Falling Under (30 page)

Kylie doesn’t know I’m doing this. She thinks I’m looking at effects pedals. Which, I did. I even bought a new one. I’ve got a new job, working for Andersen Mayer at his office. I’m his assistant’s assistant. I also work at the garage, with Colt’s friend. It’s a good job, pays well, and I’m learning some useful skills. It’s good to be busy, to be done with college. I know an associate’s degree doesn’t do shit, but it’s a degree I earned, on my own. I might go for my bachelor’s, might not. Kylie graduated high school with crazy honors, obviously, and is thinking about where she wants to go after she finishes her degree at NSCC.
 

Kylie and I are still planning on pursuing music, but we feel like we shouldn’t rush it. Let it happen in its own time. In the meantime, I’m working a lot, playing guitar and learning new songs, even messing around with writing my own. I haven’t burned in months, and I haven’t smoked pot since before the accident. I don’t even have any. Kylie watched me throw it away, watched me give my pipe and papers to Dion.
 

“You have beautiful hair, Oz,” the stylist says to me. “Maybe you’d think about donating it?”

“Donating it?” I ask.

“Yeah. Locks of Love is a charity that takes hair like yours after it’s cut and turns it into a wig.”

I shrug. “Sure. Sounds good.”

She smiles. “Cool.” Her fingers run through my hair once more. “So. Ready?”

I take a deep breath and let it out. “Yeah. Let her rip.”
 

I watch as the scissors snip through my hair, watch as a huge hank of hair flutters to the floor. Holy shit. My head feels so light all of a sudden. She’s not done, though. She cuts and cuts and cuts, until I’m sure I must be bald. I’ve got my eyes closed, refusing to look until it’s over.
 

Finally, after trimming the hairline at my neck and above my ears with a pair of clippers, she steps back, blows my skin clean with a hair dryer. Styles it with some kind of paste. Fiddles, blow-dries, twists, plays. Finally she unsnaps the sheet and turns me around.

“So what do you think, Oz?” Even she sounds nervous.

I open my eyes, and I’m honestly stunned. It’s
short
. Like, there’s nothing at all on the sides, buzzed close to the scalp. There’s a messy ruff on the top of my head, artfully mussed, dark, spiky. Holy shit, I fucking love it. I run my hands past my ears, down the back of my neck, up the back of my head, feeling the soft bristles under my palm.
 

“It feels like my head is ten pounds lighter.” I turn my head from one side to another, pluck at a strand of hair, play with it. “It’s amazing. I feel like a different person.”

“You had a
lot
of hair.” She sounds almost wistful. “You had a gorgeous head of hair. I mean, it was thick and you had, like, no split ends or anything. But you look amazing, I have to say. You do look totally different.” She tilts her head, touches my shoulder. “Now you just need a less…icky shirt.”
 

I’ve got a metal shirt on, of course. I don’t think I own anything else. This one has a spray of blood that turns into a flock of birds, and the name of the band written in barbed wire–style font. It’s pretty graphic, I guess.
 

“Yeah, maybe you’re right. If I’m gonna look clean-cut, I might as well go all the way, huh?”
 

“Exactly. There’s a resale store a few doors down that has some nice stuff. You should take a look.” She leads me up to the counter and cashes me out.
 

I thank her, leave her a tip, and step out into the late spring warmth. I check out the resale shop and find a short-sleeve button shirt, plaid and preppy and ugly as fuck, but it fits and doesn’t look half bad on me. Especially after I find a pair of faded, well-worn blue jeans, just tight enough. Add a plain tan leather belt, and a pair of Doc Martens, and I look like someone totally other than the metalhead punk who left my apartment this morning. I toss my old clothes onto the passenger seat of my truck and let the engine idle as I send Kylie a text.

Yeah, my bike was pretty much totaled, so I used the insurance money to buy an old black F-150. Colt helped me fix it up, replacing and souping up the engine, beefing up the exhaust, switching out the tranny. The truck is almost as old as I am, but it’s smooth and powerful and rumbles like a beast.
 

Meet me at the park
,
I text Kylie.
I have a surprise for you
.

I head out, and a few minutes later, my phone chimes. I wait till I’m at a red light and then read the message.
Sure thing. C U then.

It drives me nuts when Kylie uses text-speak, so of course she does it just to fuck with me.
 

I find a spot for my truck in the parking lot and shuffle out across the overgrown soccer field, an old quilt under one arm. We found this park a few weeks ago. It’s hidden at the back of a subdivision. There’s a few swings, an old merry-go-round, some benches and a play structure and some splintery picnic tables gouged with initials and swear words. No one ever comes here, so we like to lie in the field and talk, write songs, kiss. A bit more than kiss, late at night, sometimes.
 

I spread out the blanket and lie back on it, drowsing in the warm sunlight until I hear the quiet purr of Kylie’s car. I hear her door close, listen as her footsteps get closer. I tilt my head to one side, see her legs approaching. I stand up, face her.

“Holy—holy
shit
, Oz!” She covers her mouth with her hand, hiding a stunned grin. “You look—holy shit! Is that even you?”

I scrub my hand through my hair, still amazed at the way it feels. “You like it?”

She moves closer, brushes her palm over the close-cropped hair at the back of my head, giggling. “Like it? I
love
it. I mean, I loved the way you looked before, but this…you look so fucking hot I can’t stand it.” She steps back and takes in my outfit. “Even your clothes? God, Oz, what got into you?”

I shrug. “I dunno. It just felt like it was time for a change. I got the haircut, and then figured I might as well do it right, you know? So here I am. I feel weird, though. I can’t get over the way my head feels.”

She laughs and runs her hand across my neck. “I bet. I got my hair cut really short once. It was in junior high, I think. I got, like, six inches cut off, and it felt like my head was going to float away.”

I nod. “That’s pretty much it.”

“You didn’t do this for me, did you? Like, you didn’t feel like I wanted you to—to change for me, did you?”

I frown. “No, not at all. It’s not about changing myself. I’m still me. I just don’t need the metal shirts and black jeans and long hair to be me. I’m me regardless of my appearance.”

“So wise, yet so young,” Kylie teases.

“Hey, kid, I’m older than you.”

“Not by much.”

“Still older.”

She smirks at me, then slips her hand up under the hem of my shirt, touches the skin on my back. “Why are we still standing up?”

We sink to the blanket together, and she leans back on her elbows. Her lips part in expectation, her eyes closing as I lean in for a kiss. She’s wearing a loose white button-down blouse and a pair of skin-tight blue jeans, and I rest my hand on her hip, touch her lips with mine, taste her vanilla lip balm, smell soap and lilac something and faint perfume. Her hand slides up my back, clutching the back of my head. The kiss deepens, and I can’t help but free the top button of her blouse, and then the second. In moments, both of our shirts are open, her hands roaming my side and my palms cupping her tits.

We lose ourselves in the kiss, in the exchange of heat and passion, and though we won’t let it go any further than kissing, it’s intense and overwhelming.
 

She pulls away, bites at my lower lip. “God, if we don’t stop now I’m going to jump you right here, in broad daylight.”

“That would be bad….right?”

“Yeah. I mean, I do hear kids.” She smiles at me. “Let’s go home.”

“Home?” I ask. “Where’s home, for us?”

“For now? Wherever we can be alone. Wherever you are is home.”

FOURTEEN: Creekside Wisdom

Colt

I’m tinkering with the Triumph, putting the finishing touches on it. It just needs some fine-tuning on the brakes, some polish all over, and then she’s done. I’m already planning my next project. I want to try something a little different. I’ve got my eye on a 1935 Studebaker President Eight. It’s little more than the shell, but I know a guy who can get me parts for Studebakers.
 

I catch a glance of Ben across the street, hand-washing his truck. He’s scrubbing hard with the round yellow sponge, a little too hard, I think. He’s turning his head every once in a while and glaring in this direction, and the pain and anger in his eyes is rife and hot. I realize Oz and Kylie are sitting on our porch, watching Netflix.
 

Man, Ben’s got it bad. I thought maybe after the accident he’d back off a bit, but it doesn’t seem as if he has. Months have passed, and he’s still pining away. Still hoping, maybe, watching and waiting. I sigh, and sit back on my heels. This has got to end. I know Jason’s talked to him about it, but what kid Ben’s age ever wants to hear what his dad has to say? Especially about matters of the heart.
 

As I watch, Ben throws the sponge down onto the ground, splattering soapy water everywhere. I can almost hear him cursing as he grabs the hose and sprays his truck. I put my tools back in the box and make my way over to Ben. I glance back, and I see that Oz and Kylie are doing that almost-kissing-while-they-whisper thing, prompting Ben’s tantrum.

I stop at the bottom step of the porch. “Hey, you two. I got no problem with any of this,” I say, gesturing at them. “And I know you can’t tiptoe around Ben’s feelings all the time, but don’t be cruel about it, huh? Just…at least
try
to be a little considerate.”

Kylie sighs. “Ugh. You’re right. I hate it, but you’re right. I just…I hate this whole situation with him, Daddy. I don’t know what to do. It’s like he’s not even trying to move on.” She stares across the street, meeting Ben’s gaze. “I’ll go talk to him.”

“What are you gonna say?” Oz asks.

Kylie shrugs as she stands up. “I don’t know. Something. Anything.”

I wave her down. “I don’t think there’s anything you
can
say, Ky. I’ll talk to him. Might be nothing I say will make any difference either, but…it’s worth a shot.”

I duck inside the house, let Nell know where I’m going, grab my keys, and head across the street. Ben is drying his truck with a rag, and I wait until he’s done. He ignores me until he’s dried the last quarter-panel.

“Yeah?” He tosses the rag into the now-empty bucket, along with the sponge, and then sets the bucket in the garage.
 

“Come on,” I say. “You and me gotta talk, kid.” I head back across the street, not waiting to see if he’s following. He will, if he knows what’s good for him.

I climb into the driver’s side of my truck, close the door, start the engine, and wait. After a minute, Ben slides in, closing the door with a slam. I back out, and it doesn’t escape my notice that he stares at Kylie and Oz as long as he can, until they’re out of sight, at which point he continues to stare out the window, chin in his hand, brows furrowed, visibly brooding. The radio stays off, and I’m silent. I pull into the parking lot of a convenience store.

“Sit tight,” I say, and head inside.

I buy a six-pack, and hit the road again. I head out of the suburbs, into the countryside. Find a back road and burn up the dirt. Follow the twists and turns until we come to one of my favorite spots. It’s little more than a grassy knoll overlooking a creek, but it’s secluded and beautiful and quiet. There’s a fallen tree by the bank of the creek, perfect for sitting on and watching the water flow. I grab the six-pack from the back seat, step out of the truck, and make my way to the tree.

Ben follows, and I take a seat on the trunk, twist the tops off two beers and hand him one.
 

I take a long swallow, and then glance at him. “Got anything you wanna say before I start talking?”

Ben take a sip, shakes his head. “Nope.”

I shrug. “All right. Well, I expect you to
listen
, Ben. Not just hear me, but actively listen. Okay?” He nods. “You’re trying to dig a hole in the sand, Ben. You’re never going to get anywhere doing what you’re doing.”

Ben frowns. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re waiting for something that’ll probably never happen.” I pause, drink, and start again. “Look. Let’s forget the fact that we’re talking about my daughter for a minute, okay? I’m just Colt, and you’re Ben. You’re my best friend’s kid. You’re like a son to me, Ben. I’ve watched you grow up. I’ve watched you grow into a hell of a good athlete, and a good man.”

“But?” Ben prompts.

“But you gotta let her go, kid.”

“I can’t. I’ve tried.
Fuck
, have I tried. I work out like a fucking lunatic. Condition, practice, study. Stay away as much as possible. Try not to think about her. But…it’s fucking hopeless, Colt. I can’t get her out of my head. I can’t—I can’t stop hoping and wishing and praying that she’ll change her mind. I dream about her. I have this recurring dream that she’s waiting for me after practice one day, and she tells me how wrong she was, that she made the wrong choice and she wants me. That she loves me back. It’s torture. I wake up just before she kisses me, just before her lips touch mine, and I realize it was all a dream, and…I just want to rip my fucking heart out. Except she’s already done that.”

The pain in his voice makes my heart ache for him. I finish my beer and toy with the bottle, slowly peeling the label off and sticking the shreds down the neck. “She didn’t mean to, Ben.”

“No. I know that. But is that really supposed to make me feel better?” His voice takes on a mocking tone. “‘Oh, well, see Ben, the girl you’ve loved your whole life didn’t
mean
to rip your heart out and shit in the hole, so it’s fine. Just forget about her.’”

I sigh. “No, you’re right. I suppose that isn’t any consolation. But here’s a shitty fact of life, Ben: sometimes you get your heart stomped on, and there’s just no consolation. Sometimes you get hurt, and there’s nothing that will make you feel better. No way to mitigate the pain, no way to change the facts. You just hurt. It fucking sucks.” I crack another beer, hand it to Ben, and one for myself. “Tell me the truth. You love her? You really love her?”