Page 73 of Trapper Road

Several trucks ring the clearing, all jacked to Jesus with extra floodlights along the grills and roofs turned on high to light up the area. Two of them have their doors flung open, both blasting music but set to different stations creating a war of country ballads. Groups of teens mill about, most gathered in clumps around coolers filled with ice and beer.

Maybe once upon a time there’d been something worth looking at in the clearing, but those days are long gone. The Shadow Shack is a towering brick house shaped like a large box, a sagging porch with rotting columns shrugging along the front. A few shutters still cling to existence next to broken out windows, but most fell off long ago.

There’s movement in some of the windows, the kids brave — or stupid — enough to venture inside. It’s all very underwhelming, and I’m disappointed until I feel a pair of cool hands slide across my eyes.

A flutter of panic sears through me. My first instinct is to fall back on the self-defense training Mom has drilled into us. Elbow back into solar plexus, grab the wrists, twist fast bringing their hands down and my knee up, connecting with their nose. Go for the knee to incapacitate before turning and running.

But then a soft mouth brushes my ear, and I hear a whispered, “Guess who?”

I realize it’s Willa. Still, I can’t help the adrenaline that’s flooded my system, the memories of having been grabbed before.

Once the memories start, they don’t stop. I barely register Willa laughing and taking my hand, pulling me past the trucks and toward the trees. I’m sweating now, cold drops of it snaking down my back. Now that my brain has opened the door on past traumas, it’s open season, and they all come roaring forward.

In my head I see Kevin. I see the gun. I hear the sound of it firing.

My therapist taught me a trick about what to do when I have flashbacks. I struggle to remember it against the onslaught of nightmares flooding my thoughts.

Six things.

That’s what it is.

Name six things I can see.

I try to focus. It’s dark. I can’t see much. But there’s Willa’s face. There’s her hair. There are her eyes and her mouth saying something I can’t hear. I focus harder.

Six things I can hear.

The roar of blood in my ears. The sound of Kevin’s gun. No, that doesn’t count. That’s not now, and it’s not here. The country music. The sound of kids shouting to be heard over each other. Laughter. The crunch of leaves underfoot. Willa’s voice.

“… wasn’t sure you were going to make it. Hey, are you okay? You’re being more quiet than usual.”

Six things I can feel. Willa’s fingers holding mine. The cool night air against my burning cheeks. The thud of my heart. The scratch of my jacket’s tag against my neck. Willa’s lips.

I lean forward and kiss her. I don’t have time to feel awkward about it or second guess if I’m doing it right or wrong. I just do it because I need something to pull my mind away from the claws of those awful memories, and I can think of no better way to do that than losing myself in Willa.

It feels glorious. It feels like a revelation. It feels like closing one door and opening another.

She pulls me back until she’s pressed against a tree, and we’re still kissing, and we keep kissing. She takes my hand and slides it under her ridiculously short dress. My experience with girls is limited. I’ve never been this far with one, and I’m not sure what to do so I keep my palm against her hip. I slide it up a little farther, searching for the hem of her underwear, figuring that’s as far as I’m willing to go with this girl.

But I don’t find it. My mind practically explodes. There’s no way this girl, with the dresses as short as she wears them, doesn’t have on underwear. It means that the slightest breeze would reveal… I can barely even finish the thought.

She pulls her head back. We’re not far from the clearing and there’s enough light that I can see the flush in her cheeks. She’s breathing fast. “You want me?”

“Yes.” There’s no question. No hesitation.

She smiles. “Good.” She takes a step back and slowly, deliberately, smooths her hands down her dress, tugging the hem lower though it’s a futile effort — it still skims the top of her thighs. The expression on her face is downright devious. “We should get back to the party.”

I start to protest but she cuts me off. “Don’t worry. I’m not through with you yet,” she says. “The anticipation is the best part.”

She turns, spinning just fast enough that the short hem of her dress floats up and for the life of me I can’t keep my eyes off it. She starts back to the clearing, and I stay behind watching her because at this moment I’m not quite fit to be seen in public.

I watch her as she moves through the various groups of people. I can’t not. She looks so delicate, so fae-like in her frilly white dress but all I can think is that she doesn’t seem to be wearing any underwear. The contradiction threatens to break my brain.

I don’t care. All I know is that I want more.

22

GWEN

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