First Comes Love (16 page)

He ends up buying five CDs from the five-dollar bin and I buy a collection of love songs on sale for two dollars. We walk outside and I set my CD on the ground in front of the music store and Gray asks me what I’m doing. I grab his hand and we cross the street and sit on a bench. We watch people saunter by and glance at the CD. A woman with two kids stops to examine it but she doesn’t pick it up. Finally, a man walking by himself bends down and picks it up. He’s wearing a business suit and he looks tired and his gray hair’s a tangled mess. He looks at the CD and glances around. He shrugs and puts it in his bag. I smile and tell Gray maybe he needs to listen to it. Maybe it will be life-changing for him.

We walk back to the car and drive to In-N-Out for dinner. We lift up the back of Gray’s hatchback and sit on the edge so we can eat with the sunlight pouring in and listen to music. We’re sunburned and sore from running, and we take turns rubbing each other’s calves and shins. We head back to the hotel, where Gray’s ready to settle in for the night because he knows what’s in store. Before I have to ask if he’s having a good time he tells me today has been the greatest day of his life.

I do the “I just got laid,” walk for days after our trip to Los Angeles.
It’s more like a strut. It’s pretty obvious when you’re doing it. Your mind is clouded in a euphoric high. Your head is held at an angle twenty degrees higher than normal. There’s a continual smart-ass grin on your face. Your eyes twinkle, literally, as if stardust fell inside them. You walk taller. Prouder. Your back is held straighter. Shoulders wider. You know you’re hot. It’s been proven. You had sex.

So, what do I think while I’m in this mind-set? Mostly this: When will I have sex again?

The best part of all: Nothing can bring you down. No words can harm you. No one can annoy you. This is a bullet-proof state of mind. You’re cocky and confident, as if the world should lay down a red carpet under your feet and reporters should stand in line to ask, “What’s your secret? Why did she pick you?”

The world is set right again. Sexual healing. I now understand why Marvin Gaye’s song is so good.

One week left until Dylan’s leaving
but I deny it to myself because it’s easier than facing circumstances I would never choose and can’t avoid.

I could dwell on the fact that she’s leaving and let myself feel sick about it. Do I start to slowly distance myself from her now? I mean, what’s the point of falling more in love with Dylan every day when I know it has to come to an end? Why set myself up for that kind of pain? Haven’t I had enough pain in my life?

But if I knew Amanda was going to die, would I have distanced myself from her to make it easier? That’s insane. I would have spent as much time with her as possible. Documented everything. Appreciated every moment. Told her how amazing she was, how much I loved her, how much she’d added to my life. Because if you’re lucky enough to have people in your life that make you happy, that inspire you, that move you, you need to devour each moment you have together because you never know how many of those moments you have left. These people are sacred.

So, we spend every possible waking, sleeping, breathing minute together. I leave her only to go to work. We finish painting projects for her Aunt Diane-Dan. We take hikes around the city. I don’t mind, because usually both activities end with a shower, which ends with sex. And the sex is life-changing. Mind-altering. It consumes my thoughts. The more I have it, the more I need it. And I’m getting better at it. I’ve figured out ways to touch Dylan that make her legs shake. Her back arch. Her breaths come out in gasps, her voice in groans. It’s true what they say, sex only gets better. And no one’s ever told me that it’s way more satisfying to get a girl off than to get off yourself. I’m glad I figured that one out on my own.

I’ve been avoiding my house. My parents have treated my Mighty Squall (as Dylan and I refer to it) as though that’s all it was, just a wild, unexpected storm front that blew through our lives and tossed things around but it’s passed now. Forgotten. Just a freak incident. Our lives have settled back into a safe avoidance routine. And it really pisses me off that in the last few days our family talks have contained all the love and warmth of newspaper headlines with no story attached. Quick. To the point. Sufficiently informative, but lacking any depth. And this used to be enough. But someone’s taught me to expect more out of people and never to settle.

***

It’s Saturday afternoon and my mom and dad
are sitting in the family room to escape the heat. I’m leaving to take Dylan on a hike to Silly Mountain, a trail outside Phoenix that I’m surprised she never discovered on her own. My dad gives me this strange look when I walk in the room. Like he’s actually happy to see me. Like for once he has something to say to me beyond a weather forecast or to inform me of his next business trip.

He tells me Coach Clark called him yesterday to discuss the scholarship. My dad clears his throat and he looks surprised.

“He told me you already accepted the offer.”

I nod. I did accept it. I have a list of reasons ready to fire out. I’m an adult. They can’t stop me. I don’t need their money. I’ll be fine. It’s a free education. It’s a free country. It’s
my life.
They should lead by example and get on with their own lives.

But he doesn’t argue with me.

I see relief pass over his eyes. And something else. Something strange. Then I realize he’s happy. He’s the happiest I’ve seen him since Amanda died.

“You want me to play?” I ask.

He tells me of course he wants me to play. He stands up and walks over to me and presses his hand on my shoulder. He tells me I made the right decision and he’s proud of me for taking the initiative. I stare at him, our eyes level with each other.

“Really?” I ask.

“You were right. You can’t pass this up.”

I nod and I glance at my mom, who’s staring at the floor, silent.

“It looks like I’ll be adding Albuquerque to my travel plans this spring,” he says. “There’s one more thing, Gray.” He tells me he’s also been thinking about seeing a counselor. He just never imagined I’d be willing to go through with it, he admits. He’s shocked that I was the first one to bring it up.

I shrug. It’s amazing how far you’re willing to go when someone believes in you. He assures me, again, that he wants me to play baseball. Nothing would make him and my mom more proud.

“Before you leave for school,” he says, “I made a few appointments for us all to meet with a family therapist.”

I tell him I think that’s great. I look at my mom again and her hands are folded in her lap and she gives me a slow nod. She sighs and her breath is so heavy, so toiling. She’s still feeling the most pain. She’s the most damaged. After Amanda died, she curled in on herself, like the burnt corners of paper. She shriveled and became half the person she used to be. I was worried she’d slowly curl up all together and smother herself in darkness.

Tears roll down her cheeks and a shaky breath escapes her lips. It makes my heart ache to see her so wounded. I wish I could make the pain stop. You’d think time would help her to heal, but I know grieving happens in waves and feelings get recycled. One day you wake up with more energy and the heavy cloud of sadness lifts off your face and you attempt to rejoin civilization, but then you’re suddenly reminded. It can be as simple as hearing a song on the radio or seeing a movie title or stumbling upon an old photograph—the memory kicks you right in the hollow spot of your heart and the relapse of pain rushes back like a flood. The cycle’s relentless and exhausting and can be more discouraging than it’s worth, because it seems like every time life kicks you back down, you fall a little bit harder, and pretty soon the bruises pile up and you’re too tired to get up and try again. So eventually, you stop trying at all. That’s what’s happened to my mom.

She stands up and walks over to me and she practically falls into my arms. I’m stunned, and I just wrap my arms around her skinny, shaking frame and hold her tight as she cries into my T-shirt.

“I’m so sorry, Gray,” she says, and she chokes on her words because she’s crying so hard. “I haven’t been there for you. But I love you so much,” she says. “I hope you know that.”

I nod and tell her I know. I tell her I love her.

“I hope you can forgive me,” she says through a sob.

I swallow and I tell her of course I forgive her. I tell her I was never, ever angry with her.

“And I’m not leaving,” I say. “I’m just going to school. I’ll always be here, I promise.”

We all cry. And for the first time since Amanda’s death, it feels healing. Not suffocating. Not distressing. Not blinding with heartache. This time it’s cleansing. Awakening. A small step forward.

***

I suck it up and call Brandon Stack,
my old high school best friend, because if I’m going to seriously commit to making one hell of a comeback, I need all the training I can get. I tell him the news and he’s so happy for me. He compliments me, saying what a great team I’m signing with. He says Coach Clark is the best in the conference. We talk for an hour. He tells me he’d love to work out before I leave town. He says that he’s still training with some of the team and I’m welcome to join him. I tell him I’d like that. He says it’s great to hear from me again. And just like that I have a friend back.

I thought he’d be mad and I thought he’d remind me that I’ve ignored him for almost a year, hold it against me and hold his friendship at arm’s length because that’s what I did to him. But he doesn’t. I was the one holding him away. And I thought he got so cocky, so self-absorbed. But I was the self-absorbed one. My life was tragic, my future shards, while his life was spread out before him past a golden archway. I was too beat up to have the energy to care about anyone, because all I could do was breathe. Some nights I was amazed to get to sleep without sleeping pills.

As I drive to Dylan’s, I feel dizzy trying to wrap my mind around all the changes happening in my life. I’m trying to accept that it’s okay to be happy. I shouldn’t feel guilty for being excited about life.

Now there’s only one person who will make it perfect, who will frame my new life and hold it together, in place, so I can hang it up for everyone to admire.

She’s changed my life. And she’s leaving in four days. When your world’s become one person, how do you prepare to let her go? How do you get over someone you know you’ll never forget? There’s only one option. I
won’t
let her go. I’ll convince Dylan to move to New Mexico with me.

We’ve been having sex all morning,
but I still can’t last longer than eight fricking minutes and Dylan doesn’t care but I do and I’m determined to stretch it out so she can enjoy it. And I love a challenge.

I shut my eyes and try to focus on baseball stats. It’s all about mental toughness, Gray. List the starting lineup for the Arizona Diamondbacks. First base: Adam LaRoche. Second base: Kelly Johnson. Third base: Mark Reynolds.

I gasp. I’m getting close. No, no, I can keep going. Where did I leave off? Third base. No. Shit. Shortstop. Speaking of shortstop. Don’t let it be short. Make it last. Okay, forget shortstop. Catcher: Miguel Montero. Left field: Gerardo Parra. Center field: Chris Young. Right field: Justin Upton.

Three more minutes. Come on, put your game face on, Gray. You can do it. Last three more minutes. Be a man. It’s game time.

“Wait, Dylan, we need to slow down.”

“Why?”

“I’m trying to last.”

She leans her damp cheek against mine and her hot breath is in my ear. “Think about the ugliest male teacher you’ve ever had,” she tells me, and then she licks my ear.

I laugh. Okay, brilliant idea. Ugly teachers… that’s easy. Mr. Frederickson. Fifth grade.
Ugh.
It is not possible to have a beer gut that big and still be able to stand up straight. His three alternating polo shirts always had grease stains. Everywhere. And who can forget the pit stains? And his breath?
Lethal.
It could be used to torture terror suspects. I didn’t raise my hand once that entire year in fear he’d come over and blast me with breath so bad it was probably flammable.

This is good. This is working.

Eighth grade. Mrs. Kelly, English teacher. She never wore a bra and she was always nipping out.

Uh, I’m getting close.

No! Make a list. Any list. List places to take Dylan before she leaves. Hiking. Hiking is good. But it’s so hot. Too hot.

“I’m close,” I breathe.

Hiking. We’re hiking. Where, where the hell are we hiking?

“Hiking,” I moan.

“What?”

“Nothing!”

We’re at Sunset Crater National Park. Black ash. Active volcanoes. Red sand. Lava flows. Fissures. Eruptions. Spilling. Pouring. I’m sinking. No! Not yet. One more minute.

Cold days. Freezing cold. Falling through ice. Ice smoothies. Icies. 7-Eleven. Swiss Cake Rolls. Little Debbie. Oatmeal Cream Pies. Creamy, sweet goodness.

I can’t hold it anymore. So I let it go. My fingers dig into her hips. My toes curl and then they release. I’m sweating and shaking and done and Dylan isn’t even close and I know that. I take a long, deep breath and I swear I’m floating.

“Give me ten minutes. I can go again,” I say. I swing her over on her back so I can play with her, but she leans away from me and says it’s time for a cooldown. She grabs a glass of water off my nightstand and takes a long swig. She hands it to me and I gulp down the rest, but it takes a few seconds because I’m panting. My sheets are damp. Blankets have been kicked off hours ago. Pillows are thrown askew. Condom wrappers litter the carpeting. It smells like sex everywhere, hot, steamy skin and salt and bleach. It’s my idea of heaven.

My forehead’s wet. Dylan’s legs are sticky. Our bodies are stuck to each other. I have to peel my arm off of hers like tape. Our chests are clammy and wet and suctioned together and I love it. She wraps her calf around my thigh and I rest my head on her chest and grin because her heart’s hammering as hard as mine and her breaths are just as sharp. I lean up on my elbow and stare into her eyes, inches from mine.