You

32

I wake up in a different boathouse, a good half mile down the beach from Peach’s home. Nico and Sue and the doctor were right about the warm front; we’re in a new world now and that storm feels like it must have been a mirage, an aberration. It really is like summer. It’s amazing how good fifty and sunny feels after you’ve been bleeding in twelve with a wind chill of go fuck yourself. And then, even more important, nobody found me this time. I think Mother Nature is atoning for my accident and I walk out of the boathouse and what a relief, to not be hit with icy wind. I hunker down in the tall grass in the dunes. You and Peach are just dots on the horizon. You’re both stretching; you’ll go running because you’re a good houseguest. My phone is dead, which is a problem, because if you wrote to me in the middle of the night begging for me to come, I wouldn’t even know. I watch you girls take off down the sand and I run through the dunes so I can duck just in case. When I get to Peach’s house, the cut on my face is throbbing again (fucking Curtis) but the back door is open, as I hoped. You’re not afraid here, which is good news for me.

Everything in the Salinger house is nice and everything in my family’s home back in the day was scuzzy and this isn’t even the house they live in. This is an extra! There is a whole drawer full of iPhone chargers and I plug in my phone. I make a cup of coffee in the Keurig and I promptly burn my tongue. I’ve tracked wet sludge all over the floor and ain’t that the way? It’s like the house knows I’m working class and wants me to pick up a fucking mop.

I use a dishrag because of course they don’t have paper towels. (I’m sure they’re saving the world.) I get down and scrub and I hate Peach. She’s dominant and clingy; she was rude to disinvite Lynn and Chana. I unplug my phone—10 percent charged—but still no text from you. I pocket the charger and go upstairs and find that all six bedrooms are in mint, clean, guest-ready condition. Peach is a seriously pathological sicko and I’m nothing like Peach. I always give you space. Elton John hisses low everywhere because of the state of the art sound system and I can picture Peach pleading with him in a court of fandom. She begs to be his number one fan but Sir Elton slams the gavel and sends a collections officer to seize all his music from that prissy cunt and she has to go work as a greeter at Walmart.

But, I have to say, the bedding is fucking rock star. You slept in here last night and it smells like you and I pick up the leggings you tossed on the floor and take in your scent. My face has calmed down in the warmth, thank God, and I wrap your leggings around my neck, tight, and I’m hard for you and I cum easily with you wrapped around me, tight.

There are only seventy thousand Ralph Lauren towels up in this joint so surely the Salingers won’t miss the one I use to clean up and my coffee is still hot and I kick back because it’s comforting in here and I deserve this. I rummage around in your duffel bag and line up your panties and bras and I have lost myself in you and now I am in trouble.

You and Peach are back in the house, downstairs in the kitchen, kicking off your sneakers, laughing or crying, I can’t tell. I can’t go down the back stairs and flee because the floorboards creak under my feet. I hear your voice and I hate old houses. They’re big-brother-watching and a guy can’t move a muscle without being found out. I take four giant steps into the hallway—coffee still in hand—and tiptoe as softly as possible into the master bedroom that’s almost directly above the kitchen. I crouch in the cedar closet just in case and once again I am closeted while you and Peach are free. I am sure that you are crying, not laughing, and I have to take a leak and there’s no choice. I piss in the mug.

Peach must be hugging you because I hear her kicking the wall in the mudroom, an architectural staple of excessively wealthy white people; they think you need a space exclusively dedicated to taking off your fucking boots. She kicks and grunts and drones, “No matter what I do my boots get so grimy. It’s like the winter wants me or something!”

She says she’s trying to make you laugh but you don’t think she’s funny (does anyone?) and she’s telling you to stop crying and you’re sobbing and I’m trying to piss quietly in a coffee cup and Peach is not very good at soothing you, Beck. I would do better, could do better. And I want to know what’s wrong. If you had reached out to me like you wanted to, I would be the one hugging you. Your crying is so loud that I feel safe leaving the closet and going to the door.

“Read it again,” you demand.

Peach sighs and reads, “Dear friends of Benji.”

“His poor mom,” you whimper.

Peach continues, “It is with great sadness that we inform you that our son Benji is presumed dead.”

You interrupt, “Shouldn’t they be looking for him?”

Peach is annoyed. She reads over you. “His precious Beetle Cat, Courage, was found wrecked just off Brant Point. As some of you know, Benji has battled addiction for some time. He recently informed friends that he was on Nantucket.”

“That fucking tweet,” you say.

“I know,” says Peach. “I hate drugs.”

Thank God for technology because honestly, I’m starting to freak out. I go to the Nantucket Inquirer and Mirror website and, sure enough, there’s an old picture of sober Benji in a suit alongside a picture of his destroyed boat. There are no witnesses who saw Benji on Nantucket, but his parents confirm that he withdrew money in New Haven and that this wouldn’t be “the first time that our son fell prey to his demons.” The harbormaster confirms the boat missing. And I confirm that I had nothing to do with this. Winter on Nantucket can be violent, apparently, and Benji’s mother tells the Mirror: “At least he died doing what he loves.” I don’t know if she’s talking about heroin or sailing. I’ve never felt so lucky in my life.

Peach blows her nose and you’re still crying and she says the two of you should run away to Turks and Caicos and you laugh but she’s serious. “You know I’ve done it before. Why can’t we? We pack a bag. We’re gone. Even better, we don’t pack a bag. You would love it there, I swear.”

“I have school,” you say and there’s a clink as she pours you a drink.

“Screw school,” she says, a failed attempt at being sassy. I hear a zipper and she moans. “Omigod, is there anything better than getting out of sweaty Gore-Tex?”

“Ha,” you say, and you are so halfhearted and I want to hug you.

I hear more kicking as the gruesome striptease continues and Peach testifies. “I swear, it’s like my spandex are glued to my legs. I literally have to peel them off because they itch so bad I’m going to explode.”

I might throw up and you are quiet.

“I hope it’s cool that I’m changing right here,” says Peach. “Sometimes I get so sick of going upstairs to do the littlest things. And ugh can it be any hotter?”

You say it’s fine and I hear her pulling the spandex off her bony body. She walks out of the room and returns and you like what you see because you say, “Wow.”

“My dad is obsessed with robes,” she says and thank God you were referring to the robes. “The Ritz makes the best ones. We have a zillion in every house. You want?”

You want and you take and you opt to change in the bathroom. When you return, she gushes, “How good is it in that robe?”

“It’s amazing,” you say and you are not one of those girls who call everything amazing.

Peach announces that she is making kale smoothies and she would lock you up in here and throw away the key if she could and you don’t even realize it, do you? The loud blender is my savior and like a ninja I fly down the hall, down the back stairwell (just for servants) that leads to the hallway between the kitchen and the great room. Fortunately, there are saloon-style doors that block this stairway, because who the hell wants to look at a servant, right? I can see it all from here. You girls are in matching giant robes and you flop onto the couch and put a glass of scotch and the smoothie on the lobster trap coffee table. She nudges your tiny foot with her big one. “Don’t be sad.”

“I shouldn’t be sad,” you say. “He treated me like shit.”

“Oh, Beckalicious, it’s not your fault. Boys can’t help it. They’re intimidated by girls like us.”

“I don’t think he was ever intimidated,” you say and Peach sweeps her feet off the table and plants them on the floor. She rubs her hands together, generating some heat. “You, my sweet, need a massage.”

You laugh but she’s serious and she moves onto the floor and kneels and rubs your pretty little feet and you moan—you like it—and you tell her she is good at this and she smiles. She likes that you like it and she continues up your legs to your calves and I can’t tell if she pulls your legs apart or if you pull your legs apart but I know that your legs are apart and she is working on your lower thighs and you relax your head, back, you exhale, mmm, and your arms flop to your sides and she is getting in there, up there, moving up your thighs. You are moaning, you are.

She sits up and somehow gets herself between your legs. She parts your bathrobe and your body is naked under there and your nipples are popped and she rubs your hips and you say no but she tells you to be quiet and you are quiet and she kisses your left breast and holds your other breast, firm, hard. You protest but she quiets you and you obey and she is kissing your neck and moving one of her hands down you and you aren’t fighting her and you aren’t doing anything, you are taking it and she is wrong.

You are tipsy—whatever she gave you hits you harder in the daylight, after running—and heartsick for me and shocked over Benji and she is supposed to be your friend. Just moments ago you were a wreck, sobbing, and what kind of a friend responds to a friend in obvious emotional distress by taking advantage of her and sucking on her earlobe? You have yet to touch her but your body is open to her and I don’t even think you’re in there right now, you’re somewhere deep in your head, away and finally, you are back and your whole body flinches and your legs snap and Peach pulls back. You are on your feet, closing your robe. “I’m sorry.”

“Forget it,” Peach says and she drinks old kale smoothie right out of the pitcher. “I’m gonna have a shower.”

“Peach, wait. We should talk.”

“Beck, please,” she gripes. “Did you ever think this is possibly why guys can’t deal with you? I mean just let it be. We don’t have to analyze every stupid thing.”

She marches off with her kale smoothie and I can tell you feel responsible and this is not right. You call out to her and she responds by raising the volume on the Elton John. I hear a door slam. You cry and how dare she lay this all on you? You pass into the kitchen—fortunately, you don’t choose the path by the servant staircase—and you return with your phone. I am shaking. This is it. Here you come. Call me, Beck. Call me. But you dial a number and my phone doesn’t vibrate.

“Chana, I know you’re pissed at me but I need your help. Benji’s dead and Peach is upstairs crying and I never should have come and I don’t know what to do. Please call me.”

You go upstairs and pound on the door and beg her to come out and say you’re sorry until your voice is raspy. She ignores you and she is vile. She has you trapped and you don’t even know it. I push through the saloon-style doors and leave.