let out a whistle that wasn’t void of admiration . “Those little brats stress you out today or what?”
My mouth felt taped shut with the sleepy film of the wine. “Can you turn off the light?” I suggested.
“It reeks in here. Did you know this bedroom smells like a hobo, Celeste?” I sat up and Ford immediately began laughing. “Oh my god, look at your face. I think you need to brush your teeth before they fall out.”
It was true; my smile had taken on a darkened sheen of purple . Around my mouth, where pigmented drool had journeyed anddried, there was a reddish stain that recalled clown paint. Stumbling from bed, I was at least able to tuck the vibrator beneath the pillow so that the portrait of my solitary hedonism wouldn’t appear to be quite so complete. “We had a 10-31 that some wino was breaking into the bathroom of the convenience mart tonight,” Ford called as I rummaged through the medicine cabinet, downing a small handful of what I hoped were Tylenol PM. “But the perp got away. That wasn’t you, was it?”
By the time I was up and showered on Saturday afternoon, I had little energy to do anything but sit at the kitchen table and stare at the phone, hoping not to receive a call from AP Rosen or the legal team of Jack’s parents. When it finally did ring, I jumped in my seat. I was suddenly paralyzed; it felt self-proclaimed—if I hadn’t been watching it, it would not have rung—and I cursed myself and let the machine pick up. But it was just Ford doing a sobriety check on me.
“Hello, dear,” I said, picking up to the loud beep of the machine recording stopping. My voice had the gravelly sound of someone wearing a bathrobe well into the day. “I have not touched a single bottle and I’ve prayed to the Lord for strength.”
“Ha,” he muttered. I heard a car horn.
“Isn’t it against the law to be on your phone while you drive?”
“Not when you’re driving the cop car, sweets.” He then entered into a long story about a domestic dispute he’d interrupted that had the following punch line: the chosen weapon of assault was a fly-swatter .
“I’ll catch you later, hero,” I said. When I was hungover, the sound of Ford’s voice made me unbearably nauseous.
Unable to go back to sleep for a nap, I decided I’d wait untildusk settled, then drive by Jack’s house again. Surely, if the family was in pandemonium from a revelation Jack had made, I’d be able to detect something from the exterior: the dining room aglow long after dinnertime, the family seated around the table in a strategy meeting, Jack’s head held between his hands at an angle suggesting emotional anguish while his parents bickered about how best to proceed.
There was nothing to do but wait. Baking myself seemed like the ideal activity; the feeling of sun on skin would serve as a fitting distraction. Slathering myself with SPF and wearing nothing but a wide-brimmed straw hat, I lay nude in our pool’s floating chaise lounge for the better part of the afternoon and evening, bobbing and staring at the clarified sky through polarized sunglass lenses. I thought about Jack there with me, the scent of chlorine and coconut on his skin, his balls tightening in my hand as he eased into the cool water. How great it would feel to be lying on the warm concrete and have him leap from the water, taut and dripping, and lie on top of me, outlining each of my limbs with his own cold counterpart.
I kept hope as well that instead of the worst possible outcome—seeing his parents interrogating him on the couch, large yellow legal pads in both of their hands—I might plausibly encounter the best: Jack mowing the lawn at dusk for his weekly allowance money, freckles of blown dirt sticking to the sweat of his shirtless torso, his mesh basketball shorts slung down below the boxers on his hips. No one else home. In that case, I might be able to park the car and gradually happen upon him, feigning surprise: I’d just made a
My mouth felt taped shut with the sleepy film of the wine. “Can you turn off the light?” I suggested.
“It reeks in here. Did you know this bedroom smells like a hobo, Celeste?” I sat up and Ford immediately began laughing. “Oh my god, look at your face. I think you need to brush your teeth before they fall out.”
It was true; my smile had taken on a darkened sheen of purple . Around my mouth, where pigmented drool had journeyed anddried, there was a reddish stain that recalled clown paint. Stumbling from bed, I was at least able to tuck the vibrator beneath the pillow so that the portrait of my solitary hedonism wouldn’t appear to be quite so complete. “We had a 10-31 that some wino was breaking into the bathroom of the convenience mart tonight,” Ford called as I rummaged through the medicine cabinet, downing a small handful of what I hoped were Tylenol PM. “But the perp got away. That wasn’t you, was it?”
By the time I was up and showered on Saturday afternoon, I had little energy to do anything but sit at the kitchen table and stare at the phone, hoping not to receive a call from AP Rosen or the legal team of Jack’s parents. When it finally did ring, I jumped in my seat. I was suddenly paralyzed; it felt self-proclaimed—if I hadn’t been watching it, it would not have rung—and I cursed myself and let the machine pick up. But it was just Ford doing a sobriety check on me.
“Hello, dear,” I said, picking up to the loud beep of the machine recording stopping. My voice had the gravelly sound of someone wearing a bathrobe well into the day. “I have not touched a single bottle and I’ve prayed to the Lord for strength.”
“Ha,” he muttered. I heard a car horn.
“Isn’t it against the law to be on your phone while you drive?”
“Not when you’re driving the cop car, sweets.” He then entered into a long story about a domestic dispute he’d interrupted that had the following punch line: the chosen weapon of assault was a fly-swatter .
“I’ll catch you later, hero,” I said. When I was hungover, the sound of Ford’s voice made me unbearably nauseous.
Unable to go back to sleep for a nap, I decided I’d wait untildusk settled, then drive by Jack’s house again. Surely, if the family was in pandemonium from a revelation Jack had made, I’d be able to detect something from the exterior: the dining room aglow long after dinnertime, the family seated around the table in a strategy meeting, Jack’s head held between his hands at an angle suggesting emotional anguish while his parents bickered about how best to proceed.
There was nothing to do but wait. Baking myself seemed like the ideal activity; the feeling of sun on skin would serve as a fitting distraction. Slathering myself with SPF and wearing nothing but a wide-brimmed straw hat, I lay nude in our pool’s floating chaise lounge for the better part of the afternoon and evening, bobbing and staring at the clarified sky through polarized sunglass lenses. I thought about Jack there with me, the scent of chlorine and coconut on his skin, his balls tightening in my hand as he eased into the cool water. How great it would feel to be lying on the warm concrete and have him leap from the water, taut and dripping, and lie on top of me, outlining each of my limbs with his own cold counterpart.
I kept hope as well that instead of the worst possible outcome—seeing his parents interrogating him on the couch, large yellow legal pads in both of their hands—I might plausibly encounter the best: Jack mowing the lawn at dusk for his weekly allowance money, freckles of blown dirt sticking to the sweat of his shirtless torso, his mesh basketball shorts slung down below the boxers on his hips. No one else home. In that case, I might be able to park the car and gradually happen upon him, feigning surprise: I’d just made a
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