Left Drowning Read online

  He’s right, and I am starving, but I’m hesitant to push this day anymore. The safety that I feel with him by the lake can’t possibly hold up if we leave. “I don’t know. I have studying to do, and—”

  “Nonsense. C’mon.” He pulls me forward and then drops my hand as he again walks backward.

  Our walk back toward campus is quiet, but not awkward. It’s a rare thing to be with another person and not feel an obligation to fill every second with talk. Chris shoves his hands in his pockets and lifts his head into the sunlight as we stroll. Eventually the local businesses come into view, and he points to a blue flag waving in the slight breeze. “Have you eaten here? You must have, of course. Everyone has.”

  I look up. Artemis Piccola. I shake my head. “Odd name for a restaurant. No. I haven’t been here.”

  The truth is that I rarely leave campus. My life follows a direct path from one place to another with virtually no wandering, except for nights that I get drunk enough to want a second party that might have more booze. Dorm to class, class to the cafeteria, back to the dorm, a quick trip to the library when vitally necessary, a stop at the union for coffee. If there’s no keg involved, I’m not one to linger or stray. Well, until today. Today I am breaking all the rules.

  “What? You’ve never been here?” Christopher’s jaw might as well have fallen open. “Good Lord, girl, we need to fix that right away. This is practically a rite of passage. You certainly can’t graduate this spring if you haven’t eaten here. C’mon. I’m buying you lunch.” He swings open the door and waves me through the entrance.

  After grabbing a menu from the rack on the wall, he leads the way through the maze of tables. The way that he moves is clean, almost stealthy, and soon we are sitting at a table buried at the back of the restaurant. The room is all wood and brick with no windows, and it’s incredibly dark despite the perfect weather outside. The hard bench that I sit on gives me a good view of the space, but because I have my back to a wall, Christopher has only me to look at. I spend a full minute wishing we were sitting in opposite seats.

  He holds the menu in his lap and smiles playfully at me. “So, Miss Blythe, what part of the world would you like to visit today?”

  “Um … What?” What is he asking me? I assume I am missing out on a joke that most people would get. “I don’t … I don’t know what you mean.” I feel incredibly awkward.

  “Pick a country. Where would you like to go?”

  For God’s sake, I barely leave my dorm room on most days, so the idea of foreign travel is not exactly at the top of my fantasies. “Greece?”

  “You don’t seem very sure about that.”

  I fidget with the zipper on my sweatshirt. “Greece,” I repeat more definitively. “Santorini.”

  “Pick one more.”

  My zipper digs into my hand as I pull it up and down. “Brazil.”

  “Ah. Carnival.”

  “Yes. Carnival.”

  He flips open the menu. “I’m not sure if we can get as specific as Santorini, but you never know here at crazy Artemis Piccola.” He scans the page in front of him. “Ahhh. Based on your choice of locations, you will be having a gyro followed by the feijoada.”

  I reach across the table and take the menu from his hands. What kind of place is this? The menu is a freakish collection of dishes that have nothing whatsoever to do with one another. Spicy tuna maki is listed right after vegan lasagna, and the specials are an African curry (choice of meat!) and a bacon-mushroom bison burger. I clear my throat. “And where are you going today?”

  “Nowhere.”

  I look up and frown. “Why not? Is the food that horrible?”

  Christopher leans back in his chair. “No. I’d rather stay right here with you.”

  “Oh.” I feel heat rise in my cheeks—although I can’t quite place the emotion. Excitement? Embarrassment? Whatever the feeling is, it’s something I haven’t felt in a long time. Feelings this intense make me undeniably nervous. I wonder if there is any chance that they serve liquor here. A shot or five of ouzo to go with my gyro might help me. I glance down. “So something local then. A cheddar cheese omelet and … what else? A whole cow? Is that Wisconsin-y enough for you?”

  “Perfect!” He snatches the menu and makes a rather loud display of snapping his fingers while he calls out, “Waitress! Waitress!” He leans in conspiratorially. “The service here is atrocious.”

  I cringe as he begins banging his fork against the water glass. And just when I thought he might be perfect.

  “Do you have to do that every goddamn fucking time you come in here?” A thin young woman with closely cropped black hair appears at our table. Her voice is level, but the cursing makes her irritation obvious.

  “Yes, I do. Otherwise you might ignore me and let me simply pass out at the table from hunger.”

  She sneers. “If you weren’t making such a racket, I’d be more than happy to let you fucking collapse. What do you want?”

  “I don’t want to hear my little sister say fucking, and I do want to introduce you to somebody. Estelle, this is Blythe McGuire. Blythe, this is Estelle. My eternally cursing sister.”

  Estelle puts her order pad and pen in one hand and reaches out with the other. “Pleasure to meet you. You must have incredible strength of character to be out dining with Christopher.”

  “It’s very nice to meet you,” I say, fully aware of my messy hair and baggy sweatshirt. Especially next to Estelle, who is positively stunning. Any woman with hair that short has to be, because high cheekbones and sharp eyes are required to pull it off. Even with no makeup, her features are perfect. She is thin, probably too thin, with a boyish frame that makes her look like a model. I notice a good-sized cross that hangs from her neck, but she wears no other jewelry. Her look is simple and beautiful and not one that I could ever pull off.

  “Are you two hungry?”

  Chris starts to order, but is interrupted by a booming voice that comes from the entrance. “Christopher Shepherd! Have you stolen my girlfriend already?”

  Chris shuts his eyes and laughs. “Go away! Go away!”

  Sabin storms his way to our table with the fakest angry look that I’ve ever seen. “I cannot believe that you have betrayed me like this, my brother. We will duel over this princess, and I shall be victorious.”

  Chris rolls his eyes. “Hi, Sabin. How are you?”

  “How am I? How do you think I am? I’m devastated, that’s how I am!” He pats Estelle’s arm before sliding into my booth and throwing an arm over my shoulder, glaring at his brother. Sabin drops his head onto my shoulder and lets out an exaggerated sob. “When did you get your nasty claws into my sweet girl? I was not expecting to have been so wronged by both my brother and my lover at once. I must try—no, I will win her back, you scoundrel!”

  I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “Sabin? As of earlier this morning, weren’t you in love with someone else?”

  He pulls away. “Was I?”

  “Yes. Chrystle, right?”

  He slaps his forehead. “How quickly one forgets when caught up in the beauty that is Blythe. Yes! The fair Chrystle. I shall thus return my sights to her and leave you to the clutches of this less-than-dashing knight.”

  Chris folds his arms in front of him. “Dude, get a grip. And don’t date anyone whose name sounds similar to mine. It’s creepy.”

  “Well, shit, I hadn’t thought about that. Chris, Chrystle… .” Sabin pauses and frowns before regaining his theatrical air. “Oh, the tragedy! Clearly I cannot make juicy love to the woman ever again for I would only think of you, dear brother. And that would be a sin of outlandish and vile proportions.”

  Estelle taps Sabin’s foot lightly with hers. “That’s enough. Leave Chris alone. You’re wrecking his perfectly nice date with a very tolerant girl.”

  Sabin swings his head my way again. “My apologies. But I must warn you. While Sir Christopher may have an excess of charm, he will most certainly break your heart.” Sabin looks at his
brother, serious for the moment. “I guarantee it.”

  Chris gives him a warning look before his face softens. “Knock it off. Blythe and I are friends having lunch. Stop being hysterical.”

  I reach for my water glass. “We just kind of ran into each other at the lake. And then we ended up here.”

  “Whatever you say. So this means that Blythe is fair game again,” Sabin teases. “Okay, kids. I’m going to blow this international joint and get a giant pizza from Gianni’s all to myself. I must recuperate before this evening’s events, which are sure to be tantalizing.” He stands. “A pleasure to see you again, Blythe. Don’t forget about my show.”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  Sabin high-fives Chris and kisses Estelle on the cheek before hurtling out the door.

  “I’d apologize for him, but it’s just hopeless,” Chris says to me as he hands the menu back to Estelle. “So I think that Blythe will have the gyro—”

  “Nope, sorry. Didn’t you see the sign? Today is Irish food only.”

  “Again?” Chris groans.

  “Anya, the owner, is a fan of themes,” Estelle explains to me.

  As if on cue, the lights dim and hymnal music blares through the speakers. A flash of light causes me to blink, and as I ease them open again, I find myself just inside the edge of a projected image coming from an old film reel. I peek to the left to see grassy hills and views of an Irish landscape floating across the wall, as well as my face and body.

  “Fucking hell,” Estelle mutters. “Anya!” she shouts, calling to the older woman behind the projector. “Is this necessary? It’s the fifth time this month. And if I have to listen to ‘Be Thou My Vision’ one more time, I may up and quit!”

  “Ambience, my dear. Authenticity!” Anya yells back as she adjusts the bun of hair at the nape of her neck.

  “Oh for God’s sake, this is bullshit!” Estelle shouts. “I can’t even see anything properly.”

  “I can,” Chris says just loudly enough for me to hear. He is watching me.

  The bright light from the projector has mostly blinded me, but I know that the pattern of colors is dancing across my face and shirt. I squint until I find Christopher’s gaze. I wish he wouldn’t look at me, and I also wish that he’d never stop. I inch over in my seat until the images no longer move over me.

  Estelle raises her voice to be heard. “So, I guess that it’s fucking cream of turnip soup, cabbage, and soda bread for you two.”

  “Seriously, Estelle, enough with the swearing. I can cuss up a storm, but you’re my little sister, and I can’t take it.” Chris raises his chin to the cross that hangs from her neck. “And I thought God didn’t approve of swearing. Especially when hymns are playing.”

  “Like you care what God thinks.”

  “Like there is a God,” he spits back.

  Estelle freezes, gripping her order pad.

  “Stelle, really. How can you possibly believe for one fucking minute that—“” He stops, and I hear him inhale.

  Her voice is softer now, barely audible. “Chris.”

  “Sorry.” He touches her arms. Despite the music, I think of the term deafening silence. “Estelle, really, I apologize.”

  She nods. “I’ll get your food. And two Killian’s. You’ll need beer to wash down the atmosphere.”

  Chris looks down at the table, but I keep my eyes fixed on him while he runs his hands through his hair a few times. The music washes over us as the wall next to me is filled with dark Irish skies.

  I wait. Eventually he looks up.

  “I feel bad. I shouldn’t have said that to her. And I shouldn’t have said it in front of you.” He fusses with his napkin for a few minutes and then lets out a small laugh.

  “What is it?”

  He tilts his head to the speaker above us. “Amazing Grace.”

  I haven’t noticed that the music changed.

  Chris crumples the napkin in his fist and bites his lip. “Fucking bagpipes.”

  “Fucking bagpipes,” I agree.

  “I really shouldn’t have. With Estelle. I need to be more respectful. And I’m sorry if you believe—”

  “Don’t,” I say quickly. “Don’t apologize. I don’t believe.” My water glass is steady in my hand as I sip from it, and I take my time setting it down. I move my silverware to another spot on the table, trace the rim of my plate with my finger, and then sit straight up. I wait until his eyes meet mine. “We both know that there is no God.”

  “No,” he agrees. “There is no God. Not for us.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Fighter

  It’s not even ten o’clock when I slide out of my clothes and pull a T-shirt from my bureau. This day has tired me out. Pausing before I pull the shirt over my head, I step in front of the full-length mirror. This is not something that I’ve done in a while, but I’m overwhelmed with the impulse to see my reflection. I’m not sure why. Few women I know, including myself, find it particularly thrilling to look at themselves only in underwear. But now I look at my calves, my thighs, my stomach. Pivoting slightly on my toes, I check out the view from behind.

  Huh. Maybe it is the low, flattering lighting from the small lamp by my bed, but I definitely don’t look awful. Surprisingly, my body is not so unappealing that I want to burst into tears. Although I don’t look great, either. I sit down on the floor and fold my legs in front of me. Crisscross applesauce. I examine my face and my hair, almost as if I’m meeting myself for the first time. My hair tumbles from the knot on the top of my head as I pull out the elastic. Unruly curls fall over my shoulders; I’m neither blonde nor brunette, but somewhere in between. Then there are my eyes. My blue eyes, which even I have to admit are decent. Prettyish. My full cheeks have a slight pink flush from being out in the sun today. Yes, I am not entirely disastrous looking. On the verge, perhaps, but not without the possibility of salvation.

  Of course, there is still my arm. I hold out my forearm and peer at the reflected image. The four-inch scar is still jagged despite the surgeon’s neat sutures. Maybe a larger hospital would have had a more skilled surgeon, but I don’t really mind. I deserve to have a much-worse scar than this, all things considered. I uncross my legs and put my feet flat on the floor. Pushing myself up, I slowly come to a stand as I move my hands up the lines of my figure. The skin under my palms tingles and tenses, not used to touch. Even my own. My hands trace over my calves, around to the back of my thighs. I certainly have some extra weight in my legs. Somewhere under my palms has to be muscle and definition, but I can’t find it. My fingers skim the curve of my waist. It is the one part of my body that hasn’t seemed to gain weight. Everything that I eat or drink hits my legs and ass, but my stomach somehow stays relatively flat. So at least there is that. My touch travels over my stomach, back and forth, and I close my eyes as my hands move to my breasts. I linger for a few moments, suddenly aware of how much I’m enjoying this. One hand moves lower, back across my stomach, under the edge of my underwear.

  Okay. Apparently, I still have some kind of sex drive.

  I stumble to the bed, seemingly drunk on what I’m feeling. As I fall against the rumpled sheets, my free hand moves into my hair while the other moves farther between my legs. A longing and need grow, one that I haven’t felt in ages. I rub my fingers slowly over myself while my mind drifts to Chris as I first saw him, his lean body silhouetted against the morning light.

  What’s a little risk now and then, huh?

  I turn my head to the side while my eyes close,and I curl up my hips. I take my time, letting my body’s reactions lead my fingers to the places that feel best. I can’t even remember the last time that I’ve touched myself like this. My thoughts are blurry and wonderful, and the stress and depression that usually lead me have dissipated for now. There is one sensation overwhelming me, one desire in charge, and I surrender easily to this because for once, for once, I am seeking and finding something other than self-loathing and pain. My rhythm is soft at first as I find what I l
ike and how I like it, but soon it seems that I have unleashed some sort of fiend that’s been shackled for far too long. That fiend is demanding, and my body and my unconscious thoughts take over. Live a little.

  My hand presses harder, faster, making the intensity build.

  Show me.

  Heat overtakes me, and I shove down the sheets.

  I’d rather stay right here with you.

  My breathing picks up.

  There is no God. Not for us.

  One hand is back in my hair, tightening against my scalp, and my heels dig into the bed as my body tenses. I start to tremble and shake. The sound that comes from my lips surprises me, but the strength of the release makes it impossible to be quiet.

  I’m smiling, and I turn onto my side and swallow hard as I catch my breath. Holy shit, I needed that. I so, so needed that. It occurs to me that what I felt just now was so crazily awesome that I may never leave this bed again. I might just stay here and masturbate all the time, classes be damned. Then I am laughing, almost giddy, because I am persuaded that, to at least some degree, my body is my own again. Perhaps my mind will follow?

  What’s certain is that I feel better than I have in months. Years, really. I think of Sabin, with his exuberance and charm; and of Estelle, with her enviable physical beauty and her self-assurance. And Chris. Chris with his … magnetism. His stability.

  I try to coax myself into thinking about something besides Chris. Sure, he stayed with me at the lake, took me to lunch, and walked me back to my dorm—our dorm, as it turns out—before heading to his basement single. So what? I laugh out loud as I confront the truth: There’s no way he’s lying in bed right now, obsessing over his day with me. Well, or masturbating himself into a frenzy. Today was probably a completely ordinary day in his life. Even if I never speak to him again, I am grateful for this day, this one day when my misery lifted, even if just for a little while.