Page 1 of Feathers From the Sky

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Sweat-slicked skinand the taste of tequila on my tongue have become a symphony of self-pity and the need to forget, a crescendo in angered forte while poor decisions are made in piano. Tonight, it is a soft rustle of our chiffon bridesmaid dresses, both in maroon, hers styled for her slim frame and mine twisted and wrapped to hold both my keening heart and my temperamental chest, failing on both fronts. I reach past her, hand fumbling with the keycard keeping us from the suite on the other side, mindlessly waiting for the click so I can throw myself into her and escape my mind. Soft lips trail up my neck, that slow drag of her lipstick marring my skin. The purple hue marks the ivory skin with a bruise of intention, of choice. Of forgetting.

When she has to help me out of my dress, the fabric pulling taut as it begins to feel like a cage, I will myself not to think. Fate had never been kind to me, her fickle presence bearing animosity at best, and when this date had been chosen for the wedding ceremony, I shouldn’t have been surprised. When the music had started and the friend who barely knew me at all walked down the aisle, I banished the squeal of tires on wet pavement; the smell of gasoline and blood pungent in my worst memories was held at bay by a stubborn, self-preserving part of my primitive mind. Focusing on the father of the bride’s misbuttoned shirt, the stain of drink wetting the fabric on his stomach, I was able to escape.

But now, in the dark and the quiet, I think about the weather being similar. I think about the smell of wet leather and the devastating silence. But then she is kissing down my spine and her hands are slipping between fabric and skin, and I focus on the touch, gripping it like a lifeline. I am a husk seeking oblivion. I step out of the tiny slip of lace, and then we are fumbling want on the bed, the crisp white duvet still tucked beneath overly fluffed pillows. She is lust, and I am desire; and where we overlap, I search for something I will not find.

Kissing where her skin meets her bra, I order her to flip over onto her stomach. “I want to look at you,” I say, and she ignores me. Within a short moment, she is the one behind me as I am bent over the bed, and I don’t have the resolve to be frustrated, moaning into the mattress as her fingertips part skin as delicate as my sanity. Though I do not find freedom in the pleasure, I take it with grasping, pleading hands. My gasps are admissions of guilt, my stuttered breathing a plea, and when I break, it is nothing more than a deflection.

In the faint grey light drifting in, I blink at the spinning ceiling and trace a fingertip up her arm thrown across me. She twitches and rolls over, tugging the blanket to cover her shoulder. I do not know if I slept, and my mouth is dry, head already aching. I slip out of the bed and pad over to the bag I’d dumped on the floor before mimosas this morning, gathering up my discarded dress as I go. Grabbing my sleep shorts and favorite hoodie, I search in the clothing for what I’d failed to find in her body: comfort. Slinging the bag over my shoulder, I leave the bedroom, even though there is another mattress intended for me. Instead, I find a place on the sofa beside Hale, snoring softly with his arm over his head. When Maya had lured me with the idea of distractions, I’d had the sense to give him my wallet, and he’d found what he needed to get inside. He doesn’t wake when I settle into the space between him and the backrest, grateful for the deep cushions as I steal his warmth and his blanket.

Hale had attempted to talk me out of this, but I’d already made a promise and bought the dress. I’d balanced her wedding party with the groom’s, and I wondered who decided ranking your friends in order of importance was normal—expected. I’ve never been that person.

When I see his water bottle on the table, I swear, adjusting over him to grab it, hoping his own tequila sleep will keep him from waking. Once I finish the water, I wince when the sharp crack of plastic breaks the silence, and he adjusts, rolling to cage me in his sleep. It is the most peace I have found in these days near the anniversary; my eyelids submit and allow me to sleep in my best friend’s arms.

* * *

“You puke in the hotel,Parsons, I’m disowning you.”

I’m tempted to do it, to get on my knees beneath the fluorescent lights of the lobby bathroom and force myself to get it over with. I hate puking, but if I have a hangover and will end up doing it anyway, my terms are always better. But Hale is walking so fast, a side effect of legs as long as I am tall, and he’s waiting for me on the other side of the automatic doors. I have too little time and too much pride, so I follow, pulling my hood up. I squint against the October sun, wishing I hadn’t left my sunglasses in the Chevelle. The car is in the front row—Aileen, as my dad called her—and the reflection from the hood directly into my eyes is blinding.

“She’s killing meandrobbing me,” my dad’s rock tumbler voice would say as he puffed on the cigarette he held between his lips, dirt and oil all over his hands and face. I am helping him over the summer after junior year of college all over again. I am searching for the right size socket while he curses beneath the lifted car, and we are happy.

Sometimes people would say, “Come on, Eileen,” to my dad, and he always loved to correct them. The reaction to his car being named after a serial killer didn’t resonate with many, but the electro pop hit sure did. I only refer to it as the Chevelle or just plain Dad’s. Since he died, I’d had the exterior painted the original Tuxedo Black and the interior carpeting redone as well. Even though I’d had to threaten Larry to finish the engine work Dad had already paid for, scoring an aftermarket Bluetooth head unit in the process, that wasn’t the hardest part.

Doing it without him was.

“You need to just get a cord and leave it in the car,” I say, as Hale digs around in the backseat for my phone. All I see in the rearview mirror is the pale strip of skin above his pants where his shirt has lifted. “Or get a better phone,” I tease, ready for him to start an elitist fight about how I’m part of the reason for the capitalistic hellscape we live in. It’s not my fault our phones use different cords.

“I can’t find it. Did you leave it in the hotel room?”

“Lose the accusatory tone, Hale.”

“I’m going to call it,” he says. I notice his eyes widen for a second and his quick intake of breath before he presses the number “4” on his keypad, and my name populates itself.

“What was that face about?”

“Straight to voicemail. Is it dead?”

I slam my head against the headrest, regretting it because of the shooting pain, and try to remember where I saw it last.

“Oh, shit,” Hale says, and I lower my head. Maya is making a beeline for my side of the car, walking with purpose. I brace myself for impact, sitting up straighter. She looks exceptionally more put-together than I do as she stops in front of my open window.

“Relax, idiot. I was just trying to catch you before you left.” Her smile is breezy, brown freckles looking so fucking cute in the morning sun glowing against her light-brown skin. She stretches her hand out, giving me my dead phone. I am chastened immediately as I take it from her.

“Sorry for sneaking—”

“I’ve done this before, Gwyneth,” she says. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

I watch her as she sashays away, bag bumping against her jeaned hip, and Hale takes my phone and plugs it in to charge. I close my eyes—her hands are on my breasts and in my hair, and I taste bile.

“Rejection isn’t easy,Gwyneth,” Hale offers, and I snort before starting the car and putting it in reverse. Instead of bothering with my phone, he puts something on his own, blasting the music out of his hands.

I turn out of the hotel parking lot, heading toward I-264. The giant Neptune statue stands guard on the beach as we pass it, and I laugh as usual, thinking about him palming a sea turtle like a basketball. Virginia Beach isn’t too busy at this time of year, not long after tourist season, so it only takes us moments before we are on the highway, taking us west toward Norfolk. I yawn—fucking tired of everything. Late nights, grief, and responsibilities can all fuck right off.

“Do me a favor?” Hale asks, and there’s something strange in his voice. I look over at him, and he won’t look at me. “Don’t look at your phone until we get there.”

“Sasha?” I nearly shout at him.

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