Penelope Douglas - Until You

James veered off into the kitchen, while I headed upstairs to Tate’s room, my legs shaking the closer I got.

The door was open. It was always open. Tate never had anything to hide like I did. Stepping inside with soft feet like I was an explorer on unstable ground, I made a circle of the room and took inventory of what had changed and what hadn’t.

One thing I always appreciated about this girl was her abhorrence for the color pink—unless it was paired with black. The walls were halved—the top was black and white pinstriped wallpaper and the bottom was painted red, a white wooden border separating the two parts. Her bedding was a deep gray with a black leaf pattern all over it, and the walls were sparsely covered with candle holders, pictures and posters.

Very uncluttered and very Tate.

I also noticed that there was nothing of me in here. No pictures or keepsakes from when we were friends. I knew why, but I didn’t know why it bugged me.

I dropped my bag and walked over to her CD player that she’d had since forever. She had an iPod dock, but the iPod was gone. Probably in France with her.

Some fucked up curiosity bit at my insides, so I started hitting switches to start the CD player. I knew she didn’t listen to the radio, because she thought that most music that got radio play sucked.

Silverhair’s Dearest Helpless popped on, and I couldn’t help the shake in my chest from the laugh I tried to hold back. Backing up to the bed, I laid down, letting the music hold me tight.

“I don’t understand how you can listen to this alternative crap, Tate.”

I sit on the bed scowling at her but still unable to control the smile that wants release. I give her a hard time, but I love nothing more than to see her happy.

And she’s so damn cute right now.

“It’s not crap!” she argues, widening her eyes at me. “It’s the only album I have where I can listen to every song with equal enjoyment.”

I lean back on my hands and sigh. “It’s whiny,” I point out, and she puckers up her lips while she plays air guitar.

Watching her—something I could do every minute of every day—I know I’m all bluster. I would sit through a million Silverchair concerts for her.

Things are changing between us. Or maybe just for me, I don’t know. I hope for her, too.

What felt friendly and easy before is different now. Every damn time I see her lately, all I want to do is grab her and kiss her. I feel like there is something wrong with me. My blood runs hot whenever she wears the short, little jean shorts like the ones she’s wearing right now. Even her baggy, black Nine Inch Nails T-shirt is turning me on.

Because it’s mine.

She borrowed it one day and never gave it back. Or I guess I told her she could just have it. One night when I noticed that she was sleeping in it, I didn’t want it back anymore. The idea of my shirt on her body while she sleeps makes me feel like she’s mine. I like that I’m close to her even when I’m not here.

“Oooh, I love this part!” she squeals as the chorus starts, and she rocks out harder on her invisible instrument.

Even a little sway of her hips or scrunching up her nose makes my pants tighter. What the hell? We’re only fourteen. I shouldn’t be having these ideas, but dammit, I can’t stop it.

I mean, shit, yesterday I couldn’t even watch her do her math homework, because the pensive expression on her face was so adorable that I had a strong urge to haul her into my lap. Not touching her downright sucks.

“Alright, I can’t take it,” I blurt out and get off the bed to turn off the music. Any distraction to kill the hard-on that’s growing in my pants.

“No!” she screams, but I can hear the laughter in her voice as she grasps at my arms.

I shoot out and lightly jab her under the arm, because I know how ticklish she is. She squirms, but now I’ve touched her, and I don’t want to stop. We nudge each other back and forth, each of us trying to get to the CD player.

“Alright, I’ll turn it off!” she yells through a fit of laughter as I move my fingers into her stomach. “Just stop!” she giggles, falling into me, and I close my eyes as my hands linger at her hips and my nose in her hair.

What I want from her scares me. And I’m afraid it would scare her, too. I know it will definitely scare her father.

But I’ll wait, because there is no other choice. For the rest of my life, I won’t want anyone else.

It’s time to man up and tell her.

“Let’s go to the pond tonight,” I say softer than I want. My voice cracks, and I’m not sure if I’m nervous or frightened. Probably both.

Our fish pond is where it needs to happen. It’s where I want to tell her that I love her. We go there a lot. Picnics or just for walks. It’s not unusual for us to sneak out and ride our bikes up there at night.

She leans back and looks at me with a casual smile. “I can’t. Not tonight.”

My shoulders slump a little, but I recover. “Why?”

She doesn’t look at me but pushes her hair behind her ears and walks to the bed to sit down.

Dread stomps into my brain like a big, fat rhinoceros. She’s going to tell me something I don’t like.

“I’m going to the movies,” she offers with a close-lipped smile. “With Will Geary.”

I swallow, feeling the thump in my chest damn near break a rib. Will Geary is in our class, and I hate him. He’s been sniffing around Tate for a year. His father and Tate’s dad play golf together, and that’s one part of her life that I’m not involved in.

Will Geary doesn’t have anything on me. His family doesn’t have more money or a better house. But his family is involved with Tate’s, and my parents are…well, not involved with anything. Tate’s dad had tried taking me golfing once or twice, but it’s never stuck. Fixing cars is where we bond.

I narrow my eyes, trying to reel in the anger. “When did that happen?”

She only makes eye contact with me for a second at a time. I can tell she is uncomfortable. “He asked yesterday when our dads played golf together.”

“Oh,” I almost whisper, my face rushing with heat. “And you said yes?”

She folds her lips between her teeth and nods.

Of course she said yes. I took my damn time, and another guy swooped in.

But it still hurts.

If she wants to be with me, I guess she would’ve told him no. But she didn’t.

I nod. “That’s cool. Have fun.” The pitch in my voice probably gives away how hard I’m trying to sound like I don’t care.

I start walking for her bedroom door. “Listen, I have to go. I forgot Madman needs some food, so I’m off to the store.”

She’s mine. I know she loves me. Why can’t I just turn around and tell her? All I have to do is say ‘don’t go’, and the hard part would be over.

“Jared?” she calls, and I stop, the air in the room almost too thick to breathe.

“You’re my best friend.” She pauses and then continues, “But is there maybe any reason you may not want me to go with Will tonight?”

Her shaky voice is hesitant like she’s scared to speak, and the moment fills the room like a broken promise. It’s the moment when you know that you can have what you want if you’re only brave enough to say so. It’s a split second when everything can change, but you pussy out because you’re too afraid to risk the rejection.

“Of course not.” I turn around and smile at her. “Go. Have a good time. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

That night I saw Will kiss her, and the next day my dad called and asked if I wanted to come visit him for the summer.

I’d said ‘yes.’

“Eat.” James pushed a plate of meatloaf and potatoes in my face as soon as I sat down on the barstool.

I’d fallen asleep on Tate’s bed listening to Silverchair and hadn’t woken up until two in the afternoon. Her dad pounded on the door to wake me.

After I’d showered and gotten dressed in fresh clothes, I’d come downstairs to an even better smell than Tate’s shampoo.

I sat at the center island in the kitchen and stuffed the food into my mouth like I hadn’t eaten a home-cooked meal in years. Well, I guess I hadn’t. Before the summer with my father, my alcoholic mother wasn’t very nurturing. And after that summer, I wouldn’t let her be even if she’d tried.

“Don’t you have work?” I asked before taking a drink to wash down the food.

It was Friday, and I was missing school as well. I’d skipped yesterday when Madoc and I went to get tattoos, too.

That seemed like so long ago now.

“I took the day off,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

To deal with me.

“Sorry.” And I honestly was. Mr. Brandt was a good guy, and he didn’t deserve drama.

Leaning against the counter opposite the center island, James crossed his arms over his chest, and I knew a talk was coming. Fixing my gaze on my plate of food, I braced myself, because with Mr. Brandt, it was best just to shut up and take it.

“Jared, your mom will be gone for at least four weeks. You’re going to stay here while she’s away.”

“I’ll be fine at my house.” It was worth a try.

“You’re sixteen years old. That’s illegal.”

“Seventeen,” I corrected.

“What?”

“I’m seventeen today.” It was October second. I hadn’t realized until they’d dated my paperwork this morning at the jail.

That information didn’t give James any pause, though. “I spoke to a judge. One that I know well. I worked out a treatment, of sorts, in order for that mess from last night to stay off your permanent record.”

Mess from last night? That’s a strange way to describe it. “I nearly beat a guy to death,” I spit out sarcastically. How the hell were they going to keep that off my record?

His dark blonde eyebrows pinched together. “If that’s true, then why haven’t you asked how he is?”

I’d nearly beat a guy to death.

Yeah, even saying the words, I still didn’t care. Would I care if he were dead?

James continued. “In case you did care, he’s fine. Not great, but he’ll survive. Some broken ribs, a little internal bleeding that he went into surgery for last night, but he’ll recover.”

He’d be in the hospital for a while, but I was glad I hadn’t hurt him that badly. To be honest, most of last night swirled in my head like water down a drain. The more it moved, the more I lost. I could barely recall most of the attack. I remember hitting him with the lamp and kicking him in the stomach several times. He threw some shit at me, but in the end, he was the one on the ground.

Until that asshole cop showed up, and he stuck his knee in my back, pulled my hair, and called me every name under the sun while he cuffed me.

Why had I called the cops again? I still wasn’t sure.

“So the judge would like you to attend counseling.” I didn’t need to look up to know James was shooting me a warning look. “In exchange, you won’t have this latest episode on your record.”

“Absolutely not,” I shook my head and laughed at his joke.

Counseling? Most people pissed me off. And people up in my shit really pissed me off.

“That’s what I told him you’d say,” James bowed his head and sighed. “Jared, you’re going to have to start taking responsibility for yourself. You did wrong and the world doesn’t owe you anything. I’m not going to wipe your nose just because you come from a broken home and you think that gives you a license to behave badly. I call it the “Fuck up, own up, and get up” policy. Make a mistake, admit it, and move on. We all screw up, but a man solves his problems. He doesn’t make them worse.”

I should’ve just ate and kept my mouth shut.

“Did you fuck up?” he asked, every slow syllable a challenge.

I nodded.

Would I do it again? Yes. But he didn’t ask me that.

“Good.” He slammed his hand down on the counter top. “Now it’s time to get up. Your attendance and grades are in the garbage. You have no real goals beyond high school—that I can tell, anyway—and you suck at making responsible decisions. There’s a really good place for people who crave discipline and don’t need too much freedom.”