Page 74 of Play Nice

Four long, distinct scrapes.

It’s during the fourth that I cave. That I look over my shoulder.

On the wall beside the fireplace, which I conscientiously primed with white paint weeks ago, are four giant scratches. Deep down into the drywall.

The scratches form a specific shape. An image. Big. About the size of one of those rusty old merry-go-rounds at a playground that guarantees skinned knees and Neosporin.

Yeah, there it is. A response.

—

Austin’s hair is wet. He’s in bed, on top of the sheets, in his boxers and nothing else. He left the garage door open for me and told me to let myself in.

“Hey,” he says.

I slip off my shoes and my dress and crawl over to him. I rest my head on his bare chest.

He puts his arm around me, runs his hand over my back.

There’s a mass in my throat that’s so agonizing I want to scream it out. There’s the smell of smoke in my hair that reminds me of the fire, of my father burning the book, watching flames turn it to ash, to nothing. The words she wrote to me that I will never get to read.

And when I close my eyes, there’s a frowning face. A damaged wall. Something but not proof.

If I cried right now in his arms, Austin would comfort me. I wouldn’t need to tell him why.

But I wield my tears like a weapon. They don’t get to be sincere.

So I won’t cry. I’ll spite the urge.

I grin into Austin’s chest and gently sweep my tongue across his nipple.

—

“I’m gonna be late for work,” Austin says as I kiss his neck. I have no idea what time it is. His alarm went off and woke me up, and yesterday flashed before my eyes in quick cuts. I don’t know what’s more upsetting—the memories or how poorly my mind edited the montage.

I started kissing him to forget the rest, to be in the moment. It’s not really working.

“Clio,” he says.

“Call out,” I say. “They’ll live. And if not, is that your fault or just the cruel march of time?”

“You need to work on your dirty talk,” he says, making me laugh.

I’m always surprised when he gets me to laugh, when he says something genuinely funny. All my friends tell me my standards are too high, but this is confirmation of what I’ve known all along. They’re not high enough.

“Clio,” Austin says, pushing my hair back.

“Austin.”

“I have to go,” he says. “I don’t want to.”

“If you didn’t want to, you wouldn’t,” I say, sliding off him. Frustrated that he’s not giving me what I want. Company. A distraction.

“That right?” he asks, climbing over me and stumbling toward his dresser.

As soon as my feet hit the floor, a memory grabs me by the ankles like a monster under the bed. I had a dream last night. About my parents. Not Dad and Amy. Dad and Mom. One of their fights. The memory, the dream, it drags me in before I can take a breath.

What else am I doing that’s not up to your standards, hmm? Mom yelled. I was on the couch in the living room of our first house, wedged between Daphne and Leda. We held each other, listening to the screaming in the kitchen. Why don’t you write me a list?