Page 8 of Malaise
I eye the can in his hand, and then him. Jesus, he’s beautiful. Yet in a totally unconventional way: his nose is too sharp, his jaw too square, and he has tattoos on the side of his neck, framing his jawline. But the softness to his eyes, even in this light, makes up for it all.
“Why are you giving me a drink?”
I’ve heard rumours about my newfound drinking buddy; his family have a generations-old name as the troublemakers of our town. People have cited that anything from an illegal pot-growing operation right through to an amateur porn studio is run out of their heavily guarded property on the outskirts. People love to make up stories about what they don’t understand, and nobody understands the Carvers, or their eight-foot, razor wire-topped fence.
“You look like you need it, and also, I can’t sit here and drink beside you knowing you’re suffering through that shit.”
“Well,” I say, lifting the can. “This shit is getting me wasted, so that’s all that counts.” I take another large gulp to prove my point.
He wiggles the can of Southern Comfort at me with a raised eyebrow as though to prove his point. “Come on. You know you wanna.”
“Don’t know if I can trust you.” I spin around on the log so I sit with my back to him. “I’ve heard about your family, and as much as I don’t judge people on what others say, I can’t risk any of it being true.”
“Any of what?” he asks with a hint of humour in his voice.
“What if you’re trying to get me so drunk that I pass out and then I wake up in your sex studio, a brand-new Internet sensation?”
He laughs, loud and rich. “Is that one still going around?”
I hazard a glance over my shoulder at the guy and melt as he leans forward, elbows on his knees, and runs his palms up the sides of his lengthy Mohawk. I’ve never seen his hair styled that way before; last I saw him, he wore it long and over his eyes. The look fits though. His jeans are torn, chains dangle from his hip, and his leather jacket has studs that run down the spine and around the cuffs. He’s as much a modern punk as a person can get.
It’s fucking hot.
My gaze drops to his eighteen-hole Doc Martens as he flicks the untied ends of the red laces around. He catches me looking, eyeing my choice of footwear also.
“I see we have a few things in common.”
“A few?” I kick out my right foot beside me. “Only one.”
He lifts a tattooed hand to point out my side shave.
I flick the longer lengths over the close-cut patch as heat peppers my cheeks. “Spur of the moment thing.”
“It looks cool.”
Seriously? Mr hot and mysterious thinks my unconventional hairstyle is cool? I guess…. I mean, given his choice of attire, it makes perfect sense. “I get teased about it.”
“So what?”
“So, it must look stupid.”
“Maybe the people teasing you are the stupid ones?” He takes a casual sip of his drink and peruses the crowd as I swivel around to sit side-on to this intriguing guy again. “All I see out there are a hundred people so insecure in their own identity that they think the best idea is to copy the person next to them.” He chuckles. “Fucking sheep.”
“Yeah, but it’s a hundred sheep against one lone wolf. Majority usually wins.”
He slides along the log until there are mere inches between us. “Tell me, Loner Girl, why do you need to get off your face tonight?”
Silence—it’s all he gets. I’ve been doing a pretty fine job of forgetting exactly how my world has just been irrevocably changed until now. Loner girl. Yeah, that’s just what I am now I don’t have Den in my corner. The creeping sense of shame at how selfish I’m being, sitting out here with the singular purpose of getting drunk enough to forget my own name, takes over. What would Den think if he could see me now? Fuck. I’d probably be hurting his feelings, keeping our family divided at a time when we should be united.
Not my fault, though. I wasn’t the one acting weird in response to what happened; at least, not at the start.
“Fair enough.” I startle at my buddy’s answer to my cone of silence. He slides away down the log and I find my voice.
“My older brother, Den, died today.”
He freezes. “Shit.”
“Yeah.” I chuckle. “It’s shit.” Tears follow, running in fat, slow rivers over my cheeks until they reach the point of my chin. Droplets fall to the grass below, indecipherable to anybody who might look on from a distance, but obvious as hell to my log neighbour.