Interim

She smiled.

 

“And you’re baking me my favorite cake,” he added.

 

“Is it really your favorite kind of cake?”

 

“Ever since you brought me those cupcakes,” he replied.

 

She leaned into him, nudging his arm.

 

“I’m still mad at you.”

 

“December 2, okay? My birthday is December 2.”

 

“A lot of good that does me today!” she cried.

 

“Well, then get in that kitchen and bake me a cake,” he said.

 

She pounced on him, knocking him on his back and kissing him greedily. Her lips flew all over his face. They gave extra attention to his scar before moving back to his mouth. She kissed him until her mouth grew sore and dry, itchy and tight. She paused her assault and searched her pocket for her ChapStick. She held it to his face and grinned.

 

“I can keep going and going and going . . .”

 

He wrapped his arms around her back and rolled her over, pinning her to the bedroom floor.

 

“Give me some of that,” he ordered, and she uncapped the stick, gliding the soothing peppermint balm over his lips. Around and around and around until he glistened. She tended to her own lips afterwards.

 

They resumed their make-out session, pausing every now and then to reapply. Sometimes to talk. Sometimes just to stare at one another because the idea of being lovers was still so fresh. So new. And they were amazed by it. Amazed and nervous. Excited. Committed. They loved each other the way young people do—completely out of their minds, as it should be.

 

Eventually they baked the cake. Eventually Regan went home. Eventually Jeremy’s heartbeat slowed to a normal rhythm.

 

Until next time.

 

 

 

 

 

~

 

My shoulder hurts. Usually I ignore the pain. I chalk it up to the pain one feels after a really grueling session in the gym. Good pain. I’m-transforming-my-body pain. But I just can’t ignore this ache tonight. It’s like my rifle had it in for me—wanted to abuse me just like all those assholes at school do. I even screamed at it, “We’re a goddamn team!”

 

It didn’t listen.

 

~

 

 

 

 

 

He heard the faint knock from his bedroom. It sounded unsure, like a Regan knock. His heart faltered—lost the beat—then found its rhythm again. Right on time for his nerves to chime in—pinging and zinging about his body, shocking his arms and legs and setting his scar on fire. He couldn’t make sense of his reaction. It’s not like she hadn’t been alone with him here. But this time was different. No baking class to keep them occupied, out of trouble. Oh, no. This time there was nothing to do but to “hang out,” and he was fairly certain where that would lead.

 

Another more purposeful knock. He leaned over and smelled his sheets.

 

“Just in case . . .”

 

He left the room and headed for the front door, opening it a fraction before it was slammed wide on its hinges. His father barged in, pushing past him and knocking over a lamp on the foyer table.

 

“So this is where you’ve been hiding out,” Mr. Stahl said. He took an inventory of the space and nodded his satisfaction. “Nice place.” He turned to his son. “Nice curtains. You pick those out?”

 

Jeremy stood stunned. He’d nearly forgotten his father—even marked him off the hit list because his pathetic existence no longer mattered. He thought the right thing to do was to allow his father to live in solitude, hopelessness, and loss—a fate far worse than a bullet to the head.

 

He never counted on his father searching for him. Why would he? He didn’t miss Jeremy. Maybe he missed hitting him, but he didn’t miss him. Money, perhaps? Did he come for money?

 

“What do you want?” Jeremy demanded.

 

His fists were already balled. Experience and instinct moved them into position the moment his father plowed through the door.

 

“I wanted to know what happened to you,” Mr. Stahl replied. “You stopped coming home.”

 

“This is my home,” Jeremy said.

 

Mr. Stahl snorted. “This ain’t your home, Jer. Your home is with me.”

 

“Why? You don’t give a damn about me,” Jeremy spat.

 

“What are you talking about? I thought we had a nice time the last we saw each other,” Mr. Stahl replied. “We shared some beers!”

 

Jeremy cringed at the memory. He shared many beers with his father that night. Jokes, too. He woke up the following day, sickness churning inside his gut. More than just alcohol. It was the sickness that comes after a night of compromising one’s convictions—the sickness that signals acute guilt over immoral behavior. Male bonding, and with his enemy! He made himself vomit the following morning. The act released him from that house forever.

 

“Dad, I think you should leave,” Jeremy said.

 

Mr. Stahl frowned. “So you think you’re too good for me now? You’re livin’ on your own in this fancy apartment, and that makes you too good for me?”

 

“I don’t think that at all. And nothing in this apartment is mine. It’s on loan.”

 

“How much is your rent? How you paying for this?”

 

“That’s none of your business,” Jeremy replied. There was no way he’d tell his dad about his arrangement with Roy.

 

“Well, I think I may have a hunch,” Mr. Stahl said. His cheerful demeanor vanished, and he stared down his son with narrowed eyes—vicious and calculating. “You stealin’ my guns?” he asked softly.

 

Jeremy’s eyes gave him away immediately—large white marbles with only a tiny swirl of green in the center. Guilty.

 

He shook his head.

 

“Don’t lie to me,” his father warned. “You stealin’ my guns and sellin’ them or something? Is that how you can afford to live here?”

 

“No,” Jeremy croaked.

 

“Then where’s my rifle? Where’s my 9 mm? They used to be in the goddamn safe!”

 

Jeremy backed slowly down the hallway. His only chance was to lock himself in the bedroom.

 

“I’m gonna ask you again, Jeremy Neil Stahl.” His father exhaled slowly. “Where are my guns?”

 

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