Lengths (11 page)

He finally reaches over and cuts an invisible line down the quilt, dividing the bed into two sides, his and mine, and his voice grinds out, hard and rough.

“Sure. As long as you can stay over there,
friend
.”
 

              -Eleven-

Deo

Whit looks like an angel when she sleeps. She’s all sweet, full lips, long, curly eyelashes, and a tumble of sleek, dark hair against the pillow.

She also kicks like a mule, snores like a bear, sweats like a hog, and steals the covers like a fat, menacing caterpillar about to cocoon herself before her metamorphosis. Which I keep hoping may actually happen and turn her into a relaxed, soft breathing, cool-skinned, cover-sharing butterfly. Instead she wakes up most mornings looking like a burrito with a small, sweaty, scowling girl’s head, ready with crazy accusations.

“Deo, you were totally on my side of the bed all night. You were the one who made the divide,” she snarls, while I sprint to the kitchen to get her a cup of coffee. I never pictured myself the kind of guy who’d be all whipped into getting a girl her morning joe, but I never encountered a person who was such a raging psychopath before her first cup of coffee either.

I shove the coffee, two sugars and a drop of cream, into her hands and she growls and laps up the dark liquid like the alpha wolf she is. When the caffeine has settled her frayed nerves a little, I venture to suggest she’s not being entirely fair about our little arrangement. “Seriously, Whit? I’m considering growing out my toenails so I can get a better grip on the edge of the mattress. I have, like, six inches top. You sleep like a bus wreck.”

“So don’t sleep here.” She slurps another sip of coffee, and, when the caffeine takes a better hold over her ravaged brain, she gives me the sorry eyes over the rim. “Sorry. I’m such an awful human in the mornings. It’s no excuse, but I am sorry. And thank you for the coffee. Did I mention you make the most amazing coffee?” She smiles hopefully.

I tweak her cute little nose. “Stop with the flattery. We both know you’re just charming me so I keep doing your bidding.”

She finishes the coffee and heads to the shower. She’ll gather her stuff for school, drop a kiss on my forehead, and head out the door. I have my own key to her place. I examine it right now, running a finger over its bumpy teeth. She handed it to me like it was no big thing.

“Just in case I leave before you, you need to lock up. Get that look off your face, Deo. It isn’t a promise ring. It’s safety. You’re afraid of ceiling fans, I’m afraid of psycho killers coming in and slitting my throat.” Her words were all tough, but her palms were clammy when she slid the key my way.

And I stay here. Most nights. Sometimes I take some time to hang with Gramps, but he’s like a damn pioneer. He’s the kind of guy who’d prefer if he could pump his own water and keep his own cows and live by candlelight. Except then he wouldn’t get the UFC fights on his 72” LED. It’s his one modern obsession, that TV, and he treasures his time with it and his beer and pistachios.

I stay here with Whit, but we’re definitely not together. Not in any way, shape, or form. The foot rub a few weeks before was the most intimate thing that’s happened between us.

Other than the snuggling.

I told her I was a hardcore snuggler, but she didn’t believe me. But I know it was the snuggling that clinched her decision to basically move me in. Whit is scared shitless to be alone in the dark. She’s never given me a shred of a clue about why. That’s off limits, and we just don’t go there. When the lights are on, we’re jesting, sarcastic, friendly assholes guzzling beer, playing poker, and hitting the beach and various cheap area restaurants to satisfy her desire for pizza or fish tacos or whatever other weird craving she might have. We stay that way right up until we walk into her bedroom. She changes in a little huddled mass with her back to me or in the bathroom, and we both sternly establish that there’s a line we don’t cross in the middle of her too-small full bed.

Then I flick the light off and settle on the bed. In the shadows of her room, she wordlessly turns to me, and I wrap my arms around her. Her back curves against my chest, her ass nestles painfully close to my dick, and her smooth, long legs twine around mine, her toes brushing up and down the length of my calf. I run my hands over her without saying a thing. I trace my fingers from the rounded curve of her shoulder, down the long line of her upper arm, around the pointed curve of her elbow. She always lies on her left side, and her right elbow has a puckered bump. In the light, I can see that’s it’s from a pretty gnarly scar, but I don’t ask about it. What happens in the night doesn’t get talked about during the day. That’s the way it works with us.

Usually when I’m running my hands over every sweet curve and soft length of a girl’s body, it’s because I want to hear her gasping for breath, sighing my name, begging me for more, and moaning with body-shaking satisfaction.

With Whit, I want the opposite.

I want to be the one who takes all the stiff-limbed panic from her, who eases her out of the tense-muscled pre-sleep ball she curls herself into and lets her have a few minutes of sweet, relaxed sleep. Once she’s asleep, there’s nothing I can do to ease the rest of the night for her, and some of those nights are beyond brutal. She kicks and flails, grits her teeth, whimpers, sobs, opens her eyes and looks at me without seeing a single thing, sometimes wailing indecipherable things, sometimes just choking on her tears.

When her upset thrashing wakes me up, I curve her back into snuggle position and run my hands over her damp hair, put my mouth close to her ear and whisper sweet, quiet things, pull my arm tight around her waist to anchor her to the calm reality I try to provide.

Sometimes it works.

Other times it’s like she’s a DVD that has a deep scratch and we keep watching the same painful scene over and over on repeat. In the morning, we both wake up spent and grouchy, and all the menace of the night swirls between us, unacknowledged and heavy as a fucking ton of cement on our shoulders.

I’m scared as hell to push anything further. I want to help her work through all her shit, but she won’t let me touch it. And, as unsatisfying as it is to be so close to her but closed off, I’m glad for what I’ve got and won’t run the risk of losing it entirely. Soon enough she’ll meet some fuckwad who’ll take my place, and they’ll be more than just friends and snuggle buddies.

That thought makes me see fucking red, so I try not to think it. I just take lots of long, self-satisfying showers, like I’m in eighth grade all over again, and I try to enjoy ever second I get with her.

I’m on my way to meet Cohen at the beach after seeing her to class on a normal Tuesday when I hear the beep of her answering machine. She’s old school, so she still keeps a landline, and I can’t help but overhear the message.

“Ms. Conrad, this is Louise McKellan from Imperial Coast College. I’m afraid we weren’t able to process the second check you sent. Unfortunately, you won’t be able to get your grades at the end of the semester if this doesn’t come through. It also puts your application for study abroad in jeopardy, as your financial accounts must be current in order for your application to be considered. Your student ID is on temporary suspension, so all facilities are off-limits until this is cleared. Please call me as soon as you’re able, and we’ll get this all straightened out.”

Her strangely jolly voice is followed by an ear-splitting beep, and I resist the urge to smash the fucking answering machine into fifty fucking pieces. Seriously? Whit can’t get her grades? She’ll lose a place in this study-abroad thing she wants to do? Her ID is suspended? How the fuck does fucking Louise think Whit is going to figure this all out?

I know exactly what’s going to happen. She’s going to come home after a full day of classes, studying, and work, and she’s going to be exhausted after the hellishly sleepless night she had the other night. She’s going to fucking crack. Whit, who seemed tough as nails and so fucking put together before I really got to know her, has revealed herself as a wounded fighter barely juggling all the shit she has up in the air.

This is not what she needs right now.

Even though she’s usually Ms. Secret, Take Care of It All Herself, I’m taking one giant step over the quickly receding friend-line and getting all into this business. I can do this. Fixing sticky situations and charming people is what I was brought up to do.

I flip open my cell. “Cohen? You have a suit I can borrow?”

Cohen meets me at the beach with the suit, sans socks. “Socks kinda pull the whole thing together,” I gripe.

“Go see your grandpa. He’ll hook you up. So, what’s worth getting suited up for?” He takes a lint roller off his passenger seat. Thank God for responsible fucking Cohen. I love this guy.

“Whit.” I don’t say anything else as he rolls my sleeves and back lint-free.

Cohen nods, opens his mouth, closes it, and finally just comes out and says his piece. “Look, man. Whit is hot as hell. And smart. Too smart for you. And she’s gonna grow up to be a real adult who buys groceries and has health insurance and all that. So if you can hook up with her, you have my blessing. But if you’re just fun and games for her…don’t do that, okay? I know you don’t have the fucking job and degree and all that, but you’ve got your good qualities. Okay? Don’t waste time with her if she doesn’t know that.” Cohen gives me a half smile, and I clap my hand on his back.

“Advice taken, man. And I swear to you, I will not wind up on your couch crying and playing video games for months if she does break my heart.” I tug on my tie and slip my feet into my beat-up Vans before I pull out, leaving Cohen looking like he’s predicting my imminent doom.

Maybe his predictions will be dead on. But she’s worth the gamble. Whatever time I get with her, whatever it winds up meaning, she’s worth it.

I pull into my Grandfather’s driveway. He limps out of the garden and I glare his way. “When did you get so old? You need a walker?”

“I need a cane so I can smack you upside the fucking head with it!” he calls back. “What’s your ugly mug doing back here? I thought you were shacked up with that pretty little thing with those miles of legs, staying out of my damn hair. Why don’t you bring her over, by the way? Afraid she’ll leave you for a real man when she sees me?”

He pokes his lined, tanned face into the truck, and my smile fades when I see how bleary his eyes look and how buckled over his back is. Is it just that I’m noticing this stuff now because I’ve been away for a few weeks? Or is he doing worse?

“You doing okay?” I ask.

“No. I need you to come home and tuck me in at night,” he growls. “What do you need?”

“Dress socks. And shoes, if you have them.” I smile at the look of outrage that spreads over his wrinkled face.

“What man doesn’t have dress socks and shoes?” he asks pointedly. “You wanna grow up to be a hobo?”

“Yep. Just like my grandpa.” He turns away, chuckling, and I follow him into the house where I head to my room while he gets the shoes and socks, muttering about my stupidity. I slide under my bed, careful to keep my white shirt out of the dust. I find a box in the back and wipe the top clean.

It’s been a long time. A long time. I honestly never think about any of this shit, because it just amounts to a bum’s pipe-dreams. I slide the lid open and the gold coins wink up at me, bright as fucking pirate’s treasure.

I run my fingers over the bumps and grooves. I just checked the stats on them. I only need to pawn a few and, no matter what Whit owes, it will take care of it. Part of me wants to sell the whole fucking lot, just for spite. And waste it. Maybe on a bright yellow Mustang. Something that would irritate my father because of how showy and everyday it is. Because these coins aren’t for bullshit. They’re part of a vow I made with my dad when I was too young to realize he talks so much bullshit, even he can’t keep track of it all.

Every time he got the chance, had someone in a tight spot, found a rare coin for a ridiculously good price, he’d snatch it up and send it home to me. We had enough under my bed for everyone to live in a fucking mansion, but Mom and Grandpa wouldn’t touch them. And I was under strict orders to keep my grubby paws off of them until I was ready to invest them. My dad wanted them to go to a set-up for treasuring hunting. Real fucking treasure-hunting, months or years on end on a boat, cruising dangerous waters, racing other idiots for a piece of huge deposits, sunk to the bottom of the ocean and waiting.

Waiting for me and my scumbag dad to get our shit together and come scoop it up.

Of course, Mom and Grandpa don’t believe that horseshit anymore. But they do expect me to do something amazing with the coins. Set myself up. They don’t care if it’s a fucking dairy farm or a pottery studio; they just want me to do what I love.

And right now, what I love is Whit.

I almost choke on a dust bunny I sucked into my lung too quickly.

Love? Love Whit?

That was a little…what I meant was…I was trying to say…

I’m a fucking dumbass.

What I was trying to say is that I love her.

I love Whit, love the nights I spend getting my ass kicked in her bed, love the way she smells like grapefruits and girl and feels like sand-rubbed, sun-kissed skin, love talking to her, love the scratch of her key in the door. I love her enough to steal from the only dream I’ve ever had, even if it is a fucking pathetic, little-kid, stupid dream. As long as I had these coins, I was invested in. Practically a trust fund baby. But I’m tired of living that what-if dream. I need to take care of the girl I love right now, and accept that fact that my fucking dream is a day late and a motherfucking dollar short.

I grab the three I know I will cover what I need, slip them in my pocket, thank my grandfather for the shoes and socks, and ignore his look. The look that says he knows exactly what I’m about to do, but can’t believe I’d actually betray this promise to my vague dream that I’ve held onto my entire life.