Rachel
I pull the keys from the ignition and sit alone in the driveway. All the lights in our house are off. Dad is obviously asleep.
I feel bad. I just sat there and did nothing. Paul's father said all of those things about him and I said nothing to defend him. I should have said something… anything. I was just so caught off guard. This is Paul we're talking about. I've never seen anyone with more confidence. He exudes cockiness. He has the sharpest wit of anyone I know. And yet he just sat there and took it. Why?
I struggle to wrap my head around what kind of relationship Paul might have with his father to make someone like Paul docile to Mr. Lahote's venom.
I lean my head forward and rest it on the steering wheel. I don't get it… And then the call from his mom in prison. Prison? Yikes. Tough blow.
I've been so wrapped up in my own shit — the job falling through, paying off the loan to fix the dilapidated roof, obsessing about my one-night stand gone wrong… and Mom's death — I didn't even think to consider if Paul was going through shit of his own. Because it's all about me, right? Selfish bitch, as usual. I cringe.
How was I supposed to know?... Well… I could have taken the slightest bit of interest. Paul is all up in my business, after all. And we're supposed to be friends now. But I don't really know anything about him. At all. What do I know? He's a wolf… and he works as a lifeguard. He likes… food? And um… his birthday was today — I didn't even know that — and… ummm… I suck at being friends.
I push my key into the ignition and back out of the driveway. I have to do something.
My red Mazda is the only car parked at the Thriftway in Forks. It's like a ghost town inside; there is one cashier, a security guard and a young stock boy who I track down to help me at the cake display.
"Can you write 'Happy Birthday, Paul' on it?" I ask as the stock boy puts the chocolate cake with black rose decorations into a box for me.
"Um… No," he gives me a weird look, "I'm not a cake decorator. If you want something like that you have to come back in the morning."
"But his birthday is today," I reply.
"Plan ahead better?" he suggests with a judgemental deadpan stare.
"Fine," I exhale, "just give me one of those tubes of decorating icing," I point to the display next to him, "I'll do it myself."
"Anything else?" he asks, putting the cake and icing tube on the counter and starts to ring up the transaction.
"Two forks," I nod to the plastic cutlery behind him.
"Two forks," he yawns, grabbing the plastic forks as well.
"Summer job?" I ask. He looks too young to be a lifer around here.
"Yeah. They got me on all closing shifts. Manager hates me," he yawns again. "But at least I don't have to deal with idiot customers… no offense," he looks around to make sure no one else is in earshot.
"Oh, hey. None taken. I work down at the food truck at First Beach. Nothing like customer service to enlighten you on the true idiocy of the human race," I agree.
He smirks and gives me a little knowing nod.
"And um… If I throw in a bottle of red wine, are you going to card me?" I raise my brow.
He stares at me, "are you a cop?" the kid narrows his eyes.
"Um… no? But if I were, I'd have to tell you because you asked," I reply, "that's the rule," I assure him.
I have no fucking idea if that's a rule but he seems to be buying it.
"Okay. Good. Which one?" he asks, pointing to a small rack of wine.
"The California is fine," I say, getting my wallet out.
"Good choice," he replies, picking up the bottle of red, "show me your tits."
"Excuse me?" my head snaps up. Did I hear this kid right?
"Do you want your wine or not?" he asks.
"Are you serious?" I cross my arms. Am I really being extorted by this 15-year-old over a $12 bottle of fucking wine?
"Alright then… I'm gonna need to see some I.D., ma'am," the kid replies.
"Okay! Okay, fine. Fucking unbelievable," I take a quick look around to make sure we're alone, grit my teeth and roll up my shirt, hooking my thumbs into my bra and show this dumb kid my breasts. Once I am confident that he's gotten a sufficient eyeful. I pull my shirt back down.
"Cash or credit?" he grins.
"Well that wasn't too humiliating," I mumble sarcastically to myself in the front seat of my car as I attempt to write 'Happy Birthday, Paul' on the cake with the decorating icing. This is way harder than it looks. I should have given myself more room. The word Birthday is squished and by the time I get to his name the tube is almost empty so I have to borrow some icing from some floral decorations at the bottom of the cake to smear the letter 'L' at the end of 'Paul'.
It looks like a complete mess. Whatever. I tried.
I close the box back up and carefully put the cake in the back seat and start to drive back to Paul's house. It doesn't really occur to me until I get to the beginning of the road that he has no clue I am coming. I slow to a roll within yards of his house and turn off the headlights so as to not alert his father of my presence.
Maybe this is a mistake… What am I doing? But … I can't just let this be his birthday. I pop the door to my Mazda and take care to not tumble into the ditch. It's really dark. Clouds have rolled in and concealed the moon.
The only light I have to guide me is the flicker of a television in the window of the Lahote living room. I squint my eyes; it's an old western movie. The kind where they still called us Indians and the actors adorned with ceremonial headdresses are nothing more than tanned white people in black wigs.
I wander around the house and inspect the upstairs windows, trying to guess which one would be Paul's. I gather some pebbles in my hand and toss a small stone at a random window and wait. I toss another and another… Nothing… Okay… I wander around to another window and try again. One pebble. Two pebble. Three…
The window illuminates. I clench my jaw, hoping to god that Paul appears at the window and not Mr. Lahote. The curtains pull back and the pane slides up.
"Rachel?" Paul leans out the window. The expression on his face is difficult to read. He doesn't particularly look happy to see me. I recognise the pain in his eyes. Mortification. I don't blame him. That dinner was ugly.
"Come down," I whisper.
Paul leans against the sill, "why?"
"Because I asked you to," I reply urgently and look around. I don't want to get caught. He continues to just stare at me, "alright. Never mind, then," I turn my back to him and start walking away.
My manipulation tactic works because before I am more than three sides away, Paul is right behind me.
"You're gonna get me killed, Bird," Paul mutters.
"Yeah? He'll have to find you first," I take his warm hand into mine. I lead him back towards the road where I'd parked the Mazda.
"Where are we going?" Paul asks when I pop the passenger side door for him.
"Nowhere special," I reply and slide into the driver's seat.
It's true. Nothing is open at this hour. I'm not bringing him home with me because that would send all the wrong messages. So I drive us to the only place that I can think of. The beach.
When we pull into the small parking lot a few yards from the food truck and not too far from the water, we are alone. It's windy and damp; not an ideal night for swimming or bonfires. Fortunately, there are a few working street lights so we are not in complete darkness.
"Here," I hand Paul the keys to the food truck, "go to the truck and look behind the sun visor and see if there are any joints stashed away.
Paul cocks his brow, "alright but you're responsible for me if we're getting high. There's no way in hell I'm going to show up at home stinking like pot."
I stare at him, his suggestion of an overnight invitation is blatant and not cleverly disguised as he seems to think.
"We've got an air mattress," I reply and watch him deflate.
Paul turns and walks towards the food truck. I take this opportunity to grab the cake from the back seat and display it on the hood of my car with the wine. Under the street lights, my handy work writing 'Happy Birthday Paul' looks especially atrocious. I don't know why I had to attempt writing a birthday message in frosting. It would have been a perfectly good cake otherwise. Now it looks… junky. I tried to make it better… and it turned out as usual.
"What's this?" Paul asks, suddenly behind me.
"Any luck?" I turn quickly. My face is suddenly hot and my stomach is tight.
"Um… no. There's nothing there — what is this?" Paul moves around me and inspect the chocolate cake with a lousy attempt at a birthday message.
"Yeah. I'm sorry. I'm not a cake decorator," I reply nervously.
"You did this?" Paul turns back to me with the brightest smile I have ever seen on his face. Literally. This smile is different. Paul has a really nice smile in general. But this smile; it's genuine and it makes my stomach feel odd. Tingley… filled with butterflies.
"Well… yeah," I reply, "I couldn't let that be your birthday," I swallow and wish that the street lights weren't so bright. I feel exposed.
"Bird…" Paul shakes his head, "this is the sweetest thing someone has ever done for me. I love it. Thank you."
My face burns hotter, if that is somehow even possible, "it's a cake. It's nothing," I press my lips together, "oh… and some wine I scored. I hope you like wine."
Paul picks up the bottle, "I don't mind it. California," he reads the bottle, "non-alcoholic-"
"Yeah it's- huh? Wait. What?" I snatch the bottle from Paul. My stomach drops. I inspect the table, "of for fuck- Fuck!" I laugh because of course this would happen to me, "amazing. Non-alcoholic. God dammit. Can't believe I showed my tits to that fucking stockboy for a $12 bottle of grape juice."
"Oh it's fine- I- Uh- What!?" Paul's head snaps up and the smile falls from his face.
I grunt, "I forgot my fake ID. The kid at the Thriftway … never mind."
"You flashed some guy for wine?" Paul crosses his arms.
"No. Apparently I flashed some guy for grape juice," I mutter.
Paul just stares. Eyes wide. Mouth agape.
"Okay. Paul… we're not together," I reply quickly, "what I do with my breasts-"
"Okay. Yeah. But like… you're just going around flashing this guy at the Thriftway… and well… it's my birthday."
I press my tongue into my cheek to keep from smiling.
"It's not fair," Paul smirks.
"Seriously? It's your birthday so I should flash you? You want me to flash you… for your birthday?" I twist my lips to keep from smiling at the ridiculousness of his logic.
Paul shrugs, "I dunno. If it's working then yes… If it's not, I'm joking," he snorts out a laugh.
"Eat your fucking cake," I can no longer contain my grin and hand him one of the plastic forks.
I don't know what it is. If it were any other guy I would go off on him about being a pig and let him have it. But with Paul… I guess I rather like the attention. I like it a lot. I'm embarrassed by how much I like it.
Paul chuckles softly, taking one of the forks from me, "it's all I want for my birthday," he smirks.
"To see my tits? Really?" I cross my arms.
"I settle for a kiss," Paul negotiates, taking a step forward.
"Maybe later," I sit down on the hood of the Mazda and crack open the twist top of the non-alcoholic wine.
Paul takes that answer in stride and sits down next to me, pulling the cake between us and takes the first bite, "this is so fucking good. How's you know?"
"It's chocolate cake," I reply and dig my fork in as well, "what lunatic doesn't like chocolate cake?"
"My dad," Paul replies, eating icing off his fork.
"Shocker," I mutter sarcastically, the man seems like a damn lunatic.
Silence falls between us. I feel like I should say something but I can't think of anything. So I just eat more cake and sip from the bottle of bitter juice.
"For real, Bird… why?" Paul looks at me. His eyes are penetrating and I can't lie to him.
"Because I wanted to," I whisper. It's a simple answer but the way it escapes my throat speaks volumes. I care about Paul deeply. I don't know what it is. Over the past few weeks it's as if the more time I spend around him the more I can't help but feel like part of me belongs to him. Meanwhile, he's made it clear that all of him belongs to me.
He nods. He understands. No further explanation needed.
"Thank you," he whispers in return. It's sincere and complicated. I feel it.
All I can do is nod.
Paul's eyes fall to my lips and without even thinking I lean forward and kiss him. Fuck it. It's his birthday. And I want to. It's the first time we've kissed since that time in the ocean. I'm aware of how much my body has missed him the moment he pushes off from the hood and stands over me, leaning his palms on either side of my hips where I sit on the Mazda.
I part my knees and he stands between my legs, deepening our kiss. My mouth invites his tongue inside. And because I'm already misbehaving, I throw caution to the wind and pull his hand to my thigh. Paul squeezes, his fingers digging into my flesh. His hand slides his hot palm down my leg and hooks his fingers under my knee, taking the opportunity to pull my hips closer to his. Fuck it. With my heart pounding loudly in my ear, I pull away from our kiss and lean back on my elbows. When my eyes finally dare to connect with his I am met with a lustful gaze.
I feel like her again. The girl that Paul believes me to be. The girl that deserves the way he is looking at her.
"Kiss me," I beg. I don't want the feeling to fade. I can pretend to be her a moment longer and everything will be okay. With him… everything will be okay.
With no hesitation, Paul leans over me and kisses me forcefully. Whatever restraint he'd been holding moments earlier evaporates and is replaced with this passionate display of wanting. Needing. And I am captivated. The prey to his predator… if the prey wished to be devoured. I do. Paul's lips travel along my neck, collarbones, chest; any bit of exposed skin he can find.
"More," I rasp, breathlessly.
"You want more?" he mumbles against my neck.
"Hmhm, please," I swallow. My voice is so unfamiliar. Even to myself. Wanting. Begging. Pathetic and submissive… Desperate.
My hips raise instinctually to meet his. The hard ridge in his jeans make it clear that whatever I am feeling, he is too. This time he doesn't apologise for it. Instead he slides his hand under my rear and pushes his hips roughly into mine.
I gasp.
"I can give you anything you desire," his voice vibrates in my ear, "just say the words," he sucks my ear into his hot mouth.
My eyes roll back. It all feels so fucking good, "say the words?" I tremble. I hadn't meant to say that out loud.
Paul doesn't hesitate to answer me, "tell me you want me," his eyes are black; pupils blown wide.
His lips attack mine just as I am lifting my arms to wrap around his neck which causes my head to slam down against the hood of the car.
"Ow! Fuck!"
"Shit, sorry!" Paul quickly pulls back, putting his hand under my head.
We both freeze, eyes wide and suddenly sober from our lust. I don't know who laughs first but we both lose it equally.
"It's fine," I finally manage to say once I catch my breath, "we uh… can't do this," I sit up.
"Yeah… not out here," Paul replies, stepping back from me.
"Not at all," I reply. The words crush him. I can tell, "you're just a-"
"A kid?" Paul exhales, "come on, Bird. I'm 17. You're 19. It's not that big of a deal. Why are you really pushing me away? What's the harm?"
"What's the harm?" I don't look at him. My eyes wander to the water. There's just so much he doesn't know and that I can never tell him. He'd certainly never look at me the same if he knew all my secrets. I want him to keep looking at me with those eyes; unburdened with how horrible I am. If he only knew how unlucky he was to imprint on such a deplorable excuse of a woman.
"Please don't do that," Paul whispers. He takes my chin into his hand and draws my face back in his direction.
"Do what?" I shiver, suddenly aware of how chilly the sea breeze is now that he is no longer on top of me.
"That thing you do. When you disappear into yourself. Please stay with me," Paul's sincere expression moves me.
"I do that?" I whisper.
"Constantly," he sighs, "I wish I knew what troubled you so much. Tell me what's wrong, Bird? What's hurting you?"
My lip trembles. I can't. I can't do this. I scramble off the hood, knocking the cake to the concrete in the process. The wine bottle almost rolls off the hood as well but Paul manages to catch it before it can shatter against the pavement.
"Stop," Paul reached for my arm and quickly puts himself between me and the driver's door, "talk to me."
"Please move," I attempt to push him but his body is solid and unshakeable.
"I won't. I'm not stupid, Rachel. I know something isn't right. I can feel it. What happened? Tell me!" he's impatient and on edge; annoyed even.
I can tell that he's on the brink of losing control and the only way I can get out of this is to push him right over the edge. In a white-hot moment of impulse, I haul my arm back and slap him hard, across the face.
And it works as intended.