39. ROXANNE
Chapter thirty-nine
Sunday rolls around, the winter sun defrosting the frozen streets and peeking in through my curtains and onto my homework that’s not due until Winter Break ends.
I’ve spent the entire day barricaded in my room, grumbling to myself around chocolate I have stashed in my drawers while I sort through all the mail, using the envelope that came in at the end of every month to pay all of the bills. It’s the check the government has been sending us since my dad died, their idea of helping a widow raise her kid until I graduate.
In reality, it’s my job to make sure those dollars don’t vanish into Mom’s favorite bars or the pockets of her dealer friends.
Water, gas, rent, and electricity all nicely sealed up in envelopes and ready for me to stick in the mailbox in the morning.
Under my blanket fortress, I power through math equations that haven’t made sense to me since the dawn of time (or at least since '87) and devour a couple of books, thinking about fictional worlds where the biggest problems can be solved in a neat 200 pages.
But even readers need sustenance, and by 6 PM, my growling stomach is painful and loud. I don’t remember the last time I ate something real, or took a pee break.
I snap my English homework shut and woman up to wander into the kitchen to whip up my usual sad dinner. Will it be ramen or a microwave dinner tonight?
The suspense is killing me.
Peeking my head out of my door and glancing down the hall, it doesn’t seem like my mom's left her room all day. She must be passed out and still sleeping off last night’s bender.
Carefully and quietly, I go, tip-toeing down the hall and landing on the Cheerios in the upper cabinet. They’re supposed to be good for your heart, and lord knows mine can use all the fucking help it can get these days.
As I pour a heaping bowl, my eyes land on the empty whiskey bottles sitting inside of the sink—all four of them.
Four. In less than a day.
Jesus . She drank all of that last night?
I wrinkle my nose, not understanding how someone can be alive with that much alcohol sitting inside their stomach. Times like these make me afraid to drink, like my mom’s addiction can somehow be passed down to me through our DNA.
I sure as shit am not her mini-me.
Throwing the cereal box in the trash, I snatch up my bowl and move to the living room, the theme song of a Full House rerun coaxing me in. I curl up in Dad’s old recliner, legs slung over the armrest, balancing my cereal bowl on my stomach.
Onscreen, Stephanie is busy ruining DJ’s life by getting Danny to miss her important play to instead attend Michelle’s science fair. All three girls angrily storm off to their rooms as I shovel my dinner into my mouth.
The next scene flicks on, and every single muscle in my body tenses up when my mom’s bedroom door creaks open.
She makes her appearance from the hallway a second later, fake red hair hanging greasy and thin around her blotchy face. Those bloodshot eyes stare straight ahead, moving past me without so much as a glance as she beelines for the kitchen. Even without making eye contact, her presence fills up the room like a dark cloud covering the sun, casting an ugly shadow over me.
Not even a, “hey honey. How was the dance?”
I’m kidding myself if I assume she thinks I left the house last night, let alone had the hands of Bellpond’s most eligible bachelor all over me under the stars.
Jaw clenched, I turn back to the TV, where the Tanners’ world is cheerful, wholesome, and complete. Why can’t Danny Tanner be my super mom?
The unease that has been slowly clawing up my back since my own came out of her room digs further into my skin as I listen to her banging around in the cabinets, every slam and rattle setting my teeth on edge. Her own misery is infusing the very air, seeping into my pores and wrapping slimy tendrils around my lungs until I can barely breathe.
I shift upright in the recliner, so sick of being scared all the time, and pull my knees tighter to my chest, trying to make myself smaller in hopes that if I stay perfectly still in my little ball, she won’t notice me.
Then she’ll quickly find whatever fix she’s looking for and leave. Taking her toxic energy and darkness that’s trying to hold me down with her.
I hate this feeling. This constant low-level fear that snakes its way up my body. The way I can never fully relax around her like this. Why didn't I just take my food to my room? I'm a smart girl and know better than to risk running into her like this.
It’s fine. I’ll be fine. I’m always fine. And things always end up fine.
My muscles keep winding tighter with every bang from the kitchen, my mouth sore from how much I’m chewing on the corner of my lip.
SMACK.
SMACK.
SMACK.
The happy Full House theme song now sounds cruel. My eyes stare on the screen, ears straining to track my mom’s movements, waiting for her to do something that will make things worse, like fall down from being drunk on her feet, or break a bowl and start screaming.
I scrunch my toes in my socks when I hear the fridge door slam shut, my neck throbbing and tightening when she does the same to the pantry cabinet. The tendons in my wrist are starting to rise with my pulse, sending a sick heat down to my stomach each time she slams something a little louder.
Ice freezes up my heart when she storms into the living room, looking right at me with the most hate I’ve ever seen in her eyes.
“Why did you pour all my alcohol down the sink?” she barks at me.
A hot tear already drips down my cheek as I stand up, holding out a pleading hand. “I didn’t—”
A sharp burn swipes my cheek, making me stumble back, milk sloshing over the side of my bowl.
“Then why are all of my bottles sitting empty in the sink?” she roars, using her hand to point at the kitchen behind her this time.
My lips part to point out the obvious, but a cramp hits my stomach, leaving me only able to reach up to cradle the throbbing at my cheek. I whip my head back around, eyes wide and throat tight at the look on my mom’s face.
There’s nothing there. Just a blank emptiness as she blinks those green eyes at me.
“You drank it all,” I grind out, each word so sharp they could cut into your skin without leaving a mark. I stare at her, pissed as I wait for her to answer.
She should know the fucking truth already. She has to know. How could I possibly drink all of that shit in one night myself?
Tears well up in my eyes, made evident by the damn sniffles, and a flash of regret passes over my mom’s face when the weight of what she’d done finally hits her back.
A fresh wave of irrational anger quickly replaces it.
She turns and storms off toward her bedroom, unsteady on her feet. I stay rooted in place, fingers digging into my cheek and working through the anxiety that curdles in my throat as I fight to keep the hot tears from spilling down my face.
I carry my soggy cereal bowl to the kitchen, letting it clatter into the sink with her emptied bottles, and then I march off to the bathroom and lock the door behind me.
Only once the shower is running do I let the angry sobs wrack through my body as I crumple to the cold shower floor.
“She was getting better,” I tell myself through the gasps and hiccups, digging my nails into my scalp until it stings. The burning hand-print on my cheek tells a different story. I don’t know how much longer I can live trapped with her unpredictability.
Forehead pressed to my drawn-up knees, I let the hot spray beat down my hunched back, wishing the water would carry some of the hurt down the drain while my skin prunes. I prefer crying in the shower—It’s where my heart can ache, and I’ll never know the difference between the salt stinging my eyes and the water dripping off my chin.
I can pretend I’m not crying at all.
My skin was an angry red by the time I got out. I’d given myself a half-assed pat with a towel before stumbling back to my room on rubbery legs, not bothering with clothes except underwear.
What’s the point? It’s not like anyone’s gonna see me. Not like I want to be seen right now.
Almost on autopilot, I reach for Noah’s jacket where it’s draped over my vanity chair, the fabric soft against my burnt skin as I slide into it. It swallows me up, the hem hanging down to my bare thighs. God, I wish he was here. Wish winter break would hurry up and end so that I don’t only see him during practice.
I have to settle with wrapping the jacket tighter around my body as I walk over to the mirror, preparing myself for the damage report.
It’s not great. My cheek is a splotchy red, the skin hot and tender to the touch. It’s not a hard enough hit that it’ll turn into a bruise by the morning, thankfully, so I don’t have to worry about covering it up with makeup and lies.
I unravel my towel from my head and rub at my damp hair, wincing when I accidentally touch the extra red and puffy cheek. Is this how Noah feels after he deals with Dennis?
My heart breaks and I want to cry all over again. The knowledge that this kind of pain is something that he goes through so regularly while somehow staying so smiley all the time. How does he go out there and face the world, knowing what waits for him at home?
I let the towel drop to the floor and crawl into bed, the sheets extra cold tonight against my shower-warmed legs. As I fluff my pillows into their correct position—one in the middle, one on each side for snuggling purposes—my phone punches through the silence from my bedside table.
Shit! I lunge for the receiver, dropping it twice in my panic to answer before the noise can get my mom’s attention.
“Hello?” I whisper, my throat still coated too thick.
“Sunshine,” comes Noah’s warm voice and all the tension in me fucking melts.
Inhaling a trembling breath, I smile. Only he would be calling me at ass o’clock on a Sunday night.
“Is this how our conversations are going to be moving forward?” I ask, cradling the phone close as if it’s more than a hunk of clear plastic. “You calling me ‘sunshine’?”
“I think it’s fitting. Just another one of those sunny days with my sunshine.” He laughs, and oh my god that sound runs a tsunami of heat down my legs.
“Does someone need a reminder that we’re only friends?”
“Friends is a step up. I’m surprised you’re gracing me with that.”
“Oh, don’t get it twisted. You’re definitely still a prick. I’ve decided to overlook it for the sake of our band.” A band that I really need us to start pumping gigs for so we can get a cash flow going. So I can move the fuck out of this house.
“How big of you,” he deadpans, and I envision the smirk curling the corner of his very kissable mouth that’s connecting us through this phone call. “And here I thought you were using me for my body.”
“In your dreams, Jackson.”
“Every night, baby,” he cooes, easy as anything. “Though Dream You is way more agreeable than the real deal. She never threatens to poke me in the eye with her drumsticks when I call her an angel.”
My chest shakes as I hold back a damn near squeal, muscles in my thighs tightening. Needing it to end, and give my poor libido a break, I sit up straighter on the bed, crossing my legs as I play with the sleeves of his jacket.
“Wait a sec...” I squint toward the window, expecting to see a pair of blue eyes peeking in. “Are you, like, watching me right now or something?”
There’s no way. It wouldn’t make any sense. He’s calling me from his bedroom landline, not hiding out in the bushes. It just seems a little too convenient he is calling while I’m on my bed in nothing but his jacket.
“I’m always looking at you. Why? Miss me already?”
“Okay, stalker,” I whisper back, running my fingers across my collarbone. Noah’s voice is the best thing in his box of tools so that being the only focus right now is killing me a little.
“Do you miss me ?” I aim for flippant and miss by a mile. “Is that why you’re calling me?”
There’s a rustle of fabric, and the creak of his bed frame, like he’s shifting and getting comfortable. The thought of him in his room, long legs crossed at the ankles, his hand tucked behind his head with the phone cradled to his ear as he thinks of me…
Maybe my mom did pass on her addiction to me. Mine just came in the form of him .
“I don’t call you because I miss you. I call you to remind you that I’m still here.” A sharp inhale, another rustle of fabric. “But if you miss me,” he drawls out. “I wouldn’t mind hearing you say it.”
I’m officially biting my knuckles lightly to hold in my own stupid giggle. “Fine. You caught me. I might miss you.”
“Wow. Roxanne Wishmore misses me?”
“I’ve grown accustomed to your ugly mug, is all.”
“How much do you miss me, Roxanne? Is it a lot?”
I pull the phone closer to me, wanting to hear more of him. “Don’t play with me, Noah.”
“Tell me all the things you miss me for, sunshine.”
My free hand fists in the sheets as I fight the urge to touch. To press my fingers against the hot spot between my thighs that he inspires, right where I’m dying for friction. If only they were his metal-adorned fingers instead.
“You know exactly why I miss you,” I breathe, squeezing the end of his jacket now. “Why don’t you remind me of the many great things you want me to miss about you? I think it’s much more fun to hear them from you.”
“I want you to miss my touch.” This time, I clutch at my necklace hard. “The way you look at me like you want nothing more than me, the way you feel me everywhere on your body.” He pauses, and my breath stills as I clench around nothing. “I know you miss my touch, and every moment you’re not with me, I bet I’m the only thing you’re thinking about.”
I bite my lip, warmth spreading through me as my nails trace the spot between my breasts, listening to his voice as he continues, “I bet you're thinking about how it feels when you're on my lap, my jeans rough against your thighs.” My tongue wets my lips. That was a nice, very vivid image. “How you love being tucked under my arm, your nose tracing a path up my ribs.”
My fingers reach up and tighten around my initial at my neck.
“You miss my smell in your sheets, too, don't you? I bet you loved laying on that side after that night I slept over, pretending like you weren't just trying to smell me on the fabric.”
“I'm wearing your jacket right now,” I admit on a breath into the phone.
“You are?” His voice drops an octave, sending more shivers down my spine.
“Mhmm,” I hum, running my teeth over my bottom lip. “Only this and a towel that's now on my floor. I wanted to be covered by you.”
“Jesus, Roxanne. Why would you tell me that?”
“Because you can't touch me, and I want to remind you how much you miss me. ” I giggle at Noah's breathy, wordless noise as I stare down at the empty blue sheets around me. “You're across town missing me while I'm lying here thinking about the feel of your metal rings.”
“I miss you so much.” His words fly out in a heated rush, taking my breath with him. “Not just your body. All of you. Every goddamn stubborn inch.”
“Tell me something I don't know,” I tease, my fingers tracing circles over my stomach.
“That you don't know? In that case, I wish I met you sooner. There are so many things I wish I had been able to do for you.” His voice is soft and tender in a way that makes my mouth water and my heart glow. “You should have had someone to walk you to your classes or hold your books when needed. I wish I could've kissed you just to shut you up when you were getting riled up over nothing.”
I laugh softly, pressing the phone against my heart and biting down hard on my bottom lip while the thousand fireflies that have nothing to do with desire and everything to do with how much I adore this boy flare up.
“I wish I could've driven you to school every single day, even if it meant waking up 10 minutes early so I could see you in the morning.”
“You hate mornings,” I whisper, touched by the sentiment.
“God, sunshine.” My eyelids squeeze as his voice drops down into that natural rumble. “You don't know what you're doing to me right now. I should be asleep, but here I am, thinking about how much I wish I were there to take my jacket off of you. Is that something you're missing about me too?”
“Yes,” I let out a desperate whimper at the end of my words. “I don't want you to go to sleep yet. I like to hear you whispering to me from across town.”
“Wouldn't it be so much better if I was whispering between two inches of space?” I push those words against my ear hard. “You feel complete when we’re together, Roxanne. That’s only the beginning as to how much you miss me right now.”
And god, that’s... that’s fucking hot . I wonder if he’s touching himself?
I clear my throat and pull the jacket tighter around me. “Wow. You sure have me figured out, don’t you?”
“Only because I pay so much attention to you.”
Ugh, what a sap. I lo—like that about him.
I rest my hand by my thigh, starting to trace a path into my knee. “Do you have a logbook? A diary that you write me down in every night? A spreadsheet to remind you of every word I say or every touch you make on my body?”
“No,” he rumbles, sounding as wrecked as I feel, “but I might have to start.”
“Why, are you obsessed with me?” I tease and slowly lean back on my bed. I'm so fidgety, I barely know how to make my body sit still. “Do you keep my scrunchie on a shrine somewhere?”
“So many things I would like to have of you. Your scrunchie would be the least of your worries.”
“Is my scrunchie not good enough for you?”
“Your scrunchie is perfect. The pink really meshes well with my eyes.” A throaty laugh comes through the receiver and I feel my stomach flip again. “But I’d rather have all of you.”
“You’re doing it again.” My hand inches higher up my thigh, my nail tracing circles at the skin and imagining it’s his lips there instead.
“Doing what?”
“You’re making it really hard to behave myself over here.”
“Behaving is overrated,” he murmurs, his voice like honey. “I’d much rather make you misbehave. Preferably while wearing nothing but that scrunchie.”
My hand covers my mouth piece as I throw my face in the pillow, giggling even as heat floods my body. “You’re terrible. I’m trying to be a good girl and you’re leading me astray.”
“Good girls are boring. I want my naughty girl.”
Noah. Fucking. Jackson.
I squirm against the sheets, digging my nails back into my blanket. “You’re playing with fire.”
“You already know I like playing with fire,” he sighs. “And I want to bathe in all of your flames for a long time.”
My throat clicks as I swallow around the dryness of my mouth. Because that didn’t sound like a joke. And call me a coward, but I’m still not there yet. I can’t be there yet, not when my cheek still stings, reminding me how much I need to keep my head screwed on straight, no matter how badly my body is begging me to fucking go for it.
So I do what I do best.
I hit the brakes and throw it in reverse.
“Well, you can’t have all of me now. We shall just have to wait.”
“It’s okay, I’m a patient man.” His voice gentles, losing the seductive purr. “I know you’re not quite ready for everything I want to give you.”
Oh. Oh wow . Why is he always so freaking sweet? And hot. Damn him.
I roll over onto my stomach, crossing my ankles in the air and about to rub my feet together like a fucking grasshopper. “Now tell me, to what do I owe this late night call?”
Noah hums and I can hear him thinking from over the receiver. “Would it be too cheesy if I said I sleep better after I hear your voice?”
That makes me want to take the phone and bash it into my skull.
“No,” I answer, voice too chipper and girly. “I don’t think that’s cheesy at all. A little sappy, maybe? But not at all cheesy.”
I can feel his smile against my ear as he says, “I’m calling because it’s raining and I want to check on my thunder buddy.”
It is? I pause, tilting my head to listen. “Oh, shit. I didn’t even notice.”
I get distracted listening to the pitter patters against my window, and his light breaths that come out of him from over the line. It sounds like he’s mouthing along to lyrics, but I can’t tell for sure.
“Do you want me to come over?”
Yes . “No.”
I would do anything for Noah to be here right now, but I'm too scared to let anybody step into the energy of this house when I'm still shaking from today.
“Are you sure? I don’t want you getting scared alone. I’m much too chivalrous for that.”
My cheeks are starting to hurt from how long I’ve been smiling. I’m a second away from twirling the damn phone cord around my finger over this conversation.
“It’s okay. The storms haven’t been scaring me as much lately.”
I’m not lying about that, either. Ever since I let Noah hold me during the worst of the thunder, I’ve felt different—my emotions are more stable, and my fear of storms, well, I’m braver now. There’s still some anxiety, but it’s not the paralyzing force it used to be. And after last night, I decided I wanted to be as tall and strong as the oak tree.
I’d been through some rough times, but there was no way I’d let a bit of rain crack me now.
“What if I want to come over?”
“Then you can keep wanting because I won’t be letting you in,” I volley back, batting my lashes down at the phone.
“Harsh.”
I laugh, laying my swollen face back down on the pillow. While the rain pours down, we talk softly about the impending doom of school starting up in two weeks, our thrilling Christmas plans, and having more practice days during the break.
Obviously, my holidays consist of a dinner at Stephanie’s, while Noah’s forced into another family dinner where everyone is fake happy. He suggests running away to the oak tree during lunch when we’re back in school, just the two of us. Thinking about being there again sets my heart racing and sends a bunch of horny moths on crack down from the back of my ear and straight into my belly.
I still don’t want to mention the earlier blow up with my mom. An argument with my intoxicated mother seems a bit too heavy for late night talks.
Noah rambles on about a prank involving spray paint and Mrs. Taylor’s car, at least, I think that’s what he’s saying. My eyelids are starting to droop, his voice in my ear soothing me toward sleep like the world’s sexiest little white noise machine.
It’s crazy how the sound of him breathing on the other end of the line can make me feel so cozy. I have fallen victim to every Rom-Com ever.
While I listen to him talk, a conversation from last week starts to float to the surface of my brain. Stephanie still suggesting the idea that I invite Noah to the Pulvertongue concert instead of her. She said it would be a “totally romantic date night,” us holding hands while Mick Vickers spits fake blood out to the crowd with a snake around his neck.
I’m pretty sure there is nothing remotely romantic about a Pulvertongue concert. Unless you’re going to watch Eddie Volt’s ass in those skin tight pants.
Except, with Noah’s voice going straight to my heart through the phone, I'm able to picture it. The two of us, side by side in a crowd of screaming fans, his hand pressing up against my back while we bang our heads. Sharing a cigarette as music shreds the air around us, and he dances with me until the balls of our feet hurt.
God, what is wrong with me? We’re just friends. Two idiots who laugh at each other’s stupid jokes and commiserate over shared trauma. That’s all this is.
“... And then we’d release the goats into the cafeteria,” Noah’s saying, jolting me out of my dream. I blink, trying to reorient myself.
Goats? What the fuck did I miss?
“Uh-huh,” I mumble drowsily into the phone. “Sounds great.”
There’s a beat of silence, then a low, knowing chuckle.
“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”
I huff, caught out. “Of course I do! You were saying... something about goats?”
Another laugh, this one infinitely more smug. “Nice try, but I haven’t mentioned goats once in this entire conversation.”
“I’ll have you know, I was thinking about something very important, actually.”
“Oh yeah?” he drawls, and I want to glare at that grin I know is stretching his mouth on the other side of the phone. “Do tell, what’s got you so distracted that you can’t even focus on me?”
“Remember how I scored those Pulvertongue tickets a while back?” I aim for casualness and land somewhere around a shy boy asking his crush to prom. “The ones for the show Wednesday after New Year?”
“What about 'em?”
“The thing is... I kind of have an extra ticket now. And I was thinking maybe you’d want to go with me instead?”
Silence. Horrible, gut-churning silence.
Oh god. Oh shit. Why isn’t he saying anything?
I open my mouth to backpedal, but Noah’s voice comes through the line, so loud and excited, it vibrates my ear drum.
“Are you kidding me?”
Relief and happiness bloom inside me. “Is that a yes?”
“It’s a date.”
I roll my eyes, glad he can’t point out the hot blush crawling up my neck. “Again. Just friends.”
“Friends—whatever—but you're fuckin' mine. I don't give a shit. You'll see soon.”
“I’m hanging up now,” I sing-song.
“Goodnight,” he murmurs. “I’ll be thinking of you all night.”
I groan, officially in grasshopper rubbing feet mode. “Okay, that? That was definitely cheesy.”
“Yeah, but you like me anyway, Roxy.”
And then, before I can formulate a response (or, more likely, collapse into a puddle of sexually frustrated goo), he’s hanging up, the dial tone droning in my ear like a taunt.
Ass. He did that on purpose.
I lay here, staring up at the ceiling with the dumbest grin on my face.
Roxanne, RoRo, Rox.
I’ve never gotten Roxy.