Chapter 11
Rock Bottom Boy
MITCHELL
Way to fucking go, Mitchell. That was productive.
I tried to tell myself it was fine, that pissing Winona off had given me enough inspiration to write some more pages.
But it didn’t feel fine. I poured whiskey into the glass as I walked, but since I was in motion and not entirely steady, most of it hit the deck. I gave up, tossing the still half-filled bottle onto the grass where it emptied itself in silence.
I'd meant to head for the pool house, where my typewriter sat ready for more bullshit.
But my feet took me left, toward the diving board.
I climbed up the ladder and walked out to the end, the board bouncing dizzyingly beneath me.
When I reached the end, I peered over, toes curling over the edge of the board.
For a moment, I just stared at my own face, mirrored in the glassy surface.
For a man who used to spend $400 on a haircut every three weeks, it was laughable how little I noticed or even cared about what my hair looked like now.
No woman in their right mind would want me.
Maybe I deserved to lose everything. The book. My business. All the things. Maybe it would be a relief.
I drained what whiskey had made it into the glass.
Then I dropped it with a splash onto my reflection.
I watched the crystal tumbler sink straight down to the bottom, my ugly face in ripples around it.
Then I lay down on the diving board, the scratch of the board rough under my head and heels.
Overhead, the sky was tumultuous. Clouds had crowded in fast; they hung dark and bulbous.
Somewhere in the distance, a low rumble sounded.
I thought of Winona’s face, that perfect, pointed chin. Those slate blue eyes I sensed had seen terrible things. That looked so angry but so soft, like she cared and hated herself for it.
I thought of her voice. Ya got me drove.
“Winona,” I whispered, just for the feel of her name, like the last good thing I could taste.
Then I rolled over.
I was heavier now than when I first moved here. A beast, my brothers would say. My body made a satisfying splash when I hit the water.
It was cold, shocking me into alertness.
The press of liquid against my skin felt like a balm.
So did the outer space-like silence in my ears.
I let myself float for a minute, enjoying the stretch of air in my lungs, moving from tension to pain.
When I was a kid, we spent summer in the San Juan Islands, and I used to like to float like this in the ocean, face down, my limbs limp, letting the waves knock me around.
But this wasn’t the ocean. This was my pool, and it was only when I felt the splash of someone else dropping in the water that I remembered doing this once with Conrad. He’d freaked out, hauling me out of the sea, thinking I’d drowned.
But the hands on my chest weren’t my brother’s. They were small and ineffective against my weight. I opened my eyes to see blue ones in front of me, a mouth with air bubbling out, and a muffled scream.
She’d stayed.
Winona’s hair had come out of its knot. It flowed around her like a mermaid’s.
Beautiful, I thought. Or said into the water—I wasn’t sure.
Then she shoved at me, her face screwing up. I was too heavy. She faltered, sinking herself. That was what finally knocked me out of my stupor—the thought that she might be in danger. I came back to life, grasping the front of her shirt and pulling her toward me.
We emerged from the water together, both of us gasping for air.
She only got half a breath in before she used it to shout at me, smacking my shoulders with her tiny fists as she tried to stay afloat.
“What the fuck is the matter with you, b’y!
?” She couldn’t touch here, but I could, right where the floor of the pool sloped up to the wall.
I gripped her ribs and lifted her. She was solid, heavy with her strong core. But I was stronger.
I plopped her easily up on the edge, my eyes on hers to make sure she was okay. She looked shocked, like a wet cat, her hair pressed to her cheeks.
I dropped back below the surface.
“Mitchell!”
She was screaming my name up there again. But I was only gathering my thoughts this time.
She’d stayed, and she’d tried to save me.
When I popped my head out of the water, I found her on her stomach, reaching for me.
But she gasped as I swam forward, stopping only when my face was within inches of hers. She scrambled to her hands and knees, backing up to give me room.
I rested my elbows on the pool deck, flicking my wet hair out of my face. I felt good. The booze seemed to have lost some of its effect, too.
I set my chin on my forearms. “You tried to save me, Firecracker.”
The shock on her face vanished, replaced with anger. And… fear. “What the fuck were you thinking?” She smacked the deck with her palm, water splashing. Then she sat back on her knees, pressing her palm to her forehead. “Firecracker? What the bejeezus does that mean?”
But my eyes were on her mouth. Fuck, those lips.
They were pink and pursed, and I wanted badly to run my thumb along them, to relax them into pliability.
I wanted her to tell me everything she dreamed of.
Everything she feared. Why did she care what happened to me, a fucking nobody, when you took away the material things?
I’d been lying to myself about why I wanted her here. That realization sobered the last bit of me still drunk.
I wanted her to be my muse. But I also wanted her for myself.
While I was grappling with this, Winona stood up. “I cannot believe I’m still here. I am done. You can hire someone else to fix your shit.” She didn’t specify which shit exactly that was. Then she spun on her heel, her bare feet slapping across the deck as she stormed away.
My chest clenched. How could I have been okay with her leaving before? It felt like death now.
“Wait!” I yelled. Too loud.
“No!” she shouted.
She was halfway to the door. I’d used up the last of her pity.
“Winona!” I sprang out of the pool and sprinted for her, catching her just as she reached the door. I wrapped my hand around hers.
Winona spun on me, her expression livid. “Let go of me, you piece of—”
I complied, releasing her hand. But I took a step toward her, so she had to tilt her face up to meet my eyes. Her mouth was open, presumably to continue cussing me out.
“Finish that sentence,” I said. It wasn’t a threat. I wanted to hear it. Like the truth would get all the ugliness into the light.
But she hesitated. She must have seen whatever it was in my eyes that was so desperate for her to stay. The part that was broken inside. It was the only reason.
She brought a trembling hand to her eyes, pressing them closed. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you believe it.”
“Don’t you?”
She laughed, but in an exasperated way. “I don’t know you, Mr. Harr—”
“Mitchell. I liked it when you called me that.”
She opened her eyes, and something came loose inside of me; a vital piece of machinery slipping out of place.
“Please stay, Winona,” I said. “Not to fix the sink. Just to… stay.”
Her mouth fell open, then shut again. Then she pressed her fingers to her temples like she was communicating with herself. Negotiating with herself, maybe, like her inner, rational voice was screaming at her to run, but that soft, curious part of her wanted to stay.
She dropped her hands, still looking pained. And cold. I needed to get her warm. But before I could speak, she said, “What are you doing in Quince Valley, Mitchell?”
I opened my mouth, but she stabbed a finger into my chest.
“And don’t you dare bullshit me. The truth or I’m gone, even if you drop to your fucking knees and beg me to stay.”
That gave me an image that sent heat flaring through me. I quickly scrubbed it away lest she see it on my face.
“I can’t bullshit you,” I said. “You can see a lie a mile away, can’t you, Winona?”
Those stormy blue eyes told me she’d had to suss out lies before.Big ones.
“Yes, b’y.”
I ran a hand over my neck, unsure what to say if I couldn’t lie. Finally, I said, “Hiding.” That was the truth, wasn’t it?
“Did you commit a crime?”
“Not that I know of. I’m trying to finish writing a novel.”
She blinked. “Why?”
I was surprised by that question. Most people immediately wanted to know what the book was about. “Because my father thinks I can’t.” I laughed, shocked that those words came out. “Fuck, Firecracker,” I said under my breath. “Can't seem to keep my mouth shut around you."
She ignored that. “It’s going well, I see?”
I knew she was being sarcastic, but I answered honestly. “No. It’s going terribly.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s depressing as shit.”
“Then why don’t you write something different?”
“What?”
“If it’s no fun, why not write something else?”
I didn’t have an answer for that.
“Okay then,” she said. “What happens when you finish?”
I slid my hand down my dripping beard. “I have to go back to Seattle in…” I did the math.
“A month and a half." Whether the book happened or not, there were vital things there I needed to get back for. “I’ll just either go back a complete failure or…” Or something else. I hadn’t thought that far ahead.
What would I feel? Triumph? Vindication?
Or would it just be one more thing that left me unfulfilled?
Would I carry on as I had for years, like a machine?
A man striving for happiness that felt just slightly out of reach?
“… or I don’t know. I’ll go back a man with a liberated fucking heart, I guess,” I finished.
Winona rolled her eyes. “So until then, you’re a tortured artist. Is that why you’re acting like you’ve lost your damn mind?”
“It’s a lot of things.”
“Why do you need me to stay? Because I don’t think you give a shit about your pipes.”
My lips turned up for a brief moment. They dropped again. “Because the thought of you leaving feels like something scraping out my insides.”
She blinked, her throat moving as she swallowed. She looked up at the sky, as if the dark clouds might give her an answer. Then they did. They rumbled, loud and low.
I held my breath, waiting for her to say no. To tell me once more that I was out of my mind.
“Okay,”
“Okay?” My heart skittered upward.
Winona narrowed her eyes. “Just until you dry my clothes. That is, if you know how to do that yourself?”
I nodded. “I can do that.”
Even though I was nearly shivering from the cold, my chest was on fire, alight with something I hadn’t felt in a long, long time.
I think that thing was hope.