Christina (Daughters #1) (16 page)

I drop my hand back to my leg. “I’m not breaking your heart. You don’t love me. You love me as your friend.”

“I don’t fuck my friends.” Her tone was dead. Hollow. Confident. Yeah, I’m a little shocked she said that. A little bit impressed to. She’s not discussing the subject the way I thought she would. There is no simpering at me. Or any displays of outraged, virginal shock or anger, although she should. I deserve it.

“I do,” I say finally, softly, to the silence. I see her shoulders hunch over as if she’s giving up.

She turns away from me and reaches for her clothes. Slipping the white cover-up over her body, she huddles inside it. I shuffle around, grabbing my swim trunks and putting them back on. We both get up and start collecting the few articles around us. I throw the dirty condom into a pile of driftwood behind me.

I feel her eyes following my action and I know she feels like I just threw her away. In a way, I suppose I did. But I also know, what I’m doing to her now is better than hurting her later if we try to make this work long-term. I can’t stand the thought of Christina settling for someone like me. It’s not just poor me bullshit, or a self-confidence problem, it’s knowing who I am, and being honest enough to say I am not what Christina should settle for. So do I love her? Yeah, by doing that, I’d say I love her more than I love anyone. But my love? My version is going to be half of what she needs, wants, and deserves. How can anyone be in a relationship with someone who can’t stand being touched or touching another person? I’m not a social moron, I know what touching means to almost everyone else. People in general, hug, slap shoulders, shake hands, hold hands, kiss cheeks and lips, and squeeze arms, or shoulders. It’s constantly in my face, and all the time, although most people don’t realize it. Take the thing you fear the most and visualize all day long, people coming at you with your fear, challenging you. That is what touching means to me.

I can’t have a normal relationship with a normal girl. And for me, Christina is
the
girl, not just a normal girl. She’s everything extraordinary I think a girl can be. So, no, I’m not for her.

She turns and starts across the beach, her flip-flops making loud slaps. Her anger is nearly radiating off her. I follow her across the now dark, silent beach. Everyone else seems to have gone. We go to her car. She drove tonight. I throw my stuff in the back seat and slide into the passenger’s seat. She does the same. I hate the small, cramped space. My legs poke up near where her hand pulls back the gearshift. I feel a tremor go through me as she’s too close to touching me, and I want to simply lie down and give up. Even now, this moment, after breaking her heart, along with my own, I still cringe at her closeness. The stab of self-loathing is strong.

Her hands grip the steering wheel too tightly. I can see her lower lip being pressed into her mouth as if she’s sucking on it. She’s trying to hold herself together, and not cry. Trying not to react to what I said to her. Trying not to feel hurt. I know every single thing she thinks and feels. I know what I did to her. I know it with a clarity I won’t share with anyone else. It makes it worse, and punishes me more, which, in many ways, I crave. I deserve that.

We drive in total silence. It feels like a living, breathing entity has joined us in the car. How can energy, especially negative energy, feel so real? But it does. It makes me grip the handle hanging from the roof of the car as I sway with her sharp turns and quick stops. I don’t comment when she finally stops her car with a screech in my driveway. I glance up. It’s a huge, old, grand home that Noah restored to its original magnificence over the last decade. I don’t deserve it. This place I live in and the people who care for me are much too good for my kind. Most of all, I don’t deserve the girl I just hurt. Maybe it’s time to quit the fantasy that someday, maybe, I could have her, or turn out right for her. Maybe I did this because it’s way too hard to be friends with her. That much is very true. I can’t really hide it anymore. We need to be separate.

I have no illusions that I’ve done just that.

Her face is turned from me, and her elbow leans on her door. She’s staring with unseeing eyes into the dark neighborhood. When she speaks, her tone is wooden and hollow. “I’d appreciate if you don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t,” I say finally. I feel tongue-tied. Like I used to be, and I can’t get the words out of my throat. It’s like they’re stuck, or caught on some imaginary obstruction. It’s how I used to feel all the time.

She nods her head. I stare at her for a moment longer. This feels so hard and so wrong to leave her like this. She doesn’t turn towards me. I finally open the car door and slide out.

~Christina~

It hurts so much, I can’t breathe. Pulling out of my aunt and uncle’s driveway, Max’s driveway, I feel like I’ve never been there before. My incessant tears nearly blind me. They are instant and thick as my vision goes wavy. Now snot fills my sinuses and tries to drip from my nose. I grab tissues, mopping at my eyes and nose as a weird, almost animal-like cry comes out of my mouth. It hurts so much.
Max doesn’t want me!
My shock is almost incomprehensible. He really doesn’t want me. I don’t have him as my best friend. I don’t have him, period. I think in the heat of when he started kissing me, I completely assumed that meant we would be together. I thought
this is it.
The start of us. The thing I’d been dancing around for so many months now. The thing that scared and thrilled me most of all. It never occurred to me, not even for a second, that in the end, he simply wouldn’t want me. I thought it would be awkward and hard and uncomfortable to tell everyone. I thought it would be uncomfortable even for us to get used to. But it truly didn’t occur to me that he would not want to be with me. He rejected me. He’s been there, in every capacity for so long, I don’t know how to be me anymore without him. I don’t know how to believe in myself if he isn’t there, believing even harder in me.

Yet he doesn’t want me!

I finally pull my car over as the fresh stab of disbelief washes over me anew. Tears and sobs escape my eyes and mouth. It’s all an ugly mess. I lean my head against my steering wheel, gripping it with my fists and nearly pounding my forehead against it. I can’t believe this is how it ends. Max and me. Max… how can it end like this? I am stunned. I am shocked, I admit. It just never occurred to me he’d reject me and not want me. I thought… well, I thought we had some kind of almost mystical connection. I thought we were so much more than most people in our connection. Maybe I deserve this. Maybe I assumed too much. Maybe I even thought he was waiting for me to want him, so I deserve his response. I acted spoiled sometimes. I didn’t always understand the darker themes of Max’s life and feelings, so maybe I deserve this as a response to what I assumed was his love for me.

Still, it hurts so much. My heart is squeezing painfully in my chest. My throat feels like I swallowed sand. And my sobs are loud and real. I let them fly out of my mouth. I sit there in the dark, alone on the side of the road like I’m on a horror movie set. I just can’t make myself go home. I don’t go home because I’ll have to be quiet there, and I’m not ready to be quiet yet.

My heart is broken, and I realize I’ve never had one until now. I’ve been dating one guy or another since I was fourteen. I thought my first love was Ryan Haggerty when I was a sophomore and he was a senior. Typically, he dumped me to go off to college. I thought my heart was broken then. Who helped me? Max. He pretty much moved in with us. He brought over movies and insisted we hang out at the local pizza place. We became inseparable and he always made me smile, no matter how much I tried not to.

Now? Who will help me? Now, I know what heartbreak is. It is losing someone that matters more than everyone… and everything else. Fresh tears burst from my eyes.

I don’t know how long I sit there, crying to myself on the side of the dark, creepy, isolated road. Eventually, I calm down as a sense of numbness overtakes my limbs. I put the car in gear and pull onto the deserted road to drive home.

It’s dark. I enter through the front door. Mom’s sitting there, curled up, reading a book. Shit. If she looks up and sees me, she’ll know I’ve been crying. I stay back near the entry in the shadows. I hope my voice doesn’t shake as I say, “Hey, Mom. Sorry I’m a little late, Max and I got to talking.” Among other things. But I’m all casual like. Do I succeed?

Mom glances up and an absent smile crosses her face. “I was just about to call. Did you have fun?”

I wilt. She’s not really listening, or even looking at me. She’s glad I’m home and safe, but more into whatever she’s reading. “Sure. Usual. You know. I’m tired, I’m going to bed.”

“Okay. See you in the morning.”

I close and lock my bedroom door before stripping off my clothes, I want to burn them now. I hate them and will never wear the swimsuit again. I stuff it into my garbage can. I want to shower, but that would be weird at this time of night. Instead, I slip sweats on and curl onto my bed. I put earphones in and try to ignore the few twinges going on down south. I feel what I did still. It’s not bad. It really didn’t hurt. It was really good, I think, as far as first times go. I guess I don’t have to worry about pain again, do I? And I’m not going to college as a virgin, so my goal was accomplished.

I hate how I feel. I would normally call Max about now if I were feeling like this. But I rarely hurt this bad, and not being able to call him hurts me almost as much as his words. “I don’t fuck my friends…
I do
…”  I still cannot believe that. It keeps floating in and around my brain. Finally, I lie down on my bed and cry, trying to keep as quiet as I possibly can.

~Max~

I BROKE OUR HEARTS on a Friday night, so guess what I was ready to do on Saturday night? That’s right, to kick some ass. Preferably my own. I didn’t have to make any excuses. Christina obviously wouldn’t talk to me. Lindsey and Noah were out to dinner for some business meeting. So I simply left and went to the address Bruce gave me. It was an hour’s ride away in a little, nothing town. The building was an old skate deck, of all things. It was converted into a dance club that also, after hours, runs fights. I had to wait until Bruce actually claimed me before I was allowed in the back. The fighting ring was just the old, wooden floor of the skating rink, dinged, and scratched without any shine. Old lanes of the rink were still visible. The ceiling was high and the place grew loud with the crowd. Only some roping was used to keep the crowd back from the “ring.” Yeah, about now is when a sane person would have run away. A sane person would have done anything, but strip off his shirt and start bouncing around like a jackrabbit in a kind of informal warm-up.

Tanya finds me. “You came.”

I nod. I feel like shit even talking to her. After what I did with Christina, just acknowledging Tanya feels like I’m cheating on her. Yeah, it doesn’t make sense.

Recently, I deduced that Tanya is Bruce’s sister. Go figure. That Bruce doesn’t kick my ass for doing his little sister is a relief. He could take me out with a well-placed jab. But these two don’t share that kind of sibling relationship. They run a fight ring, and work the club legitimately. Gambling runs amok around the place. I’m sure they stiff me in my thirty percent. I just don’t care enough to contest it. And I am a little bit afraid to cross Bruce. I swear, I’ve seen some of the shady-looking guys coming from and going to his office at the club. No way would I want to risk one of those guys being directed my way.

Laying low, I fight, and try to win. When I don’t, I consider it a blessing to wake up alive in the locker room. They kind of throw me off into the showers and start running the cold water. I’m not the only one who gets ditched like that either. If a loser is still conscious, they simply take him out of the way and let him be on his way. But if we’re totally passed out, into the cold shower we go. Like I said, not the greatest crowd when it comes to compassion.

Now, however, after touching the goodness, which I think of Christina as embodying, the darkness of this place actually feels good. I feel released and set free. I feel like I can finally just be the real Max Salazar.

Entering the ring tonight, I find another small guy like me. Rarely do I fight an opponent in what would be considered a
fair
fight. I nod at him. He nods at me with a little half smile and I think,
shit, I’m screwed, this kid fights the way I do.
Down. Dirty. To win.

It hurts. The first punch in my stomach steals my breath. The second against my heart churns my guts. They feel like they’re going to spill out of me. I fall back and the kid’s instantly on top, beating the living shit out of me. It’s the first time one of these fights has gotten so out of hand for me. I blame it on my lack of concentration. Hell, maybe I’m letting him punish me for what I did to Christina.

Blood drips from my nose and sweat falls into my eyes, stinging. Why can’t I find a new way to spend my time?

The fight gets called when I’m nearly limp on the mat. I let one of the bouncers, who I nicknamed “Igor” because he’s so big and barely speaks any English, carry me off. He takes my arm and drags me off the mat while a girl dressed in a skimpy outfit comes through and wipes up our collective blood. Yeah, real hygienic. The crowd lets us past, already directing their attention to the next fighters, and forgetting in less than half a second that I was nearly gutted right in front of them. Tanya gets turned off when I lose, so I don’t worry that she’ll come looking for me.

I let myself be dragged and thrown into the tile shower where cold water rushes over me, clothes and all. I let it fall over my skin, rinsing away some of the sweat and blood. My lips chatter from the pain as well as the shock and cold. Leaning against the wall, I watch the pink, bloody water swirl into the drain. Got what I deserved. Why don’t I feel any better?

Sometime later, I get up and stagger out, my head still aching, my body exhausted and bruised. Tanya’s nowhere to be found.

~Christina~

Just twenty-four days and I’m leaving. I can’t wait. After this weekend, all I want to do is run fast and hard from here. Eastern Washington University is just under a two-and-a-half hour drive. I picked Eastern years ago after I decided exactly what I wanted to do with my life. It wasn’t a stretch since I want to be a speech therapist. Duh. Right? Yes, of course, it’s directly linked to watching what Max went through, and seeing how much therapy improved his life. It seems so rewarding to change the life of a child or teen like that. I mean, he literally could not communicate, and had never been taught how to do so. It’s truly life-changing and exactly what I want to do as a career. A master’s degree is required to practice in this state. I can do it. I have it all mapped out and know just how I’ll get there. I’ll do all my general requirements before entering their Communication Disorders major. I picked Eastern because it’s close enough that I can visit and see my family often, but far enough away that I’ll actually
go away
to college and also have that experience.

I decide to pack just to give myself something to focus on. Something that represents moving away from here and lets me remember my life is already far beyond Max and all this stuff. Plus, it keeps me occupied and busy as I try to forget. Lying down at night, I toss and turn because the only image in my mind is what happened on that beach. Each word, each look, each touch, never mind how minimal, he did touch me. I relive it all. I recall exactly how and what it felt like. I even relive the end: a spectacular crash and burn, and the polar opposite of what the experience meant to me.

I don’t see Max the entire week. By the weekend, I am totally packed up and ready to go. I am hyper organized, and have all my school supplies ready. I have new bedding and personal decorations for my dorm room. I have everything packed up except the will to leave. Strange, only six months ago, I wanted nothing more than this. I was so excited to go to college, and purely for college’s sake. Now? I can’t wait to go, yeah, but only because I want to escape home, which is another new experience for me. I’ve never really felt much of a great, burning need not to be here. But now? I do. I dread every crunch the car wheels make on the driveway. My heart nearly stops. What if it’s Max? Or Lindsey? Casual words about him and/or what he’s doing are often thrown around because, of course, no one thinks a thing about mentioning
Cousin Max.

My parents are having a huge goodbye party for me. They held off on my high school graduation celebration in order to have this going-away-to-college party instead. It was scheduled for today, giving us a few more weeks to ourselves before I have to leave. Today, our house and yard are filled with every high school friend I ever had who’s still in town. A few have already left for college, or are working, traveling, or just gone. My parents have a ton of friends coming, and of course, our family, which inevitably includes Max. I know Max will show because his absence, especially since the party is for me, would be like sky-writing the announcement we did something for everyone to know. There is no way Max wouldn’t attend.

I wear a white, strapless sundress that is made of a soft, scrunchy material and only skims the tops of my knees. I smile and take hugs from every person I’ve ever known and grown up with. My mom provides a huge spread of food and desserts. There are various lawn games and the motorcycles are buzzing in the background as some of the teens ride. It’s a hopping party otherwise, crowded with happy voices and laughter. I am polite and engaging as I try to fake my way through, as if it is the greatest excitement of my life. In reality, however, my heart feels shriveled. It hurts. I can’t find anything more profound to say about it. I hurt so bad, it almost chokes me. I want to simply go into a dark place and cry. I don’t want to laugh and smile and engage. But since I don’t want anyone to know what happened, I fake it. I act; and I find out I’m really good at it too.

An hour into it, I look up and see Max, leaning against the deck railing, watching me. I was talking to two friends with whom I used to play softball and their mom. We were laughing and remembering all the times we traveled across the state for championship games and stayed in hotels with the team. Tilting my head, I let the cold pop I was holding in my mouth slide down my throat, when over the can, I happened to spot Max.

My entire body goes numb before weird tingles break out over my skin. I’m having a physical reaction to seeing him. I feel him. I swear to God, I can feel Max across the space and people. His gaze is blank, but I am familiar with it. It’s the one he puts on when he’s pretending he can’t comprehend what anyone is saying. He’s slouched down, with his arms crossed over his chest in classic
I don’t give a damn
body language. His dark eyes are kind of cold and calculating as he stares right into mine. I didn’t see him come in. My aunt and uncle showed up a half hour before the party to help my mom set up. Noah was out supervising my younger sisters, who were shooting hoops. They mentioned Max was driving himself later, and gave me an odd look when I asked; how often did I not know what Max was up to?

I wish I’d seen his car pull in so I could have prepared for this moment, even though I’ve been trying to for a week. I imagined it in my mind, all the different scenarios and what I’d say. Instead, everything flees from my brain and my heart leaps around in way too strong of a reaction to him. My God, even as I am staring at him, my entire body seems to tingle with awareness. The novelty of it. The freaking desire. I hate myself and him in that moment. As quick as it flashes through me, this hyper awareness of him, is how quickly I shut it down.

He wears shorts that skim his knees and his hair is kind of messed up, being a little too long. There are fresh bruises on his knuckles and around his left eye. His training? I know that’s his excuse, but it’s starting to wear a little thin for me.

I know my face reveals everything to him; surprise, embarrassment, hurt, awkwardness, even desire, as well as total heartbreak. He can read me because he’s been doing it for so long, there really isn’t much hope of me getting to play it cool, or pretend with him. He’s the one person I can’t fake it with, even though I desperately want to. But even now, he can shut me out, or close me down, and not feel about me. His cold stare suggests that’s what he’s decided to do. I’m too much work. He probably feels guilty about what happened. About leading me on. About taking my virginity. About hurting me. So instead, he’ll just feel nothing about me and it’ll be over.

The crowd undulates between us like seaweed on the ocean floor. It’s all a blurred mass to me. And so bright and cheerful, I can’t stand it. I suddenly cannot tolerate another second of this. The bright blue sky. The glaring sunshine. The laughing, familiar faces all around me. I can’t stand to see what I’ve lost. I’ve lost Max and it hurts more than losing my childhood, or adolescence, or leaving for college. I spin around and rush into the house, making my way past all the people, and keeping my head down so no one tries to stop me. Locking myself in the bathroom, I lean over the counter and let the tears escape my eyes. Releasing a small sob, I let it out for a few minutes as I stare into the mirror. Not now. I can’t do this now! I can’t let him ruin this for me. I quickly flip the faucet on and wet a towel, which I wipe my eyes with and let it rest over them temporarily to soothe the burn of hot tears still being restrained. I quickly reapply more makeup, only a lot thicker so it covers some of what my tears washed off. I brush my long hair and nod in the mirror.
Fuck him.
I don’t have to let him ruin this day for me. I don’t have to let him know he is. Maybe that’s a better way to word it.

Leaving the relative safety of the bathroom, I again reenter the party. I slip on my sunglasses and hide in plain sight. I keep socializing outside with the others, and throw myself into my act of happiness and smiles. I hug and squeal with friends. I smile and tell family and friends about my plans. I am congratulated and wished well. I want to puke. The pressure becomes too much. Especially because I know Max is watching me, and it pisses me off he knows it’s an act.

The sun starts to set. I’m playing a volleyball game with my sisters and Noah’s nieces and nephews, who are kind of honorary cousins… like Max. Max doesn’t play. He goes off to be quiet and alone. No one thinks much of it because it usually happens. Quite often, Max doesn’t join in. So I do. I make it my mission to prove how well adjusted and fine I am. Sweating and laughing, I fist-bump with my dad when we make the winning point. Emily scowls and stomps off, never one to lose with grace, and Dad chuckles as he starts after her to give her the usual good sportsmanship talk. There I am, somehow alone, and having to walk past where Max now sits on one of the deck stairs. His legs are drawn up and he’s resting his elbows on his knees. He watches me walk toward him. I have to pass him to get to the house.

I know his gaze is following me even as I avoid looking at him and try to pretend he’s not there. I step on the bottom step, then the next, and the next. His head tilts back as I ascend. He’s an epic asshole, I decide. He caused this. He started our night on the beach. He ended it too, now, didn’t he? He’s the source of my confusion and hurt and yet, he gets to act like an uncaring, unfeeling asshole. I’m almost past him when Aunt Lindsey’s voice reaches my ears.