Page 65 of When I'm Gone
I knew about your spot on the stairs down by the Ganisters’ abandoned beach house. If you were alive you’d more than likely be there. I slipped quietly down the last three stairs and out the back door.
It was barely past noon, and between the sun and the humidity, nearly a hundred degrees outside. Feeling certain I was safe, I sprinted across the yard and headed to the shed. My emergency pack was there, with candy snuck from my mom’s supply, crackers, half a jar of peanut butter, and two or three juice boxes. I jumped inside before anyone could spy me from the house.
The shed was hot, like the kiln at school. I ran my hands along the wall of the shed, trying to remember where I’d left my pack. But I didn’t find my pack—I found you, huddled in the corner by a split in the boards. A glaring white slash of light fell across your lap and hands.
Your hands, arms, and chest were covered in dried blood, and you were lying so still that for a moment I thought you might be dead. When I reached out to touch you, I didn’t know if you’d be stiff and cold or warm and alive. I laid a trembling hand on your chest, relieved to find it was warm and I could feel your heartbeat through your shirt. At my touch, your eyelids fluttered. “Natalie?”
“Luke! You’re alive.” I ran a hand across your forehead, checking for any injuries.
You looked over your hands, stomach, legs, and feet as though you were almost surprised to be there still.
“Yeah,” you said, sounding disappointed, “I am.”
“I thought you were dead.” I couldn’t think about what I’d believed for the past hour. Instead, I leaned in and pressed my lips against yours. We’d kissed before, had quite a few make-out sessions in our little shed, but that day it was different. I know you felt it too.
The first kiss was soft and gentle, like a thank you for the fact that you were still alive. But the next kiss was stronger, like you were afraid I was going to run away and this was the only way to keep me there. I didn’t want to leave.
“I love you,” I whispered as you slipped my shirt over my head.
“I will never stop loving you,” you said, kissing my neck and shoulder as I worked to take off your bloody shirt, to get closer to you, comfort you.
As we fumbled in the darkness, I had no thoughts beyond those four walls. When you laid me down on the floor, I didn’t care that clumps of dried dirt were clinging to my hair or the air smelled like grass clippings and sweat. All I wanted was to stay with you forever, to make you forget whatever happened to you that night, to become one.
I’ll never regret losing our virginity together on that day. Our passion didn’t last long. When it was over, I curled up into your side, your skin stained red. I’ve gone back to that moment hundreds of times in my life, especially lately. In the middle of the ruins of your life, we found one beautiful moment together, and in that shed we performed a magic no sorcerer or magician could ever achieve—we froze time. But like any great magic, it couldn’t last forever.
“I can’t believe my mom finally called the police,” you said dreamily.
I sat up, your arms still looped behind me. You didn’t know.
“Luke.” I kissed you again. My lips had worked once; maybe they could help again. “My dad called the police.” I looked into your eyes, praying you’d see the truth there so I wouldn’t have to say it.
“Shit. Why did he do that? My mom is gonna be so pissed.” You sat up and pulled your shirt over your head, searching for your shoes, then realizing you didn’t have any. I sat back, replaced my blouse, and adjusted my shorts.
I told you to slow down. I reached out to touch your arm, but you pulled it away. I put my arm around your shoulder, trying to stop you from frantically gathering your belongings. You shrugged me off with a growl and took a step toward the door. I stood and blocked your way.
“Natalie, get out of the way. I have to go. If he finds out, if he comes back, he’s gonna hurt her.” You spoke to me, but you didn’t look at me.
I told you to stop. I pushed you back, trying to make you listen, but instead of calming you or shaking you out of whatever frantic haze you were in, the gentle pressure of my hands on your skin triggered something. You reared back, your face twisted with anger. I didn’t know that face, the person who lived behind that face. You used to be the boy who wouldn’t hurt a lightning bug, but in that moment you turned into a new person—a man who would hit a woman. When your hand made contact with my cheek, I was already in far more pain from knowing that I’d been wrong about you.
My eyes filled with tears of pain and betrayal. I covered my cheek where it burned from your slap and stepped back. I wasn’t going to try to stop you again, but you didn’t leave. Your face softened, your blue eyes catching one of the rays of light peeking in from the ceiling like a prism. It was your real face, your real eyes, but I still flinched when you reached out toward me. You apologized and then looked at your hand like you wished you could cut it off. I didn’t feel sorry for you. I wasn’t going to end up like your mom.
“Your mom is dead,” I spat, inching backward toward the only exit. You looked at me like I’d slapped you back. I didn’t care. I wanted it to hurt. “Yup. Dead.” I cracked the door open, the heat of the midday suddenly feeling like a cool breeze.
You tried to argue with me but then trailed off. I took the opportunity to escape. You begged me not to leave, reaching out, grabbing me by the forearm. Your touch didn’t thrill me anymore—it scared me. I yanked my arm away.
“Don’t you touch me,” I rumbled, tripping backward, nearly falling on my back.
You called my name and rushed forward to help, but I dodged away, putting more distance between us.
Somehow I got out the words, “Go home, Luke. Go home,” before running into my house. I covered my face with my hands and escaped to my room.
A few hours later my mom came up and told me the whole story: your mom died from a hemorrhage, your father had been arrested, and you had been taken away by child protective services. She asked if I wanted to see you one more time before you were shipped off to live with some distant relatives out of state. I rubbed the tender spot on my cheek and said, “No.”
I never told anyone about our little secret—our intimate moment in the shed and the violent one right after. I was so angry at first that I was glad you were gone. But the longer I lived without you, the more I realized how special we’d been together. There were other boys, not many, but some. I could never really love them while you were still lodged in my heart. I couldn’t get you out even though I desperately wanted to.
When we met six years later, I wanted to love you again, trust you again, but was terrified you were going to transform into the monster I met in that shed. I told myself that if I saw even a glimpse of him, I’d turn around and leave. But he never returned.
That’s when I realized you are a far better man than your father, and knowing the demons you conquered only made me love you more. Before I go, I need you to know—I forgive you. I love you, and I’m lucky to be able to call you the father of my children.
