Carry Me Home (2 page)

I
t takes me T-minus ten seconds to beeline for the bathroom at the bottom of the stairs and slam the door behind me. It’s dark inside, but I don’t reach for the light switch. Windowless pitch-blackness is safer while I brace my forehead against the wall and catch my breath. Half of me is giddy about getting under Tanner’s skin, but the other half reels from coming like a Category 5 hurricane. I move to the sink, fumble for the faucet, and take a big gulp.

The door bangs open and fluorescent lights flicker on. “Aw, shit.” Tanner stands, one foot in, one out.

I squint as my vision adjusts. Two run-ins with this guy in one night? My karma must be seriously out of whack. I stand, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Here’s a hot tip—knocking. Try it sometime.”

“The light was off.” His jaw tightens as he glares at an empty point beyond my shoulder. “I’ll go.”

“No, stay. You’re welcome to it.” My attitude is back and full throttle. Good. Better—and safer—to kill whatever intense craziness went down a few minutes ago.

“Didn’t realize you were talking to me again.” His voice is deep and low. He sounds like a stranger, nothing like the kid who spent the summer with me all those years ago. This is a man’s voice, and the idea is unsettling.

“I’m not,” I say shortly. “But I don’t have another board to break over your head.”

See, Tanner and I haven’t directly spoken since I called him out two years ago. He took my best friend, Talia’s, virginity under the Santa Cruz Wharf and thrashed her heart, and no one hurts my girl without consequences. Especially not Tanner. Worse thing was that it happened after a barbeque commemorating the anniversary of the death of Talia’s sister, Pippa—who just so happened to have been Tanner’s longtime girlfriend.

Sure, he and Talia were both drunk, but he left her passed out on the sand. Santa Cruz isn’t South Side Chicago or anything, but it’s sure as hell not Disneyland. Crap can go down here, especially late at night on the main city beach.

After my adorable, sweet friend sobbed her guts out the next morning in the passenger seat of my truck, I drove her home, anger growing inside me. Tanner had already been on my shit list for years, and here was a chance to let my feelings rip. I ran two red lights tearing to his house, the one he put a down payment on for his mom, Lydia, upgrading her from the trailer park. His front door was unlocked, and he was lightly snoring in his bedroom. I selected his favorite board, the one that seems to give him the license to be a total penis wrinkle, and broke it over his headboard before storming out.

In hindsight, it wasn’t much of a dialogue. I hated that he fucked with Talia but even more that we’d become no better than strangers.

“Guess I’ll leave you to it,” I say, starting to exit the bathroom, and he silently moves to let me. We both step the wrong way, and my chest squashes against his ribs. The fleeting contact zaps us apart like an electric shock.

Oh no, not again. Why does his touch singe my skin like he’s some kind of human branding iron? Lingering is a bad idea, a very bad idea that my body ignores as heat floods through my core.
Gah
. Despite the warmth surging through me, I’m somehow shivering. Talk about mixed signals. It’s always been like this between us.
This
is even my secret name for it, the forever-unmentioned connection, desperately ignored for years while we dated other people. Despite my best efforts, I’ve never quite figured out how to drive a stake through the feeling’s heart, but once I do, it’s getting buried under the crossroads at midnight.

His eyes lock to mine with the same piercing gaze that stares from countless posters at skate and surf shops along Pacific Avenue, endorsing shoes and boards. In these parts, being a pro skater is a designation that makes him a bigger deal than the president or the pope. Some days it’s as if I see him everywhere, his face on every corner, the one guy I’ve never been able to run away from.

I hug the familiar sense of irritation like a favorite teddy bear. It provides reassurance that I’m sane even if my hormones are going nuts. His hat brim is set a fraction off-center, and I resist the fleeting urge to fix it. He’s no doubt got enough doting fangirls eager to keep him groomed.

Word is he doesn’t date, or even hook up, since Pippa died, but I know the truth. I know about Talia, the wharf, everything. Tanner Green’s not a god. He’s just a regular guy, albeit more screwed up than most.

He’s not better than me.

His gaze drops, only for a nanosecond, but long enough to travel to my cutoffs and back. A muscle tics in his jaw, and he clears his throat, wrapping a big hand around his opposite shoulder. Two points of color rise in his cheeks, and just above the frayed neck of his T-shirt, his pulse beats, maybe even harder than mine.

I toss my head, about to crack a deflecting joke, anything to diffuse the tension, when he opens his mouth, shuts it, then leans in.

“When did you start hanging out with
this
crew?” he mutters.

I fold my arms. “I could ask you the same thing. You here to take out your issues on some lucky drunk girl? Guess fame has its advantages.”

“Knock it off,” he says with a scowl.

Oooh, looks like I’ve struck a raw nerve ripe for the plucking. “Don’t tell me you’re uncomfortable being the big hometown hero.”

He balls his fists so hard his knuckles turn white. There’s a long, raw-looking scrape running up the side of his forearm and a scab on his elbow. That’s typical for him though, due to the hard-core way he throws himself around on the board. When he won the Super Crown, I watched, like everyone else, holding my breath and barely able to look at the flat-screen.

“Don’t ever call me that.” He doesn’t yell. Instead he gets quieter, more intense. His ribs rise and fall almost as if he’s starting to panic.

“Good, at least we’re on the same page, then.” I’m being a mega bitch and I don’t care. Everyone gave him a hall pass when Pippa died after that freak car crash—especially Talia. Yeah, he showed his true colors where T was concerned. All class and charm.

Someone needs to call him out, and the only person up for the job is me.

We stand here, staring each other down, our ragged breaths audible over the
doof-doof
bass cranking from the living room. He’s a big guy and the bathroom is small, made smaller still by the giant elephant wedged in here between us. “By the way, that was some seriously pervy behavior in John Boy’s room,” I say, tossing my hair over one shoulder.

“I can’t believe you’re messing around with that clown.” There’s an edge buried in his tone even as his face remains stoic, unfathomable.

That’s what Tanner does best. Locks himself away. If I want to provoke a reaction—and right now I really want a reaction—I’m going to have to hammer him harder. “He’s easy to talk to.”

After all, I wasn’t the only one who got turned on by our encounter. Tanner didn’t exactly run away screaming.

“Yeah.” He snorts. “John Boy’s a genius. That stoner’s last three brain cells are deep.”

“He’s…” Crap, I got nothing. “Nice.”

“Some criteria.” He glances over his shoulder before half closing the door. The sight of his hands gripping the wood makes me remember the fists he clenched less than five minutes ago, during the best—and most stupid—orgasm of my entire life. “Why didn’t
you
say something after I almost walked in looking for the bathroom? You kept going. Took off your shirt. That was fucked-up, even for you.”

“For me? Really?” My voice echoes off the tile. “Let’s do this. Let’s talk about messed up.”

He cocks his chin in the direction of the party noise. “Want to keep it down?”

“Why? Because your rep is all you care about? This whole town has drunk some crazy-ass Kool-Aid.” I am officially ranting. He flinches when I jab a finger into his pectoral muscle, the thick slab covering whatever he’s got for a heart. “Everyone thinks you are such a good guy, but don’t forget, I know the real you.”

“Finished?” His voice is hoarse, like he’s been yelling, not standing here taking everything I dish out.

“I’m not ashamed of having a little fun on the side,” I say, forcing my lips into a bright smile. “I like who I am. That’s a major difference between me and you.”

“Screwing dumbasses in race-car beds is your idea of fun?”

My head flies back as if he’s slapped me. “What’s your brilliant suggestion? Become an emotional zombie like you?”

His eyes harden, the gray turning to steel. “You never change.”

“Yeah, well, ditto. You’re still a prick.” I should let it go, be the bigger person, but my smart-ass mouth has taken over, fueled by a fresh outpouring of anger.

His jaw flexes in this angry, sexy way. For one crazy second it’s like he’s going to pull me to him, and for another crazier second the idea electrifies me, like I’ve stepped on a downed power line.

Then he’s backing away, hands up, palms turned out. “Fine, whatever. I can’t handle this.”

“Handle what?”

“You.” His neck muscles stiffen.

“That’s not exactly front-page news.” I bury my trembling hands deep in my shorts pockets, pushing past him. “You could never handle me, Green.”

But here’s the shitty thing about unfinished business. It’s still there even if you leave first or get in the last word.

My grandma, whom everyone—including me—calls Mimsy, sits crossed-legged on a yoga mat in her living room, practicing Kundalini breaths. The ukulele propped against the futon is left over from her commune days at a Hawaiian hippie encampment during the early seventies. On the wall hangs a black-and-white photograph of herself as a stunning naked young woman, long legs disappearing in the surf, hands splayed over a pregnant belly, two thick braids dangling to her hips. My mom, Delilah, is the one in utero. She has Mimsy’s hazel eyes. I inherited her red hair and big mouth. These days Mimsy’s signature style is a burnished silver bun. When she lets it down Rapunzel-style, she can still sit on the ends.

I want to be Mimsy when I grow up.

Here’s a lady who saw the Velvet Underground, Pink Floyd, the Doors, and the Grateful Dead live at the Fillmore and spent the so-called Summer of Love as a flower child in San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury.

It’s not worth imagining what my life would be without her. Mimsy taught me macramé, fermentation, tie-dying, and organic gardening. After Delilah went off the rails, my grandmother took me in, gave me a stable home.

She exhales a final Dragon Breath. “Ah! I could take on the world!” She wears turquoise bifocals, but her gaze is soul-cutting. “Hungry, Sunshine? You look peaky. What is it? A man?” Mimsy’s been around the block.

“If I said it was a low-blood-sugar moment, would you cook?” I’m joking, sort of. I also wouldn’t mind if she whipped up a batch of her famous banana muffins—comfort food sounds good right about now. I’m still shaken after my encounter with Tanner. My hands didn’t stop trembling the whole bike ride home.

She chuckles, not hearing the hidden desperation in my question. “Not tonight, girlie. I’m in the creative zone. Got to finish my song before we leave tomorrow.”

Mimsy’s part of the Raging Grannies, a loose confederation of older women who dress like sweet little old ladies, sidle in close to their target, and unleash hell in the form of satirical songs. She’s road-tripping to the state capitol in Sacramento, taking on politicians during a week of environmental protests.

“Quick, what rhymes with fracking?”

“Quacking?” I shrug.

She gives her patented not-amused look.

“Snacking?” I pop open the fridge and select my most recent concoction—fermented kale. I grew the kale myself. Mimsy’s finally allowed me to graduate to my own raised beds. One of the other causes dear to her heart is urban homesteading, and she’s transferred her love of gardening to me. We have Brussels sprouts, artichokes, and fava beans instead of a front lawn.

Through the open kitchen window comes the
clatter-clatter
of wheels down the snake run. Over the fence is Derby, one of the nation’s first skate parks. Someone shoots like a cannon from the bowl. It sounds like they’re going to jump the fence and crash into my studio, a renovated toolshed in the backyard.

Only one person rips that hard, especially after dark.

Tanner.

He’s a monkey on my back tonight, reminding me of so many things that I want to forget, and not just the way he hurt Talia. When he looks at me, does he see Delilah, my mother? I grind my molars and twirl to Mimsy with a jack-off hand gesture. “No, wait, I’ve got it! Whacking?” Not cool for a normal grandma. Lucky for me, Mimsy orbits so far from mainstream, she’s like Pluto, back when it used to be a planet.

“Oh! I’ve got it.” She clears her throat, picks up the ukulele, and warbles, “If politicians okay fracking, then it’s time to do some sacking.”

I grin at her adorable expectant face. “It’s got a nice ring to it.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Mimsy says, nodding with satisfaction before glancing at the jar in my hand. “That your newest batch?”

“Yep.” I shove in a fork and wolf a bite, wrinkling my nose. The kale has the right amount of sourness, but the flavor’s a little boring. “Could use extra chili. I like more kick.”

Despite everything Mimsy and I have been through, her smile lines are well entrenched. “Attagirl.”

I shove the jar back in the fridge and grab a carrot instead. Mimsy raised me vegan, and I grew up noshing on a steady diet of quinoa, collard greens, and hemp-milk smoothies—carob on special occasions. This diet might have been social death anywhere else, but here on the California coast, I was only slightly weird. Local kids gobble baked tofu like chicken nuggets.

“I went to the post office today,” she says. “Mailed the boys your gift. Nice choice.” I’ve never met my twin brothers, but that doesn’t mean I neglect their birthdays. I send something every year. This time it’s the complete
Little House on the Prairie
series, my gentle reminder that a back-to-the-earth subsistence lifestyle doesn’t have to include hate-talking the president or paranoia about someone coming for your guns. Delilah and her husband, Hoss, are preppers. They live off the grid in a remote Nevada desert, preparing for TEOTWAWKI, their oh-so-cute acronym for The End of the World as We Know It.