Secret Lucidity(29)

Unable to sit still, I fist my hands and bite down while he works the kink out. When I feel the muscle start to relax and lengthen, I draw in a slow breath, holding it for a moment before releasing it even slower.

“Better?”

“Mm-hmm.”

He continues to work his hands into my leg, and it doesn’t take long for the skin to tingle beneath his touch. It’s a physical reaction I can’t avoid, and I jerk my leg out of his hold. His head snaps up with a stare he can’t deny. We sit in it for seconds that disguise themselves as minutes, both of us unable to hide the thoughts that are worn so apparently on our faces—thoughts that invalidate his mild lecture from earlier. He isn’t just my teacher though. If he were, he wouldn’t be trying to talk himself out of his internal struggle right now, the struggle I wish he’d give up. Because I’m lonely and lost, and the balm of his kiss could momentarily wipe those feelings away.

My heart pounds, and I wonder if he hears it, but none of it matters when he stands, severing what was attempting to bind. I take his hand when he reaches down to help me up.

“You okay now? The cramp gone?”

“Yeah.”

Evading unspoken thoughts, he keeps it as neutral as possible.

“Try not to exert yourself so much. We may be in a rush to get your body built back up, but we’ll be in worse shape if you push yourself too hard,” he says with a clear distraction in his eyes before he looks at his watch. “Why don’t we call it a night? You got in a solid hour, and I need to get out of these wet clothes.”

He waits for me while I shower and change as awkwardness continues to build, and I couldn’t be done with this day fast enough. Once he locks everything up, we walk to our cars, which is when he offers me extra swims in the mornings, since I missed all the two-a-days.

“We need to start playing catch up,” he insists, and I agree.

Even with scouts watching me last year, I’ve yet to secure any scholarships.

“Hey,” he says, and I turn to him before opening my car door. “We’re good, right?”

To help ease his confliction, I lie. “Yeah, we’re good.”

There’s no tricking myself into believing the undeniable truth—that I’m not good at all. I’m so far away from it that it’s almost impossible to recognize at this point. Long ago, I forgot what good felt like and looked like. I thought I had it back when he kissed me, but he vanquished it in a matter of two words spoken.

Thoughts of teenage angst go absent when I walk through my front door and flick the light switch on.

Nothing happens.

Pushing it down and then back up, I’m met with abiding darkness.

“Mom?”

I walk through the quiet house, and when I get to the kitchen, I open the fridge.

It’s off too.

My mom’s car isn’t in the garage either. I then go to the front door again, and I see that the neighbor’s lights are on.

Pulling out my cell, I dial my mother.

Please pick up, please pick up.

“Camrrr . . . Camr . . . Camrila.”

“Mom,” I assert after she butchers my name. “Where are you?”

“Umm . . .” There’s a shuffling of voices in the background, and my hand tightens around the phone, as if I can squeeze out my thwarting irritation.

“Never mind. The electricity is out at the house.”

“So.”

“Did you pay the bill?”

“Ask your father.”

What the fuck?

“Mom! I’m serious.”

“I’m not home, so I don’t know what you’re wanting.”

“Forget it,” I snap and then disconnect the call.

I turn on my heels, pissed off beyond belief. A bead of sweat rolls down my spine due to the lack of air conditioning while I look up the number for the electric company. My mood goes from bad to worse when they confirm service has been cut due to three months of non-payment. I hang up on the woman because I don’t have any of my mother’s credit cards.

My palms pulse angrily, and I shove my phone into my pocket before I end up throwing it across the room. I march up the stairs, and burst into my parents’ bedroom. Hostile tears lick my cheeks, and I grab the pillows off the bed and sling them against the walls.

“I hate youuuuu!” I scream violently, hoping the echo travels to wherever the hell she is right now. I want her to know how I truly feel about her. Because I do—I hate her so much for taking our wrecked life and destroying it even further.

I take one of the bottles sitting on the nightstand into the bathroom. Opening up the shower door, I throw the bottle against the slate. Glass shatters everywhere, and the sound is so powerful that I grab a few more bottles and smash them, one by one, against the tiled wall. But it isn’t enough to dilute pent-up aggression.

I turn to my father’s sink and rummage through the drawers in the dark until I find his shaving kit—the one I bought him for Christmas last year—knowing the true gift that’s waiting for me on the inside of the leather case.

Once in the safety of my own bathroom, I sit on the floor and unzip the bag. Before taking out my painkiller, I hold the leather to my nose and inhale the lingering notes of his aftershave.

And I cry.

I don’t want to though, because crying hurts far worse than not crying. I take out the straight razor, unfold the handle, and with just enough foresight, I lift my shirt. Pressing the blade’s edge to hidden flesh, I slice a passageway for buried anguish, freeing it from the cage within.