“Enough,” Jeremy said, slowly sitting up.
“Enough,” Brandon whispered.
Jeremy stood up and hesitated. He was certain it was only a temporary truce, but even with temporary truces, aren’t you supposed to help your enemy off the ground?
Fuck no! his brain screamed. Have you lost your mind?
What the hell was he thinking? The fleeting thought of helping Brandon turned him ugly. He looked down at his enemy and clenched his fists.
“This changes nothing,” he spat.
“I was just thinking that, you little shit,” Brandon replied.
Even in a compromised position, Brandon still wouldn’t relent. Bully then. Bully now. Bully forever.
Jeremy turned away and walked home.
~
People don’t change. You get what you get when you’re born. If you’re lucky, you may be able to manipulate your personality a little through the years. But essentially you’re staying the same: timid, rotten, entitled, fearful, powerful, smart, stupid, artistic, spastic, pragmatic, dogmatic, asthmatic. Whatever. My point? It’s you, and you’ve gotta come to terms with that. You’ve gotta find people who are willing to put up with your bullshit because you’re not changing. He’s not changing. She’s not changing. We’re all fucked—forced to live in the same world with people we hate. I know what you’re thinking: “Can’t we all just get along?” God, the person who came up with that needs my fist in his face.
~
“Leave it alone, Regan!” Jeremy shouted from across the room.
She fell silent.
He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell.”
“I didn’t mean to coddle you,” she replied.
He smirked and sat gingerly on the bed, hissing at the pain in his back.
“It’s just . . . you’re my man, you know? And ain’t nobody gonna mess with my man,” Regan said.
He laughed, grimacing at the pain it caused.
“I know,” he said softly.
“I want to make you feel better. It’s a part of who I am. I can’t help it,” she said, kneeling in front of him.
His eyes dropped to his fly. Yes, his mind went there. He cleared his throat and hauled her up, inviting her to sit next to him on the bed. That’s better.
“If you want me to make jokes, I’ll try,” she offered.
So sweet. He didn’t deserve her.
“I won’t do it as well as Hannah, I’m sure. But I can try.”
“You don’t have to make jokes,” Jeremy said. “I . . . I’d rather you just coddle me.”
“Really?” She smiled from ear to ear.
He nodded.
“What hurts on you?” she asked.
“Everything.”
She pulled on his shirt and took an inventory of the damage. Deep red bruising spanned the width of his lower back. He had a matching bruise farther up, running parallel like train tracks.
“You look like you’ve been run over by a car,” she said.
“I feel that way,” he admitted. “But at least I got his face good.”
“How good?”
“Two black eyes, broken nose, and a busted lip.”
“Oh my God . . .”
Jeremy eyed his girlfriend. “I think a metal rod to the back warranted all that, don’t you?”
She nodded emphatically.
“Oh, and I kneed his nuts.”
Regan’s mouth dropped open.
“I know it was a little bit of a douchebag move, but he had me pinned. I had no choice.”
“Why was it a douchebag move?” Regan asked.
Jeremy shook his head. “It’s just a thing that’s understood between guys. You don’t go there. That’s how girls fight.”
Regan considered the explanation.
“I should have kicked him in the balls,” she said after a moment.
Jeremy smirked. “Oh yeah? When?”
“When he hit me.”
“WHAT?”
She placed her hand on his arm. “Calm down.”
“Calm down? Are you kidding me?” Jeremy cried. “When did he hit you?”
“My birthday,” she replied.
“I knew it! I knew something was up with you that night. Stranger at your car door . . . Give me a break.”
She smiled sheepishly.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!”
“Why would I, Jeremy? So I could see you like this? So I could have you defend me? I don’t need you to defend me.”
“You’re my girl. You better believe I’m defending you,” he said. “I’m gonna kill that motherfu—”
“STOP,” Regan ordered. “You are never ever allowed to say that word again. It’s all over the place with you. You’re gonna kill this person. You’re gonna kill that person. You’re gonna kill the entire world!”
Jeremy clenched his jaw. Regan noticed.
“You know what? I’m glad he slapped me. You know why? Because he slapped some sense into me.”
Jeremy stared at her in disbelief. “Regan, you need help.”
She burst into a fit of giggles. “You telling me that?”
He said nothing.
“You?” she went on, laughing hysterically. “You telling me I need help?”
“Are you finished?”
“I might still be with that jerk if he didn’t smack me.”
“Stop telling me he hit you,” Jeremy said. He was already making plans in his head—devising a new scheme for payback.
“I’m just saying that it gave me perspective.”
“Stop excusing what he did,” Jeremy said.
“I’m not excusing it. I’m trying to make a joke of it . . . like Hannah would!”
He rolled his eyes. She slipped her arm around his and rested her head on his shoulder.
“Where else are you hurt?” she asked softly.
“Who knows? My ribs are killing me.”
“Let me see,” Regan said, tugging on the front of his T-shirt.
“You can’t see ribs,” Jeremy replied.
“The bruising,” Regan explained.
“It’s probably purple.”
“Oh, for God’s sake! Just take off your shirt! Can’t you see I’m trying to get you to take off your shirt?” she cried.
He swallowed. He wasn’t expecting this turn of events. How could he concentrate on anything sexual when all he could think about was shoving his 9 mm in that space between Brandon’s eyes?
“Where are you?” she sang softly.
He tried for a smile.