

Um, it’s fun—sometimes. I used
to be in national comps. Mostly it’s routine now and keeps me busy.
You should come ‘round and I can teach you. That’s my job, swim
teaching. I teach little kiddies. But yeah, I’d love to show you.
:)

I gulp down a feeling that
burns my lungs and I exhale slowly through my nose. It doesn’t do
much by way of calming me because I still have an image of her arm
around my waist, her mouth near my ear as she holds me to one side,
and her hard nipples poking into my back.

But another
feeling overcomes me and I hate myself as I reply,
Sure, one day. Sounds good.

I hope she thinks I like her,
but also that I don’t because I’m not sure what I really mean.

The reply
says,
Okay, I really don’t mind. I mean,
it’d be MUCH more fun than screaming kiddies. I’d like to
hang.

I’ve liked you since you were
fifteen is what I want to say. I’ll be there in ten minutes is what
I almost type.

What I
actually send is,
I’d really like to be
alone in a pool with you but I can’t do that in my right mind. This
shit is getting blurry. Us, I mean. Sorry.

She doesn’t miss a beat. While
I watch my phone, in that same minute, me counting seconds with
dread, she replies.

I don’t know why you think
things are “blurry”, or why it matters. Do you feel weird about our
history and stuff? I do too, but I’m getting past it. Don’t let
your past stand in your way.

I stare at my cell, swiping at
the screen until smudges of my fingerprints cover every corner of
it. Finger hovering over her contact in the delete screen, I shut
the phone off and throw it to the other side of the room.

Somewhere I can find it if I
want to but too far to mess anything up further right now.

It’s settled: I need her to be
my Charz but it’s my guilt that I will not forget. I was brought up
to struggle in life. I’ve lost friends from a dozen schools, and I
grew up for years with my dad sleeping in a jail cell, leaving me
without a father figure.

Only seems fair since I killed
Charz’s mom and almost killed her dad that I watch the girl I like
slip away. That feels right.

Because with her? That’s the
best Goddamn reward.

8. Spilled Milk

Charlee

Looking up at the clock, I see
it’s one minute past midday. The kids are lined up along the edge
of the pool. All four have their toes curled over the edge.

“
You ready?” I
call.

“
Yes,” the
twins answer at once.

“
Yeah, miss!”
another says.

The last claps her hands, which
causes her to wobble over the edge. I kick back and thrust forward.
I catch her falling waist and push her up in line again.

The girl blows me an air kiss
as thanks, relief radiating from her huge grin.

“
Okay, M, O,
A, then P,” I call out their initials. “On three.”

They clasp their hands in a
steeple above their heads, squishing their ears between their upper
arms and head, just as I taught them, 101-percent perfect. When I
call out their names in order they dive off the wall one after
another like fans making the wave in a stadium, plopping into the
pool and then blindly splashing to the lane rope and out.

I hop out, too. The clock now
reads three minutes past midday and the balding, middle-aged
teacher for the next shift also looks three minutes past happy. As
usual, I smile anyway but he ignores me—no shock—and demands his
kids jump in and do two laps.

In the change rooms, two of the
mothers of my kids are ruffing up the shivering, little ones with
towels. My kids rave about how they can tread water and do
freestyle and I commend them each time they repeat it in that
high-pitched voice that keeps them happy.

As I sweep my hair in a bun
before leaving the change rooms, a mother, Joan, taps my shoulder.
She flicks her head to the corner and we duck away for a
moment.

“
Did I tell
you she almost drowned when she was four?”

Automatically, I look at my kid
and imagine her flailing for the surface of the water, breathing
water in her panic, all that whiteness above the surface, sinking,
slowly dying before her mom pulled her out.

“
Never forget,
Joan,” I say. “I’ve had my eye on her every second, during every
thought when I plan my classes, and every time she lets go of my
arm.”

Joan turns and nods, hiding her
face perhaps out of embarrassment. It’s not the first time we’ve
had this chat. “Miss Charlee, you have given my daughter back her
happiness. I thank you, truly.”

“
I really
don’t think I did.”

Joan thrusts a stern finger
inches from my face. “Now you may not believe me, but sometimes you
have to see all your hard work from the outside to notice the
difference you’ve made, how you’ve given her life back. Your little
difference to my daughter and I is a life-changing gift. Think
about that.”

Her face is flushed, inches
from mine. I hate to stress her further, and I don’t know why she
continuously does this, but I thank her until she’s out of earshot
and I’m saying “thank you” to another random kid.

Darcy pops up in my mind for
some reason. It somehow makes me laugh. I stumble out of the change
room, get in my car, and drive. I only stop laughing when my tummy
hurts too much to sit straight in the driver’s seat.

And tears. The moment there’s
silence, I miss my voice and how cheery the sound was, but the
tears are immediate, as if they were waiting for my laughter to
stop. By the time I pull up at my house, I can’t make out where my
driveway starts and ends everything’s so blurry.

Darcy.
Darcy
.

I can teach a girl to swim
unaided after she’s almost drowned, but I don’t know how to do this
“being mom to my little brother” thing. I don’t want to.

Mom? Ugh, Mom! “Mom!” I call.
But white noise deafens the car. I drop my head against the
steering wheel and it honks, jolting me back up.

“
That’s it.
Dad? Mom? You should be picking up Darcy from school in,” and I
look to my radio, “in three hours. You hear me?” I grab my swimming
bag, slam the door, and crank my neck back so the bright sky makes
me see silverfish for a moment. “You better come back and pick up
your son.”

I’m too young to be a parent;
my soul too old to be a parent.

Mom
should
not
be
gone. Dad can’t die.

I want to be a
kid,
is what I message Rosa.

Oookay, cool,
but um, how’s it going?
she
replies.

Go to sleep. You’re meant to be
sleeping at—what?—5.30 am!

I throw my bag in the closest
room and drag my feet to the kitchen, flip on the kettle.

I will never sleep so long as
I’m surrounded by hot guys, white beaches and all-night parties
filled with lots of tequila. Anyway, what did you find out about
Dexter?

I stare at his
name. Dexter. I pull out a mug, dump a spoonful of instant coffee
in it. Think. Add a lump of sugar.
Dexter
. My fingers lose feeling after
holding the milk for some time. Why did he plan this? Why would he
kill a little boy’s mom? Why would he make me wanting him so
wrong?
Dexter.

You didn’t.
You did not!!
Rosa says.

It’s five minutes later. Five
minutes of holding the milk carton in my hand?

I can’t do this Ro, I can’t
do…anything.

Methodically, I pour the
boiling water, stir, and only tear my glare from some wispy trees
in the backyard to pour in the milk.

Don’t make me haul my ass
thousands of miles back to you Charlee May!!! Corner him in a
shopping center or someplace public like that mechanics he works
at, drop your I’m Sweet And Dumb act and get the scoop!

I can’t face him. I’d either
melt in his arms or stalk him from afar and both are creepy in
different ways.

Dexter? Why
did you do this?
How
, I think. It…

It makes no
sense, Ro,
I type, finishing my
thought.

I burn my fingers when I
register the hot mug is still in my grasp. I yelp and pull my
fingers back to my chest, watching the mug turn, the coffee spill,
the mug fall, the coffee explode. When the warp catches back up to
real time, the mug shatters on the tiles and the coffee explodes on
the floor, drowning a radius of several feet with brown pools and
splatters.

A second, thirty seconds. Two
minutes.

At that point I throw my hands
in the air and turn. I turn just like that, leaving the coffee
drowning the tiles. My body is light as I float to my car,
satisfied. My grin begins to ache once I slip into my seat
again.

I haven’t been this satisfied
since before my mother left me and my father left me and Darcy
needed everything from me and I lost me.

The radio is so quiet as I
drive. Randomly, voices will mumble something, sounding like fuzz,
but that quickly disappears too and the mess of coffee, the shards
of the ceramic mug splayed on the floor fill my vision and the
roasted bean smell fills my lungs, touched by the sweet hint of
sugar.

I made that mess. I left that
mess right where it was.

I feel
liberated, Ro.
I type, navigating the
wheel with my knee and typing by my thigh so no one will
see.
I’m driving there now, to see Dexter
and I’ll go get him!

When my message pops on the
screen as sent, my jaw drops. What am I doing? And wow, I’m
actually pulling up at the mechanic’s around the corner from
me.

I trip getting out of my car
because I’m gaping at the huge warehouse where some guys wear
overalls, some guys wear jeans or sweat pants, smears of grease
dulling the colors. Where there are shiny, smashed up cars, and a
vending machine loaded with drinks and potato chips and candy.