Little Battles (24 page)

I could think of a million things that I’d like to do more than fill the dairy case, but I supposed if I had to do it, at least I would have Brody for company.

I kept thinking about Elliott and how he was steadfastly denying me. I glanced at Brody as he used both hands to bring four gallons up to the top rack. He had beautiful arms. I could watch him work all day and would often have to force myself to stop thinking about him and his beautiful arms.

He was so fine. I could totally do him.

His status of bangable hottie aside, he wasn’t Elliott, and just as much as I’d been looking at Brody’s arms, I’d been thinking about Elliott’s hands even more.

I had an e-mail waiting for me after work on Saturday and just like always, I felt a shot of excitement. This one made me even more excited than usual, since Elliott and I hadn’t e-mailed lately.

Hi, Sophie,

How was work? I’m not sure whose turn it is (if we’re keeping track), so I thought I would just start.

1. What do you do all day at work?
   
2. If you had to pick one or the other, would you rather be blind or deaf?
   
3. If you could win anything, other than the lottery or money, what would it be?
   
4. Why didn’t you live with your father when you were little?
   
5. Why do you always run so far away when we spend time together?
   

Bonus: We never really set plans for Sunday, if you still want to hang out. When do you work?

Elliott.

Before I could hit reply, a little box popped up.

EDalton123: Hi.

YoSoph: What’s up, Elliott? I was just going to reply to your e-mail. How are your hands?

EDalton123: Better. How was work?

YoSoph: Work-like. They changed my shift for tomorrow because I have to help build some stupid holiday display. It’s not even a few days after Halloween and they’re already putting up Christmas shit.

EDalton123: Don’t you like Christmas?YoSoph: No, do you?

EDalton123: I don’t know.

YoSoph: You don’t know?

EDalton123: Since they changed your schedule, does that mean we won’t get together tomorrow?

YoSoph: Yeah. I work 1 – 9.

EDalton123: Okay. I suppose I’ll see you Monday? I can still pick you up, right?

YoSoph: Of course. Are you no longer suspended?

EDalton123: I’ve been paroled. What about you?

YoSoph: Still “grounded” but Tom fails to understand that I don’t really go anywhere anyway, so it’s not like he’s “teaching” me anything.

My instant messaging conversation with Elliott carried me through the evening. I’d only gotten high twice today, once before work and once on my lunch break. Although I wanted to be high right now, I was going to try to get through this evening on my own.

After he signed off, I replied to his e-mail, feeling as though it wasn’t right to let his questions go unanswered for very long. In truth, the e-mail format of our relationship was growing stale. It wasn’t that I didn’t like learning new things about him or sharing bits and pieces of myself, but I would rather have been in his presence while doing it.

But he was much more comfortable using the written word and I understood that. Hell, even I was more comfortable putting the shit in my head inside of an e-mail. The stuff we asked was hard to answer. I probably would have chickened out if he was sitting right next to me.

I liked that Elliott had the power to make me nervous and get me to tell him all of the nasty things I’ve held inside. I had never told anyone about the fork in my neck or the burns on my tongue, but somehow Elliott managed to make me want to tell him.

Elliott,

I’m glad your suspension is up. School is boring without you.

So, the answers:

What do you do all day at work?

I mostly put up stock. Take stuff out of boxes and put it on shelves. Like I said, tomorrow I have to build a big display or something. I’m sure it’ll be stupid.

If you had to pick one or the other, would you rather be blind or deaf?

Can I pick neither? If I had to pick one, I’d rather be deaf because I don’t like the dark.

If you could win anything, other than the lottery or money, what would it be?

I don’t want to win anything. Should I be striving to win something?

Why didn’t you live with your father when you were little?

I don’t know. I always assumed he didn’t want me, so I never asked him if I could live with him.

Why do you always run so far away when we spend time together?

Because you’re one of the things I’m afraid of. And before you even ask, here’s the answer to the question you’re thinking right now: You didn’t do anything to make me afraid of you, and physically, I’m not. But emotionally, it’s a different story. I don’t really know how to stay away from you, even though everything inside of me is shouting that it’s time to bail the fuck out.

I don’t let people touch my face. I don’t go to the movies with people. I don’t hold hands, and I sure as fuck don’t dance. Yet, I’ve done all those things with you.

I don’t know what the hell that means, Elliott. No one’s ever asked me what my favorite flower is, or about any of my scars.

I want to be with you all the time, but I don’t know how to be with you at all. That’s scary as hell.

And I’m trying to be better for you because I know you don’t like drugs. I’m trying not to get high, but it’s just not working out that well. I don’t know, maybe I’m not trying, but I have intentions to try.

Christ, sorry for the ramble.

My turn:

1. How do you not know if you like Christmas?
   
2. Tell the truth; how awesome did it feel to beat the shit out of Anderson?
   
3. How can you have panic attacks one day, and then save Jane when she’s bloody and needy the next, and not even panic just a little?
   
4. If you were an animal, which one would you be?
   
5. What is your least favorite of all the books that you’ve read?
   

Thank you for helping me paint my walls. They’re much nicer now. I’m sorry we can’t hang out tomorrow but maybe you could come over for dinner on Monday.

S.

I started feeling really antsy about five minutes after I hit send, suddenly feeling like I shouldn’t have put all that shit in my e-mail. I should’ve just told him I was finished sharing and been done with it. The shit between Elliott and me was incredibly…well, I didn’t know what it was, but it wasn’t normal. It was difficult to understand, and I felt like I was swimming as hard as I could against the current to avoid drowning.

I was getting tired.

I knew he didn’t like drugs, obviously, but I only wished he knew how hard it was to stay afloat some days without them.

I really wanted to be high right now. I wouldn’t have been so uptight about the e-mail. A little bit of pot would relax me.

Horrible words and a nasty, foul voice reverberated in my head, giving me chills. An echo of the past that I’d pushed down a long time ago was back, and before I could stop myself from thinking about it, I was in my room in Tampa again.

“Just breathe it in, Sophie,” he said, his hand on my thigh while holding a joint very close to my mouth. He stroked my cheek with his pinkie finger and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to focus on something other than his touch.

I leaned forward, my lips barely touching the paper, and inhaled, because it didn’t matter if I didn’t want to; it was going to happen, just like everything else in my life. He wanted me to do it, so I did it.

“That’s it, Sophie, good girl.”

I sputtered and coughed as it burned my throat and lungs. It tasted horrible and I felt like spitting. I doubled over.

He laughed. “You’ll never get high like that.” My mom wasn’t home, so he wasn’t being quiet. “Here,” he said as he pulled me up. The joint now hung from his mouth. “When I do this,” he said, running his index finger over my exposed collarbone, “you breathe in, okay?”

I nodded and watched as he took a big pull off of the smoking joint and held it in his mouth. Then he leaned in and I cringed as he pressed his lips to mine. He stroked my collarbone with his finger and then moved lower.

I was supposed to do something.

Breathe, I had to breathe.

My lungs were on fire again and my eyes were wide. He clamped his hand down on my wrist. Before I could exhale, his eyes changed and I knew it was time for him to be mean.

He put his hand over my mouth while pinching my nose with his thumb and index finger. “You have to hold the shit in.”

I couldn’t breathe and I panicked, kicking out my legs as I tried to pull his hand off my mouth. I couldn’t do it. Then he suddenly released me and I could breathe again, if that’s what you’d call what I was doing through the painful coughing.

He put his hand on the back of my neck. “You’re such a dirty girl, Sophie. Show me how dirty you can be and I won’t tell your mother.”

Back in my own room, I shook my head quickly and violently, and forced myself to return to the present.

I stepped away from my computer desk and the new chair Tom had gotten me to replace the one he’d smashed, and went over to my closet. In the second shoe box were my old-as-shit Goodwill Vans. Buried all the way in the toe of the left shoe was my new bag of pot.

Jason had sold me a dime bag so that I’d never have too much for Tom to find if he were to go through my things again. I didn’t even think it was Tom, but Wallace.

He’d also let me borrow another one-hitter. Even though I wanted the man’s voice to stop echoing in my brain as quickly as possible, I couldn’t just pack it. I had to break the pot up, so I sat there with my stupid fucking hands shaking like I was some scared little girl, trying to get that done and then pack Jason’s nice glass one-hitter.

I fucking hated that voice and I wished that I could forget what he sounded like. I hated the way I could still feel his breath on my cheek and his hands on my skin. My stomach tightened and I fought against the urge to get sick.

I just had to smoke a little.

I made it to the window and as quietly as I could, I inched it open.

I hoped that two hits would be enough to shut that motherfucker’s voice off, and then I wouldn’t have to hear him say those things, but maybe it would take more than two.

I put the pipe to my lips and the lighter to the tip, and inhaled.

I wouldn’t have to feel him do those…

It was only after five hits that I withdrew back into my room, leaving the window open and letting in the too-cold air, which was good for waking me up and keeping the pot smell out.

It was late, but not late enough for Tom to be sleeping. I jumped when there was a knock on my door. I really had no desire to answer it, but didn’t want him to break it down again, because I probably couldn’t handle it. When I realized the chair wasn’t under the handle, my chest tightened and my stomach knotted. It was stupid of me not to have done that before messing around with the weed.

“What?” I asked through the door. “Do you have the window open?”

“Yes.”

“Can you close it? This is an old house, and it’s already expensive to heat.”