Jeremiah Quick by SM Johnson Page A

have a problem with it, but the
getting high part seemed so underhanded that she gave it up. She
didn't like the feeling that she owed them her body in
exchange for their weed.
    One of them pretended he was only sleeping
with her, but she caught him with his dick inside another girl.
Pretty wasn't even all that pissed off, but she was done.
She had after all, read the primer on AIDS. This, in nineteen
eighty-nine.
    The utter truth of it was that no one could
fill the empty space in her heart that spanned between Jeremiah and
Drew.
    She caught Them laughing about Drew once –
the loser who took his own life thinking anyone would care.
    It left her frozen in mid-step. She cared.
She missed him. He'd been her sole reason to get out of bed, come
here, and do this again, day after day after day, without
Jeremiah.
    And she didn't think he thought about being
missed or remembered or forgotten. Whether anyone would miss him or
care wasn't in his head at all. If Pretty had a chasm of
unbelonging, Drew had a chasm of pain. All that mattered to her was
to get through this stupid school thing, footstep by footstep, day
by day.
    All that mattered to Drew was to stop the
pain.
    She wondered sometimes what it was like for
him, those final moments, brains smattered against the wall, blood
pouring out of the wound. Was he terrified? Satisfied?
    Who could even guess?
    She'd had sex with Drew two weeks before he
killed himself, which ruined everything there'd been between them.
She thought she could have loved him. But when it came to sex, he
was so… oh, it was hard to explain… raw and rough, contrary to the
compassionate, sweet, and loving boy she'd come to know. She was
almost startled out of love with him. Like his liquid-sympathetic
brown eyes were a lie, had always been a lie, a mask that slipped
from his face as his fingers bruised, and his slim, delicate body
assaulted hers without care, as if her body was nothing more than a
vehicle for masturbation.
    She wasn't even speaking to him when he
died.
    And that might have had more to do with all
of the other boys than Pretty cared to examine.
     
     

     
     
    She missed her husband. He was the person
who knew her the best, who never judged her, never made her feel
like she had to pretend about anything. If she had some way to call
him, she would, and she'd tell him about Jeremiah Quick. She
probably wouldn't mention right away about the weird sex, but it
wasn't something she'd keep secret from him, either. They didn't
have secrets or lies or masks. She was the vessel, always reaching,
stretching outward, giving herself away, and he was the source,
always filling her up. His love was consistent, stabilizing. He
helped her be more than she could have been otherwise. He let her
grow, and never seemed afraid of the growing.
    He'd found her, pursued her, convinced her,
and she was lucky for that.
    And the truth was – he was the one who
simply let her be herself. He never ridiculed her, almost always
agreed with her. He gave her space to figure out who she was,
whether she was Pretty or Letty or someone else entirely.
    He made her feel safe without any masks at
all.
    He loved her basic, internal self.
    And that was the part of her that would
change only through experience, life, love, and loss.
    Before this detour with Jeremiah Quick,
she'd been looking forward to a quiet weekend all by herself. Alone
weekends happened so rarely that her mind was free-falling before
she even got home. She’d been looking forward to the silent house
for a month, and decided to stop for the groceries now so the chore
wouldn't be hanging over her. She hoped the boys placed in their
tournament, and would stay another night to compete in final
events. That would be just… bliss. Her daughter, Sarah, was furious
with her about something or other, and would stay gone for as long
as allowed. Pretty kept hoping Sarah would get easier, but at
fourteen, no luck yet.
    There were days when Pretty wondered how
she'd