-Becca-
haunt
hɔːnt/
verb
be persistently and disturbingly present in (the mind).
I watch from the living room window as Josh crosses his arms over his chest, his face red and his eyes flaming with anger. The same anger I’d heard in his voice—the same voice that made my insides turn to stone and I knew that whatever was happening—I needed to save Tommy.
Josh stands opposite the woman I assume is his mom as his shoulders slowly drop and the anger in his eyes fade. His mouth parts and he nods once, opening the door wider for them.
“What happened?” Grams asks from behind me.
I turn to her. “Josh has some visitors, I guess.”
“Can we play in your room?” Tommy asks with a smile. I take his hand and lead him upstairs, wondering if he has any idea that his life’s about to change. Because I do. I can sense it.
I keep an eye on the time, watching the minutes turn to hours and nothing. Not a phone call. Not a single text. I give Tommy a bath and start to get him ready for bed. Just as I finish dressing him and get him settled in my room, there’s a knock on the door. “I’ll be back. Stay here, okay?”
Josh stands with his hands in his pockets and his head lowered. I look over his shoulder and notice that Robby’s car is gone.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Nothing. Is Tommy still up?”
“Yeah, he’s in my room watching TV.”
“Can you get him?”
“Is everything okay? You guys talked for a long time.”
He sighs, seemingly frustrated by my question. “Everything’s fine, Becca. I just really don’t want to talk about it. Not now and probably not ever.”
“Josh—”
“Can you just get my son, please!”
I clear my throat, hoping the strength of my voice hides my weakness. “I think maybe Tommy should stay here tonight.”
“You know what I think?” he snaps, pinning me with his glare. “I think maybe you should keep your opinions to yourself.”
My stomach drops, so does my gaze, and it stays that way as I run upstairs, get Tommy and bring him back down.
Once they’re gone, I take myself up to my room and into my bed, where I do something I’d spent the majority of life doing—I cry my silent cries and wear my silent tears.
But I don’t question any of it—because if there’s anyone who knows how quickly things can change—how someone’s love can turn to anger in the blink of an eye—it’s me.
I hear her voice. It echoes in my mind. “He doesn’t love you,” she says over and over. After an hour of crying into my pillow, I start to believe her. “No one can love you like I do,” she haunts.
My phone rings.
It’s Josh, of course. I reject the call and a second later a text comes through.
Joshua: I’m at your door. Please, Becca.
I gather whatever strength I have left, wipe my stupid tears, and meet him outside. His hands are in his pockets again and his head’s lowered. I do everything I can to hide any proof I’d spent the last hour crying over him. But it doesn’t work because after he inhales sharply and slowly lifts his gaze to mine, he whispers, “Fuck,” and then reaches up and cups my face, tilting my head back so he can look at me. “Did I do this?”
I turn away from his touch and away from his sympathetic eyes.
“Becca, I’m so sorry.”
But I don’t believe him because I’m mad and I’m hurt and like she said, he doesn’t love me. Yet, when he touches me from my face, down my arm, and to my hand, I let him take it. I let him lead me away and up to his apartment, to his room, where he closes the door behind him.
“I’m so sorry,” he says again, and I want to forgive him. But it doesn’t take back how he made me feel, and how my fucked up mind responded to those feelings. “What happened?” I ask while he goes through his drawers and pulls out clothes for me to wear.
He sighs and drops his head as he sits on the edge of the bed. He stays silent while he hands me his boxers and I change into them, rolling the band over so they fit. He looks up now, and for the first time, I see the redness in his eyes and the puffiness that surrounds them.
He doesn’t speak, though—just places his hands on my hips and slowly glides them up my sides, taking my top with them. I lift my arms, my eyes on his as he removes my shirt, and I just want to yell at him to give me something. Anything. His eyes drift shut and his arms circle my waist, pulling me to him. The roughness of his cheek presses against my bare stomach. “Don’t, Becca. Not now.”
I swallow loudly, the pain of what feels like rejection filters through every surface of my body and it hurts. It hurts so damn bad. But then he kisses me, just under my navel and I close my eyes and submerge myself in the feeling of his touch, of his kiss, of his mouth as it lowers. His fingers, warm, curl around my shorts and my underwear and he tugs them down, past my hips and down my legs until they’re on the floor by my feet and I feel the cool air between my legs. He moves lower again and my eyes shut tight when I feel his lips against my mound. I choke on a gasp when his tongue, slow and wet, moves between my legs. He moans from deep in his throat and pulls back, his eyes focused on my chest; heaving as I struggle for breath. Then he reaches behind me, unhooks my bra and, with one arm around me and the other covering a breast, he pulls me over him as he lies down on the bed. He flips us until I’m on my back and he’s on his side and then he takes my nipple between his lips while his hand’s between my legs with two fingers inside me. I comb my fingers through his hair and move with him as he continues to kiss, suck, and lick down my body until he’s on the floor. He stands up and chews his lip while his eyes slowly roam my naked body. Then he grabs my ankles, rough and demanding, and pulls them down until I’m on the edge of the bed. He drops to his knees; his palms flat against my thighs as he pushes them apart. My back arches as his lips make contact with my sex, my eyes wide, my vision blurred while his tongue, his mouth, his fingers, work me to the edge. I lick my lips, my mouth dry, my hands gripping the sheets beneath me.
“Let go, baby,” he murmurs against me.
“Josh,” I whisper, my eyes filling with tears. I want to tell him to stop, that he doesn’t want this. But I know what it’s like to want to feel something, anything, but pain. And I know that’s what he’s doing.
He doubles his efforts and within seconds I’m panting his name over and over. He pushes me over the edge as tears mixed with sweat trickle down my hairline. He waits until I’m settled before running his tongue up my stomach, between my breast, and up to my ear. “Flip over,” he says, but his hand’s already on my waist, guiding me to where he wants me. I wait on all fours while he opens the drawer of his nightstand and rips open the condom packet. I feel one of his hands on my butt, the other on my back as he pushes me down and then pushes inside me. His thrusts are fast, hard and painful. And I can no longer tell if he’s using me, or if I’m using him, but either way we want the physical pleasure to help us forget the pain. So I let him take me, however he wants me. He leans down, his chest pressed against my back and his mouth on my ear. “I’m so sorry,” he says, and I have no idea which part he’s apologizing for. He slows his thrusts, his mouth moving from my ear to my neck, kissing me slow and soft.
And I remember why I love this, why I crave this… his touch, his kiss…
His hand’s in my hair now, pulling tight and I grunt in response—pushing back memories of the last time my hair was pulled…
Then he kisses my shoulder, his fingers brushing the hair away from my eyes so he can look at me—at the eyes he loves so much. “I love you,” he whispers, and I forget the pain… the pain of his hands in my hair, the pain of how he spoke to me earlier, and I let the pleasure of his touch balance out the torture and the fear of my life.
21
-Becca-
sink
sɪŋk/
verb
descend from a higher to a
lower position; drop downwards.
Days pass and his mood doesn’t change. He’s distant and withdrawn and he does what I normally do—he uses Tommy as a distraction to not pay attention to me. Honestly, I doubt I’d even see Josh if knocking on my door and asking me to play wasn’t the first thing Tommy does as soon as they get home. I don’t spend nights. Josh doesn’t ask me to. As soon as Tommy’s in bed, I leave. He doesn’t call. Doesn’t text. We don’t talk about what went on with his mom and we sure as hell don’t talk about what happened with us that night. In fact, we don’t really talk at all. Which is quite easy considering I’ve reverted back to the girl I was when I moved here; lying awake in bed every night with voices in my head pulling me further and further back into the darkness.
Then one night, right after Tommy goes down, he asks me to stay—not with him—but to watch Tommy. I agree, of course, and watch from his window as he grabs his skateboard from his truck and rolls out the driveway. I wait for him to return and when two a.m. hits, I send him a text asking when he’ll be home. After a half hour of no reply, I finally give in and fall asleep on his couch.
I startle awake when I hear the key turn in his door and he steps inside. He eyes me curiously as I sit up and wipe the sleep from my eyes. “Why aren’t you in bed?” he asks, sitting down next to me.
I shrug.
Then he does something I’ve wanted him to do, something I’ve craved since that night. He touches me. He holds my hand, his eyes fixed on the connection. “Is it because of what happened in there?”
I shrug again, though he can’t see me. So he faces me, his eyes right on mine. “Did I hurt you?” he asks.
I nod.
“Physically?”
I shake my head and point to my heart.
He releases a breath and my hand at the same time, but he doesn’t pull away, he grabs my legs and puts them over his, turning my entire body to face him. His hand’s on my neck now, gently stroking my cheek. “I’m sorry I hurt you,” he whispers. “And I’m sorry I’ve been pushing you away, Becca. I just don’t know how else to handle this. I know it’s hard for you—the fact that I’m not willing to talk about it yet—and I’m sorry for that, too. But I needed time, I needed to skate and to clear my head. I thought about a lot of things tonight.” His dark eyes glaze with tears and he swallows loudly, his head tilting forward and his voice softening. “Mainly about you and the fact that you’re the only constant in my life right now. I was a dick to you and I know I’ve been treating you horribly the last week but I just… I need you to be patient with me. I’m going to make mistakes—a lot of them—and I’m going to fuck up, especially when it comes to you and me because I’m not used to thinking about anyone or anything but myself and Tommy.” He sniffs once and looks back up at me. “I don’t want to lose you, Becca. I can’t lose you. So if I hurt you, I need you tell me. If I fuck up, call me out on it. The last thing I want is for you to walk away without me knowing why. If one day you realize you’re only here for Tommy and not for me and you want to walk away, then I have to let you, but I at least want to know that I did everything I could to make it right before letting you go. But please don’t do that, Becca. Please don’t leave me.” His voice breaks with the desperation in his words. He holds my face in his hands, his gaze searching mine. “Please,” he begs.
I kiss him once, twice, and by the third time, he starts to kiss me back. He kisses away the pain and the hurt. Not with his touch this time, but with his words, his despair and his declaration.
I stand up, take his hand, and lead us to his room, where we climb into bed, our arms wrapped around each other, my face on his chest, his hands in my hair and our hearts beating as one again.
“I love you, baby,” he whispers, kissing the top of my head.
“I love you, too.”
★★★
For the next few days, things go back to normal. Or at least a version of normal that’s enough to not make me sink into myself. Josh works and some nights he leaves and skates for a few hours, or at least that’s what he tells me. Of course I wonder. Every insecure part of me questions what he’s doing, who he’s with… if there’s someone else he’s seeing. And then I remember what he said and I know it can’t be true.
Right?
Josh’s truck pulls in and the second Tommy’s free he comes charging up to me waiting on the porch steps with my camera ready. I told him we’d spend the evening taking pictures—all of him.
He’s such a little poser.
He sits down next to me—his hand on my leg. “What doing?”
“Just clearing some space on my card so I can get more photos of you. Hey…” I face him. “I’m pretty sure Grams has a new costume for you.”
His eyes light up. “Wardrobe change?”
“Yeah, bud. Go inside. We’ve been waiting for you to get home.”
He’s up and on his feet in no time, opening the door and shouting, “Ma’am” right before the door slams shut.
I look up at Josh who’s standing by the mailbox; he’s looking at a letter, his eyebrows drawn. Slowly, he looks at me, his lips pressed tight.
I stand up nervously and wait for him to make his way over to me. “You got a letter,” he says, handing it to me.
The Washington University logo is the first thing I see and I can’t help but smile.
“St. Louis?” he asks.
My smile drops when I look back up at him.
He’s angry again.
“You never mentioned a word about it before. Is that—I mean, are you going there?”
“It’s complicated,” I tell him, my voice cracking. “It’s still kind of… up in the air at the moment.”
His eyes thin to slits. “So that’s what this is? You take a year off before college, live with your grandmother, fuck some guy because it’s convenient and then take off?”
“What? Josh. No.”
“Then what is it, Becs? You didn’t think it was important to bring this up?”
“It wasn’t confirmed… and you knew, right? You knew I wasn’t staying here forever.”
He crosses his arms, his head moving from side to side while he stares me down. “I’ve let you keep your secrets. I’ve held you through your bullshit nightmares—”
“Josh!” I indicate to the front door, hoping Grams can’t hear this conversation. I don’t want her hearing how he’s talking to me. That he’s pushing me down. Making me weak.
He lowers his voice. “You should’ve fucking told me, Becca. You should have at least given me that.”
“Yeah, well you also told me to tell you if you were hurting me. And you are.”
“Yeah!” He’s back to yelling now. “And I also fucking begged you not to leave me. Yet here you are, Becs, leaving me.”
“What’s going on?” Grams snaps from behind me. I stare at Josh. He stares back. Neither speaking. Then his phone rings, breaking the silence. He shoves his hand in his pocket and pulls it out, then turns away from me when he must see who’s calling. Tommy’s next to me now, dressed in his cowboy outfit Grams had bought him.
“I have to go,” Josh says, walking backward to his truck. “I’ll be back soon. Can you watch Tommy?”
I nod, even though I’m angry and hurt and blink away the tears before looking over at Tommy with the fakest smile I’ve ever had to fake before. “You ready, Cowboy?”
22
-Joshua-
“So there’s nothing else we can do?” I ask the doctor while my mom sits next to me, her head bent, her shoulders shaking with each sob.
“No,” the doctor says. “Unfortunately not.”
I look at my mom. “Sorry,” I tell her, because I don’t really know what else to say in this situation.
Mom says, “Thank you for trying, Joshua. I appreciate it.”
“Is he here? In the hospital, I mean.”
Doc stands up, pushing his chair behind him. “I’ll give you a moment,” he tells us. “I have another appointment in ten minute
s though.”
I nod.
My mom waits until he’s left before partially turning to me. “He is. But he doesn’t want to see you.”
“What?”
“You know him, Josh. He’s too proud for his own good. It has nothing to do with you.”
“That’s bullshit, Mom.”
She cringes. “I know. And please remember—this stays between us.”
-Becca-
When you spend your whole life faking happiness, it becomes a second emotion. Somewhere between fine and anger and hurt and content and satisfied. But really, it’s just feeling numb, only you carry a smile with it.
I answer the knock on my bedroom door. Grams looks over my shoulder at Tommy playing with his blocks on the floor. “I’m going to Bingo.” She smiles sadly and places her hand on my cheek. “Are you going to be okay?”
I nod.
“Becca, if he’s not treating you right—”
“He is. He’s just distracted and going through some stuff at the moment. And he’s right, I should’ve told him about St. Louis.”
“I love Joshua, please don’t get me wrong. But I feel like you’re making excuses—”
“I’m not,” I tell her, pushing back the tears pricking in the back of my eyes.
“Okay. I just worry is all.”
“I know, Grams. But seriously, there’s nothing to worry about. We’ll work it out.”
I close the door and turn back to Tommy, who’s in my closet now, pulling out the skateboard we’ve been working on. He looks up at me with the board in his hands and grins from ear to ear. “Daddy secwet present?”