Breathless and sated, I roll off my indulgence and stare at the water stains on the ceiling to avoid her eyes. Her heavy panting slows as I lose focus in the fan above. The blades stir the thick air that smells like our sex, and I close my eyes to draw out the lasting remnants of my high as it radiates through my limbs.
The moment she speaks is the moment I sit up and rip off the condom.
“I’m glad you stopped by,” she says as I pull my shorts on. “This week has been crazy at work. They fired a few people, and I’ve been picking up the extra shifts to try to stash some money away.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know. Been thinking about taking a couple of cosmetology classes or something. Working in a salon could be fun,” she says, and a part of me wants to tell her that she could do so much more with her life than scrubbing calluses off strangers’ feet, but I don’t. “It’s not like I want to be a grocery store cashier for the rest of my life, you know?”
I grab my shirt off the floor and turn to look at her as she stares up at me. She lies on the bed, completely naked, with no sheets covering her body. Her eyes are needy. They always have been. Not for me, though. They’re needy for self-worth and hope for a better life. Krista uses me, just as I use her, but where I use her to satisfy my physical needs, she uses me for something far more unfortunate—a false perception of importance.
Having the attention of the boy next door fulfills her in a way that allows me to keep coming back for more, and I do. For years, I’ve been knocking on her door and fucking her on her bed.
“You should look into classes if that’s what you really want to do.”
Krista rolls onto her side and props her head up with her hand. “Yeah, maybe.”
I shove my feet into my flip-flops and pick up my keys from the nightstand before asking, “You okay?”
“You don’t have to ask me that every time you leave. I’m a big girl.”
And I know she is at the age of twenty-two. That’s why this arrangement works so well. Neither one of us has to worry about emotions getting involved, since neither of us is interested in anything more than sex.
“See you later.”
I step out of her ground-floor unit, walk over to the adjacent building, and climb the stairs to my apartment. Walking in, I find my mother in the kitchen, boiling a pot of water.
“What are you doing home?”
“It’s nice to see you, too, Son.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say as I walk over to the stove. When I see the box of dried pasta and a tub of margarine, I take the fork out of her hand. “Why don’t you sit, Mom.”
She purses her lips before taking a seat at the rickety linoleum table that’s pushed against the wall.
“Why aren’t you at work?”
“I had an appointment with my doctor.”
I turn to my mom, who looks years beyond her age, with deep-set wrinkles and brittle hair. She’s had a tough life raising me as a single mother, and although she’s been absent for the majority of my childhood, there isn’t a single day that I don’t appreciate her efforts to keep us afloat. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine. It was only a checkup. Nothing to concern yourself with.”
I hate when she brushes my warranted concerns off and claims there’s nothing to worry about.
“How was work today?”
When the water comes to a boil, I toss in the pasta. “Same as every other day,” I tell her, leaving out the fact that the girl I can’t seem to get out of my head lives in one of the houses that’s on my route.
“Any plans for tonight?”
“I’m supposed to hang out at Micah’s.”
“That sounds fun.”
I continue to watch the pot, stirring occasionally until it’s done.
“You want parmesan?” I ask as I drain the noodles and toss some margarine into them.
“We’re all out.”
Sprinkling a dash of salt over the noodles, I set the bowl in front of her, kiss her cheek, and wish I weren’t so self-sufficient. For once, it would be nice if someone would tend to me, to ask me if I was all right. Not that I’m not okay, but it’s the knowing that I’m being looked after that’s been my missing piece in life. Again, I don’t hold it against my mom, but the feelings of abandonment are ever-lingering.
“I’m going to jump in the shower and then head out. You need anything else?”
She shakes her head and thanks me for cooking before taking a bite.
After working out in the heat all day and then stopping by Krista’s, I opt for a cold shower, which soothes my sunbaked skin. Not knowing how late I’m going to be out tonight, I give in once more and jerk another one out before finishing my shower.
Running my hand through my wet hair that’s long overdue for a trim, I walk over to my dresser and pull out a pair of shorts and a T-shirt to toss on. With the money I earn, I’ve been able to accrue a decent collection of clothing to replace the thrift store hand-me-downs of my younger years. Thankfully, most of the kids I go to school with couldn’t care less about labels—at least for the guys. It seems those who don’t come from wealth desire the “look” of luxury more than those who are privy to it. Take it or leave it, they’re fine with shorts, T-shirts, and flip-flops, so my fitting into the visual standards of those down in South Tampa has never been an issue.
But where I live, just west of the University of South Florida, is the armpit of Tampa. Rusty mobile homes and rundown apartments like this one line the streets. The city does its best to hide our dilapidated presence behind restaurants, sports bars, and retail sites that dominate the scene near USF.
I’m one of the lucky ones, though. With some help, I was able to leave my neighborhood school and transfer to South Shore High in South Tampa, where the city’s most valuable properties line the impeccably manicured streets.
“Dude, you coming over?” Micah says when I answer his call.
“Leaving now.”
“Trent and I are about to head out and grab some takeout. The house is open, so let yourself in.”
“Sounds good.”
Getting into my car, I crank the windows down since the air conditioning finally gave up the good fight the other day, and start driving south to Harbour Island. Thirty minutes later, I cross the small bridge over to the gated community. When I pull up to Micah’s house, I see Trent’s car, along with a sporty, white Mercedes hatchback, the same one that’s parked at Adaline’s house every time I’ve been there.
My attempts to dodge this girl keep failing. I didn’t think much of her when we first bumped into each other, and it wasn’t until I saw that look of attraction in her eyes later that day in sixth period that I told myself to steer clear. It’s been difficult since she’s become friends with Micah, so to avoid making it too obvious that I’m avoiding her, I pull the key from the ignition and head inside, knowing that everyone is out grabbing food.
I walk through the house to the back doors so I can take in the waterfront view I’m not privileged enough to see every day. Opening the double doors, I step outside as the sun is setting in the distance, and a girl’s voice catches my attention.
I scan the expansive yard, and find her sitting on the edge of the dock, talking on the phone. Her long blonde hair is pulled into a ponytail that hangs down the center of her back, which is barely covered by the strappy, loose top she’s wearing. My chest kicks out a few hard beats, and as much as it feels good, I hate it just as badly.
I watch her.
How can I not?
Her skin is darker than it was when I met her on her first day of school, and I wonder how much time she’s been spending at the beach. That thought is chased by a pang of jealousy when I consider who she would be going to the beach with. It’s not like Micah has made it a secret that he likes the girl, only I don’t know in what capacity.
“You haven’t even called me since Mom and I moved,” she says into the phone, her voice is loud with agitation. “I started a new school, and you haven’t even texted me to ask how it’s going.”
Curiosity gets to me as I walk across the patio and down a few steps to the pool.
“Are you going to make time for us to hang out . . . just the two of us?”
Her whole tone has shifted, and I don’t hear an ounce of the upbeat girl I see every day at school.
Setting the phone at her side, she braces the edge of the dock with her hands and drops her head. I feel like I’m intruding on a private moment, but I don’t walk away. I don’t move at all, until I do, because there’s something intolerable about her being upset, no matter what the reason.
Wood creaks beneath my feet when I step onto the dock and she startles. She snaps her head up to meet my eyes and her cheeks are covered in tears.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” I say, and she immediately shies away, turning to quickly wipe her face.
Kicking off my flip-flops, I sit next to her and drop my legs over the edge, alongside hers.
She sniffs and clears her throat, her lame attempt to mask what I just saw. “What are you doing here?”
“Who were you talking to?” I ask, avoiding her effort to distract me with her irrelevant question, and my bluntness catches her off guard.
“What?”
“The person who made you cry. Who was it?”
Her lips part, but she doesn’t answer me right away. There’s something about seeing her on the brink of vulnerability that tugs me from an unknown place. She’s hesitant to talk, and I guess I can’t blame her with how evasive I’ve been with her lately.
“I’m sorry I was a dick in my car the other week. I shouldn’t have blown you off.”
Her face softens with my apology as she’s cast in waves of silver from the moon’s reflection off the water. She still doesn’t speak, though, so I go on only because I want her to trust me enough to answer my question when I ask it again.
“My parents were never married,” I tell her, answering the question she asked a couple of weeks ago. The one I evaded and then gave her the cold shoulder for asking. But seeing her tonight, with tears in her eyes, the coldness is gone. “My father has never been in the picture. I’ve never met him.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have even asked you about something so personal.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for. It was a simple question.”
She glides her toes lazily over the water, and I give her a moment before I press on. “So tell me, who were you talking to?”
And this time, she’s the one who avoids the question in order to ask her own. “Why are you so standoffish?”
“I didn’t mean to be.”
She arches a brow at my lie, and I chuckle at her forwardness.
“Okay, fine. I meant to be,” I admit.
“Is that your nature, or is it something you reserve for me? Because I’m not going to lie, you’re giving me a complex.”
“I don’t hold enough clout to give anyone a complex.”
She smiles and tilts her head back to look at the stars.
“Last time,” I state, waiting for her to give her attention back to me, and when she does, I ask again, “Who were you talking to?”
The way she looks at me knocks all the confidence I pretend to have on its ass, and I wonder if she can see through the sham.
“My dad. I’m supposed spend my spring break with him, but . . .” She shrugs and looks down at the water beneath our feet.
“But what?”
“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”
“Now look who’s being standoffish,” I say to ease her tension, and it works when I see the corner of her mouth lift. “Why were you crying?”
“Because . . .” She fidgets her hands. “Because when he left my mom, I felt like he wanted to leave me, too. He’s remarried now, and she has a son who he gives all his attention to, while I’m on the outside looking in. It’s just . . . it doesn’t feel good to be forgotten.”
“This is the same guy who used to take you to car shows?”
She nods. “He hasn’t even bothered to call me or even text since we moved.”
“Why go visit him?”
“I don’t want to, but my mother already bought the plane ticket. She’s doing what she can to keep my father in my life, but I know it hurts her.”
“When do you leave?”
“Next weekend.”
I pick up her phone, which has been sitting between us, swipe the screen, and add my cell to her contacts while she watches me. When I hand the phone to her, I say, “In case you need a distraction while you’re there.”
“And what about you? Where will you be?”
“Working.”
“You’re not going anywhere?”
It’s now that I regret opening myself up to this girl and giving her my number. It’s the reminder that we come from two very different worlds, which she is unaware of. I’ve never taken a vacation in my life. This town is the only place I’ve ever seen, but Adaline . . . I can only imagine all the places she’s already experienced in her short life.
“Not this year,” I tell her before pulling my feet out of the water, and she quickly follows.
“I should probably get going.”
“I’ll walk you inside.”
When we step into the house, Micah and Trent are already back and scarfing down a couple of gyros.
“Food’s in the bag,” Trent says around a mouthful of lamb.
Adaline turns to Micah. “I’m going to head out, if that’s okay?”
“You sure?”
She gives him some lame excuse about being tired, and he walks her out to her car before coming back to the table and picking up his half-eaten gyro. “So, what the hell were the two of you doing out on the dock?” he says with heavy insinuation. “Looked cozy.”
I laugh him off. “Shut the fuck up.”
“She’s hot,” Trent adds.
“Yeah, and she also lives in a big ass house that sits right on Bayshore Avenue.”
“You’ve been over to her house?”
“I’m her fucking pool cleaner, Micah.”
“Who the fuck cares?” he says, completely detached from the reality I live in. The kind of reality where girls like her have no business being with guys like me. Not to mention the embarrassment of her knowing that I don’t come from this world.
A world filled with ease and prosperity.
A world where your last name and address is all you need to have respect spilled at your feet.
A world I shouldn’t be a part of, but because of Micah’s father, I am.
“I care. Plus, I don’t want to intrude on whatever it is you have going on with her,” I tell him, curious as to what their relationship actually is, even though I know better to care.
“Dude, nothing’s going on. She’s a down girl, that’s all.” He takes another bite of food and gives me a pointed look. “Plus, I’m working on my own thing. A Tampa Prep chick.”
“Sounds pretentious. Does she know what she’s getting herself into?”
“Stop talking,” he laughs, shoving his hand into the Louis Pappas sack, pulling out a gyro, and tossing it my way. “Eat, pretty boy.”