23 - Fallon
~ 23 ~
FALLON
It felt totally bizarre at night, walking the shadow-strewn hallways without the boys around. The old craftsman-style home was strange to begin with, as old homes often were. But in the absence of power tools and constant hammering — not to mention the distractions of laughter and conversation — you really got the feel of the place.
I decided to take a tour, turning on lights in the rooms where the electricity worked. Step by step, I found myself noticing things that I hadn’t picked up on before. The creaking of the floor boards, the flaking of the plaster. The distant chirp of a lost cricket, or the uncanny smoothness of the main staircase’s battle-scarred banister.
In the silence there was a heaviness to the house, a distinct history that fleshed itself out in the many finials and fixtures, most of which seemed grossly outdated, even for the 80’s and 90’s. I found myself wondering about the people who’d lived here, and what had become of them. These walls had seen things I could only imagine. Each empty room held its own secret story.
And of course, I thought about the guys, too.
I was proud of Trey, but I was also worried for him. He was picking his grades up in one of the classes, but despite our best efforts, he was still struggling in the other. I’d have to really buckle him down, and get him to study. Especially since our sessions had all new levels of distraction now, that simply couldn’t be helped.
I thought about Emerson, and his mysterious visitor. Our childhoods were parallel in many ways, both of us growing up without a mother. Only mine had left me, while his had died. I didn’t know which was worse, really: the emptiness of never having gotten to know the woman who’d given you life, or the disappointment of knowing all too well the selfish piece of garbage she actually was.
And then there was Dalton, who I loved so much it actually hurt. I could admit that now, lying skin against skin, warm and safe in his two strong arms. Staring up at the ceiling in the dead of night, there were times when I kicked myself for having rejected him all those years ago. But those lost years, I realized now, had been necessary ones. Those years had cemented our friendship; made it so that we cherished each other in ways so much deeper and more important than even the most intimate but shallow connections he’d made with the other women in his life.
Gradually I made my way upstairs and down the opposite hallway, into the untouched area of the house. Here and there, old pieces of furniture still stood sentinel. I kicked at the wooden leg of a side table, then pulled at the empty drawers. It was more out of boredom than actual curiosity…
… until the bottom part of one of the drawers fell in on itself with a dull thump.
I reached down through the dust of decades and removed what turned out to be a false bottom. And right there, in the semi-darkness, was a small pile of ancient things.
First I saw money — a small amount, but cash nonetheless. Beyond that were three brightly-colored condoms, still glowing neon through their clear wrapper. I swept them aside, to find the oldest stash of weed in modern history, rolled up in a Ziploc bag. It looked bad. It smelled even worse.
But beneath that, the real treasure brought a smile to my face.
Pictures. Two dozen of them. They were slightly faded and the edges dog-eared, but the photos were clearly from another time; a time when people actually got film developed, and shared things physically instead of digitally.
One by one I sifted through them, my eyes scanning each little rectangle in turn. It was like looking back through time. I saw the house, in all its glory. It was packed with people, and laughter, and students from another time. They were dressed exactly like they were going to an 80’s party, only this wasn’t a party, this was the actual 80’s, and this was how they lived every single day.
Some of the photos were racy; they showed scantily clad fraternity brothers in togas, drinking beer from plastic funnels. Sorority sisters partying with them at some random lake, their bikini clad bodies all covered in oil and glistening in the sun. In a few of the pictures the girls were topless, and maybe bottomless too. But everyone was grinning and laughing and having a ball. Living a life without computers or smartphones or distractions, in a pre-internet world I could only imagine, and somewhat envy.
I got to the last photo, and let out a gasp. It was a sexy Polaroid of a beautiful girl tied up on a bed, wrists bound together to some old wooden headboard. She was smiling cutely back at the camera, lips pursed as if blowing a kiss, one eye frozen in a seductive wink.
I glanced up and looked around. Was that photo taken right here, in this room? The possibility seemed more than likely. Staring down at the photo again, my body felt flush with heat. The girl looked hot . Willing. Ready for anything. I could only imagine the many wonderful things that happened to her that night, right after the photo was taken.
Slowly I walked the room, concocting a whole fantasy scenario in my head as I sifted through the photos one more time. I got back to the one of the girl in the bed, wrists tied, smiling back at me wickedly in nothing but her bra and panties. Where was she now? What had she done with her life? How many times had she thought back to this smoldering night at the Delta Tau fraternity house, where she’d been bound willingly to the bed, and no doubt plundered by—
A sudden buzzing in my pocket jolted me from my little daydream. I answered my phone without even looking at it.
“Hello?”
“Fallon!” Julie’s voice was brimming with warmth and enthusiasm. “I’m leaving now, with wine. And I have snacks.”
“Oh,” I smiled. “O—Okay.”
Very quickly my mind returned to the present. I’d gotten so lost on my little tour, I’d almost forgotten my friend was coming over.
“You all ready to Netflix and chill?”
I laughed. “Chill?”
“Yeah, chill,” she repeated. “You and me. We’re gonna drink wine and chill.”
“You keep using that word,” I chuckled. “I do not think it means what you think it means.”
Three seconds of silence followed, as The Princess Bride reference went completely over my friend’s head.
“Netflix and chill is slang for sex, honey.”
I could picture Julie’s face at the other end of the phone. “It is?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Well then no offense,” laughed Julie, “but we’re going to need a much bigger bottle of wine before I let you do that.”