Against the Wall (12 page)

I leave the yard feeling positive. As soon as I open the passenger door, I smell hamburgers. There's a white paper bag on the seat and a fountain drink in the cup holder. My stomach growls in anticipation.

“Are you hungry?” she asks.

“Starving.”

“Help yourself.”

“Thanks,” I say, tearing into the burger. Fuck yeah. It's like Christmas.

“The soda is for you, too.”

I grab it and help myself, giving her a sidelong glance. She looks tired, with darker circles under her eyes. Her lipstick has worn off and the swelling is slight, but noticeable. “How did it go?”

“Fine.”

“No Chip?”

“No Ship.”

She's referring to our first introduction. “Are you making fun of my accent?”

“You don't have an accent.”

I do, actually. I speak Spanish with a slight accent. I'm not a
pocho,
but most Mexicans can tell I grew up in the US. That's nothing Meghan would understand, so I shut up and eat my delicious American hamburger.

She pulls away from the gate and turns left at the intersection, heading toward the coast. “Is that place where the fence meets the ocean around here?”

“You want to go there?”

“Wherever,” she says, shrugging. “Any beach.”

Border Field is closed at night, and heavily patrolled even during the day, so I give her directions to Seacrest Beach. She parks near the rock barrier on the south side. I finish my burger and fries while she drinks her milkshake.

I figure she doesn't want to go to Noah's. Maybe because of her face, maybe because I took her room. “I'll move out tomorrow.”

“That's dumb,” she says. “I can sleep on the couch.”

“Noah won't like it.”

“Noah won't like hearing it from April if you leave. You'll cause trouble between them.”

I brush off her attempt to guilt-trip me. Noah and April are solid. They're still so hot for each other, it's embarrassing. I'll bet any argument they start ends up in bed. The bigger issue is my parole requirement, but I can get around it. Meghan needs the room more than I do. I'll find another place to stay.

She exits the car and takes a blanket from the backseat. I notice that she's wearing her pajama pants and tank top again instead of her work uniform. We walk down the short path to the beach. It's dark and deserted.

We sit and watch the midnight-blue waves crash against the shore. She lets me put my arm around her. It's not a come-on, just a comfort. I'm tired and so is she. We don't talk about tomorrow. She rests her head on my shoulder. After about twenty minutes, she slumps against me, her breathing soft and even.

I've rocked Jenny to sleep more than once. I'd forgotten how it feels. It's hard to describe the tenderness and vulnerability involved. There's nothing else like it. I don't recall drifting off in anyone's arms, ever. The fact that Meghan trusts me so completely makes my chest swell with emotion.

I tell myself that it doesn't mean much. She's exhausted and has nowhere else to go. I press my lips against her temple, too light to wake her. Then I stare out at the waves. I think about prison, and how lucky I am to be alive. It's a hazy night with no stars.

I try not to wish for anything.

I hear Noah come downstairs at dawn.

He wakes up early to go jogging most days, but this morning he's dressed for work. Maybe he got called in to investigate a murder. I close my eyes and burrow deeper into the blankets on the couch, hiding my face. He sounds like he's in a hurry. He grabs his keys from the bowl by the front door. Then he pauses. “Meghan?”

I murmur a sleepy response.

“What are you doing here?”

“I broke up with Chip.”

He's silent for a moment, weighing the ramifications. Now he has to worry about where to put me in his overflowing house. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. Just tired.”

He takes me at my word and leaves without grilling me. I'm not lying about being tired. I slept for a couple of hours on the beach before Eric woke me. Then we came here to a dark house. Eric tried to give me his spot in the den but I wouldn't let him. He finally went to bed and I curled up in the living room.

I drift off again and wake up to voices in the kitchen. It's full sunlight. I must have really needed the extra rest.

I tiptoe down the hall and duck into the bathroom. My hair is mussed and my eyes are puffy from sleep but my lip isn't swollen anymore. I'm wearing flannel pajama pants and an old tank top that says
FIESTA
.

I look different. More like myself. More of a mess, but that's okay. I want to shed the stylish veneer that Chip cultivated.

I put on a sweater and wander into the kitchen for breakfast. Jenny greets me with a hug and almost spills her cereal, earning a mild rebuke from her mother. April is already dressed for work in a pretty yellow dress. Eric is sitting at the table, his expression inscrutable.

April must have heard about my breakup already, because she doesn't look surprised by my appearance. She steps forward to greet me with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. I should have been prepared for that, but I'm not. I tense at her touch, afraid she'll notice something amiss. Which, of course, she does.

“What happened to your face?”

I remember, too late, that April had an abusive boyfriend before Noah. Jenny's father—Eric's brother—was a bad man. I touch my lip and retreat a step, flushing.

For some reason, she turns to Eric and asks him a question in rapid-fire Spanish. He gives her a dark look and a clipped response. Jenny frowns at their exchange. Then he says in English, “Why don't I walk Jenny to school?”

She jumps to her feet. “Can I, Mommy?”

“Go ahead.”

While they gather her things, I get a cup of coffee and sit down. April kisses her daughter goodbye at the door. My mother never did that. She sent me off in the morning with a healthy lunch and a stern expression. No sweetness.

My eyes start to burn unexpectedly. April is a wonderful mother, despite her young age. I'm happy for her and Noah.

She returns to the kitchen and waits for me to speak.

“It wasn't Eric's fault,” I say. “He didn't do anything.”

“Who hit you?”

I curl my hands around my warm coffee mug, silent.

“Was it Chip?”

My throat closes up. “I hit him first.”

“In self-defense, or out of anger?”

“Both, I think.”

Her eyes soften at this confession. “You know that Raul was abusive.”

“Yes.”

“I used to start fights with him a lot. I'd push his buttons, criticize him, even shove him. I'd dare him to do something about it.”

“Why?”

“Because it was better than being hit for no reason. I didn't like walking on eggshells around him or getting caught off guard. If I made him do it, I had more control. I was ready for the blow, and I could blame myself afterward.”

My vision blurs with tears. “Why would you want to blame yourself?”

She puts her arm around me. “It's just human nature, I guess. I thought I deserved it.”

“You didn't.”

“Neither did you.”

I feel like she's telling me something incredibly personal and important, but I'm too confused to apply it to my relationship with Chip. I can't bear to examine the similarities in our situations. I can only imagine
her
suffering, and it hurts. It hurts to picture her cowed and beaten, blaming herself. I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle a sob.

She hugs me and pats my hair while I cry.

“I'm glad you found Noah,” I say, grabbing a tissue.

“So am I.”

“Will you tell him?”

“I think you should do that.”

I blow my nose. “I'm not going back to Chip. It's over.”

She passes me another tissue. “Good.”

When Eric returns from walking Jenny to school, I'm sniffling over a bowl of cold cereal. He stays in the living room, silent. He's wearing dark jeans and tennis shoes with one of Noah's old CVPD sweatshirts. His jaw is shadowed by black stubble, which helps to disguise the bruise Chip gave him.

“I have to get to work,” April says. She grabs her purse and has another brief exchange with Eric in Spanish. This one sounds less accusatory, but her attitude is still cool. She gives me a worried glance over her shoulder and leaves.

Silence falls like a blanket in her wake. Eric doesn't translate what she said. He looks sort of pissed, as if April scolded him for his involvement in my conflict with Chip. She doesn't know that Kelsea instigated the dance.

She doesn't know a lot of things.

Like Noah, April considers me the innocent party in our forbidden affair three years ago. Eric was streetwise and experienced. I was practically a virgin. That doesn't mean he took advantage of me. He didn't seduce the cop's little sister for kicks. I wanted it as much as he did. We just clicked.

We still do.

Trauma can bring people together or tear them apart. Noah's experiences as a cop probably helped him connect with April. I'd be drawn to Eric no matter what, but the shock of being on the receiving end of violence has changed me. It's disturbing to be abused by someone who loves you. It must be even worse when you love that person in return. I know that Eric fought with his brother and tried to protect April.

What she said to me finally sinks in. I'd never blame Eric or April for his brother's actions. I shouldn't blame myself for the incident with Chip. I stayed with him too long, and kept quiet too often. I made the mistake of getting drunk and dancing with Eric. I also hit Chip first—but I did it out of fear.

He hit me to cause pain. That's totally on him.

While I finish my cereal, Eric skirts past me to grab a mug. There's only one cupful left in the coffeemaker. “You want this?”

I shake my head. “Go for it.”

He pours a cup and adds sugar. Then he sips it with a slight grimace.

“You don't like coffee?”

“No.”

“Then why are you drinking it?”

“Because I can.”

They must not have had coffee in prison. The food was probably terrible, too. Maybe that's why he looks so hard and lean, like a hungry wolf. He's been half-starved for three years. “I told April what happened.”

He nods, taking another sip.

“Did she think…you did it?”

“No,” he says. “She thought I started shit with Chip.”

“He started it.”

Eric shrugs, as if that's debatable. Then he leaves the kitchen with his mug. I curl up on the couch and stare at my phone. I'm afraid to check the messages. I feel sort of numb about everything. I could sit here forever, unblinking. I can hear Eric in the den, packing up his meager belongings. His clothes. The stack of letters in the drawer.

Who did he write to? And why didn't he send them?

He emerges with a backpack.

“Where are you going?”

“I can't stay.”

“Please,” I say. “I don't want to be alone.”

His eyes darken at my request, which I immediately regret issuing. “I have to find another place to live.”

“Did April ask you to leave?”

“No,” he says, adjusting his backpack. “But Noah will.”

I doubt it, but I understand Eric's reasoning. He'd rather go on his own than stay where he's not wanted. “I'll take the den and you can sleep on the couch.”

His gaze moves from my chenille blanket and soft pillow to my flannel pajama pants and cozy knit sweater. It's fallen off one shoulder to reveal the thin tank top underneath. I'm not wearing a bra. I tug the knit fabric back into place, but not before my nipples pebble in awareness.

“The couch isn't the problem,” he says in a clipped voice.

The desire between us is unmistakable. My body doesn't seem to care that I got roughed up the night before last. Or maybe I need the simple comfort of sexual release. Some pleasurable physical contact to chase the trauma away. I know he wants me. Sleeping in the same house, less than ten feet apart, will be a challenge. I can imagine him brushing by me in the morning with an erection jutting out at the front of his sweatpants.

That would be awkward. And hot.

Yesterday I saw the
M
tattoo on his abdomen. I don't think it has anything to do with me. Even so, I'd like to get a better look. I'd like to run my hands over his finely etched torso, and tug down his waistband to investigate the rest…

“The garage,” I say huskily, trying to refocus.

“What?”

“You could stay in the garage.”

That's where he was yesterday, I assume. His muscles were all sweaty from working out with Noah's gym equipment. I jump off the couch and head that direction. He follows me through the kitchen door.

“April's the only one who parks in here. There's a cot we can set up for you.”

I find it on the shelf and try to take it down. Eric comes up behind me to help. He's only an inch or two taller than me, so we fit together perfectly. I shiver at the sensation of his strong body framing mine.

When the cot is on the ground, I kneel to unfold it. There's plenty of room near the weight bench. Putting Eric in the garage is an artificial separation. We'll still be in close contact, but it gives him more space.

“What do you think?”

He sits down on the weight bench, contemplative. I wonder if he remembers the self-defense lesson he gave me here years ago. He came over one night when my brother was gone. I'd just moved away from home, away from my parents' Christian influence. Eric was my handsome coworker, eager to help me explore. I felt safe with him. The lesson was followed by our first kiss, which almost turned into sex on the floor.

“It's okay for now,” Eric says.

“Where else would you go?”

“Junior's, if I have to.”

“He's out?”

“Yes.”

I've never met Junior or any of Eric's other gang-member friends. I know that Junior was involved in a drive-by and did time in the same prison as Eric. The idea of Eric slipping down the wrong path again makes my chest ache. But I say nothing, because what hold do I have over him? None.

I leave him in the garage and go back inside to turn on my phone. There are no messages from Chip, which makes me nervous. I expected him to be furious or apologetic, not silent.

Kelsea sent me a link to an article about the slut walk in the
San Diego Times
. There's an accompanying photo of about a dozen participants. It's taken from behind, perhaps to protect their identities. I'm not in it.

“Can you believe this shit?” Kelsea texted. “No one interviewed
me
.”

The girl who got doused with beer was interviewed, but not named. The event is described as part protest march, part girls just wanna have fun. It's a fluff piece. I don't read the comments. I've had enough abuse.

I can't resist checking Chip's social media, however. He changed his Facebook status to single and posted a picture of himself with a bottle of Jose Cuervo. My new girlfriend, the caption reads. There are about a dozen offers of comfort from female followers. He hasn't responded to any of them.

I close the page and text Kelsea a brief status report.

She pings me back in seconds:

The center got vandalized again. Broken windows and stuff. Campus security called SDPD.

Should I come?
I reply.

Yes. They want 2 ask us questions.

“Shit,” I say out loud.

Be right there.

I toss aside my phone and get ready to leave. There's a pair of ripped jeans inside the bag in my trunk. After I change clothes, I fix my hair and put on some makeup. A bit of lipstick and concealer works like magic to cover my bruises. I say goodbye to Eric, who's stretched out on the cot with his hands tucked under his head.

It's a twenty-minute drive to SDSU. I've never seen the parking lot so empty. The campus is deserted except for a few diehards hanging out at the library. I can't imagine studying the week after midterms.

The women's center is a mess.
DIE SLUTS
is written in red spray paint on the wall. One of the windows is smashed, with spiderweb cracks surrounding the impact point. There's a trash can cover on its side and trash all over the concrete. Most chilling, there are two naked Barbie dolls hanging from a noose on the front door. One has short blond hair, like me. The other resembles Kelsea. They appear to be locked in a lascivious embrace.

Kelsea is talking to a uniformed cop by the entrance. There's a man in a suit that I vaguely recognize as the dean and a few other employees, including a janitor. The director of the women's center isn't here.

I greet Kelsea with a hug and say hello to the officer. His name is Jenkins.

“You have any idea who did this?” he asks me.

I shake my head. I can't picture Chip sneaking on campus at night. He's not the surreptitious type. We were together during the first vandalism incident, too. I don't see how he could be responsible.