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I studied them, checking out the black hair hanging in their eyes, the black skinny jeans and T-shirts, and their scary black boots with five inch thick soles.
I smiled. “Closeted Taylor Swift fans. I promise.”
His chest shook, laughing. “And her?” He nodded.
I twisted my head over my shoulder, seeing a beautiful young woman leaning over the bar. I could see a good bit of thigh going up her skirt, and when she leaned back down again, I saw her pull her mouth away from a drink and take hold of the straw, dipping it in and out of a milkshake.
I couldn’t help but laugh as I turned back around, singing, “My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard…”
Michael choked on his beer, a drop of it spilling out of his mouth as he tried not to laugh.
I picked up my shot of whiskey the waitress had left before, swirling the amber liquid in the glass.
I hadn’t felt anything from the beer, but for some reason, I hadn’t really needed it. My body felt warm now. I was relaxed, despite what had happened to the house, and I felt something building in my gut. Something hot that made me feel ten feet tall.
Michael leaned in, his voice turning low and heavy. “And how about me?”
I swallowed, still studying my drink. What song described him? What band?
That was like trying to pick one food to eat for the rest of your life.
“Disturbed,” I said, naming the band and still looking down at the glass.
He said nothing. Only remained still before finally sitting back and tipping his drink up to his lips.
Butterflies swarmed in my stomach, and I kept my breathing even.
“Drowning Pool, Three Days Grace, Five Finger Death Punch,” I continued, “Thousand Foot Krutch, 10 Years, Nothing More, Breaking Benjamin, Papa Roach, Bush…” I paused, exhaling nice and slow despite the way my heart drummed. “Chevelle, Skillet, Garbage, Korn, Trivium, In This Moment…” I drifted off, peace settling over me as I looked up at him. “You’re in everything.”
His eyes held mine, narrowing with just a hint of the pain I’d felt while longing for him all these years. I didn’t know what he was thinking or if he knew what to think, but now he knew.
I’d hid it, pushed it down, and acted like it wasn’t there, but now I’d owned it, and I didn’t care what he thought. I wasn’t ashamed of what was inside me.
Now he knew.
I blinked, lifting the glass to my lips and downing my shot. Leaning over, I swiped his and slammed it down as well.
I barely felt the burn in my throat. The adrenaline overpowered it.
“I’m tired,” I told him solemnly.
And then I got up and left the booth, knowing he’d follow.
Present
THE HOUSE SCARED ME AT NIGHT. It always had.
A light wind blew outside and bare tree branches scraped against windows in various rooms as I crept downstairs, passing the ticking grandfather clock in the foyer.
Its sound echoed though the vast house and always reminded me that life went on while we slept. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock…
Kind of a scary thought, actually. Creatures stirred outside, trees sat patiently in the forest, and danger could be lurking right outside the front door, mere feet away from our vulnerable spots in our warm beds.
And the Crist house held that same mystery. There were too many dark corners. Too many nooks to hide in and too many dark closets hidden in dormant rooms lurking behind closed doors.
The house was heavy with secrets and surprises, and it scared me, which was probably why I always found myself wandering around at night.
I enjoyed the fear of the silent darkness, but it was something else, too. You became aware of things under the shroud of night that you didn’t see in the light of day. The things people hide and how lax they become with their secrets when they think is everyone is asleep.
In the Crist house, the most interesting hours would often be after midnight. I’d learned to love the sound of the house being shut down and locked up. It was like a new world was about to unfold.
My bare feet didn’t make any sound as I walked into the dark kitchen and headed over to the pantry.
This was where I’d first found out that Mr. Crist was scared of Michael. It had been the middle of the night, and Michael had been sixteen. He’d come into the kitchen to get something to drink and hadn’t noticed me on the patio outside. I’d gotten up to watch the rain under an awning with a stash of fruit rollups Mrs. Crist had bought me. I remember it clearly, because it was my first night in the new bedroom she’d decorated just for me for when I slept over.
His father walked in to the kitchen, and I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but it turned heated, and Mr. Crist slapped his son across the face.
I hated it, of course, but it wasn’t something I hadn’t seen before, unfortunately. Mr. Crist and Michael didn’t get along, and it wasn’t the first time Michael had been hit.
But this time was different. He didn’t take it quietly. He immediately lashed out and grabbed his father by the neck. I stared in horror as Mr. Crist struggled. Something had come over Michael, and I’d never seen him act like that before.
And as second after second passed, it was clear that Michael was too old for his father to push around, and now Mr. Crist knew it.
I watched as his father start to choke and cough.
Michael eventually let go, and his father stormed out of the kitchen. The incident lost Michael his car and his allowance, but I didn’t think Mr. Crist ever touched him again after that.
Opening the pantry door, I turned on the small light and walked down to the third column of shelves, finding the peanut butter.