Chapter 12: And I can't catch you
When you start dating Ivan, you feel the ghost of Betty all around you, and that's why you don't mind when he takes things a little farther than you thought you should go.
"Do I kiss like Betty?" You ask him one night after a heavy kissing session in someone's car he's borrowed. He's tried his hand at some petting but you're skittish and his hands are too large and clumsy and in the back of your mind is the constant worry that if you stop him, he'll use those big hands to hit you.
"Why would you even ask something like that?" He asks, seeming genuinely offended. You know he had a hard time getting over Betty and you understand that. Someone like her only comes along one in a lifetime.
But somehow kissing Ivan was better in your dreams.
You wanted to know because you have first-hand knowledge of the way Betty kisses; clumsily and whole-heartedly, and you wanted to know how you compared to that.
Because the way Ivan kisses you, even in your dreams, is never as good as the way Betty kissed you.
There's something more urgent about the way he kisses you, and all you want is time to figure out how to do this properly. You're still not sure if you're supposed to close your eyes. You don't though, because behind your eyes lurk a thousand images.
One of these is your father, holding a Bible and yelling.
So you keep your eyes open, so you're always very aware of the way Ivan looks up close, those light eyelashes, faint freckles. Big hands that rest on either side of your face and sometimes slide down to your neck and you have to pull away and swallow abruptly to keep your instincts and your dinner down.
He's still looking at you, waiting for an answer.
"I don't know, I just… haven't done this before," you tell him, hoping he'll buy it.
He does, and he cradles your face to kiss you again. But his hands are just too close to your throat and you have to get out of there before he gets you out of your cardigan. You make your excuses and, slightly disgruntled, he drives you home.
Betty's door is open when you get home. You remember the weight of her face in your hand when you held it still to hold ice to a swollen eye. You remember her hands resting lightly in yours, the smell of nail polish and cigarettes thick in the air, making it hard to swallow.
You remember her soft lips pressing against yours.
You don't want to remember anything else, so you go to your room. You leave your door open though, and Betty wanders in gingerly a few minutes later.
"How's Ivan," she asks, skulking in the doorway.
"Fine," you tell her, because it's strange; she used to date him.
She used to love you.
But she used to date him and she knows what an evening in a car with him is like better than you do, and when you realize the smell of his cologne is sticking to you, you worry that it'll make her sad or strange or jealous.
And you want, right now, to make her jealous; for all those nights you needed her and she was out with him, for all the times you turned to her shut door and were too afraid to knock, for all the times you wondered what she was going to say when she asked you not to leave.
For all the times she let you doze in her bed, before you knew, and she watched over you like a guard dog, but better. Because it was Betty and you knew, somehow, that she would best your father if he found you.
She could have too, if you hadn't broken her spirit first. She was the best friend you ever had, and she looked so… deflated. Defeated.
It's confusing, all of this, because you're trying to see now, looking back, when you should have recognized what she was and what she was to you.
"That's nice," she says cautiously. You nod, equally cautiously.
"Can I have my whiskey back?" You ask suddenly, because her eyes are soft and the way she's looking at you is a little unnerving. She nods and ducks out the doorway, returning with your bottle. You take a slug.
"Went that well, huh?" She asks, and there's a little bitterness in her voice you never used to hear when she was talking to you.
"Why does everybody want to touch my neck?" You ask, in reply.
"Does it still hurt?" She asks, crossing the threshold of your doorway and coming toward you. The concern on her face warms better than the whiskey. You shake your head but take another drink. "Can I…" She trails off and you lift your head.
Her hands are small and warm on the side of your face, and she's slow, ever so slow and gentle when she slides them down to your throat. "Does that hurt?" She asks, looking from her hands to your face and suddenly realizing how close she is to you, taking a step back. Your stomach is a clenched ball of fear even after her hands are gone but you breathe slowly through it and shake your head. "I didn't know what else to do," she says quietly. "But I thought he'd rather come after me." This isn't a conversation you should have with your door open so your brush past her and close it, leaning against the solid wood.
"I killed him because he did," you tell her, making eye contact.
There's not much to say, after that, and you're glad when she makes an excuse and leaves. When you sneak to the bathroom to wash the smell of Ivan off of you, her door is closed again.
Author's note: thanks to the folk reviewing this. Sorry I didn't say that before, but thank you.
Title from Sixpence None The Richer's song "I can't catch you".
