38. Carving Guts
38
Carving Guts
I felt like he’d stabbed me. Any second, blood would dribble past my lips. I’d stumble. Then, cough. Slump against the wall and leave a gleaming red streak of misery. I clenched my hands. Why couldn’t my pain be beautiful or interesting?
He said something else, something about love, maybe. My brain was floating somewhere outside my body. Still, his voice soothed me.
He clasped the juncture between my shoulder and neck. His cold fingers dragged me back to the moment. I gasped and squeezed his hand without thinking.
“We can talk later.” His hooded gaze trailed over my face. “See any movie you like. I have to tread through paperwork hell.”
I nodded, every hair on my body quivering to attention.
He leaned forward, then hesitated. Maybe because I’d tensed. Or maybe because he’d hurt his back.
“Good night, Kat,” he whispered. Then, he left. His chilly touch lingered under my flaming skin.
The words, ‘The End’ flickered behind my eyelids. He hadn’t said it, but it was there. Looming. If he couldn’t open up, and I couldn’t stop craving more, we’d both be unhappy.
Head down, he braced himself and walked as if he was condemning himself to the widow. To the theater. To the drama of whatever we’d been.
I sniffled and blinked back hot tears. I really could’ve loved him. I did.
Zero furrowed her brow at us.
What? Did she not have sympathy for us sentient beings? She probably loved him for not telling her anything.
Well, I wasn’t going to stew in front of a movie waiting for Victor to change his mind. He’d probably try to change mine by fucking my worries away. I wouldn’t bury my heart in our heat. Not this time.
I shoved open the parking lot doors and marched into the crisp fall air. The sky bled orange and yellow. I twirled my cross, searching for red cars and strange men.
Maybe I shouldn’t have decided to walk by myself after all that had happened. I dialed the only person I trusted to embrace my messiest self at the moment.
Tori picked up on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Hi.” I sniffed. “I hate men.”
A thick thud indicated she’d closed her textbook. “What happened?” she asked. “I thought you were in love, talking about marriage.”
Shame bristled through my veins. “I-I liked Victor a lot. But there’s stuff with my job, and he won’t open up.” I glanced over my shoulder at the shiny black doors of the theater. “I feel like I can’t trust anybody, no matter how long I’ve known them or how deep we’ve connected. Victor’s a protective, sexy guy, but what if it’s all mirage? What if I was hypnotized by lust? I don’t know. I thought he was the one. But maybe…” I sucked in a wobbly breath. “Maybe I have seen too many movies.”
She gasped. “Oh, Kat.”
“It’s fine. At least I have Jinx.” I rubbed my wet cheeks. “He doesn’t judge me unless he’s hungry.”
“Are you hungry? You should come over for dinner. It’ll take your mind off Victor, and I could use a distraction from studying. Us sisters are supposed to stick together,” she needled.
“I guess we should.” As much as I hated to say it, I kind of wanted to be babied for an evening. No thinking. No crying. Just a home-cooked meal and decent company. “Wait. Jen won’t be there, will she?”
“Um, I dunno. Maybe,” she squeaked.
“You are such a bad liar.”
“I don’t know what she’s doing,” Tori lamented. “The walls are thin, but we can’t hear everything. I…I don’t like keeping secrets. Especially from family.”
“Well, aren’t you the sweetest? No way you’re related to the rest of us.” I held my boobs down with my arm so they wouldn’t jiggle too painfully, then hurried towards my car. “I guess I can get along with Jen for one evening.”
By the time I got to my parents' house, the orange sky had simmered into a soft pink. I bumped the tire swing with my knee in a creaky hello, then knocked on the front door. Technically, I still had a key, but I doubted they'd love me barging in. Tori cracked open the red door.
"You're here," she breathed, hurrying me inside. "Good. Because—"
A door slammed.
“You don't understand,” Jen screeched from upstairs.
Mom's voice carried too. “I understand you’re being selfish. I’ve had enough of this attitude.”
I raised my brows. “They're fighting?”
Tori nodded and hugged my arm, her eyes round and slightly shiny.
“Aw, c'mere.” I led her to the kitchen. The scent of cinnamon and sticky apples wafted from a silver pot. “Oh my gosh, Mom’s making cider?” I grinned.
“She was, but Jen got mad about the smell.” Tori cringed and glanced at the nearby open window.
I scowled and closed some windows so the night air stopped slithering in. Jen was such an ass. “If she hates Mom's cooking so much, she should move out.”
Dad shouldered open the garage door, his arms full of bags and his tone flat. “That's not going to happen.”
“Dad.” We ran over to greet him. The man had food, after all. Tori put away the groceries while he and I went to the trunk for the second load. We popped open his trunk and my heart skipped a beat. Six cute pumpkins sat atop a tarp, their stems curved in glorious celebration.
He kept his gaze trained on the tarp. “Heard you had a rough day.”
I swallowed against a lump in my throat. What else had Tori told him? “Yeah.”
“Want to carve 'em?”
“Yeah.” I flung my arms around his side and squeezed hard. “Thanks, Dad.”
He grunted and tapped my arm. “Easy, Katherine.”
There were five normal pumpkins and one no bigger than my hand. The last one flopped onto the counter with a satisfying thud. I got the biggest knife we had and smirked at my reflection. Such a cinematic shot. Bet Victor would've loved it.
“Hi-ya.” I stabbed the vegetable at the top.
Tori gasped.
“It's just a squash, hun,” Dad said, flipping steaks with endless patience. He helped Tori with dinner while I sawed the top off my pumpkin.
This was a damn good workout. Great for stress. Externalized pain. Stab a vegetable, not a jerk. Or a stalker. I jammed the blade in again.
Tori squeaked and stared.
“Do you want to carve one?” I offered her the handle.
She backed away. “No thanks. Too scary for me.”
“Aren't you going to wield all kinds of sharp stuff in the hospital?” I asked her.
“Not yet.” She snuck her hands inside her sleeves. “Next semester is anatomy.”
“Oooh, the corpse stuff. Good luck with that,” I said.
She paled and looked to our dad.
He patted her shoulder. “You’ll be fine. You’re tougher than you think.”
For some reason, I didn’t think that applied to me. I was tough on the outside and gooey underneath. Much like this pumpkin.
I popped open the top of my gourd. Earthy sweetness wafted in the air. Orange guts clumped under sticky webbing in the cavernous belly. I scooped the lukewarm mash into a bowl and flung the excerpts from my fingers into the sink.
Dad peered over his shoulder. “You don't want to use a spoon?”
“Or gloves?” Tori offered.
“Nope. I want to feel it.” I bit my tongue and scraped the vegetable flesh with my nails. This was a gross, slimy mess. But it was mine. Washable. Stabbable. Edible. A mess. My mess. At least the rotting flesh would look cool on the doorstep.
My phone pinged.
Tori perked up. “Who is it?”
“No one.” I scrunched a paper towel, then turned off my phone. I didn’t want to get her, or my, hopes up.
“You’re not going to check your messages?” she asked in her sad little puppy voice.
Even Dad gave me a wary look.
“It’s fine. We’re having family time.” I carved the pumpkin into an abstract monster and chatted with my family about anything except men. I even set chunks of orange goop aside so we could bake the seeds off for a snack. An argument raged on upstairs, but we could barely hear it over the hood fan.
Tori grabbed the silverware. “Oh, a spider.”
I looked over my shoulder. “What? Where?”
She pointed to the pumpkin. “Isn't that what you're carving?”
I paused and stepped back. Each rounded sliver of my work unleashed a dark, powerful memory. Not of Bitsy. Not of the widow. But of the man who'd lured me into his web for a dance macabre.
Dried guts cracked along my fingers.
Tori hugged the silverware. “Sorry, is it not that?”
I shrugged, my heart pounding in my ears. “I guess it's like a Rorschach test. You see what gives you meaning.”
She furrowed her brow. “What do spiders mean?”
“Everything,” I confessed.
My grip loosened on the knife. I hadn't realized I'd been carving my heart out for the world to see.
Mom swept into the room like a gust of storm air. “Spiders often mean patience and perseverance, sweetie. The web is creativity.” She placed a hand on Dad's shoulder. “You turned down the burner on the cider?”
He nodded.
She kissed his cheek, and he brightened. Love was saving someone’s apple cider from burning. Love was fighting a spider mech for someone’s safety. Love was lots of things, I guessed. Like trust. But I wasn’t sure it was meant for me.
Tori tentatively laid out another plate setting. "Is Jen going to join us?"
“I don't know." Mom placed her hands on her hips. "I just don’t know. She’ll want to eat eventually.”
She didn’t come down, though. No one talked about anything too serious at dinner. No brushes with death, no missing money, no dating stories. Just recipes.
I toasted my family with a glass of cider. “Everything tastes—and smells—great.”
Dad gave me a warning look. “Maybe you ought to get back to pumpkin carving.”
I shrugged. “Does anyone else want to join me?”
“No. I might need some wine or chamomile tea.” Mom slogged to the kitchen.
“We have an extra pumpkin if you change your mind,” I called. “Tori, do you want the baby one since you’re a baby?” I teased.
Dad cleared his throat. “That one isn’t for Tori.”
“Who’s it for then?” I asked.
He glanced at the entryway. “Well, I’m not sure if she’s…ready."
The stairs creaked with heavy footsteps. Long, natural nails plied at the framed dining room entryway. “What are you all eating?” Jen croaked.
The monster in my chest coiled around my lungs and squeezed as my sister stepped out from the shadows. Her other hand slid over her protruded belly.
“Oh my god,” I said. There was something inside of her too.