Sloth

  I rub my forehead. My dad is a fucking prick.

  The times we do see him, he makes Lyon get all stiff and quiet. Ly has got this low, serious voice he uses with Robert, like to show him he’s a real man or some shit. It doesn’t matter how much he trips over himself, trying to impress our father. Robert never bats an eye. He never has any praise to spare. At the end of every day we’re there, Ly goes to his room and shuts the door. He doesn’t even rant about what a dick Robert is—not anymore. He doesn’t say a word to me about our bastard Dad. He hasn’t in at least a year.

  My strategy for being home is different. I get drunk, try to leave a bag of powder lying around, and see how rattled I can get him: dear old Dad—the esteemed pediatric cardiothoracic surgeon Dr. Robert Drake. He tells me what a prick I am, and I crack the knuckles on my right hand. I don’t care what Robert thinks. Not anymore. My name’s on TV every week. I’ve got my own damn fan page.

  Maybe we should take Gillian and Whitney to Veil or someplace for TG. Whitney doesn’t like Gill, but so the fuck what? I’ll keep Gill in bed, stuffed full of my dick, and Ly and Whit can stroll the happy mountains holding hands like the old folks they are.

  “Open up motherfucker!”

  Murray knocks so hard the door vibrates. He yanks it open and steps in. I stand up and laugh as Murray whirls away from me.

  “What the fuck are you doing, son? Damn!”

  He tosses a towel over his shoulder, and I catch it before it hits the water.

  “Put yo clothes on.”

  I towel off and reach for my boxers. “You get the knife?”

  “I got somethin’.” I laugh at Murray’s Mississippi drawl.

  We spend the next half hour finishing the punch, and then I hear Gill coming through the bedroom, making a big fuss as she tries to locate me.

  I shut her up as fast as I can, bending her over the side of a chair in one of the lesser staterooms and fingering her tight hole while my other hand delves into her warm pussy. I wait until she’s dripping wet and begging for it. Then I slide my dick inside her pussy for the moisture, draw out slowly, and take her asshole inch by blissful inch.

  When we’re finished, she’s quiet for once.

  I grin.

  She huffs. “I don’t know why you like my ass so much.”

  I shrug. “It’s symbiotic, baby. That ass likes me just as much as I like it. Don’t try to lie.”

  I step into the en suite and turn on the bath, then throw Gillian over my shoulder and lower her into the warm water.

  “What is it with you and baths tonight?”

  I shrug. “Cleanliness is Godliness or some shit. That’s what Murray says.”

  Her lip curls. “Stupid Southerner.”

  “Portlander.”

  Gill makes a face at me.

  My phone buzzes, and I step out without even checking who it is.

  Murray. ‘Get your ass in here. I got something for your bro Ly.’

  I tell Gillian I’ll be back in a few and elbow my way through the crowded hallway. I find Murray spooning hunch punch into some crystal we probably shouldn’t be using. He hands me a glittering glass that’s filled with red liquid and chunks of melon.

  He grins. “Give this to Ly. I want to see him drunk off real hunch punch, the way we do it down in Jackson.”

  “You want to what?” The door cracks open, and my blond brother steps in. He looks from me to Murray and grins. “You making fun of me, Murray? That hurts.” He puts a hand over his heart. “You think I can’t handle some of your fruity punch?”

  Lyon drains the glass in two long gulps and chews a chunk of melon. He smacks his lips together, then smiles his dimpled smile. A few minutes later, Whit pokes her head in.

  “What up?”

  Murray sends them off with two more glasses of the good stuff.

  Lyon holds his glass up to me as the door shuts, asking me in twinspeak what the fuck is in it. I wink.

  An hour later, when we’re dicking around on the promenade deck and Lyon slips on some sea foam, I remember that moment. The way I winked and let my brother eat the fruit.

  As Ly sails across the damp deck, Whitney grabs for him and so do I, because we both know Lyon is shit-faced. The two of us collide and send him sailing toward the guardrail, and at that moment, a big wave rocks the boat toward the starboard side. Lyon hits the railing with his middle, and flips over it like a gymnast on the bars.

  My heart stops.

  But he’s got the rail. Holy fuck, he’s got the rail! His hands are wrapped around the braided wire. His loafered foot is propped against the deck.

  I lunge for him, grab his forearms. “Fuck!”

  Whitney’s shrieking draws a crowd, and seconds later, Lyon is hauled onto the deck by six strong hands—two of them my own.

  He gives Whit a long, weird look before his eyes roll back into his head. He crumples to the slick deck like a blow-up doll deflating. When I drop down by him and shove my fingers to his neck, I find his pulse pounding too fast.

  A second later, blood starts pouring from his nose.

  My heart pounds too as Whitney screams again.

  HOW LONG AM I GOING TO SIT HERE? Like a lunatic. I’ve got my phone in my hand, and my car parked on top of the library parking deck. I’ve made myself a beacon for Kellan—and yet he hasn’t sought me out. Not even a text to explain the lie about his uncle and the pretty girl with different colored eyes.

  So I have nothing to assuage the awful feeling in my stomach. The one that tells me I messed up, wearing my heart outside myself. Letting him brush up against it. Letting him grab hold of it.

  How many lies did he tell me?

  He’s an addict. Probably. I don’t want him to be, but I’m not an idiot. Who has that many pill bottles and injection-type supplies for any other reason?

  As I’ve sat here these last few hours, I’ve wondered if that’s why his uncle and the girl were there: to stage an intervention or something. Was that what happened the other night, when Pace wouldn’t deliver the plants? Manning was involved—as he would be if Kellan had a drug problem. And Kellan said something about how his dad was putting pressure on Pace. Wouldn’t any father try to intervene if they knew their child had a problem?

  Kellan.

  Addict.

  I saw that cabinet with my own two eyes, and still... I just can’t picture it. He always seems so... capable.

  And moody.

  Okay, he is definitely moody.

  Moody like an addict?

  How the hell would I know?

  He lied about the pot. I know that much for sure. Telling me he doesn’t smoke, as if I’d even care, but then he smokes. He clearly does.

  Maybe he lies instinctively. He would do it to protect himself. The longer I’ve known him, the more I’ve sensed something like that: an outer shell around the softer Kellan.

  Maybe his entire life is a lie. Some people are like that. They can’t commit to being just one person.

  I think about how he joined SGA for his brother. How he doesn’t even like it. And on top of that—the lie of posing as the type of person you aren’t—he has an even more flamboyant double-life because he’s an SGA president who deals.

  So Kellan is a liar.

  I don’t care...

  All I feel right now is desperate. Foolish. Why did I storm off like that? It was stupid to run off without talking to him. Especially after I saw his secret cabinet. Tears shimmer in my eyes.

  R.

  I couldn’t help him! Why not, God?

  I can’t believe he’s dead.

  The more I think about my Kellan, swallowing a bunch of painkillers so he doesn’t have to face whatever haunts him, the more restless—the more helpless—I feel. I want to go to his house, but I’m too scared. What if he hasn’t texted me because he doesn’t want me to come back?

  He likes the affection—yeah. The holding hands, the non-stop touching. So he needs the contact to assuage some beast. But maybe I freaked him out w
hen I told him I liked him. If he’s an addict, he may think he needs to shut me out. Spare me some pain or some such martyr shit.

  I feel the weight of his warm hand on my back as I stood by Olive’s grave. I can see him, pale and stricken, in the passenger’s seat, playing me that song.

  Hey, wait... The hospital!

  My hand drifts to my throat. Of course. I think back to the way he was on the drive to Emory—so listless. At one point, he was begging me to hurry. And before that, up in the windowed room at his house... I don’t think we had sex. Wasn’t that the time I woke up with that egg inside my pussy? And Kellan seemed so pale. So haunted. Was he going through withdrawal or something?

  It would make sense. The way he seemed when we first met: a tiger, always on the prowl, demanding things. And how he seemed to grow more... quiet as the days passed. I wonder if the girl could be his AA partner. Or maybe he was going to—what’s it called?—a Methadone clinic? And the girl knew the clinic hours, so she tried to intersect him there.

  I get out of the car and start to pace. Back and forth, along the row where I’m parked. Moonlight glints off hoods and bumpers. A warm, magnolia-scented breeze tickles my skin. When headlights spill out of the lower level, signaling the arrival of another car, I step behind this big, green Ford F-250 and pray that it’s an Escalade.

  That’s what I’m doing when my phone rings: hiding from the glow of unfamiliar headlights. I look for his name on the screen, but it’s not Kellan. Not the 1-800 hundred number of Be The Match. This number is a local one that I don’t know. Of course.

  “Hello?” I say with trepidation.

  “Cleo?”

  My stomach somersaults. “Manning?”

  “It’s ole Manning.”

  I lean against the green truck’s hood. “God, I’m glad you called. I was going to talk to you about something. Something with Kellan. I’m kind of worried about something with him.”

  “Why you worried?” he drawls.

  “I... I’m sort of hesitant to say. But Manning, do you know what’s going on right now? I was over at his house and his uncle and this girl showed up. He told me—”

  “Cleo?” he says. “Why don’t ya hold your horses for a second?”

  “Why?”

  “I need to tell you something. Kellan told me to...”

  Fear scoops through me. “Okay, what?”

  “He wanted you to know that you can get... that thing from Matt or me, at the prices y’all had talked about. You know that thing?”

  “From Matt or you?” My heart is pounding, but my brain is running a step behind my body. I rub my head and frown. Is Kellan going—”

  Manning cuts in on me, saying, “And he wanted me to tell you that I’ve got a check. I can bring it to you... whenever. Tomorrow. It’s for twenty K. You know what I’m talking about?”

  My blood pumps so hard I feel faint.

  “Honey? Are ya there?”

  I slide down the truck’s grill, crouching on the cement deck. “So... ? He’s...” My head throbs, referring pain behind my eyes, where tears are building.

  “He’s going back to California, with his uncle and that girl you saw. I’m real sorry, Cleo. That’s his high school girlfriend. He was hoping to get back with her for the last couple of months. Since she got pregnant back in May.”

  I BRING THE PHONE BACK to my ear and re-play Robert’s message. It’s so strange to hear his voice. So ridiculous to hear him making threats. What more could he take from me? There is nothing he can take. There is nothing I can give. I have no choices left.

  I was going to go—to get out of here before my trouble pins me down. Go back to California, where I can settle everything the way I want—out on the water. But I couldn’t bring myself to say goodbye to Cleo. Every day, I tell myself just one more day. Then Whitney and Pace showed up, with their pleas and their tears and their threats, and Cleo did it for me. She left me.

  I tried to catch her as she got into her car, but...

  But.

  After she left, I sent Whit and Pace away. I stood by the door with Truman, slammed by the thought of never seeing Cleo again. God, it hurt. It hurt so much it made me shake. But... no choices.

  Robert says he’ll be here tomorrow morning. If I book a flight out of Atlanta, he’ll know. He told me he’s been monitoring my cards. It’s how he knows what I have—or rather haven’t—been doing. I can’t book a plane ticket with cash, and I don’t know if I could make the long drive home.

  This is how terrible choices are made. It all comes down to lack of options. I should know that, shouldn’t I? I should be an old pro at this. And yet... it doesn’t get easier. It never gets easier. In fact, if time is any indicator, decisions like mine only get harder.

  Because of Cleo... this is so much harder than it might have been.

  I lean against the railing of the balcony and try to think. If I hadn’t met her. If I only ever knew ‘Sloth.’ If I hadn’t fucked her tight cunt. If I hadn’t hidden my face in her soft hair. If I hadn’t watched her leave that tube of lipstick on her sister’s headstone. If I hadn’t felt the warmth of her chest against my back, the firm squeeze of her arms around me.

  “You seem sad. I like hugging you... I’m a hugger.”

  If I didn’t know that, maybe this would seem more like the right choice. It’s the only choice—but I don’t crave it like I used to. Back when my need for control of my own fate outweighed fear or regret.

  Now it’s... different. Like I’m opening my mouth and swallowing water, when what I really need is air.

  I walk downstairs. I get a postcard and my damaged fountain pen and press the card against my thigh. I close my eyes. Inhale. I open them and steady my hand.

  I reach for the drawer where I keep my Post-It notes, then draw my hand back. I need to walk this to the mailbox myself; Manning might not send it, even if I leave it with a note. I get a stamp from one of the kitchen drawers, hold the front door open for Truman, and take my time trekking down my long, dirt drive.

  I note the curve of the moon. I used to have a thing about the moon, when I was very young. I would ask Ly if it could see us. He would tell me “no” and I would argue for the moon’s sentience. When Mom died, we decided one night that that’s where she was. Up there, dancing in the glow.

  I stop at the mailbox and look up and down the road in front of me. It should look different. More. The metal of the mailbox should feel colder on my hand. Truman flounces through the field in front of the house, chasing mice—like always.

  My footsteps are the same as I turn back. My left knee still aches where I busted it up that first game of my junior year in high school. I feel the rise and fall of my chest. It’s nothing special. I’m endowed with nothing but the weight of my own ego. Pretty soon, that will be gone.

  I go inside and I stop looking for some fucking sign. I drift around the rooms upstairs, trying to smell Cleo in the air. I go into my little room and take a second patch out of the cabinet. Put it in the old spot, on the back of my shoulder. Right beside the one I put on when I woke up by Cleo earlier.

  Then I step out onto the balcony and smoke a bowl of Silent Stalker. I try to calm myself. To focus on the dark treeline; the stars. Their brightness hurts.

  I go downstairs and get the Snow Queen out and chug. A few more pulls—until I’m warmer and the hard edges are fuzzed.

  Truman sniffs around my legs like he can smell it on me—dark intent. I laugh. Somewhere in me, there is an inferno—but I can’t feel it anymore.

  I tip my head back and drain the vodka bottle.

  I blink a few times, slow and bleary, and there is Truman, sitting on the kitchen floor. So goddamned loyal.

  I drape my hand over his head and step past him, into the pantry. “Here boy...” My voice sounds low, the rasped words barely there.

  I shift my mind away from that and focus my clumsy hands and the peanut butter: twist the top off... set it on the floor. Truman’s long ears perk in question.

/>   “All yours.” I blow my breath out. Wait—no. “Hell...” I scoop the peanut butter container up and get a spoon and dole some into his bowl. “The whole thing would make you sick,” I whisper.

  I blink a few more times and lean my head back. There now. I can see straight.

  “Ummh...” I lick my numb lips. “Eat that,” I murmur, setting Tru’s bowl down.

  I get another bowl—a big glass mixing bowl—and hold it under the faucet for what feels like several weeks. The water sloshes as I set the bowl down. “Now gotta... wash these dishes.”

  Truman doesn’t eat his peanut butter. He leans against my legs while I load the dishwasher. I can feel the Fentanyl seeping through my skin, into my veins... Lifting me above the floor.

  You’d think that it would help me forget, but I want her no less; more. I turn off the sink. Look at my hands. I know them. They are mine. I use them to pull my phone out of my pocket.

  I can’t call her.

  “No you can’t,” I whisper.

  I set my phone down on the counter. Through the haze of Fent, I feel a sharp ache in my chest.

  I walk into the living room and look at the stairs. I’m not going back up. Don’t know if I could... walk up.

  I strip off my shirt. Take my time pulling it over my head and sliding my arms out. It’s weird to not be able to feel my skin. It feels good. I rub my hair. My face. Something to remember me by. I laugh.

  I drift over to the TV. The DVDs... I never finished. It’s okay. I feel like it’s okay now.

  Truman bounds over, moving faster than my dizzy eyes can follow. Then he’s by me, warm and heavy. My throat is tight and sore as I rub his ears, then lean down and pull his body against mine.

  “Thank you,” I whisper hoarsely.

  I kiss his head, and then again. I scoop my keys up and walk slowly down the hall.

  I can’t believe I’m really here now. Game over.