Page 63 of Fade into You
“Well, he thinks since I got dumped—which Ididn’t, by the way—I’m just hating guys for the hell of it, and he thinksIthink he’s going to hurtyoubecauseIgot hurt.”
“That’s not what I told him, Bird.”
“Why are you telling himanything? That was private. And it wasn’t even the truth!”
“How am I supposed to know what happened when you won’t tell me anything? I’ve been trying to drag the details out of you for two months and all you say is ‘It’s complicated’ and ‘I can’t explain’ and—”
“Yeah, because all you seem to be interested in hearing about is how we had sex and what I did with him andhowI did it and what he did to me, and what I really wanted to talk to you about is my feelings and being scared and feeling shitty about hurting him and then hurting…” I stop myself.
“Hurting…?” she repeats, rolling her hand toward me, like she’s trying to draw it out of me. “Hurting who?” She pauses. “Exactly, you still won’t even tell me the other person’s name or this mysterious love triangle thing that was so life-altering and secretive you can’t even tell me about it? It’s like you don’t trust me.”
“Maybe I don’t!” I shout.
“Wow,” she whispers, her eyes filling up with tears. “You know, did it ever occur to you that I was asking about that stuff becauseIwas scared? I wanted to talk to you about it because I was trying to figure it all out on my own and I needed you!”
“Well, why didn’t you just tell me that?”
“Because you were gone!” she yells, wiping her eyes on hersleeves. “You left to go do your stupid writing shit that you think is so important and you left me here.”
“Stupid writing shit?” I repeat. “Thanks. I would never say that about your painting, which, by the way, are you even doing that anymore? And don’t blame it all on me, Kayla. We were supposed to keep in touch, and you stopped replying to my emails and you kept missing my calls.”
“Like you even cared?”
“I did care—I needed you, too! I was so lost and confused and I felt like you just disappeared. And I wouldn’t have left if I thought this was what would happen.” I’m shouting and crying at the same time, and I can’t tell if I’m sad that I’m angry or angry that I’m sad or both. “I didn’t think everything would change,” I tell her, which is the truth. I honestly didn’t.
“Well, it did!” She sniffs deeply and wipes her eyes one more time. Then she stands and walks over to her door, holds it open.
“Really?” I ask in disbelief. “You want me to leave? Now? After all this, we’re not gonna talk about it?”
“I’ve heard enough,” she says, so cold.
I stand up slowly, disoriented, still crying. As I walk by her, I want to pull her into a hug, shake her, do something to make her stop acting like this. “Kayla,” I begin, standing directly in front of her. “I haven’t heard enough, okay? We need to talk about—” But she cuts me off.
“All right. One more thing then. I wouldn’t have had to tell Dade anything if you weren’t being such a bitch in the first place. Heard enough now?”
JESSA
With Kayla grounded, I finallyget a blessed day of one-on-one time with Dade. We’re lying on his bed watching a marathon of Tarantino films. We’re startingFour Rooms, which technically Tarantino was a writer/director for only a segment, but the marathon is including all written films as well—so we have a whole night planned too.
I’ve been spending the day trying to find a way to talk to him about what happened with Bird. Dade’s always known I was gay, but aside from discussing the tryst with Natalie and a couple of make-out sessions with curious people from Six Roots, I’ve never gotten much play to discuss. He’s always talking about Kayla and how great she is at a lot of gross things, but some haunting of his Catholic boyhood has him waiting to bump uglies. Still, the descriptions of Kayla giving head were more than enough for me to put a moratorium on sex talk.
Now I want to break it.
We’ve been chewing on Twizzlers and making microwave ramen and eating Doritos. My fingertips are bright orange, thenails rimmed with powder that won’t wash off. It’s been relaxing, nice just sitting and existing together without others, quieting our usual sniping. He’s working on a model sports car—a dorky hidden hobby only I know about. The tiny jars of enamel paint carefully set on a TV table, him gently holding the tiny brushes, them looking huge in his hands, which have grown into the hands of a man over the past four years.
I think back to the first time we met, the two of us the only people in the janky-ass theater near my place. Stadium seating and big recliners had become a thing, but it was an inconvenience for my parents to drive me out and I liked the familiarity of the old fabric flip-down chairs and the stained acoustic paneling and the memories of watching old flicks with Mack and Mom and Dad. So there I was on a Saturday afternoon ready to seeTank Girl, whose soundtrack I’d already ordered at Pterodactyl Records. Couldn’t be a better lineup, with Veruca Salt, Portishead, and Hole. I wanted to hear it in all its glory, paired with the visuals of Lori Petty and Naomi Watts in postapocalyptic chaos.
I was in the middle row, the best one for acoustics, and he was two down. Still watching the promos, he twisted around and in a cracking teenage boy voice said, “I’ll trade you a Twizzler for some M&M’s.”
“Sure,” I said, and he crawled over the seats, up to me, and plopped down with a huge bag of Twizzlers and the largest popcorn possible. Following my eyes, he brightened up. “Free refills with this size. Important when you’re watching three in a row.”
“Three?! You’ve got richer blood than me.”
“Nah, just leave before the lights come on, hit the bathroom,and then slink into the next theater after it’s dark…. The staff here could care less.”
“They don’t notice even when it’s empty like this?”
“They’re just glad we aren’t drawing dicks on the bathroom walls.”
