Showerheads & Final Days of the Dead
I woke that morning with flaming cheeks, a suspiciously warm bedside, and Krissy tucked under my arm.
As disconcerting as that was, what struck me in the chest like a fist was the emptiness of the house.
Warm and sweet-smelling from the pancakes resting in the microwave, as if life had just left them.
Like if I hadn’t been so lazy, so tired, so determined to pretend nothing was happening and my life wasn’t devolving in real time, I could’ve been there to see him off.
To ask where he was going.
If he wanted to stay.
I shovel another bite into my mouth, grimacing at the clock.
I’ve got an hour before I have to be at the station.
A place I’ve tried to step foot in as little as possible since the chance of my dad walking around the corner hall to greet me left it.
They want me to talk about Bryan, to lay out his habits and movements over the last few days as if I’d be clued into it all.
I groan, slumping forward until my head smacks the arm of the couch.
The idea of sitting in the stuffy building, that always smells like metal, cigarette smoke, and stale coffee, and explaining to my dad’s friends that he’d assaulted me…
Part of me screams don’t mention it.
Part of me cares about his mom and his sister, however mad I am at her now, or however shitty of a friend she was.
Keep quiet, don’t tarnish an already tainted memory.
Let them grieve the quarterback who took the Swindon Strikers to state.
The boy whose portrait and jersey still hang in the shadowbox in the hall of the high school.
The man who kissed, hugged, sweated, and slurred all over me when nobody else would.
It’s odd, messy, and… gross feeling this sense of duty toward him at all. Fighting against bitterness and anger.
He was a bad person.
But he wasn’t evil.
He’d suffered a nasty head injury that extended down to his neck, ending every dream he’d ever had.
What few of them there were. Once they’d given him those pills, he found what he thought he'd lost. Or at least he’d been numb enough not to give a damn that anything was missing.
After that, everyone else was little more than passing notions.
It’s not hard to hate him. Not at all, really.
Panic sears my chest, dismantling my appetite as I jerk my head off the couch and toss what remains of my breakfast in the trash. Harsh hands, hot breath, and weight.
Hangovers, pills I never knew the name of, and heartache are all Bryan Jordan ever gifted me.
My knuckles tighten to the point they bleach of color as I grip the plate in my hands, staring at the stove.
Suddenly, the bulky, sweaty, ungraceful form of Bryan is traded for something lighter, stronger, built from toned, lithe muscle.
The sound of Gideon’s groan yesterday as he tried to get into the bathroom replaying in my mind shakes me from my thoughts.
Staring at the pancakes at the bottom of an empty trash can.
He took out the trash.
Cleaned the house.
Made me food.
He stayed.
He took care of me.
Tucked me in and gifted me Krissy, who is currently resting on my bed… not the floor this time.
He waited until I fell asleep before he got into my bed.
It should feel like a violation, like Bryan.
But it’s Gideon.
A stupid, shaky smile lights my face as I place the dish in the sink, throwing on the hot water full blast to rinse away any syrup. Gideon wanted to be in the bathroom.
Wanted me.
The press of his cock, the sound of his breathing, the way he groaned, the shape of his hardened length through his pants as he carried me to the bed yesterday…
I shouldn’t be thinking about it.
I should be the grieving ex-girlfriend about to give a statement recalling when my abusive pill-head boyfriend suffocated me in his sister’s bed. I rush into the bathroom instead, stripping off my clothes in record time, barely waiting for the water to heat before I grab the shower head.
Audrey, Present Day, 1994
The damn truck won’t start.
I frown at the hood as I slam it shut, fighting the urge to batter it with my fists.
Taking an extra ten minutes in the shower seems stupid now that the post “o” haze has evaporated and I’ve got fifteen minutes to make it to the station.
Masturbating to the thought of my best friend, who broke my heart and disappeared for ten years twice in twelve hours, also seems stupid now, but here we are.
My eyes, entirely without my consent, slide across the street to the sight of the corner's van pulling out from the back entrance of Bell Funeral Home.
Bryan.
Good lord, this whole situation is screwed up.
It’s with no small amount of trepidation and a new flavor of nerves that I make my way across the street.
The stairs of the porch are worn with time and use, but they don’t dare creak like the stairs on mine.
As if it would be a disgrace to the griever climbing them, to let out such a weakened sound while they wage their own battles.
Surprisingly, I think little of the body lying downstairs as I lift my hand, twisting the doorknob.
My thoughts are tied entirely to the man lording over it, the one who holds—
I shriek as the door jerks open, the barely twisted knob flying from my palm, Gideon’s intense blue eyes boring down at me. “Oh my god, Gideon, don’t do that!”
“Don’t open the door for you?” he retorts, cocking his head slightly, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his strong nose.
The urge to reach up and adjust them makes my hand twitch. “I-ugh, thanks for breakfast. I know you’re probably busy, but my dad’s truck won’t start.”
He just stands there… staring.
Damn you, don’t make me ask.
The silence drags on for a moment longer until a sudden sharp meow breaks it, the same orange tabby cat that scared the shit out of me last week emerging from between Gideon's polished shoes. “What’s his name?”
Gideon’s brows furrow glancing down at the cat. “How should I know?”
“It’s your cat, right?”
“No.”
“It lives in your house.”
“Yes.”
“And judging by its fat belly, you’re feeding it. The mangy thing looks better than ever.”
His frown deepens as the cat purrs, rubbing its head on his shin, resigned to manually petting itself since Gideon isn’t going to. “Do you want me to have a cat?”
A strange puff of air leaves me at the odd question, followed by a deranged laugh.
The big kind, a gut-aching kind of laugh, while my ex-boyfriend joins the ghosts in the basement.
When I look up, there’s a new warmth in his eyes, not the soft kind but the kind of warmth you’d feel standing in the cold, watching a raging fire from the window.
The illusion of something tender. My cheeks burn.
“I could use a ride… if you don’t mind.”
“I’ve got two hours before his family arrives. Let’s go.”
The cat casts us both a withering look before shooting off into the woods.
Part of me wants to follow it, to get lost out there again.
Gideon’s hand finds the small of my back as he leads me down the stairs, apparently already ready to go.
When he opens my car door, for a second, I’m slipping into a beat-up pale blue Impala, the cassette player wonky, if you don’t load them at an angle, a necklace I made him hanging in the—
My eyes blow wide as I settle inside, staring at the beaded monstrosity in the flesh.
Dangling there, draped around the rearview like it had ten years ago.
It’s a different car, perhaps deep down, even a different owner.
The only flash of personality in the black leather interior.
I’m so lost in my thoughts that I barely register it as Gideon shuts my door, trailing to his side before deftly slipping in beside me. “Seatbelt, Audrey.”
I obey dumbly, half considering pretending I hadn’t noticed, like I don’t remember. I’ve never been great at pretending, though. My mouth betrays my wishes before he even pulls out of the drive. “You found it.”
Blue eyes cut to me before he reaches up, trailing his fingers over the colorful beads. It’s such a practiced move, like he’s done it a billion times. “I never lost it.”
“How?! I made that—" A puff of air leaves me. “What? Fifteen years ago? Was it packed away all this time?”
“It’s always been right where it’s at since the day you slung it there in my first car.” He glances over at me as we start down the road, shooting me a smirk. “I just had to move it to the others.”
I don’t return the smile; my heart is pounding so loudly in my chest I worry he can hear it, my palms slickening with my sweat despite the chill.
“Why?” The words are barely a whisper, and I half consider plugging my ears to save me from having to hear his answer, if he deigns to give me one at all.
“Because you gave it to me. Seatbelt, Audrey, or I’m pulling over and doing it myself.”
It’s only then that I realized I’d paused halfway through strapping it on. The clink is the only sound that fills the cab as I press my hands against my heated cheeks and watch the trees zoom by.