Burning September (28 page)

Gray light seeped through the slats on the blinds in Kyle’s bedroom when I woke up to Nicholas’s whiskers whirling against my cheek.  I blinked crusty lashes, focusing first on my cat’s expectant green eyes, then on Kyle’s back, the way it rose and fell beneath the swath of sheets.  I was glad it was his back toward me—I knew just looking at him would make all the heat in my body migrate into my face. 

It didn’t matter how much I couldn’t stand Caroline at the moment; I couldn’t help remembering her advice on subjects such as these, though I never thought I’d have any use for those rules.

Never stay the night.  Dawn has a way of casting an ugly glow over everything.  Smeared mascara and puffy eyes are never attractive.  It’s called the walk of shame for a good reason.  Who wants to leave some guy’s house in their bar wear, panties shoved in their purse? 

If by some tragic mistake it
does
happen—a concussion or too much cognac—invent an early engagement.  You’re late for a hair appointment, you have to give a friend a ride to the airport, your boss called an early meeting and you really must get going if you value your job at all.

I eased up on my elbows slowly, trying not to jostle him.  I’d planted the ball of one foot on the carpet when I felt movement.  My blood ran cold as I froze, staring at the floor. 

“Are you trying to sneak out?” he asked, voice thick with lethargy. He didn’t yell, but the words might as well have been loud as a gong, the way they startled me, making my heart pound against my chest like it had suddenly become claustrophobic. 

“No.”  I pressed the sheet to my torso.

“Looks like you’re trying to sneak out.”

I turned to look at him over my shoulder.  “I always get up early.”

“It’s five a.m.”

“I always get up at five a.m.”

“Really?”  He cracked his neck, propping himself up against the headboard.  “I remember one time I called you at seven a.m. and you asked me what the fuck my problem was, calling in the middle of the night.”

“I’ve turned over a new leaf.  I like to jog at five a.m.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.  I’ve got an arm band for my iPod and everything.”

“You’re almost as good a liar as your sister.  What if I told you I hid your clothes so you can’t leave?”

“Then I guess I’d have to call the police, tell them you’ve taken me hostage.”

He tugged on the inside of my elbow, pulling me back into the pillows.  “Are you really that embarrassed?”

I couldn’t look at him, so I looked at the ceiling instead, blindly groping the fur on Nicholas’s back.  His purring always lowered my pulse.  “I’d be lying if I said it’s not awkward as hell.”

“It’s only as awkward as you make it.”

“That sounds like it should be printed on an inspirational poster.  Don’t you have to work or something?”

“On Saturday?”

I shrugged.

He shifted onto his side.  “If you really want to leave, go ahead.  I won’t stop you.”  He ran his hand over my arm, rhythmically squeezing from my wrist to my bicep.  Trying to catch my gaze, I guessed, but I didn’t think I could manage that.  “For the sake of transparency, is this going to turn into one of those things that we pretend never happened?”

I turned onto my side so I faced him, but I didn’t look him in the eye, just traced the plaid pattern on his sheets with a fingertip until I’d stretched the silence to within an inch of its life.  “No.”

“Good.” He pushed my hair behind my shoulder and pressed a wet, lingering kiss on the back of my neck.  I hoped he couldn’t feel the gooseflesh sprouting beneath his lips, but I knew he did, his mouth was sealed against my skin, I felt it spread into a smile.  “Do you like
The Bachelor
?  I recorded it.”

I felt my own lips twitch into an unwilling smile, but I hid it under the guise of rubbing the crust out of my eyes.  “Yeah.  I missed the last episode.”

“You’re pretty in the morning.”  He snared his fingers through the tangles in my hair.  “I like when your hair’s all mussed.  It’s sexy.”

I turned my face away, feeling it flame redder than the Challenger he coveted.  “Shut up.”

He didn’t, he just laughed, his breath hot against my shoulder.  “You’re even cuter when you’re all embarrassed.”

“Can you please stop talking?”

“Hmm.”  His Adam’s apple vibrated against my flesh as he slid his arm beneath me.  “Well, you know what happened the last time we stopped talking.”

I didn’t care how childish it may have looked.  I threw the blankets over me, cocooning myself tightly so I didn’t have to see how much he enjoyed my utter mortification.  And I didn’t come up for air until I heard
The Bachelor’s
theme music and Chris Harrison’s voice regaling viewers with what happened last time they tuned in. 

JUNE

Kat,

I’m guessing from your absolute silence that you’ve decided to cut me off.  Go ahead and see if you can, Kitty, it’ll never be possible.  You can try to delude yourself, but we’re more than just blood, and you know it.  I live in your marrow and vice versa, there’s no way you can get rid of your bones. 

Do you remember that day last July, how hot it was?  You couldn’t find me anywhere, you looked and looked, walked past the open bathroom door a thousand times until you finally stuck your head in.  I hadn’t left, I was just in the tub, trying to cool down in ice water.  You looked at me like I was crazy.  Maybe I was, or maybe I was just hot. 

What are you doing
, you asked, and quite unnecessarily.  The question was written all over your face.  I felt bad, knowing I’d made you wear that look.  You wanted to fix me, but they didn’t make Band-Aids that would have helped that kind of fucked up. 

I’m pretending I’m dead, floating on the river Styx, won’t you bring me some coins for the fare?  I don’t want to be drifting aimlessly for all of eternity.

We both knew I was scaring you, but you didn’t leave me then, just like you won’t leave me now.  You just sunk to the floor, trailed your hand through the water, let it run through your fingers as you tried—valiantly, I might add, I always give credit where credit is due—to avoid eye contact.  If your naked sister floating in a tub, pretending to be a corpse isn’t enough to make you throw the shower curtain shut, leave the bathroom, drop the mic, then this isn’t, either.  

Once, when you were really small, I told you I loved you, and you asked me what that meant.  It tripped me up.  I’d never heard anyone ask such a question, it was like you asked me what the color blue was for. 

That’s a hard one for a twelve-year-old girl to answer, so I recited something I’d heard before.

Love is patient, love is kind.  It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.  It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.  Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.   It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

To be honest, I didn’t really think about what all that meant back then, I just wanted to give you an answer.  Not that it helped.  You looked more confused than ever.

I feel compelled to point out, however, that you seem to have forgotten those wise words. 
Oh sure, Caroline
, you’ll say,
tell me, since when have you ever put stock in the Bible?  What about
your
evil, your sins, your pride? 

Nobody’s perfect, sweetheart, though I ought to point out that you seem to be putting on a holier than thou air that is very unappealing.  You can’t write me off just because we had a difference in opinion, and it’s the epitome of asinine to think you can.

I can tell by the fact all mentions of you have stopped that something is going on between you and my illustrious attorney.  Might I remind you that I’m a much better people reader than you’ve ever been.  I know what he wants, (and I think you do, too) and it’s not your mind or wit or your shining conversational skills.  What has he given up for you, Kat?  And after you answer that, think about what
I’ve
given up for you.  Oh nothing, just my life. 

I can see him and his motives as clear as day, and I’m embarrassed to think that maybe you can’t.  I’ll be around when you realize this, though, so please don’t hesitate to write back when you finally pull your head out of your ass. 

Has it been easy for you to wash your hands of me?  Does it inspire relief, or is it like losing an arm?  Do you have phantom limb syndrome, do you ever start in the middle of
Dr. Phil
because you’ve somehow superimposed my face over those of his heartbreaking clientele? When you go to bed, do you ever remember how I used to tuck you in? Before you load the gun you might consider which side of it you’re on.

I can see through this act, Kat, I can see through
you
.  You’re like rice paper, I can hold you up to the light and read all your bright thoughts.  You cannot possibly think you can get away from someone who knows you as well as you know yourself.  Distance doesn’t matter in situations like this. 

You’ve been so many people already in your short life.  Daughter of a shadowy suicide victim and a drunk, reborn as the child of a flighty artist slash writer slash murderer, college coed, and now you’re held captive by a considerably older blond man with a law degree.  I know every piece of you.  Does he? Maybe it’s something to consider next time you’re in bed with your darling Mr. Cavanaugh.  He sleeps through the night I bet, but you never do.  Never, not once, not even when you were a little girl.  I’d be awake at three a.m. and walk past your bedroom, and I’d hear you in there, under the covers, talking to your stuffed animals about tea parties. 

I know I’ll get out of this unscathed, but will you?

Love,

Caroline.

She always got poetic when she was mad.  I couldn’t blame her.  All she had now were her words.  Of course she’d wield them like swords.

I’d read her latest email through three times by four a.m.  She was right about Kyle’s sleeping habits, he was in my bed right now, out cold, Nicolas curled in the crook of his arm.  Maybe she could extrapolate that, but she’d never know him, not even if she made a study of all things Kyle, watched him nonstop for a hundred years.  All she noticed was the blond hair that made him look like a frat president, his long pauses between the questions he asked her.  Not because he was too dense to understand you, Caroline, but because he didn’t believe your act from the very beginning, he saw through your body language, micro expressions, the hidden truths buried in the crevices of your lies.  She’d look at him and judge him like she judged every other man—beneath her—but she’d never know him at all.  She could never understand that he’d visited me all those times because he actually cared, and not about the potential sex he could have.  He took time off work to help me look for my cat because he didn’t want me to be sad, not because he’d hoped it would it would lead to me taking my clothes off.  He didn’t just like the character I chose to wear, the way all her boyfriends had, he hadn’t been taken with someone who didn’t exist.  I didn’t hide from him the way you hid from everyone, Caroline, and it’s taken me this long to realize that’s what you’ve done your whole life.  Not acting, but hiding.  And it makes me so sad for you, though we both know you’d throw that pity back in my face.

She liked to proclaim she knew me best, but it was only ever her own face she hoped to find when she looked at me.  She wanted to mold me into her twin simply because she didn’t want to be alone in her night.  She’d never been able to relate to people, so she had to turn me into a Frankenstein type doll, give me pieces of her beliefs and personality to sew together into a suitable companion.  And now, on the precipice of losing me, her only option was to lure me back with guilt.  I’d already lived in that house.  It was cold and lonely, and I wanted out.  Snakes lived under those floorboards, skeletons rattled in the closets, and I’d grown tired of hearing all the ghosts wailing in the attic. 

She claimed
I
was deluded, but it was funny how she never cast herself as the villain.  She fit so snugly in that role.  I wasn’t like her.  I couldn’t spin myself stories, make myself believe my own bullshit.  That took Caroline’s special brand of brilliance.  She wanted me to believe her life had been some endless struggle, but she’d never suffered, not really.  Maybe she’d suffered after Brian broke up with her, but that all ended the moment the flames sprung up in his house, the moment she’d started her car that September afternoon.  She’d suffered because it was the only battle she’d ever lost, and she couldn’t handle the thought that she wasn’t irresistible.  Maybe he’d seen a little too much of her and got scared off, I didn’t know.  Maybe he’d woken up one day and realized his girlfriend wasn’t even human, just some strange hybrid, a half-woman half-bird siren he’d fallen prey to.  He’d woken up from her song and found her pecking away at his flesh, and it hurt, so he’d had to shoo her away.  She’d rewritten history to suit her moods before.  What little she’d told me about their breakup could have easily been lies. 

The coffeemaker crackled and hissed, and I got up from the barstool and my laptop to pour myself a cup.  I took it black over ice and made my way to the backyard, where the gray sky had faded into the shade of canned peaches.  I’d had to wake up earlier and earlier to get a few minutes of cold air.  The heat of June had stunned the whole of Southern California into a trance.  If you weren’t careful you could roast yourself alive without realizing it, the way people cooked lobsters on slow boil. 

I looked down at my forearms and wondered if Caroline really lived in my marrow.  Of course she’d meant it figuratively, but it had a grain of truth.  I did think about her at inopportune times.  I did miss her, I just couldn’t deal with her and her Carolineness yet.  I’d ignore my marrow for a little while longer. 

Behind me, the screen door slid aside, and Kyle sat on the step beside me, nursing his own cup of coffee. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” He squinted up at the sky, through its layers of poached smog.  It would burn off by noon and make him hate his job for forcing him into suits and ties. 

“It’s too hot for sleep,” I said, leaning into the arm he slipped around my waist. 

He twisted the baby hairs falling loose from my clip around his finger.  “I’ve got to start getting ready for work soon.  What are you doing today?”

“One final in trig.  Then nothing.  Maybe I’ll clean, I don’t know.”  I’d always been one of those freaks who liked cleaning, something he could never wrap his head around.  I liked the monotony of dusting, making perfect lines with a vacuum cleaner, wiping toothpaste off mirrors. 

“Good luck.  God knows I always needed luck when it came to math.  Are you coming home with me later tonight or staying here?”

“Is this some ploy to get me to clean your apartment?”

“I’m such a transparent cad.”  He kissed my cheek, knocked back a slug of coffee, and stood.  I watched him go, but he lingered at the screen door for a few moments, looking very much like he had something pressing to say.

“What’s up?”  I had to ask, finally catching his eye.  They weren’t icy beneath the shade of his lashes, more bruise-like and guarded.

“You want me to tell her you say hi?  I have to go to Breakthrough after an arraignment.”

I pressed my lips together, shaking my head.  “If I wanted to say hi, it’d be best if I did it myself.”  I knew even better than him that there was a viper in the garden. 

***

I stopped by Professor Lawlis’s classroom after my trigonometry final and found him hobbling around, collecting sheaves of papers.  He looked up at my footsteps, gave me yet another smile that looked like an open wound, then busied himself with a pile of files. 

“I guess this is goodbye,” he said, but more to his briefcase as he stuffed it to the brim.

“Parting is such sweet sorrow.”  I hoped he knew, phony melodrama aside, that I was serious, I would miss him, he really did mean more to me than he’d ever know.  But then, I thought, even if he did know, he’d pretend he didn’t, he wasn’t the type to display emotions. 
Feelings
equaled
sissy
, at least as far as he was concerned.

He cleared his throat, raking the words out.  “You know, if come next year you’re interested in my music course…”

“You’ll make sure I have a spot?”

“I can probably grease the wheels, yes.”

“Thanks.”

He snapped the clasps of his briefcase shut.  “I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned it, but I host an open mic night over at the coffee shop on Third every Wednesday.”

I felt my eyes bulge.  “Really?”  It was like he told me he worked part time at a circus, walking on stilts.  He disliked most everyone, how could he willingly host a show that would force him to be around people?  What about the dumb kids my age he so loathed, the ones who wore beanies in hundred-degree weather and wrote lousy, heartbreak-soaked lyrics to accompany their acoustic guitar?  An open mic night was just begging to lure them out in droves.  I could sooner imagine him heckling than inviting them onstage. 

“Yeah.  Half the time some guy with a harmonica wants to join in and it turns into a bust, but if you ever feel like having coffee at nine p.m., you should stop by.”

“Because you’ll miss me?”

His eyebrows migrated up his forehead as he stumped closer on his cane.  “Don’t push your luck, kid.”

“I get it,” I said, with a world-weary shrug.  “You’re a manly man.  It’d ruin your street cred to admit it.”

“I have something for you, actually.”

“What, like advice?”

“No, like the guitar you got your grimy little fingers all over during the year.”  He jerked his head to where it sat, propped against the side of his desk. 

“Seriously?”  I took a hesitant step closer, half-wondering if it was a joke.