Chapter 6
Chapter Six
I fell asleep on the couch sometime after ten o’clock to the sound of a cooking show. Emma had disappeared upstairs hours before, and I should have followed, but my body ached too much, and the thought of mustering anymore energy to crawl into my own bed felt almost sinister.
Down here, the dishwasher hummed with the murmur of the TV.
I hadn’t bothered to shut the windows in the living room, so the symphony of frog chirps and owl hoots accompanied the far, far distant sound of cars whispering over paved roads.
Every once in a while, the honk of a tractor trailer sidled in.
With the company of noise, the loneliness avoided me.
“Call now and receive a free gift …” a woman on the TV said.
I shifted under my blanket. The cushions didn’t feel all that lumpy or cramped. I never understood why anyone would complain about sleeping on the couch when it felt like this.
I wiggled my toes. Stretched a bit. If I focused, I could almost convince myself that I was young again, and after years of needling, Aunt Denny finally relented and let me sleep over.
“But only down here,” she might have said. “We can watch a movie.”
Sleep nudged me. Then it swallowed me.
Not just sleep—but a dream.
Stars peppered the sky, the air blanketed my shoulders heavily, the feel of a truck bed against the sharpness of my tailbone. A driveway?
No, the sunroom off the library. Not a truck bed. A wooden bench.
That familiar scent—musk, sand, and shampoo that I would recognize anywhere.
Not this—anything but this, I thought.
Dreams, I’d come to find out, weren’t always a happy figment of the imagination. Sometimes they were the ugliest moments, long shoved in a box and tucked away, brought back out for show and tell. A reminder of what could have happened. Of what didn’t happen.
Or, of what did.
A hand slipped up my shirt, the other in the waist of my shorts.
“Ivan, wait,” I whispered.
Ivan’s russet head looked almost golden in the moonlight. The glass ceiling to an open sky the only source of luminescence, the door to the main house shut tight. Just us. He curled over me in a partial crouch, his mouth against my neck.
“Ivan,” I urged. I pushed at his shoulders.
“What, Lan?” he whispered. He pulled back. My neck remained damp. I wanted to wipe it off. All of it, away, dirty, filthy—
“Someone might see—” I started.
“You always say that,” he said. He looked seventeen again, all prematurely broad shoulders that hadn’t filled in yet. I glanced to the ceiling.
Yes, there I was. My face looked angular, my collarbone gaunt, my legs awkwardly open to steady myself. And him, right there, everywhere in front of me.
“Just real quick,” he said. “Is it wrong to kiss you?”
I looked back down. Wrapped a hand around his wrist. “It’s not that.” Tugged.
With a sigh, he pulled his hand from my shirt, the other still hovering at the waist of my shorts. He knelt, close enough for me to smell the peppermint on his shirt and the faint hint of sweat from the humidity.
“What is it?” he pressed.
“My aunt is here,” I said. This wasn’t what I’d wanted to do. I wanted to talk to him, really talk to him, because we never had time alone. This was supposed to be that moment.
“No, she’s not,” he said. “She left with your mom. Do you really care what they think? They don’t have to know.” His eyes were blue. So, so blue, I wanted to drown in them, and I didn’t want anyone to save me. “Only I will. It’s okay. We don’t have much time, anyway.”
He scooted closer, on his knees in front of me, and we sat eye level. Both his arms blocked me in, so the only way out was if I fell backward on the bench. And even then, there was a wall.
Suddenly the sunroom felt small, secluded, the plants too far-reaching and the ceiling too high.
“I know,” I whispered. He was right. Wouldn’t any girl want this opportunity?
“Then what’s stopping you?”
A slow creeping feeling started up the base of my spine. “I just … wanted to talk to you a bit. About some things.”
His expression remained neutral, his eyes on my mouth. “Like what?”
Distracted. I was distracting him by talking because he wasn’t listening, only watching. But maybe if I told him—maybe he would listen. Maybe it would hit his emotions, and he’d help me.
“I’ve been having thoughts,” I whispered. Pressure started at the back of my neck and trickled down my spine.
He leaned in. Our noses nearly touching. The tendons in his neck strained. Football and track and wrestling. He would know what to do, he would know how to help me. I helped him in school, he could help me with this. “About?”
My heart stuttered, near to bursting. My pulse felt so far up my throat, it could have hopped out of my mouth.
He would know what to do. He cared. He cared about me.
“About … things.”
“Be more specific, Lan. Is this about that project? I told you I wouldn’t tell Monovan I used your notes. You’re good.” His words whispered against my lips. Seconds, before I lost him.
“I’ve been feeling out of control with things.” Mom and her using. Dad being gone.
Better not let that boy get to you, Mom snarled a few days before. You’ll end up pregnant and alone, just like me. Keep your legs closed, Lan, or I swear on my dead momma—
That’s not nice, had been my weak retort.
Would it kill you to be nice once in a while? she’d shot back.
I bit my tongue. Tears seared my eyes, my nose, blurring my vision until the colors muted.
Ivan stopped. His jaw clicked. “Huh?” The word fell just soft enough, like he might be worried about me, that I pushed forward.
“So I’ve been—compensating.” My fingers trailed to my forearm. I picked at a spot, that same spot, which had just scabbed over. Exhaled at the small bite of pain. Everyone always said to talk to people. That you would be brave in telling someone those thoughts. To get help.
Ivan was the only one left that could help me.
“With … food,” I whispered. “And other things.” I couldn’t say it. Couldn’t give it that power. If I said it, it was real. This was as close as I could get.
Ivan’s jaw worked, throat bobbed. “You mean, like, because you’re a rail?”
My mouth went dry. The thundering in my ears morphed to a roar. “What?”
His hands started back at my waist, down to the edge of my shorts, this time from behind. He hauled me closer. “You’re too small. Skinny. That’s what you’re saying?”
“Maybe—I guess—” Was it? No. That’s not what I meant. Skinny. The word stung. No, it burned. The way he looked at me—with eyes on my chest, then lower, the faster he bent in, and his mouth landed back on my neck. He reeled me closer.
“Ivan, wait, stop—”
“Just eat something, Landry,” he bit into my skin. I was going to throw up. That tone didn’t feel gentle at all, any hint of reassurance I’d told myself was there, vanished. I slipped closer to the end of the bench. “Is this about what I said? About Wren? I didn’t mean it, not really.”
I tangled my hands in his hair and pulled him back. My stomach was all knots and a cold sweat started over my skin, mixed with trembles.
“You said you got off from her Instagram pictures, Ivan.” My voice hardened a bit.
He looked incredulous. “So? She’s not you. It was just a spur of the moment thing, okay? I told you because I want a clear conscience. I could have not told you about it, and that would have been worse, right?” His expression turned almost incredulous. “And you didn’t care before. Why care now?”
Make this stop. I wanted to shake myself awake. Guilt, shame, muddled with anger, flooded my veins. How had I ever let this happen? Why didn’t I walk away?
Why had I let him talk to me like this?
Ivan’s hand started back up my shirt, cupped my breast, and I reared back, but he kept me close.
Closer, until our bodies were flush, and I suddenly felt sick.
The emotions from that moment roiled around me, pressing in farther and farther until each inhale turned into a choke, while the dream continued.
He was right. He told me. He could have not told me.
“Because—I didn’t bring it up,” I said.
He pulled back completely, the distance jarring.
“Maybe if you gained some weight, I wouldn’t have to beat it to someone else’s pictures, Lan.
How many times have I told you to eat something?
Yes, you’re beautiful—I’ve told you so many times, you should know this by now—and I still don’t get further than putting a hand up your shirt.
How am I supposed to feel like you love me if you keep me at a distance?
” His voice grew gritty, frustrated, splotches of color creeping over the collar of his black shirt.
I struggled to stand. He stood, too, shoulders heaving. “I do love you, I’m just trying to tell you the things I’m feeling. It’s supposed to be good to talk about feelings, right? And I didn’t bring up Wren, you did.”
“I wouldn’t have to if you just listened to me!” he shouted, veins thickening in his neck. He ran his hands over his face, laughing. “I swear, it’s like talking to a wall when I’m with you sometimes.”
“I do listen,” I whispered. I reached out. “Ivan, please.”
“Stop, Lan.” He reared back when my fingers brushed his forearm. “Don’t touch me.”
I wiped my cheek with the back of my hand and pulled away. I’d asked him so many times to not touch me, and he’d made advances anyway. What made my requests different from his? Was it my tone? Did I not say it forcefully enough? Or was I too mean?
Would it kill you to be nice once in a while? my mother’s voice echoed, so sharp that it was like she leaned against my shoulder when she’d said it. Always so hateful. Then her voice morphed into my own, bristled and angry. How far will it go? Does it make you angry that he thinks so little of you?
Does it make you hate him, just a bit more? You hate him, don’t you? I know you do.
You hate them all.
I turned my back to Ivan. The sharp angles of moonlight cast the sunroom, the wicker furniture, and the shelf of seedlings into a gray shroud.
I froze.
Ivan continued talking, as if I’d never looked away. I watched his reflection in the door to the house, his hands moving as he spoke, neck red and jaw set. He went on as if I were facing him, not facing away.
But there, just three feet from me. A shadow hovered in the door window, watching us. Not a person, and not Aunt Cadence or my mother. A silhouette, tall and solid, yet misted at its edges.
My blood ran to ice.
The face wasn’t human. Sunken bits of jaw and dangling teeth from the roots, shredded clothing around its torso and stringy white hair from its scalp. The only lively part of its person was the eyes: as if untouched by decay. Yellow, with black slits no thicker than a pen stroke.
Its smile ripped far past its jawbone.
Then, it jerked behind the doorframe, and the dream broke apart.
I sat up with a gasp to the grandfather clock ringing.
I pressed the heel of my hand to my forehead.
Nausea rolled in the roots of my belly. I started to lean over the side of the couch, then thought better of it, and took measured breaths instead.
A low throb echoed behind my eyes. Not enough water during the day; that’s exactly what was wrong with me.
I was dehydrated, and now I was paying for it.
The dream wasn’t real. Yes, it had happened. But not here. It had been in Cole Poston’s driveway after a football game on the tailgate of Ivan’s truck.
My skin grew clammy, my body curling into itself. I felt dirty—and—and disgusting.
How long would I feel that way? How long would these images, these choices, his choices haunt me?
I untangled myself from the blanket, threw it over the back of the couch, and swung my legs over the side. I needed to go to bed. To forget. Sleep would take it away, and then this would all be a fevered afterthought in the morning.
Pressure crawled over my skin, like someone walking two fingers up my spine.
I glanced around the living room. The TV flickered over the walls. The foyer light was still on, just as I’d left it.
I stretched for the remote on the coffee table. Muted the TV. I don’t know how long I stood there, waiting for the pressure to release—the thunderous roar in my ears from the dream crept in.
Then, I felt it. A thread of floss that wound through my intestines and cinched around my spine. A tug, ever so slight, to go upstairs. The same tug I’d felt from the door earlier.
I couldn’t help it; I started for the steps. I didn’t realize until I entered the foyer, but the tree frogs no longer chirped. No distant, muffled highway.
The windows, I noted, had been shut.
I took the steps two at a time. Emma’s door, along with all the others besides mine, were closed. I rounded the landing, ready to find the hole in the wall, but stopped.
My lungs hitched.
The hole in the wall didn’t exist. Instead, a five-panel door stood, as if it had never been covered in the first place. Not a speckle of debris to be found on the floorboards.
The door glistened like oiled skin when I approached. My reflection warbled in the finish. I kept my steps light, leading with my toes, when I stopped in front of it. The tugging in my stomach eased.
Downstairs, the ticking of the grandfather clock grew louder, closer.
My eyes burned. Only once. I could open it one time, just to see what was on the other side. Then the paranoia would be put to rest and I wouldn’t have to think about this anymore.
I reached for the knob. All sound dulled in that moment—I didn’t hear anything but the rattle in my lungs. I forgot about the house, I forgot about the funeral, my mom, Vince, I forgot about everything.
The knob was warm to the touch. As if someone had held it for a long while before I came up here.
I twisted. The latch released with ease. I pulled the door open, ready to find blackness or empty shelves or dust bunnies or bones.
But I didn’t.