Pretty Reckless
You are the fucking equation, I want to yell in her face. The riddle and the answer and the numbers within it. You’re math. You make sense.
“Don’t go,” I croak. I sound like a wuss. I don’t even recognize this voice. I want a refund on my vocal cords. They suck.
She takes a step back. I try another tactic.
“Where are you going?”
She shrugs, flinging herself onto her bed, disappearing into the soft mattress like it’s a cloud.
“Come the fuck on, Daria. Give me something to work with.”
She smiles at the ceiling, drifting away from reality.
“You don’t know how the weekend is going to pan out,” I make another point.
“But I do,” she says softly. “That’s the thing about sins. They stack up and blow in your face. You can’t be my shield.”
I can be your anything. Fucking try me.
I turn around. Tug at my hair until my scalp burns. Curse under my breath. The thing about nightmares is that you never know which one your worst is until you live through it. Via and I pushed Daria out of this place. Out of her own home.
Maybe it’s because I can’t move toward the door, can’t end this shit, or generally suck at being human, but after a while, Daria stands up again and escorts me out.
So this is what it feels like to die. Cool. Good to know.
She rises on her toes. I don’t bend down to meet her halfway, knowing a kiss could very much end me at this point. She settles for pressing her lips against my throat.
“Me too,” she whispers as she shoves me out the door.
I look back, my face a huge question mark.
“You were never a drizzle, Penn Scully. When I fell for you, you came beating down, and I felt you everywhere. You were hail.”
Why didn’t you tell me we were in love?
Why did you wait for me to find out
When you broke my heart?
I show up on Cam’s doorstep the same night looking like death and probably not smelling much better.
Kannon is peeking behind him, as well as Cam’s sister, brother, mother…his entire neighborhood, basically, stares back at me like I’m fucking ET, complete with the bike and white knitted throw. Naturally, I’d have an audience on the worst day of my life. Karma has a sick sense of humor like that.
“I haven’t been living with Rhett for a while now.” I jump straight to the bottom line, pleasantries be damned.
“We know.” Cam opens the door wider, stepping sideways so I can enter. “Everyone knows, Penn. You think no one tried to drop by? Leave a message? Even your hookups were wondering where you were. No one said anything because we figured you had your reasons. Where were you?”
“The Followhills,” I say. “Via’s there now. She’s back.”
“And how do you feel about it?” Kannon asks.
“Shit.” I smile tiredly.
Everyone nods. Cam’s sister jerks me by the hole in my shirt.
“Little punk, you really got in over your head.”
The week is unadulterated torture. I don’t even bother showing up to the Followhills’ for food and sleep. I sleep on Camilo’s couch, ghosting a worried Mel and a furious Jaime. I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop, probably on my ass, when Jaime finally confronts me about touching his daughter. But so far, he seems more irritated than cross.
Jaime: You can’t avoid this forever.
Watch me.
Jaime: You realize I’ll see you at the game, right, Einstein?
Good point, but I’m eighteen. I don’t think further than what’s going to happen in the next ten minutes.
Jaime: Daria’s been asking about you.
Of course, I’m dumb enough to take the bait.
You BS-ing me, sir?
Jaime: Yes. But you need to come home if you want to see her before she gets on that plane.
What I don’t tell him is that I can no longer see planes in the sky without being filled with hatred toward those fuckers. Every jet is a personal offense against me. Whenever Via tries to call, I send her to voicemail. When she shows up at Camilo’s with her horrid Jeep, I slam the door in her face, regretting it didn’t hit her ass in the process.
Since we’re tapering toward the end of the season, Huggins is giving me shit for hitting it too hard and not backing off. I have so much pent-up rage in me I could give the biblical Samson a run for his money. Coach Higgins is trying to make sure that by the time we get on the field Friday night, we’re so hungry and ready, failure is not an option.
Gus has been sending sporadic text messages with question marks. I don’t know how much Via has told him, but I do not negotiate with terrorists. On Thursday, a mass message goes out from Colin, Gus’s goon, that there’s a spontaneous gathering at the snake pit for special pre-play-off fights.
I lock the football team in the locker room as soon as I get it.
“If I hear any of you miserable fucks have been fighting, I’ll raise hell, you hear me?”
Everyone nods. Everyone but an angry Camilo. “They’ve been talking trash about us all season.”
“So what? They’re just words,” Kannon replies.
“Words are everything,” Camilo responds. “They called me a fucking beaner.”