All the Rage(68)

“romy.”

I can barely hear Leon over my heart, its erratic beat.

I watch his mouth move.

“Romy,” he says again, but it’s not enough. It’s just a name, anyone can say it.

I need him to show me who it belongs to.

“I couldn’t be there,” I tell him, and he lets me in. “I didn’t want to be there.”

“Okay. All right.” He walks me through his small apartment and I look around, but I can’t process his place beyond its walls. He tries to get me to sit but I shake my head. I stand behind a chair at his tiny kitchen table instead.

“Did you walk?”

He’s wearing an undershirt. Pajama pants hang off his hips. He wasn’t expecting anyone, but now I’m here.

He asks again, “Romy, did you walk?”

“Does it matter?”

He opens a cupboard door, pulls out a glass. He fills it with water from the sink and sets it in front of me. I don’t want it, but I take it, clumsily clacking it against my teeth. It tastes like nothing going down, but I drink it all and when I’m finished, I wipe my mouth and realize, too late, what that might have done to my lips. I check the back of my hand for red but there’s none. Leon watches uncertainly.

“I wanted to be here,” I say. “I wanted to be here with you.”

He tries to parse the meaning behind the words because he knows there’s more to them than that. This is what they mean, Leon: I need to see myself.

“Okay,” he says.

I follow him into the living room and we sink into his couch. His eyes travel over the pieces of me in front of him, but he’s not bringing them back together the way I need.

“Roses,” I say.

“Roses?”

“They brought roses for the memorial. I had to leave…”

“It’s okay,” he says. He grabs my hand. “It’s going to be okay.”

No, no, it’s not. Something is happening inside me and I need it to stop, I need to stop this feeling, the past trying to put itself on me because it’s too heavy to wear.

“Leon, kiss me.”

“What?”

I need to see myself.

“Please.”

He hesitates and then he moves to me so slowly, maddeningly slowly. The first parts of us that touch are his legs against mine. He brings his hand to my face, palm open against my cheek. He runs his thumb over my lip, the red.

“Romy,” he says. “I…”

“You’re the good part,” I tell him, so he won’t say anything else.

He brings his other hand to the other side of my face and leans forward. He kisses me, presses his mouth softly against mine and then starts to pull away, like that could be enough but it’s not enough. I wrap my fingers around his wrists, and keep his hands where they are. He exhales and then he brings himself to me again, kisses me again. His mouth opens against mine but I still feel his hesitance so I kiss him back, hard, because I want him against every part of me so I can feel every part of me. I want her back, that girl he stopped for.

Leon’s hands move down and I inch back into the arm of the couch, my knees between us and he leans against them like they’re in the way, finally kissing me the way I want him to. He kisses me until my mouth feels bruised, but it isn’t enough. But now he’s hungry.

I get myself under him and then he’s on top of me, breathing heavily, and he is so against me I know where the blood goes. My hands on his back. His hand moving up and down my thigh, then his fingers drifting past my jeans and under my shirt, under my shirt. My red on his face, his lips. I hear another heart beat under my heartbeat and it’s louder than all of this. His mouth against mine and all I can hear is the heartbeat of some other girl, no—I close my eyes.

“Hey,” Leon says. “Hey, look at me.”





he covers her mouth.

That’s how you get a girl to stop crying; you cover her mouth until the sound dies against your palm.

He says, okay? Okay.

When he’s sure she’s going to be quiet, he lets her breathe again.

He tells her, it’s okay.

He brings two of his fingers to his mouth and slides them inside it and it makes her want to be sick and maybe if she pukes, he’ll stop. She wills it to happen, it doesn’t happen. He takes his fingers out of his mouth and puts that hand between her legs, moving her underwear aside and then—a sharp, unwelcome pressure.

I want to make you wet, he whispers.

She makes the kind of noise she never thought she’d hear herself make, small and pleading whimpers. She closes her eyes, while his fingers stay inside her.

If she can’t be sick, she’ll just go away.

Look at me, look at me, hey, look at me.

At some point, he moved his hands from there and she comes to herself, her legs spread open. His pants are down. His weight is on her, heavy. She closes her eyes again. He makes her open them. Wake up, wake up. Wake up because you want this, you’ve always wanted this. But she didn’t want this. She doesn’t want this. He forces himself inside her. She’s tight and she’s dry.

It hurts.

Open your eyes.

But it hurts.

Open your eyes.

She’s sick then, five-six-seven-eight-nine shots coming out of her. Her body doesn’t make sense to her, can’t move when she wants it to move, but this? She turns her head to the side and vomit spills out her mouth, pooling in the ridges of the truck bed and he swears, but he doesn’t stop. It’ll hurt him too much if he stops. They can clean up together, after. Like that’s a promise, like she’d want it. Not that it matters, because he’ll leave her there anyway, half-awake and raw, her mouth bitter. Her head is so heavy. Why isn’t this over yet? She closes her eyes and he makes her open them again.