It's okay to want to forget.
This isn't something I can forget.
I know. But we can always pretend.
His palms are flat against the motel wallpaper when he fucks her, the fluid movement of his hips causing the end table to tremble. Lacey's legs are splayed open, her ass resting on the dark wood of the table. She's certain there's a Bible in one of the drawers beneath them. She thinks about Regina, about Danny's dad, about Tara, about paradise and purgatory and how her world has become so much greyer now.
They're two sixteen-year-olds in a motel room they couldn't name if you asked, but it's okay - this is not a place to remember.
Lacey whines when he hits the right spot, but it still isn't enough. She grips his sides for more contact and he flinches slightly. Lacey searches his face for an answer.
"Mark me," is all he says, eyes locked on her, and it sounds like a command. Lacey narrows her eyes at him before resting her nails at the back of his shoulders.
"Is this what you want," she asks through gritted teeth, almost sneering, desperate to get herself to the edge, desperate to forget what they've grown to know. The table keeps hitting the wall. "You want to hurt?"
"Yes," he hisses.
"Then give me more," she says.
Danny shoots her a look before driving into her, the desk now clunking loudly against the wall. Her nails rake into his skin and his head falls onto her shoulder, body shuddering.
She tries her best to ignore the Bible jostling in the drawer.
They use the bed to drift off to sleep, soft bodies in stiff linens, skin perfumed by the same flower-scented soap in the bathroom. The room is dark, save for the lights of the parking lot filtering through the slats of the blinds. Lacey lays her head down on his chest, idly playing with the hem of his cotton t-shirt. Danny slings an arm over her, his thumb drawing circles into her shoulder.
"Did you pretend a lot," he asks suddenly. His tone is lazy, unaffected. "When I left?"
Lacey runs the stitch between two of her fingers. "All the time," she responds.
Danny slows his circles, anticipating the answer. "Do you still do it?"
"All the time," she says, creasing the fabric. He shifts his body and she can feel him nodding beneath her.
"I'm sorry." There's a slight weight in the way he says this, though it's easy to miss. She hears it, though he seems to be addressing nothing in particular.
"I know," is all she says.
After a moment, Lacey takes his hand in hers and studies it. Her eyes follow the paths of veins. She runs her thumb over hardened callouses, encircles the place where his ring usually rests. She does all of this before filling the space between his fingers with her own hand.
"Happy belated birthday," he whispers into the top of her head. She laughs at this, but it comes out bitter.
Happy birthday, Lacey Porter. Happy birthday, your best friend, Regina Crane, was murdered. She was fucking Vikram Desai. She was helping him get Danny back into his life. She probably knew more about the necklace than you ever will. She was going to lead Danny right back to Vikram.
(But she didn't. Couldn't. So she paid for it.)
Happy birthday, Regina's dead. Regina's dead and Vikram's alive and nobody knows where he is.
Happy birthday, Lacey Porter. Happy birthday, you're at a crummy motel with Danny Desai. You've been seeing him for months, though you have to hide it from everyone. You're using the birthday money from your dad to get a rough fuck in a place that doesn't have memories seeping out of the walls. You're both trying to forget the people you love.
(You're trying, but you know how that worked out the first time.)
Lacey looks at him then, the dingy lights from the window dusting color onto his face. His expression is worn but his stare is steady. She knows his eyes. She knows he's seen things, said things, and felt things she couldn't begin to comprehend. But even after five years, she knows what his dad meant to him.
She wonders if Regina was in love with Vikram. She wonders if Regina had been in so deep that she wasn't able to realize she was drowning.
You know, Lacey, her mother had said, sometime after the divorce. Loving someone is one of the most dangerous things you can ever do. There's always a chance you'll lose everything you ever had.
Lacey runs a thumb along his jawline before kissing him and settling down on her pillow, back turned to him. She hears him shift and he rests his hand on hers, his callouses on top of her knuckles.
They're just two sixteen-year-olds on a motel bed trying to forget what it means to love.
(She knows they're failing when she feels his heart beating in time with her own.)