Fade In:
SLIP BACK INTO DANIEL’S SKIN
A narrow slant of sunlight draws you into the day. You sense it must be late morning because there is noise outside the window—a lawn mower’s growl, a car’s impatient honking, someone calling their dog inside. It takes you a minute to remember where you are, why you’ve been sleeping so soundly, afloat in the comfort of a soft mattress and sheets that smell like lavender. The rasp of Grace’s breathing reminds you it’s her bed you share.
You’ve never lived
like this, Daniel, and never will.
All you’ll ever get are borrowed
hours with Grace. It isn’t fair.
Not wanting to wake her, you lie very still, remembering the details of last night. What should have been a perfectly fun evening was marred by a couple of things. First, Silas. The guy is unpredictable, and you’d have vastly preferred he didn’t find out about you and Grace, who he seems to still have a thing for.
You must be prepared, in case he decides to come after you again. Dropping your guard would be a mistake. Remember how it felt to go down under his fists, forced flat on your back by his boot-clad feet, and stomped on like a cockroach. Next time he tries, and he quite likely will, you’ll have a weapon at the ready. Preferably one that allows no room for error.
Then there was the row between Grace and her supposed best friend. Cami is apparently a gun enthusiast, something Grace probably should’ve known. She does now, that’s for sure, but whether that will affect their friendship is hard to tell. Truly, you wouldn’t mind at all if a wedge has been driven between them. You’d just as soon Grace didn’t share her time and affection with anyone but you.
At one point Grace left the table, claiming she needed to pee, but it was obvious she wanted to distance herself from the contentious dialogue. When she returned, Cami apologized, and the girls seemed to bury the ol’ hatchet. But Grace was off after that, her usual good nature prickly instead.
On the drive home, you chanced asking, “What was up with your friend, anyway? She has to know how you feel about guns.”
“Of course she does!” she snapped. “It was like the bitch was looking to ruin my birthday. I’ll get her back. You watch.”
You shot her an obvious sideways glance, and she understood the implied question.
“I don’t wage war with battleships,” she said. “I prefer submarines.”
That brought you up short—not only the statement’s intent, but also the flavor of her diction. It was the first time you witnessed that side of her, and it was tantalizing. She’s more like you than you realized.
She stirs beside you now, as if your thoughts have invaded her dreams. “Daniel?” Sleep shadows her voice, and the net effect is to make you remember the best part of last night, which was the kind of lovemaking that makes people commit to stay together forever, knowing no other person could make you feel so totally complete.
Anxious for an encore, you draw your woman into your arms. “Morning.” But when you try to kiss her, she pulls away.
“Later, okay? We should clean up first. Last night was nasty.”
Stunned, you ask, “Nasty good or bad?”
“Good.” Her fingers trace the front of your body, belly button (no lower, despite the insistent throbbing there) to neck. “But I feel kind of crusty. Crusty is not sexy.”
You could argue that, but decide it’s better to let her have her way. After all, you do want sex at some point today, and she is a firecracker you don’t want to set off. “Okay then. A nice hot shower and . . . breakfast? We could go out, or I could cook for you.”
Grace sits up, holding the covers over her nakedness, suddenly shy, like Eve, post-apple. “You cook? Do you shop, too? Not sure what’s in the kitchen. A trip to the store might be necessary.”
She slips out of bed, goes off toward the bathroom. Crusty or not, she’s something to behold, all lean and tan and luscious. How did you ever get this lucky?
Keep dreaming.
It’s temporary.
Like everything in your sphere.
Somewhere in the room, Grace’s cell buzzes, signaling an incoming text. You want to know who it is, but before you find the courage to investigate, she returns, wrapped in a towel and hair dripping water.
“Someone messaged you,” you say, standing to go take your own turn in the shower. You stop long enough to embrace her and inhale the fragrance of her freshly washed hair.
Two days in a row, allowed the luxury of soap and shampoo, seems like a regular vacation, not that you’ve enjoyed many of those in your lifetime, and none since your father died. One day when you’re rich and famous, you’ll take regular trips to amazing faraway places, with Grace on your arm.
As you lather, rinse, and dry off, you make a list in your head. Thailand. France. New Zealand. Tahiti. The one place you don’t think you’ll go is Honduras, or anywhere south of the border. Yeah, it might be nice to see your mom, but you don’t know how you’d even find her. The last letter you got from her was three years ago. She could be dead, for all you know.
That’s the only acceptable excuse.
Anything else is proof
that she never loved you at all.
And what a nightmare it could be, trying to return to the States, considering the color of your skin. Lots of horror stories in the news. It’s bad enough here in Tucson. Arizona cops are notorious for pulling people over, then demanding to see their papers. Trying to clear customs? What a joke, even with the proper ID.
You don’t possess papers, not even your birth certificate. If your dad had it, it’s probably long gone, tossed into Shailene’s shredder. You should probably remedy that. You can’t even get a driver’s license without it. But how? Don’t you need papers to get papers?
No worries about slinging a towel around yourself, you return to Grace’s room sporting your birthday suit. “All decrusted and raring to go,” you declare. “Where are we off to? Back to bed?”
Grace, who is completely dressed, grins. “I was thinking about a different kind of exercise. Like maybe a bike ride.”
“Bike ride?”
“You can ride one, can’t you?”
“I could when I was, like, eight.” And never much cared for the activity. Too many skinned knees and biffed chins. Maybe she and you aren’t quite so alike after all.
“Then you still can. Bet you can’t keep up with me!”
It’s too early in the day for challenges. “Do I have to get dressed first?”
She rolls her eyes. “Pretty sure my dad wouldn’t appreciate your naked heinie on his expensive seat.”
You slip into some of the clothes you washed yesterday. Damn, you’re spotless, which makes the idea of a sweaty bike ride totally unappealing. But you won’t say no and track Grace into the kitchen, where her face is jammed into the refrigerator.
She extricates it. “There are eggs and veggies and cheese. Can you handle an omelet, chef?”
“I believe I can. Put everything on the counter and I’ll be right back.”
Paranoia is a regular visitor. You go into the living room and peek out the windows, ascertaining that there’s no old Ford pickup parked on the street. Sucks that you have to be careful again. You’d pretty much decided he was done messing with you. And now you have to keep Grace safe.
Satisfied there’s no one outside but the neighbors, you return to your chef duty.
“You okay?” Grace has already chopped a bell pepper and sliced an onion. And now she grabs hold of a frying pan.
“Of course. I was just making sure your friend Silas wasn’t sitting outside with an assault rifle or something.”
“Since you don’t look too concerned, I’m guessing he wasn’t. And he isn’t my friend.”
You break four eggs into a bowl, beat them with a fork, add salt, pepper, and a dash of cayenne. Just the way your mami used to make them. “I still don’t get why you went out with the guy. You attracted to loutish Neanderthals or what?”
“Is there such a thing as non-loutish Neanderthals?” Grace is fabulous with comebacks. “And are you calling yourself a caveman? Because I’m attracted to you.”
“Seriously, Grace. I mean, the dude’s a skinhead.” You add butter to the frying pan, toss in the veggies to sauté. They aren’t the only things sizzling in the kitchen.
“Didn’t you know? Skinheads are radical lays. I just couldn’t help myself. He made me all hot and horny for his hard, Aryan six-pack.”
It’s a bad joke, and you want to laugh it off as that, but part of you wonders if there isn’t a thread of truth there. Not only that, but now you want to know if she actually had sex with him, and if she did, if it approached what the two of you shared last night. But now is probably not the time to quiz her.
“Sorry. That was rude.”
You reach for a spatula, drop it on the floor, bend to retrieve it in unison with Grace, and when your faces are three inches apart, her eyes pierce your eyes. That’s exactly how it feels, like she’s slicing into you. This girl has a temper.
“Look, Daniel. I didn’t know Silas was a white-power prick when I first met him. I was vulnerable, he was good-looking and popular, so I felt flattered by his interest. And, believe it or not, he listened to me. It wasn’t all about him, like some other guys.”
There’s something in her voice. Some hint of affection that makes you think sex came secondary to love.
No. That’s impossible.
No one could love him.
You loathe him with every ounce
of hatred you hold inside.
There are only two people you despise more. Next thing you know Grace will make excuses for Tim and Shailene. Not that she knows everything. Oh, no, not even close.
The smell of softened onions and peppers reminds you to finish cooking the omelet, though you’re not nearly as hungry as you were before this dialogue—which you started—entered the awkward zone.
When it’s done, you carry plates to the table and Grace brings a couple of glasses of orange juice. The scene is so domestic it’s almost upsetting. You could get used to living like this, but two more days of comfort, and then you’ll be back out on the street.
You look up from your plate. “Do you really think he’s good-looking?”
“Would I go out with someone who wasn’t?”
Mic drop.
Of course she wouldn’t. But how could she think Silas qualified? The guy is nothing but a thick slab of meat.
She thinks he’s better than you.
No. That can’t be. But it will gnaw at you forever unless you know for sure.
“I’m just going to come straight out and ask. Is he more attractive than I am?”
She chews her mouthful of eggs and swallows, takes a sip of juice before answering. “Are you seriously jealous of Silas? Daniel, I broke up with him because I can’t stomach violence, and he enjoys it. Any feelings I had for him died when I witnessed the pleasure he took in beating you unconscious.” She reaches out, caresses your cheek. “Besides, I happen to love someone else.”
You know she means you, so why is your first reaction: Yeah, like who? Daniel, my friend, you’ve got a problem. You know that’s true when a sudden suspicion crosses your mind. “So, who texted you earlier?”
Her hand jerks back. “That’s what you’ve got to say?”
This is not going well, and it’s all your fault. “I’m blowing it, man, and I’m sorry. I’m a jealous person, mostly because I have so few things worth holding on to.”
She nods understanding, but says, “Trust is important. Relationships can’t survive without it. If I haven’t earned your trust by now, I’m not sure I ever can.”
This is starting to sound like an: I love you, but . . . Quick. Think! You can’t lose this girl. Say something funny.
“Hey, I trust you. Enough to go on a bike ride with you, even though I’ll never keep up.”
That wasn’t funny.
Still, she smiles. “Okay then. Oh, so you know, the text was from Noelle. She wants me to stop by later. She’s got a birthday present for me. I’ll do that, then afterward maybe we could grab a bite and see a movie.”
“I, um, I’m kind of strapped after last night.” Cover charges and soft drinks were about all you could afford.
“My treat.”
Pretty much everything is her treat. She’s liable to grow tired of that, but you can’t exactly say no. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m positive. You ready to roll?”
She stands and clears the table, and you breathe a sigh of relief. So far, no breakup.
Grace’s dad’s eighteen-speed mountain bike is a lot more machine than the five-speed you had as a kid, but you get the hang of shifting without much problem and actually find yourself enjoying the cruise along the Tucson area’s system of paved paths.
It’s a nice Saturday, with perfect February-in-Arizona weather, so Grace and you aren’t exactly alone on these favored trails. Hard-core cyclists in Lycra and fancy helmets share the thoroughfare with single riders and families, taking advantage of the holiday weekend.
You pass a couple of boys, maybe ten, standing off to one side, arguing. One of their bikes is on its kickstand; the other lies fallen over. Déjà vu hits, and hard.
Tim and you are almost the same age. He’s a few months younger, but because of the circumstances of your childhoods, he was the one who always received the best gifts because your dad understood that Shailene wouldn’t have it any other way. Your BMX bike was an inexpensive model, but his was a fancy Schwinn, which he received for his eleventh birthday. You hated them both.
And, while you were cautious with your cheapie, Tim was rough on his Cadillac, something your dad warned him about time and again. So it was easy enough to get away with bending his derailleur when no one was looking. The two of you went riding, you challenged him to a race, and off popped his chain, while he was going maybe fifteen miles an hour. For sure, both he and the bike were under pressure, and one ridiculous downshift sent him over the handlebars.
For once, it wasn’t you suffering chin lesions and chewed knees. It was your fair-skinned “brother,” who deserved all that and more.
That felt good, didn’t it,
watching him howl in pain.
He wasn’t hurt too badly, but he did get a trip to urgent care and a huge verbal takedown from the one thing you and he had in common—your father.
Tim suspected you had something to do with the accident, probably because of the huge grin you couldn’t quite shake off your face. But when he tried to lay the blame on you, you denied, denied, denied. Shailene might have believed Tim. But your dad rested his faith in you, and that’s all that mattered.
Then one day he was gone.
Everything about your life went downhill after your father’s funeral. With Shailene in charge, you were pretty much at her mercy, something Tim rubbed in every chance he got. It became a game of will and backdoor revenge.
You’d get him.
One very big lesson you learned from all that was to never assume all is well.
And you always hold a trump card.
Fade Out