My chin wavers, and I try to smile, and then he stops the recording and pulls me into a hug. “Thanks, Bray.”
“Love you, babes.” He inclines toward me, kisses me on the temple. “I’ve gotta crash. Be good, you.”
He settles his mandolin in its case, clips the latches closed, carries it to his bedroom and closes the door behind himself.
We’re sharing an apartment, Brayden and I. The girls I was living with were no good for me to be around. Really, the only thing we had in common was partying and I’m determined to keep away from that lifestyle. Bray’s lease was up, so we decided to get a place together. He keeps an eye on me, making sure I go to my appointments with Dr. Pruitt at the counseling office, and makes sure I don’t do anything stupid. This way, we can make music together all the time. The other kids in the band agreed that we needed a hiatus.
That I needed a hiatus.
* * *
It’s been two months since I O.D.’d, and I’ve exchanged a few texts with Ben, but I haven’t seen him. I don’t know what he’s doing. Finishing his degree, I guess. Good for him.
I’m in bed now, and it’s 3 a.m., and I’m listening to “3 A.M.” by Gregory Alan Isakov. My phone buzzes in my hands and the gray box pops up over the Pandora app, with Ben’s words, and his name as he saved it—Benji:
Just wanted you to know, I’m still waiting for you.
I stare at the screen for a long, long time before my fingers begin typing out a reply: And just so YOU know, I’m still working on things. Keep waiting. PLZ?
As long as I need to.
Promise?
Promise.
The question for me becomes: when will I be ready? Will it ever happen? Because I still don’t know how to be what he wants me to be. I’m not even sure what he wants. Exclusivity? A long-term relationship? To be, what? Lovers? Is that a term monogamous types still use? I don’t know. I’ve never done that.
And I have so many fears: If he knew my history, in terms of sex, would he still want me? I mean, let’s face it, I’m kind of a slut. It’s a self-appointed and accepted label. The first time a guy called me that, I didn’t hit him, didn’t slap him, didn’t walk out. I sat back and thought about it, and then nodded and agreed with him. Yeah, I said. I guess I am, aren’t I? And what does that make you? A slut-fucker. Not a good thing, I’m thinking now.
Is that what Ben wants? What he deserves? I mean, yeah, I’m good at sex. He likes what I’ve got going on, obviously, but if he knew how many have been there before him, would he still feel the same way?
My bedroom door opens and Brayden sticks his head in. “You think too damn loud, girl. You may never be ready to love that boy. But you’ll never know unless you try.”
I stare at his silhouette. “Was I talking out loud?”
“No, I just know what you’re thinking. I mean, it’s kind of obvious.” He blows me a kiss. “Now, shut off your brain and go to sleep.”
I blow a raspberry at him. “I wouldn’t be up at three in the fucking morning if I could do that, Bray-bay.”
“I know. But try.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I wave him away, and he closes the door.
I stare at my phone for a while longer. You still up? I text him.
Yup. Why?
You know where Fannie Mae Dees Park is?
Yeah…?
Meet me there.
When?
Now?
Be there in 10.
I get out of bed, my hands shaking, heart palpitating, and rinse off in the shower. I brush my hair till it shines and leave it loose, brush my teeth, put on some deodorant and perfume, and then slip into a sleeveless white full-length dress, no bra, no panties. I step into sandals, stuff my phone in my purse, and head toward the door.
Brayden is sitting on the couch, facing the coffee table, wearing nothing but a black miniskirt. It just looks so weird. He’s really embracing this side of himself, apparently, and good for him. I love him regardless, and I’m proud of his fearlessness, but…it’s just weird. He’s talked about being bisexual, and I’ve met a few of the guys he’s “dated”, but I’ve never seen any actual hard proof that he’s actually done anything to speak of…in that way, I mean. He’s always been impeccably dressed, a little too well dressed, really, which was my first indicator. But he was always dressed like a guy. And a partially gay guy, sure, in pants and shirts and boots and scarves, mostly. This Bray that wears my skirts and puts on makeup is…a little hard to get used to.
As I pass him by, I get a look at what he’s doing: rolling a joint. I stop and stare. “I didn’t know you smoked pot, Brayden.”
He starts, gasps, and claps a hand over the lark adorning his chest. “Jesus, Echo. You scared me.” He shrugs. “I used to. I stopped for a while.”
“Oh. Um, okay.”
He licks the paper and seals the joint, then turns on the couch to glance at me. “Is it a problem?”
It’s my turn to shrug. “No, I guess not.”
“You want some?”
I almost do, but I hesitate. I think about Ben, waiting for me. “No, thanks. Probably not a good idea for me.”
He blinks at me, owlishly. “No, I guess it wouldn’t be. Sorry.” He then takes in my appearance. “Nice dress. I’d rethink going braless, though. Where are you off to?”
“Meeting Ben.”
“At three in the morning?”
“I’m awake, he’s awake and, like you said, I’ll never know unless I try.” I lift my tits through the thin white cotton and let them fall. “And besides, I like how I look without a bra. It feels nice. Freeing.”
He nods and shrugs. “Okay, then. Just…don’t run. You might smack yourself in the face with those puppies.”
I lean across the couch and smack him on the back of the head. “Shut up, weirdo.”
“I’m not weird. I’m just…exploring myself.”
“You’re wearing my miniskirt.”
“So?”
“It’s weird,” I say. “And…I’m not sure I want to know the answer to this, but what are you wearing underneath it?”
“You don’t want to know.”
I close my eyes and shake my head. “No, you know what? Forget I asked. Just wash it and put it back when you’re done.”
“Sure thing, babes.” He blows me a kiss. “Go get him, tiger.”
“Rawr.” I make claws with my fingers, and then leave Brayden to his marijuana.