Page 23 of Whatever Will Be

I kissed Trent Cassini.

I moaned into his mouth, opened my legs and urged him to rip off my underwear.

That’s what happened.

The gate hinges creak as they open and close. Quickly, I look to the carriage house but nothing seems amiss and even if Danny had decided to step outside he wouldn’t have been able to see much all the way over here with the patio lights off.

My dress is still bunched up and I hastily shove it down where it belongs. I tie my sweater belt in a double knot, swipe the cold beer off the ground and drink the entire thing in twenty seconds even if it is shit like Trent said. The alcohol breeds rapid warmth in my chest although I’m shivering once more.

Trent isn’t coming back and even if he did I absolutely wouldn’t be kissing him again. In fact, I feel like a complete jackass.

But I’m also exhausted. I think I might be able to sleep now without stress and sorrow generating bad dreams.

After enduring the icy outside air, the house feels far warmer and more pleasant. I toss the empty bottle, take note of the fact that there is much cleaning up to be done after so many people traipsed through here today, and decide to leave it all for tomorrow.

Upstairs, the girls are still sleeping soundly. My brain has already begun a mental checklist with all the things I’ll need to do when the sun comes up.

I need to call the family lawyer. I need to check in with the girls’ preschool. I need to get the house utilities transferred to my name. I need to sit my brother down and figure out where his head is at. I need to consider what the hell I’m going to do for a job.

I rub my eyes and force the list to quit growing.

Jules’s bedroom door is closed because I couldn’t stand the thought of being in there or having anyone else in there.

That door can’t stay closed forever. I might as well open it now.

Stepping inside is like being rewarded with a glimpse into my sister’s head. The primary colors are yellow and blue and there are pictures of the girls everywhere. And pictures of us. Me and her at my high school graduation. Me and her and Danny as children. Danny holding the girls when they were infants. Me and the girls at Christmas.

This room is all love and family and devotion. It’s all Jules.

The surfaces of the dresser and small desk are cluttered with small objects, mostly arts and crafts projects that were clearly made by tiny hands, like collages of glued macaroni and paper butterflies. Beneath a bumblebee popsicle sculpture I spot the CD of Abigail Fisher’s Greatest Hits. I think it must be the same one we listened to on the way to Ithaca so long ago. I left it behind when I went to college.

The bed is impeccably made, covered with a quilt, pale yellow and bordered with bluebirds, a gift from me for her birthday a couple of years ago. I lie down right on top of it, breathing in lavender-scented laundry detergent and a vague hint of Jules’s floral perfume as my cheek finds her soft pillow.

“Put your seatbelt on, Gretch.”

“Gretchen, you’re going to be an aunt!”

“I love you, little sister.”

I can only whisper back at the memories.

“I love you too, Jules.”

Then I turn my face toward the pillow to prevent the sound of my sobs from carrying down the hall.

4

Trent

Covering up the scars with tattoos would probably stop the questions that inevitably come whenever I take my shirt off.

But I haven’t done that yet and I don’t plan to.

About two years ago I was briefly involved with a med school student who aspired to be a plastic surgeon. She was especially fascinated by the web of cuts on my back and the healed burns on my chest, all faded but still noticeable. She would flick her tongue over them and sadly mutter about what a shame it was to blur such a perfect body. She wanted to fix me, or at least fix my scars. Every time she started talking like that, I would roll her over and fuck the thought right out of her silly head.

Because I’m no one’s fucking project.

And although I’m unwilling to curl up in a woman’s arms and sob over my past trauma, I don’t want to erase it either. I’m not going to forget.

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