The Space Between Us (4 page)

Chase wasn’t married.

And he looked damned fucking fine, I won’t even lie. He had lots of pictures uploaded. Albums of him hiking, biking, boating. Lots of shots with his shirt off, belly all ridged, arms buff. Lip-smacking good. He also had a lot of pictures of him with the same guy. Over and over, arms slung casually over shoulders. Laughing. I scanned Chase’s profile information, which just said single, but it was clear to me there was a reason for this other man being in all his photo albums. Maybe Chase hadn’t chosen to announce it to the whole world on Connex, but there was no hiding it.

I didn’t friend him, either. I wanted to. I wanted to send him a message, ask him if he was happy. If the reason he hadn’t wanted to be with me was because he was into guys, not because he didn’t love me the way I’d loved him. I wanted to ask him a lot of things, but in the end I didn’t. There’d be no point in picking at that old scar.

I distracted myself surfing the Apple website, yearning for what I wanted and couldn’t have. It seemed to be the theme of the day. I imagined I smelled Meredith’s perfume clinging to me, felt the softness of her sweater against me. With a low, muttered groan I twirled around in the desk chair with my head tipped back and only my feet moving. Round and around, the ceiling twirling above me until I dug a toe into the carpet.

I stopped. The room kept moving. If I stood, I’d stumble, probably fall. It was not quite enough to make my stomach sick, though in retrospect the tuna hadn’t been the best idea. As I turned back to the computer, my eyes still trying hard to focus on one unspinning thing, I heard the front door open and the sound of little shoes on the tile entryway. Then voices. Simone, shrieking at her brother, who was giggling like a lunatic. Their mom, Elaine, admonishing them without much force. Then the diversion of the noise from the den, up the stairs and presumably toward the bathroom, where the kids would be bathed, toothbrushed and pottied before being put into their beds.

I closed down my windows and cleared my history before logging out, and was just turning in the desk chair to face the doorway when he came in. “Hey, Vic,” I said.

“Hey.” He looked tired. Kids could do that to you. Vic pressed the heel of his hand against his eye, then focused briefly on the computer. “Didn’t think you’d be home.”

“Not everyone has a blooming social calendar like you,” I teased.

His smile quirked faintly on one side. Just the one. “We took the kids over to Elaine’s mom’s house for Nancy’s birthday. If I’d known you were going to be home I’d’ve told you.”

“It’s okay. I had stuff to do.” Elaine’s mom and sister had never been mean to me, but they’d never gone out of their way to be nice, either. We had a policy of neutral ground when it came to family events. If they came here or we met someplace else, we treated each other distantly but politely, never really delving too much into my place in their son-in-law’s life. I simply never went to their house.

He nodded. “I’m going to help Elaine with the kids. You up for some Resident Evil 4 in a bit?”

It was our favorite video game, especially played on Vic’s Wii with the special guns that attached to the controllers. “Hell, yeah. You guys need some help?”

“Nah.” He shrugged and yawned. “We got it covered.”

“How’s she feeling?” Elaine was pregnant with their third and didn’t have morning sickness. She had all-day sickness.

“Like shit.” He shrugged again, a man bewildered by the complications of women’s bodies, though not unsympathetic.

It was enough to make me determined never to get pregnant. Like, ever. Well…maybe if Christian Bale was donating, I could be persuaded. But other than that, probably not. “I’ll set up the game for when you’re ready.”

There was no reason for me to have told Vic I’d been thinking about looking up Chase and Chance Murphy. It still felt like a lie, one that weighed heavily enough on me that I couldn’t quite keep my concentration on the game. Since it was single-player, Vic and I took turns at it, switching when one of us died. I died a lot.

“What’s up with you, Tesla?” Vic took the gun controller from me as the red ooze dripped across the screen, showing I’d kicked it again.

“Long day at work, I guess.” I got up. “I should go to bed. Early morning tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Me, too.” But Vic didn’t get up. He leveled the gun at the screen again, starting the next level. “ ’Night.”

The rest of the house had gone quiet hours ago, Elaine and the kids in bed. It was just Vic and me, sitting in the dark, killing zombies. The flickering light from the TV made shadows move on his face, giving him expressions I knew he wasn’t making.

He caught me looking and paused the game. “What?”

“You should go to bed. You have to get up early, too.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Vic said.

I shrugged. “I’m just saying.”

“Yeah, I know what you’re saying. I just want to finish this level, that’s all. You go to bed. I’m fine.”

Since Vic often got up even earlier than I had to for the morning shift, I knew he wouldn’t be fine. “You look tired—”

“I’m a grown-up, Tesla,” he interrupted through tight jaws, his eyes steady on the waves of zombies coming to kill Leon S. Kennedy, until he flicked a gaze at me. “I can decide for myself when to go to bed.”

I stepped back, tossing up my hands. “Fine. You’re right. Good night.”

“ ’Night,” I heard him repeat as I left the den and headed for my bedroom.

He was right, of course. I wasn’t his mom, perish the thought, and I wasn’t his wife. But that didn’t mean I didn’t have the right to worry about him, did it? Vic worked hard, long hours at the garage and used-car lot he owned. He had two kids and a pregnant wife. He had me living in his basement.

Showered and in bed, I heard the faint sounds of zombie deaths through the door. Then, as I was drifting to sleep, silence. Then the comforting creak of the floor in the kitchen, the living and dining rooms. Vic was making his rounds. Checking the doors and windows, making sure everything was locked and we were all safe.

His footsteps on the basement stairs sent me staring, wide-eyed, into the darkness. I heard him moving around the perimeter of the basement, doing what? Checking the windows down here, too? They were too small and awkward for anyone to get through. I heard the rattle of a toy being kicked, the mutter of a curse. Then the metallic squeak of my doorknob being turned slowly.

A square of lighter darkness appeared as my door opened. I couldn’t make out his silhouette, but I could hear him breathing. I heard the soft scuff of his feet on the carpeting, and I closed my eyes tight. Stifled and slowed my breathing so there’d be no way he could think I was awake.

I tensed when Vic leaned over me. But instead of touching me, all he did was press the lock on the high, narrow window above my bed. Then, assured all was well, he left the room, closing the door with a soft click behind him.

I let out my breath in a whoosh and burrowed deeper into my pillows. Chill sweat had broken out all over me, and I was breathing hard. Warmth filled the cave I’d made, but it took me a long time to stop shivering.

And when I did, when I slept, I dreamed.

* * *

I don’t know what Vic does when he’s not at The Compound, but when he is here, he works on cars. Some people here, like my parents, for example, drive Volvos or BMWs the rest of the year, but during the summer they ride around in beater cars. Old Jeeps, dinged up and rusted muscle cars, stuff like that. Because The Compound’s not about money or status, it’s about getting along with people and raising vegetables and flowers or some shit like that, I don’t know. I’ve been coming here my whole life, and all I know is that this summer I’ve been bored out of my mind.

There’s not much to do for me here. I could hang out in what they call the crèche, helping with the little kids, but the stench of cloth diapers gets to me after a while. I could help in the gardens, weeding and stuff, but it’s the hottest summer on record for like, twenty years, and it’s just brutal out in the fields. And for what? I don’t even like tomatoes.

I’m like that girl in the song in that movie, the one about the family that sings while they escape from the Nazis. I’m sixteen, going on seventeen, and I don’t have a TV, a computer or a phone, and there are tons of younger kids here and lots of adults, but there’s only one other girl my age and we don’t get along. Her parents live here full-time, and she acts like that makes her better than me, when really I think it should be the other way around. She thinks Adam Ant was in Culture Club, and I know that’s a little old school for some kids, but still.

So I spend my time hanging around the garage. It’s loud in there with the clanking of tools, but Vic’s got a radio he tunes to classic rock. My little brother, Cap, hangs out here, too. He’s better with cars than I am. Well, fact is, Cap’s kinda fucking brilliant. I can replace a windshield wiper, that’s my accomplishment of the summer, but Cap can practically rebuild an engine.

Vic never acts like I’m in the way, though. He’s patient, showing me what parts go where and how they all fit together. He’s got grease in his knuckles and under his nails, even when he wipes them with the scraps of T-shirts he keeps in a big box on the workbench. Sometimes, when he uses the back of his hand to wipe his face clear of the sweat, he streaks his face with grease, too.

Today Cap’s gone swimming with some younger kids over at the gross pond that’s full of algae. They took a picnic. Healthy foods like hummus and pita and cucumbers grown in the gardens here. I’m dying for a cheeseburger, milk shake, fries. I’m wasting away here this summer, frying in the heat, mind numbed from all the smiles everyone has. I want to scream.

So I do. Really loud and hard, my fists clenched, eyes closed. I stomp my feet, one-two, in the dirt outside the garage. And I kick it. I stub my toes inside my old black Chuck Taylors against the barn siding. And then I lean forward to rest my head against the splintery wood and think about how there’s only a few more weeks left. How usually I’m sad to leave The Compound, but this year I can’t wait.

“C’mon. Can’t be that bad.” Vic’s leaning in the doorway, a wrench in one hand and some grease along his forehead.

“I’m fucking bored.”

Vic shrugs. “I’ll put you to work, Tesla. You know I will.”

That’s the reason why I came here. Because he’ll put me to work. And because maybe he’ll take his shirt off when he gets too hot, and I can watch the sweat run down his back, between the dimples just above his ass. Vic wears his jeans low on his hips and cuffed above his big black motorcycle boots.

Vic makes me lie awake in my bed at night, shifting restlessly in the sticky summer air.

I know all about sex. Everyone here does it with everyone else. Nobody talks about it, but it’s no secret. And if you think it’s gross to think about your parents doing it with each other, try thinking about them doing it with other people. Sometimes more than one at a time. Along with peace and love and organic veggies, there’s a whole lot of fucking going on at The Compound.

I know all about it, but I’ve never done it. Boys in my school don’t appeal to me. Too young, too immature, and besides, I go away for the whole summer. That’s prime boyfriend-girlfriend time. The one time last year I tried going out with a guy, I came back to school in the fall to find out he’d spent the summer dating his way through the entire cheerleading squad. First of all, I’m so not a cheerleader. Second, I guess I couldn’t blame him. A girlfriend who disappears for three months isn’t much fun.

I work next to Vic all that long, hot summer afternoon. We’re fixing an old Impala that doesn’t look like it’ll ever run. He does take his shirt off, and I pretend I’m not staring, but we both know I am.

“Fuck.” He growls the word when the wrench he’s holding slips and clangs against the metal.

I use that word all the time, but something about it freezes me now. I’m standing too close to him, at his side, our hips touching as we lean over to watch him twist something with the wrench. He says it again, lower.

“Let’s take a break,” Vic says.

In the small back room there’s an ice chest full of cold beers and a couple of Cokes. Vic takes the beer and hands me the soda. I think for about half a second of asking him for a beer, since even though I’m underage, stuff like that mostly goes unnoticed at The Compound. But I hate the taste of beer and wouldn’t be able to drink it, anyway.

“We’ll get it working. We’re a good team, you and me.” Vic tips the beer in my direction.

I care about a thousand things more than I give a damn about that car. One of them is the way Vic looks at me. Or doesn’t look at me, which is closer to the truth. I don’t want to be on a team with him. I want him to notice me.

From outside in the garage, the Rolling Stones start singing about painting a door black. Vic’s fingers thrum against his thigh as he lifts the bottle to his lips and tips back his head to swallow. The bottle sweats, wetting his fingertips. His throat works.

I want to lick the hollow of his throat. I want to run my tongue along the curve of his collarbone. His shoulders.

Suddenly, I want.

This time, I don’t glance away when he looks up to see me staring.

Vic licks his lips.

He could easily push me back when I cross the short distance and stand between his legs. It would’ve crushed me. Probably made me unable to make the first move again for the rest of my life. But he doesn’t push me away when I stand, my calves pressed against his, then my knees on the inside of his thighs.

It’s hot in this room. Stifling. Sweat sheens Vic’s upper lip, and I don’t think about anything but leaning forward and tasting it. My tongue slides over his salty flesh, and my lips brush his.

It’s too much, I know. I’ve made a mistake, gone too far. Vic’s older than me. Has never even flirted with me. And I’ve kissed only a couple boys, nothing like this. Bold and free and wild.

Vic doesn’t stop me. His mouth opens under mine. His hands go to my hips, just above the waistband of my jean shorts and below the hem of my T-shirt. At the touch of his fingers on my bare skin, a soft sigh slips out. I’m sure then he’ll push me away. Maybe laugh.