Nate picked up his duffel bag—he didn’t come over here to fight about this, about any of it. “So you believe it now? Before, you weren’t sure but now you are?”
She whipped around to face him. “I went through your phone, you know. A few weeks ago. You liked a picture of hers. That girl with the white hair and the boobs out to here”—she pushed her hands out in front of her chest, her palms shaking—“I saw it. You liked this slutty red lingerie picture.”
Nate felt his face pale, the blood drain, and his fingertips tingle. He’d forgotten about that.
It had been an accident. Truly. It was months ago.
He’d woken up at night, three, four in the morning. It was a long-standing habit. He’d picked up his phone, scrolled through his Facebook, his Twitter, Instagram. He remembered the picture, the angle, the eyes looking into the camera, they looked so scared. Like someone was making her do it. That was his initial thought, she was being forced to dress up like that, her breasts pushed up almost to her chin, a red satiny V where her legs met, in a blur at the bottom corner that he couldn’t seem to stop looking at. He paused, his thumb on the picture. It had been posted an hour prior. She’d been awake at 2 a.m. on a school day. He pictured her, dressing in her room, for herself or someone else? He had no way of knowing. Later, it was all he could think about: Did someone make her take that picture? He pictured a gun against her back, a knife against her throat. For what reason? It seemed irrational. The next morning, he felt stupid for the thought. It had hardly made any sense. But still. Those eyes.
In the moment, though, his thumb caught, tangled up in the fear in her eyes, beneath the wisp of hair across her face. He pinched his fingers together, then apart on the picture, trying to blow it up, and realized that it wasn’t possible. Instead, he took a screenshot, the dull vibration of the picture saved to his file. The favorite heart was illuminated red, and underneath, his username appeared. He panicked, his tongue sticky and dry, and without thinking, he double tapped again. The heart changed back to white, his name was gone. He thought. He was sure of it, wasn’t he?
In his photo gallery, he opened the screenshot, blew it up. Right at her collarbone, next to the ornate lace of her bra strap, was a circular red dot, covered with makeup, the skin an angry pink bubble.
A cigarette burn.
He’d unliked the picture. Right?
Would she still get notified? He didn’t know.
A week later, he’d been standing at the door as the kids filed out. He wore a red polo. She’d touched his sleeve. You like red? Her fingernails traced a feather touch against his forearm, making all the hair stand up. Her smile was so coy, so obtuse, he jerked his arm away. He stumbled back, knocking over the small metal trash can.
He couldn’t deny that she’d gotten under his skin, that girl.
He worried about it for days, the bright bloom of the red heart under his thumb. When nothing came of it, he forgot.
But Alecia knew? How? He realized, a second too late. The screenshot. He’d never deleted it. Initially, he saved it to show her, to ask her about the burn, maybe even to ask her about the picture itself, didn’t it look like someone made her do it? But the idea unsettled something in him, a feeling of wrongness, too many lines crossed, and he’d let it go. Even if it was Lenny. Even if the burn was abuse. But he’d never deleted the screenshot. So many stupid decisions, it was almost astounding.
“It was an accident,” he said lamely. Jesus Christ, he didn’t even believe himself anymore. He heard all his excuses and half lies, piled up on top of each other like playing cards. The only thing he had control over was how he told the truth. “Seriously. It was an accident. She’d told me about her brother, burning her with a cigarette. I saw a mark on her collarbone and I tried to blow the picture up, but Instagram doesn’t work that way. I accidentally ‘liked’ it. I didn’t even realize it at first. I was trying to see the mark on her. Her brother . . . You don’t have to believe me, but it’s the truth.”
She laughed, her hair covering her face, and she pitched forward, her hands on her knees. The remote clattered to the wood floor and she laughed again, covering her mouth with her palm. When she finally stood up straight, her face was splotched red and white at the same time, her hands on her cheeks, shaking her head back and forth, fast like a seizure.
“You must think I’m so stupid, Nate.” Voice high and hysterical.
“Alecia.” Nate reached out to touch her but she recoiled and shook a finger at him.
“Don’t. Just, leave. Leave us.” She pushed past him, back into the kitchen, back to Gabe and her dinner and Nate did as she asked. He left.
He could have begged her. He had half a mind to. The thing was, though, why should he have to? She didn’t believe him, no matter what he said. He could have gotten down on his knees and fucking begged. Said he loved her until he ran out of breath. He shouldn’t have to do that. Even if she had doubts—hell who wouldn’t?—she should at least believe him a little bit. At least about the biggest part: he didn’t sleep with her.
He stopped at the Quarry Bar, a place a guy could get a drink without any hassle. Without any questions or stares. Plus, no one he knew ever went there. The bar smelled like dank basement. Sweat and beer and sex and spit. He drank two tumblers of scotch (neat, cold), fast, like a teenager, and then sat at the bar spinning his empty glass between his palms, waiting for the liquor to take hold and calm his nerves. Then he waited for it to leech out, his vision to clear so he could drive. Nobody said a word to him, which worked out just fine.
He drove home in the dark, on the winding stretch of Route Six, the rain pelting his car, reducing his visibility to nothing. Until he’d seen her, white and gleaming, her head like an eagle, stark against the black trees. Her bare legs flanking the white line, the smirk that accompanied her middle finger. That red mouth. All of it was a big fuck you.
Now he struggled into a sitting position on the couch, rubbing his face, running his hands through his hair. The back of his eyelids scratched from lack of sleep. What time had he gotten in last night? Two? Three? Maybe later.
He checked his phone; a text from Tripp blinked. He looked around the living room. No Tripp, probably at work.
Where r u? Tried to call.
Then another. And another.
Hey, something weird is going on, call my cell.
Did you see Lucia last night? I’m hearing things. Pick up your phone.
Nate’s stomach knotted, taking the breath from his lungs.
She’d pressed her body against his window, so thin and frail, chattering in her clothes. He should have helped her. I don’t belong anywhere.
She was right, though, that was the thing.