Chapter Sixteen
Jason-Present
Don’t Come Home A-Drinkin’
Panic sets in. I see the pure terror in Dylan’s eyes, hear Mom plead for our father to stop, crying in between sucking in lungfuls of air she can’t hold onto. And my chest caves with the weight of it all. I can’t see them hurting. He can hurt me all he wants, but not them.
So I do the only thing I can think of.
I can’t believe he’s dead. I watched it happen and it still seems impossible. The monster that’s been slowly killing us seemed infinite. Yet there he is, laying in a growing puddle of blood on the flagstone pathway to the street from our front porch.
He’s dead.
I look from his lifeless body to Mom and then Dylan. We all share the same shock, fear, and a glimmer of relief. We shouldn’t be relieved he’s dead, it sounds cynical and morbid. But we’ve all been through so much with him.
And so much transpired in the last five minutes. If I’m struggling to process all of it, they must be, too.
My mother’s watery stare lifts from her dead husband to me. On a hushed breath she utters my name.
“Jason?”
Music is blaring from downstairs. Not much rouses me from sleep aside from my nightmares, but whatever they’re playing is obnoxiously loud.
Frustrated and curious, I whip the covers off me and tug on some sweatpants before heading down the stairs to make a point of turning the music down.
“Don’t Come Home A-Drinkin’” by Loretta Lynn is playing when I enter the living room to find Dylan wearing a crown of fake flowers and Mara dancing around in short cotton shorts that allow her ass to hang out.
They’re barely hanging onto her hips with the drawstring pulled tight.
I know my brother has no interest in her, but still the thought of her showing those round cheeks off for anyone else pisses me off.
“Jason!” Mara exclaims when she finally notices me on the bottom step. “Look! I made shorts! I mean they aren’t perfect, a little short, but good enough to sleep in.”
It’s then I notice the sewing machine we showed her two months ago is out and an old sheet has been cut into scraps. Not too shabby. But I still don’t like the jealous green monster that rouses in my chest.
I make a point of scanning her up and down.
“Sorry, is the music too loud?” No shit. “I’ll turn it down.”
“Don’t you dare,” Dylan points at her from across the room. He looks fucking ridiculous with that flower crown on. Where did he even find those flowers? I guess our mom had more craft supplies here than I remembered.
“Come dance with us,” Mara pulls where her hand meets my bicep.
No fucking way.
I notice two empty bottles of wine on the counter. Of course. I should have known these lushes would get into the wine for their little celebration.
The clock on the stove says 11:50. Hopefully their festivities die down after midnight. After all, once midnight strikes, it’s just another day. Nothing special about it.
I resist Mara’s sloppy attempt at pulling me into their drunk orbit. She pouts puffy lips that only make me think of how they looked around my dick.
Damn, it seems like I can’t get my mind off sex around this girl.
Dylan is still dancing in his own oblivious little world.
Sidling up to me so our chests meet, Mara lowers her voice so only I can hear.
“Ya know, I don’t know what happened in your past. I don’t know why you don’t speak.
I don’t know why you’re always so angry.
But that’s a choice. I know better than most you can’t just wish away your feelings and your demons.
But you can choose to make a better future.
You don’t have to live an unhappy life.”
Unhappy? What about my life makes her think I’m unhappy? I have a house most would dream of. I work for myself on my own terms. I don’t have to answer to anyone, not even my brother.
And as my dream just reminded me, I’m free of him.
I am happy.
I’m happy!
And maybe if I say it enough I’ll convince myself.
Mara remains planted in front of me a second longer before accepting defeat with a wounded puppy look on her face and stalks away. The song changes to some fifties song (quite a sporadic playlist) with a mild tempo. Fast enough to dance to but not too fast, either.
Fine. I’m not choosing happiness. I’m choosing to extend an olive branch.
My arm shoots out without a second thought, I’m not even sure I consciously made the decision.
It’s like my body rejected the idea of dampening Mara’s spirits on its own.
Leaving my brain a split second to catch up, I spin Mara back to me and keep our hands clamped while the other hand moves to the small of her back.
I muster everything my mom taught me and start twirling her around the living room with a lack of precision.
I’m not the most graceful person, but I can keep up with the beat.
The shock on Mara’s face morphs into pure joy as we jive to the music.
Fifties jazz really isn’t my style, but it’ll have to do.
And I have to admit, I like the smile that stretches from ear to ear on her face.
She lights up when she smiles. And fuck if that doesn’t make me want to break my bitter facade to mirror the action. To fuel her glow.
Cause for the first time since she’s been here, Mara looks like she’s glowing. She looks truly happy.
Maybe it’s just the alcohol, but I swear she looks brighter.
“My turn,” Dylan cuts in. I think he’s going to grab Mara but instead he takes her place and the fucker tries to dance with me. I give him a little slap upside the head and step away before he winks at me and grabs Mara to spin her around the living room again.
I’ve done more dancing in the last week with these two than I have in the last decade.
It’s ridiculous.
Dylan certainly shows more talent for dancing than I do, and he’s far more skilled than I am. Although Mara is giggling with the music, I swear she was brighter when I was her dance partner instead.
“You’re insane,” she tells Dylan teasingly.
“Maybe, but mostly just drunk.” He counters. I can’t argue with him there.
Dylan twirls Mara under his arm so she spins clumsily into me. I catch her in my arms to steady her but she just leans against me. This feels way too intimate for comfort.
“Heyyy,” he draws out the word with a gleam in his eye. “I have an idea. Have you ever smoked pot?” He asks Mara.
Miss goody-two-shoes? I’d be shocked.
“I ate a brownie on accident, one time,” she admits with a shrug of her shoulders.
Figures.
“Then I think it’s time we properly corrupt you.”
Mara lifts her gaze over her shoulder to me as if to say you’ve already corrupted me enough. I return it with a blank stare. She hasn’t even begun to pry open the dark recesses of my brain.
Mara agrees. So we file out to the back porch furniture wrapped in thick coats and blankets.
Mara sits on the bench beside me which isn’t ideal.
So I stand and take the rocking chair instead.
I need to make it clear we aren’t a couple.
Just because we fuck doesn’t mean we’re a couple or something. I still despise her.
That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
Though her warmth would have been appreciated because it’s fucking freezing out.
Disappointment marks her face as Dylan joins her on the bench, none the wiser to the hard line I just drew. He dug the box of materials out of the pantry and starts rolling a joint from the flower we keep sealed in a mason jar with an airtight lid.
“So you’ve never smoked anything before?” He clarifies with her. She nods to confirm his suspicions.
He begins to instruct her while grinding the flower and packing it into the roller.
“Alright. Well here’s a little run down.
Common smoking circle etiquette is puff, puff, pass.
Take two hits then pass it to the next person.
Curl your lips in so you don’t get the tip too moist. Suck in air like you’re sucking dick and hold the smoke in your cheeks to cool it off before inhaling it in. Then blow it out like you’re—”
“Blowing a guy?” She supplies for him.
“See, I knew you’d pick it up quickly.” Mara and I both roll our eyes at that.
Dylan starts the joint by lighting the end and inhaling to draw the burn from top to bottom at a leisurely pace. After his comparisons, I can’t help but think that he’s actually sucking on that joint like a dick and I could have gone my whole life without that fucking image in my head.
Jackass.
He demonstrates twice before handing the joint off to Mara. She pulls one arm out from under the blanket before taking the joint and eyeing it like a snake preparing to bite her.
Hesitantly, she follows Dylan’s instructions by curling her lips under her teeth so she doesn’t lip it. The cherry glows bright orange as she inhales. And just like every first time smoker, she coughs out the smoke instead of steadily exhaling.
Rookie.
Mara laughs and coughs at the same time, holding a fist up to her mouth in the pointless socially acceptable gesture everyone does when they cough.
Doesn’t matter it does nothing to stop the coughing or to prevent the spread of germs. People are mindless rule followers when it comes to shit like that. Always doing what the herd is doing.
I get the joint next. It’s been a while since I partook in this form of debauchery. As soon as the bitter smoke hits my lungs, I feel the instant calm and loss of tension. Another puff and I relax even more.
“So,” Dylan breaks the silence, “who’s going to fess-up first?”
Mara and I look from Dylan to each other and back again, confused by whatever the fuck he’s talking about. He already knows we’re sleeping together. I mean, we haven’t confirmed it, but how can he not know?
“What’s going on between you two?” Dylan waved a finger from Mara to me and back again. “We don’t have Facebook to make things official, up here.”
Great. Leave it to Dylan to make an uncomfortable situation even more uncomfortable.
“We’re not in a relationship,” Mara explains on our behalf. Then she lifts heavy eyes to me as if it’s painful to look at me. “We’re just fucking. No need to make it a bigger deal than it is.”
Well, at least she doesn’t want more than I can give her.
Maybe if I was the kind of guy who wanted a relationship, the kind of guy who could love a woman.
Maybe I could give her more. There was a time I wanted to give her more and I wanted more for myself.
But those days have long since passed. I’m not the same boy I was in high school.
I don’t think I’ll ever find that piece of myself again.
Not sure I want to, either. That boy felt too much. Too much pain. Too much humiliation. Too much. Too much too much. It’s easier to be blissfully numb than it is to let emotions alter my life.
“Well fuck,” Dylan coughs after taking a hit off the joint. “Aren’t you two straight people lucky. Why couldn’t you have found a hot gay guy for me to fuck all winter?”
I just shrugged my shoulders. But the weed must be kicking in for Mara cause she bursts into a fit of giggles that infects Dylan as well. Their little laugh fest earns an eye roll from me.
“Ugh,” Mara sighs, “I’m so tired and I know this one will be busting down my door at six in the morning for chores.” One pointy nailed finger is thrust in my direction. “I’m going to bed. Happy new year, guys. Oh wait—” she stops suddenly. “We missed the countdown to midnight.”
“Sorry, toots,” Dylan says with a smirk, “guess you’ll have to come back next year and try again.” I don’t know why, but that comment makes her look sad, especially when she raises her gaze to me.
Mara bounds back to Dylan, grabs his chin, and plants a kiss on his cheek with more force than she probably intended.
“Night, guys.”
Seeing her stumble to the door, I figured I should help her get upstairs. I can almost hear my mother screaming at me from beyond the grave to be a gentleman.
I catch up to Mara inside and place a steadying hand on her waist before she shrugs me off.
“I don’t need help. I’m fine,” she insists.
Hoping she might eat her words and trip, I let go of her as she starts up the stairs. But that part of me that wanted her to admit I was right is overpowered by the part that doesn’t want her to get hurt when she actually does trip and fall to her knees with a smack that sounds painful.
I scoop her up in my arms like a sack of potatoes and head up the stairs.
“Why aren’t you more clumsy?” She asks.
Because I have a higher tolerance. And I haven’t been drinking all night.
I lay her down on her bed still burritoed in her blanket. She rolls over on her side, face smashed into the pillow.
“Night.” She says curtly, my que to leave.
Guess we won’t be fucking tonight.