Sex Love Repeat
Page 10
His look turned wary. “Eighteenth birthday?”
“Yeah,” she lied. “The big one.”
He nodded with a smile. “I knew your sister, Dana. You look a little like her. Prettier.” He flashed another smile, this one a little awkward, as if he regretted the comment. There was a shout, and he turned, waving absently at a group that passed. “Well... ask your brother. Summerset party. We can drop you wherever when its done. And tell him I’m a fan. He is lethal on that board.”
Stuffing her hands in the front pockets of her jean skirt, she nodded, watching his profile as he turn and jogged through the sand, effortlessly catching a beer that was tossed his way. Then she glanced around, looking for Paul.
He was by the dunes, a blonde head underneath his, his body stretched out over a form she couldn’t really see. She hung back, unsure about interrupting, glancing back at the fire before hesitantly calling his name.
There was a groan from the two bodies, and a muffled whisper, then Paul rolled, coming to his feet, his back to her, his hands adjusting the front of his swimsuit before he turned, an irritated expression on his face. “What’s up Jennifer?”
“I’m ready to leave.” The words spilled out without premeditation, but she saw the brilliance in them as soon as they came out, Paul’s expression fighting hard to disguise the frustration at the statement.
“Now? We haven’t even been here an hour.”
“I know. There is a big group headed to a house in Summerset to hang out. I could go with them – and you could just pick me up there when you’re ready to leave here.” She said it casually, as if she didn’t care either way. As if her entire love life wasn’t resting on his answer.
His eyes lit up. “Really. Summerset? Who all’s going?”
“Just some girls I’ve been talking to. But I think it’s a big group. So it’ll be safe.”
The blonde called his name, moving in the sand, and he glanced back before facing her again, indecision in his eyes. “You got a cell on you?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes. I have Mom’s cell and I’ll be with a group. It’s just like any other night I go out with a group. Mom and Dad would be fine with it. Just call me when you leave here. You can pick me up then.”
He looked back once more, then studied her face. “Alright. Just be safe. I love you.”
She grinned, unable to contain the smile that burst out. “I love you too Paul. Thanks.”
He stepped back, watching her closely. “Cell phone. Don’t lose it and make sure the ringer’s on. I’ll call you in about an hour.”
She waved, turning and jogging up the beach, towards the fire.
“Happy Birthday!” he called out after her.
She waved again, without looking back, her eyes skimming the fire lit bodies, looking for the athletic build of her dreams.
He had a football in hand, and was heaving it into the darkness, a dim figure in red jumping up to catch it. She jogged up, tugged gently on his shirt, and waited for him to turn. He did, throwing an arm around her shoulders and pulling her to his chest. “You coming?”
“Yeah. If that’s still okay.” She beamed up at him.
He squeezed her shoulder gently. “More than okay. Come on, you can ride with me.”
He whistled to a group, the guys turning, ditching red cups into the nearby dunes, insults and laughs tossed out as they dispersed.
Five minutes later, she was lifted into the backseat, his strong hands lingering on her waist, his hand sliding the seatbelt across her lap, teasing her bare thighs as it moved. He clinched the buckle, his face close to hers, and leaned forward, pressing his lips against hers as his hand slid around her thigh, caressing the flesh there.
Then he leaned back, breaking their connection, shutting the door and leaning in the open window. “At the party, stick close to me. I’m gonna need more of that.”
His words made her smile, her cheeks warm, her lips still tingling from his kiss. “Okay.”
He tapped the roof. “Let’s go!” he yelled.
She glanced to the boy next to her, extending a shy smile, one that was quickly returned, framed by dark eyes, ruddy cheeks and thick black hair. “Heard you’re Brand’s sister.”
She nodded.
“He’s sick on a gun. Everyone knows who he is.”
“He taught me how to surf,” she offered.
“Hey!” the loud voice from the front seat broke their conversation. “You hitting on my girl, Brian?”
“Just making conversation Travis,” the boy muttered, grinning at her.
My girl. She bit her lip to contain a smile, grabbing the arm rest as the truck was slammed into drive, throwing her slightly forward.
10 YEARS EARLIER
DANA
LOS ANGELES GAZETTE
PRESS RELEASE: LOS ANGELES COUNTY
A late night of partying and drinking has taken the lives of three Los Angeles residents, one of them a seventeen-year-old girl. The driver, Jason Tate, is in critical condition at Long Beach Memorial Hospital and had a recorded BAC of 1.23.
Tate’s vehicle, a 1992 Land Rover Defender, lost control on Pacific Coast Hwy at approx. 11:14pm on Friday evening. The vehicle crashed through a guardrail before rolling down a steep embank. Jason Tate, a 21-year old UCLA student, was thrown from the vehicle and suffered severe head trauma. The bodies of Brian Jesup and Jennifer Brand were found in the burnt-out vehicle, restrained by seat belts. It is unknown if they were conscious when the vehicle caught fire, the blaze a result of the impact, which cracked the fuselage and tank. The third fatality, Robert McCormick, was found a short distance from the vehicle, and died of head injuries.
A joint memorial service will be held on Saturday at 2pm. In lieu of flowers, please make donations to M.A.D.D. of Los Angeles.
That night ripped apart our lives. I came home, leaving Berkeley mid-semester, and found Mom, on her bedroom floor, sobbing, her arms wrapped around a framed photo of our family. One taken before Dad’s heart attack. Back when we were a family of six, before we became five, and then four. It wasn’t long after that that we became three. Three separate souls, unconnected except for the blood in our veins and love locked away in the stubborn places of our hearts.
“She was seventeen!” Stewart yelled, pushing Paul against the wall, frames rattling against wallpaper from the impact. He dug his hands into Paul’s shoulders, their faces only inches apart. “Seventeen!”
“She wanted to go. I didn’t know. I thought it was just a party.” Paul’s words stumbled out of his mouth, a sob thick in the back of his throat, his body slumping down the wall as Stewart released him.
“Did you put her in the truck?” Stewart asked, every word a bite of venom. “Did you look into the eyes of the boy who killed her? Or were you too busy f**king around to worry about something as simple as our little sister’s life?”
Paul was silent, his head in his hands, shoulders racking as he tried to contain silent sobs.
“You f**king disgust me.” Stewart said, breathing hard, his face tight with barely restrained rage. I left my post by the wall, stepping forward, my eyes meeting Stewart’s, a fraction of a moment in time before I wrapped my arms around his chest. He gripped me tightly, so tightly it hurt, his need so great, his heart openly breaking between my arms. “She’s gone.” He whispered the words, his voice gravelly. “She’s f**king gone.” His voice broke and I felt the shake of him, his strong frame crumbling in my arms, his breath gasping as he buried his face in my hair. “What the f**k are we going to do?”
I held him, my own tears flowing, my eyes blocked from Paul by the wide expanse of Stewart’s chest. I wanted to go to him, to hug my little brother, but could feel the anger radiating from Stewart, mixing with his pain, the combination crippling him. I pulled back, looking up into his eyes. “Mom’s asking for you.”
He nodded, squeezing me one final time before stepping away, his eyes never going to Paul, his profile furious.
I waited until he left the room, pulling the door shut with a finality that hurt, then hurried to Paul, crouching down next to him. I wrapped my arms around him, shushing him as I felt him shake. When he moved, sitting up against the wall, his wet eyes staring straight ahead, I curved into him, his arms automatically moving around my shoulders, taking me into his embrace. “He hates me.” He whispered.
“He’s just in pain.” I said softly. “He’ll change Paul. He knows you were just trying to do the right thing.”
“I wasn’t. I was being f**king selfish.” He choked out. “I should have been with her. It was her night. It’s my f**king fault.” He tightened his arms around me and rested his head on mine, letting out a shuddering breath. “It’s my f**king fault and he knows it. He should hate me.”
“He doesn’t hate you. He loves you.” I said the words, and believed them to be true. But Stewart may have loved Jennifer more. And when one love kills another, can you still love them?
Stewart left minutes after the funeral ended. He and Paul didn’t see each other for three years, until Mom’s funeral. They framed her casket, two visions of handsome in black suits and somber faces. Then the separation continued. It has been seven years and three months since her death. Over seven years of silence.
The first few years, I ran ragged between the two of them. Attempting reconciliations. Planning peace-keeping holidays, birthdays, lunches. But the time has only increased the distance, and after two years of trying – Paul asked me to stay away. Said that it was too painful to see my face. Said that I reminded him too much of her. I fought it, continued to try. Then he changed his number, moved. Made his feelings crystal clear.
I hope that now, as an adult, Paul realizes the implications of his actions but also the reality of the true cause. Stewart buried him so deep in guilt that it took years for him to smile again, to realize that he is a good person who made a simple mistake. I think he now begrudges Stewart for those years of pain, when he was close to suicide over the loss of his sister and the overwhelming guilt he felt.
But Stewart... he still blames Paul for her death. And he is too proud to admit anything to the contrary.
They both loved her. So much. Almost too much. So much that her death was impossible to recover from, at least where their relationship was concerned.
And that brings me to the present. Another woman holds both of their hearts in her hands. Their relationship didn’t survive Jennifer. I’m worried their hearts won’t survive Madison. I have to protect them. I am their sister. It is my duty.
VENICE BEACH, CA
MADISON
The alarm chirps in our silent bedroom, soft yet insistent, my mind swimming through remnants of a dream as my hazy mind deciphers sleep from reality. I hear Paul groan, feel the bed shift as he rolls over, the knock and roll of bedside table items, and then silence. I open my eyes briefly to dawn light, and try to figure out what, where, and why the alarm would be going off.
Ugh. It comes to me, reality waking me with a cheerful smack on the head. Mother. I sit up, my brain momentarily gripping my skull, a painful reminder of what late night poker, cigar smoke, and too much Miller Lite can do to your head. Paul rolls over, reaching for me, and I lean down, ignoring the scream of pain in my head, and kiss his forehead. “Go back to sleep. I’ve got brunch with Mom.”
“Have fun.”
I playfully bite his earlobe, harder than is necessary, and he yelps, pulling the covers over his head and pushing me off. I head to the kitchen, bee-lining for aspirin and water.
Mother. I prepare myself, as I drive, for the inquisition that awaits me. Even though she has foiled most of her adult life, she still considers herself the foremost authority on my life, and will spend every moment of the upcoming event to make sure that my life is on the proper track. Parental guidance, doused in bourbon.
I enter the curving hills of Rancho Santa Fe a half-hour ahead of schedule, my convertible slowly winding through the familiar roads of my childhood. I have a brief moment of nostalgia for my diamond-encrusted upbringing, familiar homes and restaurants reminding me of shopping, teenage groping over the gearshifts of Ferraris, and spring break trips to Europe. I turn into the large gates of Maurice’s neighborhood and roll down my window.
“May I help you?” This neighborhood doesn’t believe in rent-a-cops. They employ off-duty police officers, give them crash courses in overkill, and then post them, like sentries, outside of million dollar gates.
“I’m here to visit Evelyn Fulton. My name is Madison Decater.” I pull out my identification, passing it to him, and ignore the death stare he seems intent on sending my way. He checks my trunk, a miniscule space barely big enough to hold a case of beer. Then we go through the song and dance where he quizzes me, verifying that I, in fact, know my mother’s address, that I am not staying for longer than four hours, and that Maurice and Mother are expecting my arrival. It’s a good thing I was ahead of schedule. Heaven forbid I miss a moment of brunch.
The gates finally open, the guard fixing me with a glare of the Bruce Lesnar variety, and I wave cheerily, cranking up the radio and pulling forward with a gentle squeal of tires. Five minutes later, I am lost.
Fuck. I stare at the giant Mediterranean villa before me. All of these homes look alike. Huge. Tile roofs. Palm trees. Dollar signs. When one home got a private gated entrance, they all did, the constant need to one-up each other steamrolling into a giant ball of allourhouseslookthesame. I have only been here a handful of times, my avoidance of Mother’s new life a dedicated one. It’s been six months since my last examination from that security guard, long enough to smear my compass and flush my memory of intelligent, directional thought.
“Yeah,” she lied. “The big one.”
He nodded with a smile. “I knew your sister, Dana. You look a little like her. Prettier.” He flashed another smile, this one a little awkward, as if he regretted the comment. There was a shout, and he turned, waving absently at a group that passed. “Well... ask your brother. Summerset party. We can drop you wherever when its done. And tell him I’m a fan. He is lethal on that board.”
Stuffing her hands in the front pockets of her jean skirt, she nodded, watching his profile as he turn and jogged through the sand, effortlessly catching a beer that was tossed his way. Then she glanced around, looking for Paul.
He was by the dunes, a blonde head underneath his, his body stretched out over a form she couldn’t really see. She hung back, unsure about interrupting, glancing back at the fire before hesitantly calling his name.
There was a groan from the two bodies, and a muffled whisper, then Paul rolled, coming to his feet, his back to her, his hands adjusting the front of his swimsuit before he turned, an irritated expression on his face. “What’s up Jennifer?”
“I’m ready to leave.” The words spilled out without premeditation, but she saw the brilliance in them as soon as they came out, Paul’s expression fighting hard to disguise the frustration at the statement.
“Now? We haven’t even been here an hour.”
“I know. There is a big group headed to a house in Summerset to hang out. I could go with them – and you could just pick me up there when you’re ready to leave here.” She said it casually, as if she didn’t care either way. As if her entire love life wasn’t resting on his answer.
His eyes lit up. “Really. Summerset? Who all’s going?”
“Just some girls I’ve been talking to. But I think it’s a big group. So it’ll be safe.”
The blonde called his name, moving in the sand, and he glanced back before facing her again, indecision in his eyes. “You got a cell on you?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes. I have Mom’s cell and I’ll be with a group. It’s just like any other night I go out with a group. Mom and Dad would be fine with it. Just call me when you leave here. You can pick me up then.”
He looked back once more, then studied her face. “Alright. Just be safe. I love you.”
She grinned, unable to contain the smile that burst out. “I love you too Paul. Thanks.”
He stepped back, watching her closely. “Cell phone. Don’t lose it and make sure the ringer’s on. I’ll call you in about an hour.”
She waved, turning and jogging up the beach, towards the fire.
“Happy Birthday!” he called out after her.
She waved again, without looking back, her eyes skimming the fire lit bodies, looking for the athletic build of her dreams.
He had a football in hand, and was heaving it into the darkness, a dim figure in red jumping up to catch it. She jogged up, tugged gently on his shirt, and waited for him to turn. He did, throwing an arm around her shoulders and pulling her to his chest. “You coming?”
“Yeah. If that’s still okay.” She beamed up at him.
He squeezed her shoulder gently. “More than okay. Come on, you can ride with me.”
He whistled to a group, the guys turning, ditching red cups into the nearby dunes, insults and laughs tossed out as they dispersed.
Five minutes later, she was lifted into the backseat, his strong hands lingering on her waist, his hand sliding the seatbelt across her lap, teasing her bare thighs as it moved. He clinched the buckle, his face close to hers, and leaned forward, pressing his lips against hers as his hand slid around her thigh, caressing the flesh there.
Then he leaned back, breaking their connection, shutting the door and leaning in the open window. “At the party, stick close to me. I’m gonna need more of that.”
His words made her smile, her cheeks warm, her lips still tingling from his kiss. “Okay.”
He tapped the roof. “Let’s go!” he yelled.
She glanced to the boy next to her, extending a shy smile, one that was quickly returned, framed by dark eyes, ruddy cheeks and thick black hair. “Heard you’re Brand’s sister.”
She nodded.
“He’s sick on a gun. Everyone knows who he is.”
“He taught me how to surf,” she offered.
“Hey!” the loud voice from the front seat broke their conversation. “You hitting on my girl, Brian?”
“Just making conversation Travis,” the boy muttered, grinning at her.
My girl. She bit her lip to contain a smile, grabbing the arm rest as the truck was slammed into drive, throwing her slightly forward.
10 YEARS EARLIER
DANA
LOS ANGELES GAZETTE
PRESS RELEASE: LOS ANGELES COUNTY
A late night of partying and drinking has taken the lives of three Los Angeles residents, one of them a seventeen-year-old girl. The driver, Jason Tate, is in critical condition at Long Beach Memorial Hospital and had a recorded BAC of 1.23.
Tate’s vehicle, a 1992 Land Rover Defender, lost control on Pacific Coast Hwy at approx. 11:14pm on Friday evening. The vehicle crashed through a guardrail before rolling down a steep embank. Jason Tate, a 21-year old UCLA student, was thrown from the vehicle and suffered severe head trauma. The bodies of Brian Jesup and Jennifer Brand were found in the burnt-out vehicle, restrained by seat belts. It is unknown if they were conscious when the vehicle caught fire, the blaze a result of the impact, which cracked the fuselage and tank. The third fatality, Robert McCormick, was found a short distance from the vehicle, and died of head injuries.
A joint memorial service will be held on Saturday at 2pm. In lieu of flowers, please make donations to M.A.D.D. of Los Angeles.
That night ripped apart our lives. I came home, leaving Berkeley mid-semester, and found Mom, on her bedroom floor, sobbing, her arms wrapped around a framed photo of our family. One taken before Dad’s heart attack. Back when we were a family of six, before we became five, and then four. It wasn’t long after that that we became three. Three separate souls, unconnected except for the blood in our veins and love locked away in the stubborn places of our hearts.
“She was seventeen!” Stewart yelled, pushing Paul against the wall, frames rattling against wallpaper from the impact. He dug his hands into Paul’s shoulders, their faces only inches apart. “Seventeen!”
“She wanted to go. I didn’t know. I thought it was just a party.” Paul’s words stumbled out of his mouth, a sob thick in the back of his throat, his body slumping down the wall as Stewart released him.
“Did you put her in the truck?” Stewart asked, every word a bite of venom. “Did you look into the eyes of the boy who killed her? Or were you too busy f**king around to worry about something as simple as our little sister’s life?”
Paul was silent, his head in his hands, shoulders racking as he tried to contain silent sobs.
“You f**king disgust me.” Stewart said, breathing hard, his face tight with barely restrained rage. I left my post by the wall, stepping forward, my eyes meeting Stewart’s, a fraction of a moment in time before I wrapped my arms around his chest. He gripped me tightly, so tightly it hurt, his need so great, his heart openly breaking between my arms. “She’s gone.” He whispered the words, his voice gravelly. “She’s f**king gone.” His voice broke and I felt the shake of him, his strong frame crumbling in my arms, his breath gasping as he buried his face in my hair. “What the f**k are we going to do?”
I held him, my own tears flowing, my eyes blocked from Paul by the wide expanse of Stewart’s chest. I wanted to go to him, to hug my little brother, but could feel the anger radiating from Stewart, mixing with his pain, the combination crippling him. I pulled back, looking up into his eyes. “Mom’s asking for you.”
He nodded, squeezing me one final time before stepping away, his eyes never going to Paul, his profile furious.
I waited until he left the room, pulling the door shut with a finality that hurt, then hurried to Paul, crouching down next to him. I wrapped my arms around him, shushing him as I felt him shake. When he moved, sitting up against the wall, his wet eyes staring straight ahead, I curved into him, his arms automatically moving around my shoulders, taking me into his embrace. “He hates me.” He whispered.
“He’s just in pain.” I said softly. “He’ll change Paul. He knows you were just trying to do the right thing.”
“I wasn’t. I was being f**king selfish.” He choked out. “I should have been with her. It was her night. It’s my f**king fault.” He tightened his arms around me and rested his head on mine, letting out a shuddering breath. “It’s my f**king fault and he knows it. He should hate me.”
“He doesn’t hate you. He loves you.” I said the words, and believed them to be true. But Stewart may have loved Jennifer more. And when one love kills another, can you still love them?
Stewart left minutes after the funeral ended. He and Paul didn’t see each other for three years, until Mom’s funeral. They framed her casket, two visions of handsome in black suits and somber faces. Then the separation continued. It has been seven years and three months since her death. Over seven years of silence.
The first few years, I ran ragged between the two of them. Attempting reconciliations. Planning peace-keeping holidays, birthdays, lunches. But the time has only increased the distance, and after two years of trying – Paul asked me to stay away. Said that it was too painful to see my face. Said that I reminded him too much of her. I fought it, continued to try. Then he changed his number, moved. Made his feelings crystal clear.
I hope that now, as an adult, Paul realizes the implications of his actions but also the reality of the true cause. Stewart buried him so deep in guilt that it took years for him to smile again, to realize that he is a good person who made a simple mistake. I think he now begrudges Stewart for those years of pain, when he was close to suicide over the loss of his sister and the overwhelming guilt he felt.
But Stewart... he still blames Paul for her death. And he is too proud to admit anything to the contrary.
They both loved her. So much. Almost too much. So much that her death was impossible to recover from, at least where their relationship was concerned.
And that brings me to the present. Another woman holds both of their hearts in her hands. Their relationship didn’t survive Jennifer. I’m worried their hearts won’t survive Madison. I have to protect them. I am their sister. It is my duty.
VENICE BEACH, CA
MADISON
The alarm chirps in our silent bedroom, soft yet insistent, my mind swimming through remnants of a dream as my hazy mind deciphers sleep from reality. I hear Paul groan, feel the bed shift as he rolls over, the knock and roll of bedside table items, and then silence. I open my eyes briefly to dawn light, and try to figure out what, where, and why the alarm would be going off.
Ugh. It comes to me, reality waking me with a cheerful smack on the head. Mother. I sit up, my brain momentarily gripping my skull, a painful reminder of what late night poker, cigar smoke, and too much Miller Lite can do to your head. Paul rolls over, reaching for me, and I lean down, ignoring the scream of pain in my head, and kiss his forehead. “Go back to sleep. I’ve got brunch with Mom.”
“Have fun.”
I playfully bite his earlobe, harder than is necessary, and he yelps, pulling the covers over his head and pushing me off. I head to the kitchen, bee-lining for aspirin and water.
Mother. I prepare myself, as I drive, for the inquisition that awaits me. Even though she has foiled most of her adult life, she still considers herself the foremost authority on my life, and will spend every moment of the upcoming event to make sure that my life is on the proper track. Parental guidance, doused in bourbon.
I enter the curving hills of Rancho Santa Fe a half-hour ahead of schedule, my convertible slowly winding through the familiar roads of my childhood. I have a brief moment of nostalgia for my diamond-encrusted upbringing, familiar homes and restaurants reminding me of shopping, teenage groping over the gearshifts of Ferraris, and spring break trips to Europe. I turn into the large gates of Maurice’s neighborhood and roll down my window.
“May I help you?” This neighborhood doesn’t believe in rent-a-cops. They employ off-duty police officers, give them crash courses in overkill, and then post them, like sentries, outside of million dollar gates.
“I’m here to visit Evelyn Fulton. My name is Madison Decater.” I pull out my identification, passing it to him, and ignore the death stare he seems intent on sending my way. He checks my trunk, a miniscule space barely big enough to hold a case of beer. Then we go through the song and dance where he quizzes me, verifying that I, in fact, know my mother’s address, that I am not staying for longer than four hours, and that Maurice and Mother are expecting my arrival. It’s a good thing I was ahead of schedule. Heaven forbid I miss a moment of brunch.
The gates finally open, the guard fixing me with a glare of the Bruce Lesnar variety, and I wave cheerily, cranking up the radio and pulling forward with a gentle squeal of tires. Five minutes later, I am lost.
Fuck. I stare at the giant Mediterranean villa before me. All of these homes look alike. Huge. Tile roofs. Palm trees. Dollar signs. When one home got a private gated entrance, they all did, the constant need to one-up each other steamrolling into a giant ball of allourhouseslookthesame. I have only been here a handful of times, my avoidance of Mother’s new life a dedicated one. It’s been six months since my last examination from that security guard, long enough to smear my compass and flush my memory of intelligent, directional thought.
