Nate
Friday, July 3
“All in favor?” Sana asks. Each of my roommates, except me, raises their hand. Which makes this a done deal, but Sana’s a stickler for protocol. “All opposed?”
My hand shoots up. Sana—our self-appointed house leader even though she’s been here only a few months—glances my way, and then at the girl perched beside me on one of our lopsided living room futons. “Bronwyn, you don’t live here,” she says. “You don’t get to vote.”
“I’m still opposed,” Bronwyn says defiantly, raising her hand higher.
“Noted,” Sana says, tapping her knuckles on the coffee table like a gavel. “The motion to let Reggie Crawley stay in the house hereby passes.”
Bronwyn sits up straighter—which I didn’t think was physically possible—and says, “You’re all making a huge mistake.”
I rub a hand across my jaw and glare at my roommates. I knew we were going to lose this—that I was going to lose this—but the thing about being with Bronwyn Rojas is, you don’t get to ignore shitty situations. You have to do something, even when it’s pointless.
And then you have to keep talking about it. “You’re enabling Reggie and putting anybody who comes into this house at risk,” Bronwyn continues.
“He says the girl knows about the video, though,” Jiahao says, pushing a shock of bleached-blond hair off his forehead.
I roll my eyes. “You seriously believe him?”
“Some people are into that kind of thing.” Jiahao shrugs. “Who’s to say?”
“How about the people who went to high school with Reggie and know all about his creepy modus operandi?” Bronwyn asks. “He doesn’t care about consent. Trust me, that girl has no idea she was being filmed, and she definitely has no idea that he shared it.”
That’s why we’re here; because last weekend, I walked in on asshole Reggie Crawley showing a sex tape to Jiahao and another one of our roommates, Deacon. They were stoned and not exactly worried about where and how Reggie had gotten the recording. But I knew.
I went straight into Reggie’s room, shut the door and the curtains, and used my phone’s flashlight to look for reflections where they shouldn’t be. Turned out the camera was on an alarm clock. I smashed it, but it’s not like that’s going to stop him from getting another one. Kicking him out won’t solve the problem either, but at least it would be something.
“Didn’t any of you see Katrina Lott’s TikTok?” Bronwyn asks.
Blank looks all around. None of my roommates except Reggie went to Bayview High, which is where Katrina went too. She graduated the same year as Bronwyn and me, and she unknowingly starred in Reggie’s first-ever sex tape. Katrina didn’t talk about it back then, and she moved to Portland after graduation. But a few months ago, she posted a video about how violated that tape made her feel. Almost everyone from Bayview High has seen it by now, and it’s made me hate Reggie even more.
“You should watch it,” Bronwyn says. “I’ll send you a link.”
“Okay,” Sana says. “But for now—majority rules.”
Sana won’t admit it, but her vote is mostly financial. It’s not easy finding new roommates in July, especially in a shack like this one with no air conditioning and stuffy, closet-sized bedrooms. If we toss Reggie, everyone’s rent goes up by a hundred and fifty bucks. Sana’s even more strapped for cash than I am, and Jiahao, Deacon, and Crystal aren’t much better off. Nobody in this house gets any help from their family.
Or maybe it’s more that, like me, they won’t take it. My mother gives me a check every month, and I deposit it untouched so I can give it back to her in case she backslides and has to go through rehab again. Or my father does.
“We done?” Deacon unfolds his nearly seven-foot frame from an armchair, yawning, and everyone follows suit except me and Bronwyn.
“You guys suck,” I grumble.
Deacon shrugs. “Reggie’s a dick, but what can you do?”
I exhale a frustrated breath. “I don’t know, Deacon. Kick him out?”
Sana lingers in the doorway between the living room and the hall as the rest of our roommates file out. Her faded cotton skirt brushes the floor, which is the closest thing to being swept that it’s ever going to get. Sana looks like some kind of old-school folk singer, with her flowy clothes and her fondness for wearing a headband across her forehead. She also plays the guitar, badly, and she knows only one song. Years from now, I’m going to be forced to think about this house anytime “Time of Your Life” comes on the radio.
“Reggie will have to be on his best behavior from now on,” she says. “Including the Fourth of July party tomorrow. Bedroom door open at all times.”
I snort. “Way to lay down the law, Sana. That’ll do it.”
“It will. Trust me,” Sana says before heading upstairs.
When she’s out of sight, Bronwyn mutters, “This probably goes without saying, but I don’t trust her.”
“Uh-huh,” I say. It’s all I can manage right now. I feel the same tightness in my chest that I did at Bayview Country Club; like all the air I should be breathing has been sucked out of the room by a single, poisonous thought: Some things never change. First Jake Riordan, and now Reggie. What’s the point of doing the right thing when assholes like that never bother, and get whatever they want anyway?
“This isn’t over,” Bronwyn says. “We just need to take a different angle.” Then she looks at me—really looks at me—and adds, “It doesn’t have to be right this second, though.”
That almost makes me smile. “Don’t tell me Bronwyn Rojas is going soft.”
“I’m not. Just getting better at knowing when to take a break.” She shifts toward me and puts her legs across my lap. “We can talk about something else. Like…that movie you’ve been bugging me to watch.”
“Onibaba?” I ask. I still haven’t converted Bronwyn into a Japanese-horror-film fan, but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped trying.
“That’s the one. It’s old, right?”
“Yeah, from the sixties.”
She lifts one hand to play with the hair on the nape of my neck. “How bloody is it?”
Some of the tension drains out of me as I trace a circle on her knee with my thumb. “Less than average,” I say.
“Good to know.”
“Plus, women do most of the killing. You’d like that.”
Bronwyn leans forward to plant a lingering kiss on my cheek. “Yeah, I would,” she murmurs, and I can’t help it—I start cracking up.
“This is the most obvious distraction attempt ever,” I say.
Bronwyn kisses my other cheek, and then her lips trail down to my neck. “Are you complaining?” she asks with a smile in her voice.
All my negative thoughts disappear as I pull her to me. “Hell no,” I say before lowering my mouth to hers. Her body melds to mine, fitting into places I forget exist when she’s not around. I push her back against the pillows and kiss her more deeply, my hands sliding beneath the hem of her shirt, until she breaks away with a laugh.
“Not here,” she says, adjusting the glasses that have slid halfway off her nose. Her hair is mussed, and her cheeks are flushed bright red. She looks gorgeous. “It’s only a matter of time before one of your roommates comes back.”
“My room?” I ask hopefully.
“I have to meet Maeve in ten minutes,” she says.
“I can work with that.”
Before we have a chance to move, though, the doorbell rings. “Not it!” Deacon yells from the kitchen. Bronwyn slides off me, and I reluctantly get to my feet. “I can also work with nine and a half minutes,” I tell her as I head for the front door.
I’m expecting the FedEx person, or maybe one of those randos Crystal occasionally does tarot readings for, but that’s not who’s standing on the doorstep. “Hey, Dad,” I say, opening the door wide. “What’s up?”
“Hi, Nate.” He’s holding a cardboard box in one hand and shoves it toward me. “Your lizard powder showed up at the house.”
“Sorry,” I say, taking it. I started sprinkling a calcium supplement over Stan’s food last year—another recommendation from Bronwyn, which actually does seem to perk him up—and the online store I buy from still has my old address on file. Half the time, I forget to check the right box when I order it. “I could’ve just picked it up, though.”
“You’re on my way to work,” Dad says gruffly, shifting from one foot to the other.
I’m not—he works maintenance at Bayview High and I’m nowhere near the place—but I let it slide as I take him in. He’s lost weight since he stopped drinking, and his faded T-shirt and ancient jeans are practically falling off him. I know my mother bought him a bunch of new clothes, but she finally moved out last month, so nobody’s making him wear them anymore. My eyes go automatically to his hands, checking for the kind of tremor that would tell me he’s slipped up. I’m not sure when I’ll stop looking for that.
“You wanna come in?” I ask, even though my mood plummets at the thought of losing what’s now barely eight minutes alone with Bronwyn. I don’t blame Mom for moving out; it’s not like they had a real marriage anymore, and she’s spent more than a year helping Dad get on his feet and through rehab. She deserves her own space, and it’s not like she can keep him sober. He’s the only one who can do that. But he’s not used to living alone, so he’s always making up excuses to stop by.
“Nah, that’s okay. You’re busy,” Dad says. His eyes stray over my shoulder as he adds, “Hi, Bronwyn. Nice to see you.”
“You too, Patrick.” Bronwyn comes up beside me, hair smoothed into its usual neat ponytail. I’m not sure when she got on a first-name basis with my father, but he seems to like it. “I’m heading out, but I’m glad I ran into you. I’ve been thinking—maybe Nate and I could come over and make you dinner sometime next week? My grandmother gave me a new recipe for sancocho soup that I’ve been dying to try, if you’re willing to let me experiment on you.”
A smile creases Dad’s worn face, and for a second, I see what my mother means when she says You two look so much alike. “I’d like that. Very much. Any night that Nate’s free,” he adds with a hopeful look toward me.
Once again, my girlfriend is a million times better a person than I am, because that invitation should’ve come from me. “Wednesday, probably,” I say.
“Perfect,” Bronwyn says.
“Looking forward to it,” Dad says. Then he shuffles back a step, like he’s about to leave, but he doesn’t. Instead, he asks, “Listen, Nate—are you sure you didn’t pick up my keys by mistake? Not the house ones,” he adds before I can protest. “I did find those, right where you said they’d be. The work ones. Can’t find them anywhere.”
“I’m sure,” I say, unease creeping over me. Dad’s back has finally fully healed after he was injured during a roofing job years ago, which is good news. In related news, though, he’s no longer eligible for disability, so he needs to hang on to this job. Otherwise, my mother and I are going to have to pitch in to pay his bills, and that’ll mean I have to get a third job, and—
Bronwyn’s arm links through mine with a reassuring squeeze. I can practically hear her say One thing at a time, which is her mantra every time all the balls I’m juggling threaten to come crashing down on my head. “Did you leave them at work, maybe?” she asks.
“I don’t think so,” Dad says doubtfully. “But it’s possible. My brain…it gets foggy every once in a while, you know?”
“Yeah. I know,” I say. “You need to retrace your steps. Want me to help you look?” I’m not sure what good it’d do, but I have an hour to spare before I need to head to the country club.
“No, that’s okay,” Dad says, snapping the rubber band on his wrist. Mom told him he should wear one and do that anytime he feels stressed, and now it’s a constant with him. “You probably don’t want to be around Bayview High today. Or any day, for a while.”
I don’t like the shifty look on his face. “Why not?” I ask warily. If he’s stashing whiskey bottles at work, I will kill him. Not literally. But I’ll want to.
“That kid…he works out there sometimes,” Dad says. “With his parole officer. At least, I think that’s who it is. Some kind of cop-looking guy.”
I guess my brain can be foggy, too, because Bronwyn catches on a lot faster than I do. “Jake Riordan?” she gasps, tightening her hold on my arm. “Are you serious? Why would he be allowed anywhere near Bayview High?”
“He’s using the fields,” Dad says. “I guess it’s some kind of thing they worked out with the court, that he can run around the track for a few miles.” I gape in disgust, and he adds, “He’s not allowed in the building or anything.”
“Jesus. So much for keeping him on a short leash,” I say bitterly. It doesn’t matter how hard I try to shove guys like Reggie and Jake out of my brain; they keep coming back. Because people keep letting them.
“Yeah.” Dad snaps his rubber band again. “I know I wasn’t around much when everything happened, but…I don’t like seeing that kid there. Anywhere, really.”
Dad wasn’t so much not around as he was passed out, but the general sentiment still holds. “You and me both,” I say.
The more Jake waltzes through town like he’s a regular guy, the more people are going to start thinking that he is one. And that impartial trial he’s supposed to get will suddenly be biased in the wrong direction. Instead of jurors looking at him like a criminal—the way they would’ve looked at me if I’d ever been in front of them—all they’ll see is Bayview’s golden boy.
Some things never change.
