Sunday Morning (Damaged #7.5)

 

Except she was too young for me to know. Fuck, I doubted she knew herself. So I told myself no. I was going the noble route, but it still hurt like hell when I dropped off Jodi at her shithole trailer park. She stared at me after climbing off, and I thought maybe she wanted me to kiss her goodbye. Or she wanted a promise like most women craved. I had nothing to give her. Not yet anyway so I left without saying another word while she watched me go.

 

 

 

 

 

6 - Jodi

 

 

The day after Kirk took me for a ride, a twitchy kid showed up at my trailer with a key. I studied it all evening, wondering if I should tempt his generosity by hanging out at his place.

 

Fuck it, I decided. He offered. He gave me the key. Whatever happened next would happen.

 

On the third floor of a four-story building, I discovered a nicer apartment than I expected. Not fancy by any means but a wall of windows allowed in a lot of sunlight to the large living room. I shut the door behind me and locked it out of habit. Walking slowly, I took in the scent of the place. I recognized Kirk’s cologne. Nothing fancy but like the apartment, I found it impressive. Everything about Kirk interested me.

 

A folded newspaper rested on the table, and a large TV took up one corner in the room. The couch didn’t look new as much as unused. My wannabe biker boyfriend spent most of his time at the strip club. Resting on the soft leather couch, I thought he was nuts not to spend all of his time in this homey place.

 

I stood up and walked to a galley-style kitchen where I poured myself a glass of water. Inside the refrigerator were only a few beers. More proof Kirk rarely spent time at the apartment.

 

Before I returned to the living room, I walked into Kirk’s bedroom. I assumed he knew I’d peek so I didn’t feel guilty about poking around his place.

 

Much like with his living room and kitchen, the bedroom looked barely used. Did he fuck women at the club? I doubted he brought them here. The place felt unloved, not like a guy’s party pad or home. It was simply the place where he stored his clothes.

 

I relaxed in a spot near the windows and opened my book. Inhaling slowly, I enjoyed Kirk’s scent and wished he was with me in the apartment. We could cuddle on the couch and watch sports. No, Kirk probably wasn’t a cuddler. I couldn’t imagine him with a girlfriend at all. He was a man who fucked women. That was it. I wasn’t a woman so he couldn’t fuck me. One day, I’d be sufficiently old enough in his mind, and he’d fuck me. Then what? Would he take back his key? Or would he simply change his locks?

 

Until then, I snuggled up on the couch and enjoyed the peaceful afternoon. Without the noise and chaos of the trailer park, I dissolved into my book and imagined living the life of Emma Woodhouse in an era and setting that felt impossibly foreign to me.

 

For the first time in so many years, I was truly happy. I hated leaving his apartment. The sun was nearly set when I forced myself to return home.

 

For weeks, this was my new routine. I woke up in a shithole, spent my day in a shithole, and then spent a few blissful hours at Kirk’s apartment. I began leaving him messages, telling him about my day. One time, I left an entire essay detailing a girl fight I had with a friend. Kirk normally just wrote “cool” on my messages. For that one, he got sage on my ass.

 

“The things you think matter so much now won’t mean shit in five years. In ten years, you won’t remember the names of the people you hate so fucking much today. Remember that when you find yourself giving a shit.”

 

His advice was so perfect that I carried around his message with me for months. Whenever life felt too shitty, I read the note in my head using his voice as if he was saying the words to me.

 

For so long I didn’t see Kirk except for the small glimpses. I would sneak to the edge of the park some evenings and wait for him to walk outside. Each time, I worried I’d see him with a woman. Would I still want him if I watched him kissing some whore? Probably but I didn’t want to test this theory.

 

Those nights when I crouched in the bushes, Kirk stood on the club’s porch and smoked cigarettes. I wondered what he was thinking about and wished it was me. I kept hoping he would surprise me at the apartment and say he couldn’t wait any longer. Kirk never did, and I was beginning to feel foolish for dreaming.

 

My birthday came and went with little fanfare. My school friends only cared about their boyfriends and partying. My mom got me a birthday cupcake and insisted I share it with her. Angry by the way she hogged my only birthday attention, I stomped the entire way to Kirk’s apartment. I wanted to feel excited about turning seventeen, but no one seemed to care I was even alive. No one except Kirk.