Laura McHugh - The Weight of Blood

He laughed. “That’s the point, right?” He walked out toward the current and sank underwater, then popped back up and shook himself like a dog. “Whoo!” he hollered. “Come on in.”

I tiptoed into the water, squealing as it inched up my body. When I was waist-deep, I dove under and came up with a gasp. We bobbed around in the water for a few minutes, and then I had to get out.

“Not hot anymore?” he asked.

“N-no,” I stuttered, my teeth on the verge of chattering.

“Hey,” he said, sloshing out after me. “I’ve got something that’ll warm you right back up.” He rummaged around inside the cab and came back with a sleeping bag, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and two plastic cups. “Can you spread this out?” he asked, handing me the sleeping bag. I unzipped it and laid it out in the truck bed. Crete climbed up to sit next to me and handed me a cup, tapping it against his. “Cheers.”

I choked down several gulps as quickly as I could to get it over with. It tasted awful. I’d never had whiskey straight before, only once with Coke, in a much smaller glass. The sound of the river was soothing, and we leaned back to watch the stars for a while. My shirt stuck to me like papier-mâché, and the breeze made me shiver. I folded the bottom of the sleeping bag up over my feet.

“Still chilly? Do you mind?” He carefully slid his arm around me, and my body tensed involuntarily. I was suddenly aware of several things at once: the warmth that spread through my belly as the whiskey worked its magic, a heaviness fogging my head, the intense brightness of stars against the dark, the unexpected arousal at his touch. “Beautiful night,” Crete said, and I leaned in to him, allowed myself to relax against his bare chest. I tried to remind myself that he was my boss, that I should not be so close to him, but my head filled with static. I was increasingly distracted by the sensation of his skin against mine, the heat where our bodies met. I swallowed the rest of my drink and felt it burn all the way down. I dropped my empty cup and noticed that his was mostly full.

“Here,” he said. “Do you want to take this off? It’s just making you colder.” He helped me remove my wet shirt, and there we were in our underwear, eye to eye. There was an unspoken agreement in the way we looked at each other. He wanted to cross the line, and I wanted him to cross it. I wasn’t sure in that moment if it was Crete I wanted or just the physical release, and I didn’t care. He pulled me gently onto his lap and I wrapped my legs around him, felt him pressing against my damp underwear. Our lips touched and heat flowed through me. He wasn’t a good kisser, unfortunately, shoving his tongue in my mouth like he wanted to choke me. I started to feel dizzy, and as he unhooked my bra, I thought I might be sick. I pulled away from him.

“I don’t feel good,” I said. “Maybe I drank too fast.” We sat quietly for a few minutes, his hand resting on my knee. My head was spinning.

“Let’s get you home,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” I said, fumbling to clasp my bra and feeling around for my shirt.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he said. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have given you so much.” He helped me into the cab and rolled down the window in case I got sick. The bumpy road made me feel worse, and I closed my eyes, resting my cheek on the door and letting my hair drift out the window in the night air. Crete squeezed my hand as we drove.

Back at the garage, he half-carried me inside and laid me down on the bed. “You gonna be all right?” he asked, pushing my hair out of my face. I nodded. I was so tired. He sat down next to me and traced his fingers along my back, but sickness had dampened any desire, and his touch made me feel like throwing up.

“I think I just need to sleep,” I mumbled.

“I’ll stay awhile,” he said. “Keep an eye on you.” He continued to stroke my hair, and I didn’t have the energy to tell him to stop. He spoke in a low, soothing voice as I drifted off, and his words began to slip away, no longer making sense.

I woke up the next morning in my nightgown, which I didn’t recall putting on. My head was ringing and I’d overslept. The alarm on my clock had been turned off, and I found a note from Crete on the dresser: Told Ransome you’re taking the morning off.

I showered and dressed and nibbled on some crackers in bed, trying to recall everything that had happened the night before. I’d agreed to go swimming, which wasn’t so bad, but things had quickly gone downhill from there. I was beginning to think I wasn’t so different from an alcoholic. I couldn’t let myself make one small, impulsive decision, because that was guaranteed to lead to a whole six-pack of bad decisions, some likely to end in regret. I was fairly certain that I hadn’t slept with my boss—I had no memory of things going that far. In the agonizingly bright light of day, I knew what a mistake it would have been to screw the guy I was contractually bound to for two years. It was incredible luck that I’d gotten sick when I did, because nothing else would have stopped me from going through with it. Crete probably felt the same way, like he’d dodged a bullet. We’d just gotten carried away.

I had a little speech ready for when he came to drive me to Dane’s, but I figured I’d give him a chance to go first. Then I could agree with what he said and get on with my day. When I first got in the truck, he asked how I was feeling, and we had a little laugh about my low tolerance for alcohol. I thanked him for helping me home and waited for him to launch into the reasons why the previous night shouldn’t have happened. But he didn’t.

“I was thinking you might like to come over to my place after work tonight,” he said. “We could have a real dinner.”

I squirmed, not sure how to start my speech. It didn’t dovetail easily with what he’d just said. “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m still not feeling very well.”

He smiled at me. “Tomorrow, then. I’ll pick you up after work.”

“Maybe… maybe it’s not the best idea,” I said softly.

He was quiet for a minute, chewing on a toothpick. “I thought we had a good time last night,” he said, his eyes on the road. “Sure seemed like it.”

“No, I did, I had a… It was fun,” I said. “I was just thinking it over, the whole employee/employer thing. I don’t want to… cause any problems.”

“Nothing wrong with having a little fun,” he said. “You worried I’d fire you over it?”

“I don’t want to mess things up. I do that sometimes, and I really want to keep this job.”

“You don’t need to worry about your job,” he said.

“Still, I think it’s best if we don’t. You know. We can just… keep it professional.”

He nodded without looking at me. “If that’s the way you want it.”

Over the next couple of days, float season started to pick up. The constant stream of customers kept me busy, and every once in a while, I caught sight of tourists posing for pictures across the street, in front of Cheri’s tree. One guy came in to ask me which tree it was, the one where they’d found “that retarded girl’s parts.” A filthy pink ribbon dangled from the lowest branch, all that was left of the memorial. Crete wasn’t around, and when I tried his office door, it was locked. I wondered which of his friends had lived in the trailer, how well he knew them.

I walked home through the woods after work on Friday, picked a few strawberries from the garden, and ate them hot from the sun. Then I lay down on the couch to rest for a few minutes. It wasn’t completely dark when I woke up, but the crick in my neck told me hours had passed. The answering machine was beeping and someone was knocking at the door. I got to my feet just as Bess let herself in.