Interim (28 page)

His wired hormones wanted to kiss-walk her to the bed, but his patient side glued his feet to the floor.

Don’t you have a cake to bake?
it asked, and he groaned into her mouth.

She doubled her efforts, believing his groan was in response to her unbelievable skills. She pulled on him, encouraging movement toward the bed.

“Not yet,” he said, pulling away.

She grimaced. “I’m too aggressive. I read you wrong. I thought that groan meant—”

“It meant exactly what you thought it meant,” Jeremy reassured her. “I just . . . I think . . .”

“It’s okay,” Regan said.

“I don’t know why we should wait, but we should wait,” he said at last.

She bit her lip. “You think I was asking you for sex?”

“I don’t know. Were you?”

She shook her head. “I just wanted you to lie on top of me.”

He blinked. She waited.

“Really?” he asked.

“Mmhmm.”

“Why?”

“I thought you’d be warm.”

She walked to the side of the bed then dropped to her knees.

“I’m always curious to see what’s going on underneath people’s beds.”

He sat beside her. “Just this,” he said, pulling out a long, narrow bag. He unzipped it and opened the flap.

“Oooo, I like,” Regan replied, running her fingertips over the silky smooth wood.

“Would you believe Roy bought this for me?” Jeremy asked, pulling the snowboard completely out of its protective bag. “Custom made.”

“Just out of the blue?”

“For my birthday,” he said, then instantly regretted his words.

Regan said nothing as she studied the board’s design. Various size Blind Boards symbols decorated one half while the other featured a mountain sunset rich in fiery oranges and stark whites. She traced the sunrays with her index finger.

“When was your birthday?” she asked slowly.

“I don’t know.”

“Try again,” she said patiently.

He hesitated. “Last week.”

She looked at him with sad eyes. “Why would you not tell me, Jeremy? I’m your girlfriend.”

“I don’t like to make a big deal of it. I had no idea Roy was gonna get me this. You know how expensive a board like this is? I was embarrassed!”

“I don’t care if you were embarrassed. I’m your girlfriend, and you should have told me. I feel like an idiot.”

“Regan, please don’t. It’s weird, okay? We’re still . . . new, and I wasn’t just gonna volunteer the fact that I had an upcoming birthday. Like I expected something from you. That’s stupid. And tacky.”

She shrugged.

“And anyway, you already gave me my birthday present,” Jeremy said.

“Yeah? And what’s that?” she said moodily.

“Your words. You told me you loved me.”

She smiled.

“And you’re baking me my favorite cake,” he added.

“Is it really your favorite kind of cake?”

“Ever since you brought me those cupcakes,” he replied.

She leaned into him, nudging his arm.

“I’m still mad at you.”

“December 2, okay? My birthday is December 2.”

“A lot of good that does me today!” she cried.

“Well, then get in that kitchen and bake me a cake,” he said.

She pounced on him, knocking him on his back and kissing him greedily. Her lips flew all over his face. They gave extra attention to his scar before moving back to his mouth. She kissed him until her mouth grew sore and dry, itchy and tight. She paused her assault and searched her pocket for her ChapStick. She held it to his face and grinned.

“I can keep going and going and going . . .”

He wrapped his arms around her back and rolled her over, pinning her to the bedroom floor.

“Give me some of that,” he ordered, and she uncapped the stick, gliding the soothing peppermint balm over his lips. Around and around and around until he glistened. She tended to her own lips afterwards.

They resumed their make-out session, pausing every now and then to reapply. Sometimes to talk. Sometimes just to stare at one another because the idea of being lovers was still so fresh. So new. And they were amazed by it. Amazed and nervous. Excited. Committed. They loved each other the way young people do—completely out of their minds, as it should be.

Eventually they baked the cake. Eventually Regan went home. Eventually Jeremy’s heartbeat slowed to a normal rhythm.

Until next time.

~

My shoulder hurts. Usually I ignore the pain. I chalk it up to the pain one feels after a really grueling session in the gym. Good pain. I’m-transforming-my-body pain. But I just can’t ignore this ache tonight. It’s like my rifle had it in for me—wanted to abuse me just like all those assholes at school do. I even screamed at it, “We’re a goddamn team!”

It didn’t listen.

~

He heard the faint knock from his bedroom. It sounded unsure, like a Regan knock. His heart faltered—lost the beat—then found its rhythm again. Right on time for his nerves to chime in—pinging and zinging about his body, shocking his arms and legs and setting his scar on fire. He couldn’t make sense of his reaction. It’s not like she hadn’t been alone with him here. But this time was different. No baking class to keep them occupied, out of trouble. Oh, no. This time there was nothing to do but to “hang out,” and he was fairly certain where that would lead.

Another more purposeful knock. He leaned over and smelled his sheets.

“Just in case . . .”

He left the room and headed for the front door, opening it a fraction before it was slammed wide on its hinges. His father barged in, pushing past him and knocking over a lamp on the foyer table.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding out,” Mr. Stahl said. He took an inventory of the space and nodded his satisfaction. “Nice place.” He turned to his son. “Nice curtains. You pick those out?”

Jeremy stood stunned. He’d nearly forgotten his father—even marked him off the hit list because his pathetic existence no longer mattered. He thought the right thing to do was to allow his father to live in solitude, hopelessness, and loss—a fate far worse than a bullet to the head.

He never counted on his father searching for him. Why would he? He didn’t miss Jeremy. Maybe he missed hitting him, but he didn’t miss
him
. Money, perhaps? Did he come for money?

“What do you want?” Jeremy demanded.

His fists were already balled. Experience and instinct moved them into position the moment his father plowed through the door.

“I wanted to know what happened to you,” Mr. Stahl replied. “You stopped coming home.”

“This is my home,” Jeremy said.

Mr. Stahl snorted. “This ain’t your home, Jer. Your home is with me.”

“Why? You don’t give a damn about me,” Jeremy spat.

“What are you talking about? I thought we had a nice time the last we saw each other,” Mr. Stahl replied. “We shared some beers!”

Jeremy cringed at the memory. He shared many beers with his father that night. Jokes, too. He woke up the following day, sickness churning inside his gut. More than just alcohol. It was the sickness that comes after a night of compromising one’s convictions—the sickness that signals acute guilt over immoral behavior. Male bonding, and with his enemy! He made himself vomit the following morning. The act released him from that house forever.

“Dad, I think you should leave,” Jeremy said.

Mr. Stahl frowned. “So you think you’re too good for me now? You’re livin’ on your own in this fancy apartment, and that makes you too good for me?”

“I don’t think that at all. And nothing in this apartment is mine. It’s on loan.”

“How much is your rent? How you paying for this?”

“That’s none of your business,” Jeremy replied. There was no way he’d tell his dad about his arrangement with Roy.

“Well, I think I may have a hunch,” Mr. Stahl said. His cheerful demeanor vanished, and he stared down his son with narrowed eyes—vicious and calculating. “You stealin’ my guns?” he asked softly.

Jeremy’s eyes gave him away immediately—large white marbles with only a tiny swirl of green in the center. Guilty.

He shook his head.

“Don’t lie to me,” his father warned. “You stealin’ my guns and sellin’ them or something? Is that how you can afford to live here?”

“No,” Jeremy croaked.

“Then where’s my rifle? Where’s my 9 mm? They used to be in the goddamn safe!”

Jeremy backed slowly down the hallway. His only chance was to lock himself in the bedroom.

“I’m gonna ask you again, Jeremy Neil Stahl.” His father exhaled slowly. “Where are my guns?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Barely a whisper.

Mr. Stahl grunted. In a flash, he lunged for Jeremy, who was too slow to make it to the safety of the bedroom. The men collapsed on the hallway floor; Jeremy’s dad had the advantage on top of him.

“Get off!” Jeremy bellowed.

Large, meaty fist to his left side. He groaned and twisted.

“Where are my guns, you little shit?” his father spit in his face. “My guns!”

Jeremy grabbed his father’s face with both hands—pushing and squeezing—trying to position his fingers right under his dad’s eyeballs. He could press hard. He could pop them out.

“After all I’ve done for you!” his father roared, the words muffled behind his son’s palms. He slapped them away and grabbed Jeremy’s throat.

“No, Dad!” Jeremy wheezed, pulling on his father’s fingers.

“Give me my goddamn guns!”

His chokehold tightened, and then his hands left his son altogether. For a split second. Brief reprieve before frenzied fists came down hard, pounding over and over and over again. Punch to the face. Punch to the ribs. Punch to the gut, and to the face again. On and on his father’s fists flew about his body in a pattern of destruction. Blood oozed. Blood sprayed. Blood seeped into the carpet.

I’m dying
, Jeremy thought, reeling from the punches, feeling his life force ebb slowly away.

His father would not relent. His fists lay claim to every part of Jeremy’s body until he closed his eyes, submitting to his fate. But her face flashed before him, staring in confusion.

Get up and fight
, she said.

I can’t.

What’s the point of all that weight lifting if you’re not gonna do anything with it?

I’m tired.

Hey, guess what? We’re all tired. We all wanna go to sleep. But if you go to sleep now, you’ll never wake up.

I just can’t anymore.

You can! You have to! Now get the fuck up and fight!

With what?

Your fists, Jer. That bat in the corner. Don’t you remember putting it there?

He glanced to his right. His baseball bat, tucked inconspicuously in the shadows. His only hope, salvation. He drew in a deep breath. His ribs sparked and screamed, but he held the breath and counted:
One, two, three, four
. He paused.
Five
.

He grunted and heaved, pushing against his father’s shoulders with all the strength he had left. His father lost his balance and fell over. Jeremy dove for the bat, securing it in his bloody fists. He brandished it above his head, used all his momentum to swing it down and around in front of his chest, like he was going for a homerun world record. The bat smacked his father’s head, thrusting his body forward—chest flattened on the floor. His father gurgled and moaned, attempted to push himself up. Jeremy swung again—a second and final time—and his dad hit the floor once more. This time he lay perfectly still.

Jeremy watched a tiny trail of blood slither out from among the strands of his father’s greasy hair. He dropped the bat and fell to his knees.

“Why can’t you leave me alone?” he cried, unable to stopper the tears. They gushed down his cheeks, mixing with blood—an Impressionism painting of swirling terror and grief.

His father said nothing.

“I need you to please leave me alone,” Jeremy went on, reaching out to touch his father’s shoulder.

No movement.

“I’ll . . . I’ll give you the guns. Just please don’t come here anymore,” Jeremy said.

Nothing.

“Dad?” He shook his shoulder gently.

The hallway was quiet and still.

“Dad? Get up and leave,” Jeremy demanded.

His fingers automatically moved to his father’s throat. No pulse.

“Jesus,” Jeremy breathed, grunting and straining as he worked to roll his father over.

He gasped and reared back, unprepared for his father’s blank eyes staring back at him.

“Dad?”

He didn’t know how to perform CPR. He wasn’t sure it mattered now. What mattered was hiding those guns before he called the police. He’d have to call the police. He’d have to admit to killing his father.

“It was self-defense,” he said, panicked. “Self-defense!”

He rushed to the bedroom and retrieved the guns, ignoring his body’s angry protests. He knew his ribs were cracked. He knew he had gaping wounds that required medical treatment. Wasn’t important now.

He quietly stole down the stairs to Roy’s garage and carefully unlocked the back door. No movement. No one around. He walked to the cabinet that housed his precious paraphernalia and tucked the guns in the back, wrapped securely and out of sight. He locked the cabinet, locked the garage door, and ascended the stairs once more to the crime scene.

“Self-defense,” he said again, when he looked down at his father.

“You gotta work harder to defend your army, Jer,” Mr. Stahl said, lounging on the couch with his son, game controller in hand.

“I’m trying! But your army keeps getting bigger,” Jeremy replied. “How are you doing that?”

“You’ve gotta conquer lands, son,” his dad replied. “They’ll fight for you over dying.”

“You keep beating me to it,” Jeremy argued.

“’Cause I’m faster and stronger,” his dad said. “You will be, too, as long as you keep practicing. Hell, you’ll beat me one day.”

“I stink at this game,” Jeremy huffed, tossing his controller.

“Hey, with that attitude, you’ll never get better. Don’t give up. Never give up on anything,” his dad said.

“It’s just a stupid game,” Jeremy muttered.

“Listen, you master this, and then you move on to something else. And then you master that, and you move on to something else. All these things help you get better,” Mr. Stahl said, tousling his son’s hair.

Jeremy grunted.

“Come on, let me see you defend the front gate. Where are you gonna put your men?” Mr. Stahl said, handing Jeremy his controller.

“I don’t know.”

Mr. Stahl sighed patiently. “All right, son. Lemme teach you how to fight.”

“9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”

Jeremy swallowed the sob. “I . . . I killed my dad . . .”

***

Just when he was slipping back into the shadows as his relationship with Regan became yesterday’s news, the horrific death of his father thrust him into the limelight once more. Not even a three-week absence from school could save him. Once he returned—something he was loathe to do—everyone turned their attention on him—the killer. Many students were visibly scared of him. He should have reveled in their fear.

He didn’t.

“You did nothing wrong,” Regan assured him as they walked the halls.

Students parted like the Red Sea, flattening themselves against the lockers and turning their faces, afraid to look at him. Afraid he would take a baseball bat to them if they made eye contact.

He said nothing, and when she tried to lace her fingers with his, he pulled away.

He avoided Regan as much as possible in the three weeks following the incident. There was the investigation, which didn’t take long because the case was open and shut. Clear self-defense. Even now, Jeremy sported a plethora of stitches, fading bruises, and scratch marks from the altercation—another reason he refrained from going back to school earlier. He looked like a victim, and that made him vulnerable.

Regan’s work schedule helped. It kept her at a distance, and he let most of her calls go to voicemail. He didn’t want to talk through his feelings about his dad, and he knew that’s what she wanted. Girls think communicating feelings promotes healing. They have no idea how a man’s mind works. He didn’t need words. He needed alone time. He needed the slopes, his snowboard, and Bad Religion.

Of course, Roy and Regan’s parents didn’t understand this either. Roy hovered all over him, knocking on the apartment door every five minutes to check in. He didn’t want Jeremy to live there anymore. He thought it would mess with his head. Regan’s mom just wanted to keep stuffing him full of home-cooked meals—trap him in a perpetual food daze so he wouldn’t think about his dad. He became her surrogate son whether he liked it or not.

He was suffocating under everyone’s sympathy.

“I’m a patient girl,” he heard Regan say, like she was testing him.