Page 14 of Hate Wrecked

RILEY

Barry wasn’t tall, but his skin was warm and inviting. And his smile taunted me. My sisters and I always thought he was cute and giggled when he joined the adults in the living room after getting a drink before we were shooed away.

And as I aged, he looked better. He watched, winking at me, bumping into me accidentally. Laying out by the pool, a drink in his hand, waiting by my seat. He lingered by me and in my mind.

On my eighteenth birthday, he brought me a present—a beautiful black dress, tight and small. You ’ ll glow in this, Glenne. He loved to call me by my first name. He said it was sophisticated and made me seem more grown-up. And that’s how he wanted me to feel—more grown-up. It worked.

He made me believe the age gap between us—ten years—was nothing. “You’re so grown up. Even more grown-up than your mother.” The remarks about my mother made me flinch, and then I leaned into them, and my anger at her grew.

The late-night visits to my room as parties raged were what I looked forward to the most. The party would be thumping outside, too wild for me, and he would be hanging out in my room.

Playing games with me. Laughing. Telling me stories about his Hollywood.

“It’s different than what your parents know.

Faster. It’ll leave them in the dust if they aren’t smart,” he would say—as if his career was anywhere on their level, or ever would be. But at the time, I didn’t see it.

I just smiled and asked for more. More stories or closeness. More of him telling me how smart and talented I was. “I saw that part you had in Tease . You were so good. You’re going to be a star. I have some people I’ll introduce you to.”

And when I told him about my singing, he shook his head. “You don’t want that life. On the road all the time? Playing dive bar shows when your name means you can be on the big screen. Why go backward?”

I leaned into it. Loved his voice and everything he said. I believed it all.

I thought it was romantic that he was waiting until I was eighteen to make a move on me. It meant he was one of the good guys. Patient. Knew what I was worth.

Worth waiting for.

Our first date didn’t go off without a hitch. I heard my mother and stepfather arguing about it the week before. “He’s too old for her,” my mother said, and my stepfather chimed in, getting her where it hurt. “The age difference is the same between us. Are you saying you’re too old for me?”

It wasn’t the same. She knew it. I would see it later, but I didn’t know it then.

Barry picked me up in his fancy car, came inside, and chatted with my stepfather. They joked. “Get her home by midnight.” My stepfather laughed.

“It’s just a business thing,” Barry said. His cover, a lie, and his way of making my mother more secure. But she knew what it was.

I was wearing the little black dress, and she eyed me, looking me up and down, her lips pressed together.

It didn’t faze me. What fazed me was Rowan at the back of the room, arms crossed at the wrist. Watching me like a hawk.

We had only just started talking as friends, watching movies together, playing board games, reading in silence behind the house.

Less of my flirting and daring, more intimate in our moments together.

A tentative friendship, a matchstick house waiting to go up in flames.

Deep inside, I knew he liked me the way I liked him.

But I knew friendship was best. Safe. And his job needed to come first. What did I have to lose?

My mother’s disapproval? I didn’t care about that, but I cared about Rowan.

When Asa and Barry were done chatting, Barry took my arm, leading me out of the house. “Okay. Let’s go.”

I chanced one last glance over my shoulder and locked eyes with Rowan. He looked so sad.

And I felt it the entire ride to the restaurant.

I felt it through each course, through the buzz of alcohol Barry fed me.

I felt it on the way to his house.

And I let it fade out as Barry put his mouth all over my body.

He didn’t fuck me, though the alcohol made me beg for it.

He told me we needed to wait—that he liked me too much for it to be a hookup.

And it was the perfect cocktail to make me believe I was the sinner and he was the moral one.

He was skilled at it. Making me think things were my idea. Like a horse to water.

It made me hate myself.

I heard the phone call from down the hallway. Barry told my stepfather that he had me and that he let me drink. I was safe and sleeping it off on the couch.

A lie. I was in his bed, naked and pulsing, denied what I wanted.

Sometimes I wondered if he had just taken my virginity that night and told my mother; maybe she would have done what other mothers do—warned me away from him. Warned me away from that life, but she was still clinging to it.

Clinging to the Hollywood of their generation.

Clinging to her youth while mine was being weaseled away.

The next morning, Barry brought me home in my little dress with a long button-down of his over it.

Rowan was out front drinking a cup of coffee. He smiled at me, and it was the most beautiful offering I had ever seen.

“A storm is coming in,” he said, voice low. I didn’t know if he meant the clouds overhead, or if he knew where my life was headed, but his blue eyes softened when he saw the ache in my own, and when he went to step forward, I shook my head.

I didn’t need this kindness. I didn’t need his beautiful friendship.

I needed to sleep and forget my life of begging for everything sharp and turning away beautiful things.