I TOOK THE CAR. Maybe Lo’s pleads bled into my brain, subconsciously affecting me. Or maybe I just really didn’t want to drink. Whatever the case, my BMW sits outside of a dingy apartment complex. Smoke wafts in a guy’s bedroom, filling my lungs whole. He kisses with rough, wet lips, his mouth sucking my neck. I want to be intoxicated by the moment. I wait for it to carry me away. He’s decent looking, in his late twenties, I suppose. Not fit, not toned. But he has cute eyes and dimpled cheeks.
The seventies shag carpet, dirt-orange walls and lava lamp distract me. As my knees dig into his hard mattress, I stare off, my mind drifting, his hands not doing their job and my head not staying in the game.
I think about Lo. I think about the past. I think about him with Cassie and why it hurts so much. And then a memory floats right into me.
Lo tossed me a blanket in his father’s den, and I wrapped myself in the fuzzy fabric while he loaded the first season of Battlestar Galactica into the DVD player.
“Do you think we can finish the season before Monday?” I asked.
“Yeah, you can crash here if it takes that long. We have to find out what happens to Starbuck.”
I was fourteen, and my parents still thought I cherished Lo like one would a cootie-ridden boy next door. I was far from that place, but I let them believe so anyway.
And then his father stopped by, standing in the crevice of the doorway with a crystal glass of whiskey in hand. The mood shifted. The air sucked dry, and I could practically hear our hearts beating in panicked unison.
“I need to talk to you.” Jonathan Hale kept it short, running his tongue over his teeth.
Lo, fourteen and gangly, stood with tight eyes. “What?”
His father glanced at me, his cutting gaze shriveling my body into the enormous leather couch. “Out here.” He clamped a hand on Lo’s shoulder, guiding him into the darkness.
Their tense voices reached my ears. “You’re failing ninth grade algebra.”
I don’t want to remember this. I try to concentrate on the guy in front of me. He lies on his back and brings me above him. Mechanically, I begin to unbutton his jeans.
“That’s not my report card.”
“Don’t bullshit me.”
I want to forget, but there’s something about Jonathan Hale that stirs my mind, something off. And so I relive it. I remember. In their moments of silence, I pictured a stare-off between them. One that only fathers and sons with tempestuous relationships can share. Full of hatred and unspoken truths.
“Fine, it’s mine,” Lo said, losing the advantage.
“Yeah?” his father sneered. Their shoes scuffled, and something slammed into the wall. “Don’t be so fucking ungrateful, Loren! You have everything.”
The image hurts, and I shut my eyes, pausing for a minute. I actually stop pulling down the guy’s pants.
Jonathan growled, “Say something, now’s your chance.”
“What does it matter? Nothing’s good enough for you.”
“You know what I want? To be able to talk to my associates about you, to gloat and tell them how my son is better than their little shit. But I have to shut my fucking mouth when they bring up achievements and academics. Get your act together or I’ll find a place that’ll make you the man you should be.”
The guy sits up. “Hey, you okay? You want to switch positions?”
I shake my head. “No, no. I’m fine.” I straddle his waist and run my fingers along his chest, sliding down his boxers.
Jonathan Hale’s shoes clapped off in the distance, and Lo didn’t return to the den for what seemed like ten more minutes. When he finally came back in, his eyes looked red and swollen and puffy, and I stood up and walked towards him, letting my emotions guide me.
In the present, I sit up. “I’m sorry,” I mumble, sinking into myself. I grab my clothes, put them on as quickly as possible and high-tail it out of his place. He’s not the right guy. I need another. Something more.
He calls after me, but I don’t listen. His door shuts on my way out, and the cold air rushes into my body, waking me up but sending me back at the same time. My car sits in the rear of the parking lot of his apartment complex. I walk quickly, but my pace doesn’t carry off the memories. They stay.
“Let’s watch the movie.” Lo didn’t look at me.
I only knew one way to make a person feel good, something I believed was better. Impulsively, I reached for his hand. I held it, and he frowned, staring at me like I’d grown horns. But at the same time, his reddening eyes looked eager to take hold of something other than the pain that plagued him.
The parking lot. I yank open the door to my BMW and fumble with my phone, finding some numbers I haven’t exhausted yet. I set up a few random meeting places. Yes. Yes. Yes. No.
I kissed Lo’s lips. Softly, gently. And then I led him to the couch where our hands roamed more hungrily, our bodies moved more passionately, needing to feed our temptations and close out everything else.
We had sex for the first time. The only time.
Afterwards, Lo drank himself to oblivion. And I sprawled out on the couch, making a promise with myself to never sleep with Loren Hale ever again. To never cross that line. Once was enough. It could have ruined our friendship, but we acted as though nothing transpired, as though the moment came with heightened spirits and unleveled heads.
I won’t make a mistake that can cost us what we have. So I pocket my phone, put my car in reverse, and make new plans. Ones that involve blank faces and unpainted canvases. Ones that don’t involve him.
