Mary Miller - The Last Days of California

“Hey, Jess,” Elise said. “Jess?”

“What?”

“You’re grinding your teeth.”

“I’m not grinding my teeth,” I said, unclenching my jaw. I was also digging my fingers into my legs. I stood and took my phone into the bathroom, stared at Gabe’s number. I typed things and deleted them, typed and deleted. He didn’t love me. I wasn’t special. I went back out and resumed my place on the floor.

I didn’t like the way the weed made me feel, so I took another hit, hoping it would make me feel differently.

“Come on,” Brad said, taking my hand and leading me to the bathroom. He locked the door behind us. His face looked larger and redder in the bathroom light and I didn’t want to be alone with him but I also felt special, chosen.

“Hi,” I said, as he moved toward me.

He propped me up on the counter and put his hands on my thighs. They felt a lot like my own, hardly like anything.

“Hi,” I said again.

“That was your first time smoking?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“How’d you like it?”

“Fine,” I said. “I don’t care about anything.”

He tilted my neck and kissed it, held my hair back with one hand. He was pulling too hard but I didn’t say anything. “I want to make you feel good,” he said. “Can I make you feel good?” He kissed me before I could answer, his hands moving higher and higher until they were touching my panties, rubbing the thin material between two fingers. I couldn’t remember which pair I had on. They were probably a good pair because the good ones weren’t as comfortable so I saved them for last. I wondered why Elise hadn’t knocked. The old Elise would have knocked already, would have come looking for me last night.

“Are those veneers?” I asked, pulling away.

“No,” he said.

“They’re perfect, like movie star teeth.”

“Close your eyes.”

“You must not drink any coffee,” I said.

“I drink plenty of coffee,” he said, “and I smoke, too.” He sounded angry about it. I closed my eyes and he tilted my neck and kissed it again. Then he began to suck and I wondered if I was going to wake up with a hickey; the thought of it excited me.

In the room, a Bruce Springsteen song played, one I didn’t know.

Brad unbuttoned my shorts, tugged at them.

“It bothers me that Bruce Springsteen is always talking about factories and being poor. Once you’ve got that much money you shouldn’t be able to write about being poor anymore,” I said.

“This was only his second album,” he said. “He wasn’t rich then.”

“He was a rock star, though.”

“Shhh.”

“Don’t tell me to shhh. I don’t have to be quiet.”

“No,” he said. “We can talk about Bruce if you want.”

“That’s all I wanted to say about it.” I lifted up and he pulled off my shorts. I was wearing a pair of blue panties that had lace at the top in a lighter blue, one of my prettier pair that fit well and didn’t have any bloodstains.

“These are sexy,” he said, running his finger along the lace. Then he moved them to the side and pushed his finger in, first one and then two. He said I was tight and I hoped he didn’t say anything else about it. I smiled at him. My smile felt big and fake and made me think nobody could ever love me.

He unbuttoned his shorts, unzipped them, and pulled himself out—half-hard, big.

“It’s big,” I said.

“Is it?”

“It seems really big.”

“It’s not huge or anything,” he said. He took out his wallet and found a gold condom. I watched him open the wrapper with his teeth, roll it down his dick.

“Wait,” I said, placing my hands against his chest.

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

“We don’t have to,” he said.

“No,” I said.

“I’ll go slow.” He gave me a sad look like he might love me, pulled me forward, and pushed himself in. I didn’t want to do it anymore and wanted to stop him—all I had to say was that I’d changed my mind. I could just pull my shorts up and leave the bathroom and he would let me. I could leave. I didn’t have to do this. I scooted to the edge of the counter and wrapped my legs around his waist.

“Hey,” I said, but it was so quiet. I put my hands under his shirt and held onto him, tried to concentrate on his skin, which was smooth and warm. I wanted to pull him on top of me, wanted him to smother me, make it hard to breathe.

After a few minutes, he grunted and tugged my hair. Then he was still and silent. I tried to move but he held my legs in place, closed his eyes. The bluish lids were lined with veins. There was a tiny mole below his left eye that added so much.

He peeled the condom off, hobbled a few feet over to the toilet, and flushed. Then he put his hand on the back of my head and smiled at me before zipping his pants.

When he left, I locked the door and set about cleaning myself with a washcloth. I peed, brushed my teeth, washed my face. When there was nothing left to clean, I sat on the toilet and listened to them talk and laugh, knowing I would never be a part of it. I would always be separate, thinking about what expression my face was making, what people thought of me. Observing peoples’ weaknesses and flaws—their big thighs and crooked teeth and acne, their lack of confidence, their fear. I would always think the worst about people and it would keep me from them because I couldn’t accept myself.

Elise sat alone on the bed, wobbling back and forth. I got up and went to the bathroom, peed for the fourth time in two hours.

When I came out, she was fumbling around in the closet.

“What are you doing?” I asked, sliding open the door.

“I have to use the bathroom.”

“You’re in the closet,” I said. I turned on the light and led her to the toilet, stood there until she told me to go away. I got in bed and tried to get comfortable. I imagined myself melting into the mattress, becoming a part of it.

A few minutes later, she came out unwrapping something.

“What do you have?” I asked.

“A candy,” she said, popping it into her mouth.

“You might choke.” I held out my hand and she spit the peppermint into it. I set it on the table and told her to go to sleep, but she began to cry, softly at first and then gasping, sucking breaths that hurt my chest, my heart.

“Elise?” I said. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

“You know what,” she said.

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.”

I wanted to list things, like our mother listed things when our father lost another job, or when we didn’t have enough money to go back-to-school shopping. She would remind us of all the things we had—our health and each other and a roof over our heads—things we’d always had so they never seemed like anything. I could tell her she was beautiful and smart and funny and popular, that she could walk into any room and heads would turn. But I didn’t say these things and the crying slowed and I thought it would stop but it started up again, terrible and heaving. I wondered how anyone would ever be able to love her. She was too beautiful. It was like being too rich—all you could think about was what the person could do for you.

I walked over to the tub and turned on the pitifully slow-filling faucet. I could still feel Brad inside me and wondered how long it would take to go away. I hate myself , I thought. I thought it again and again and it felt good, like I was finally admitting something I’d kept secret for a long time.

“Why don’t you take a bath?” I asked, watching the water creep into the tub.

She didn’t say anything. I sat there for a moment, looking at her, and then took off my clothes and got in, waited for the water to fill up around me. I ducked my head under and held my breath, my ring scraping the porcelain—God was supposed to be my husband. I was supposed to be married to God. I imagined slicing my wrists open, red against white. It would be so bright, so beautiful. I could hear my heartbeat and remembered that it only had so many. It seemed cruel, putting a little bomb inside us like this, something that we had to always find new ways to ignore.