Bittersweet Wreckage Read online

  Drugs, alcohol, whores? Dad died on his beloved sailboat in the arms of his whorebag, doing what he loved best. Sailing and screwing, I guess. I was glad his body had burned beyond recognition. I didn’t want to look at the flaming asshole one last time. Didn’t want him to see how he had not broken me the way he had Mom. I will live beyond him and his psycho crap. I will triumph in every way he expected me to fail. I will not play his white slave any longer. He will not destroy me for one more day.

  On the quiet, tense drive home, beating the beachgoers return traffic on the highway, a haiku came to me, befitting the situation:

  Dandelion blows

  In winds of chaos and change

  Death becomes freedom.

  Not my best effort. Freedom crammed me with an infectious inner excitement, the sun blooming for the first time in a glacial, barren land. A negative wind chill factor edged my heartrending new freedom. After I arrived home, I circled the date on my countdown calendar and hid it in the back of my closet. Despite my epic anger, I cried myself to sleep that night, shedding my final tears for the emptiness my father’s loss caused inside me.

  Chapter 7

  Dreary cement-gray clouds streaked across the sky, threatening a summer rain, by the time we arrived at the funeral home. A storm of other people’s sorrow swept over my own troubled sadness, leaving my limbs aching from tightening tension. It was standing room only at the short indoor service, and the room was suffocating. After the minister uttered his last words, mourners and spectators scattered faster than a snow cone melting in hell. Mourners wanted to drink themselves into oblivion at the wake to avoid the pieces my father had left behind.

  Kristen and I braced Mom on our scuttle to our hired car. The clouds had cleared, leaving a bright sunny path to our escape. Sunlight slanted in through the car windows, as if nothing had changed from yesterday or the day before. The sun still rose. Life went on.

  We sat like granite shells in the rented limo on the drive home. The empty ceramic urn, a seatbelt strapping it in alone on the seat across from us, merely played a symbolic role in the funeral. The crematorium would mail the ashes to us, and we’d scatter them over Lake Tahoe.

  “Why’d you pick such a butt-ugly urn?” Kristen complained, wiping her nose on a nasty snot-soaked tissue. We had all shed tears at the service, mostly real. After all, a part of each of us loved a small part of him.

  “It’s beautiful.” Mom smiled weakly, her face puffy and pale. I didn’t know how much of her tears were for the crowd or for Dad. Or knowing that all the people at the funeral knew he’d died in the arms of his lover. The news had spread as fast and destructive as the fire on the sailboat. Mom had suffered a dose of humiliation at the hands of Dad’s callous, hurtful, and disrespectful behavior. He’d hit that one home in his quest for domination of his tiny world.

  Not one person I’d overheard gossiping in the corners of the mortuary speculated that my mother had set the boat fire and killed her cheating husband and his lover. No one believed she possessed a mean bone in her body. No one knew her well enough. Apparently, not even me.

  I studied the stamped wrought iron lattice pattern on the gunmetal-gray urn. It fit my father’s toughness, his ego, arrogance, and the crisscrosses of his moods. It fit my perception. It fit me.

  “Do you shop for urns often?” I asked my sister. Dad’s ashes would pack their bags and blow this Popsicle stand once they learned I didn’t spring for the platinum version in temporary housing.

  “Funny.” Wanly, she stuck her tongue out at me.

  A tense hush pervaded the limo as we drove to the next event on our checklist of death: the wake I’d planned using the same event planners we always hired for Dad’s corporate parties. They gave us their usual corporate discount. Hooray for small favors that even Dad couldn’t hate.

  I didn’t know how much money we had in the bank or how much debt Dad had stuck us in. Thank the good dragon lord for gazillion-dollar credit card limits. Mom had added me to the family account and given me a card when I scored my driver’s license, considering I did most of the household shopping. I never took advantage since I never wanted to incur his wrath. Kristen on the other hand knew how to spend up to the limit and talk herself out of the Lynwood dungeon.

  The day had no end in sight as cars piled up in our driveway and down the street. Let the celebrating of my life and Leo’s death begin.

  Later, I wandered the backyard, absorbing the condolences and responding in kind. Tired of talking, I hid in a padded lawn chair in a secluded corner of the yard. I needed alone time to regroup from death overload. A small crape myrtle grove, a rose arbor, and the pool house hid me from view of the patio where the wake raged onward. Yet I saw plenty. People laughed, gobbled up our food and downed gallons of alcohol from the full bar. Despite the small fortune the wake cost, it was my last act for him. I set the perfect Spitini down on a small garden table, the lemon peel threatening to slip off the glass onto the special tray.

  The clouds were clearing, yet a light humidity lingered in the air. I wiped the sweat off my brow and stared at a swarm of corporate college interns by the patio bar. They hadn’t attended the funeral, and had probably crashed for the free food and alcohol. Did funeral crashers exist?

  A tall lanky boy, a few years younger than the interns, standing off to the side of the five men and two women, caught my eye. He wore a dark blue dress shirt open at the neck, and dark blue jeans, less formal than the suits and dresses the interns wore. The painful, arresting expression in his dark eyes and the mussed dark brown hair framing his angled and tanned face nailed my interest. Sorrow bubbled around him, holding him at arm’s length from the interns, or from anyone else for that matter.

  As though he sensed me staring, he swiveled in my direction. I froze behind the arbor, hoping he didn’t spy me through the random lattice holes not covered in climbing rose branches. The boy wandered the periphery of the small crowds, remaining aloof. He kept glancing in my direction, curious and searching at once.

  I leaned back and watched the condensation forming on the martini glass, dripping down the sides and staining the wooden tray. Dare I drink it? I’d just closed my eyes when the crunch of footsteps in the mulch alerted me to a nearby presence. Wishing for undisturbed solitude, I wanted to slink under my chair. Tree branches rustled behind me. No such luck.

  “Hello,” said a guy’s voice, not deep, not high, somewhere in between, holding a rasp a long cry might have caused.

  I peered over my shoulder and met the gaze of the mystery boy, and caught my breath. His green-flecked hazel eyes slowly took me in, from my scalp to my toenails peeping out from my flat black sandals. I flowered under the intensity of his open curiosity and an unnamed desire. The kind of look the boys at school landed on their girlfriends.

  “Hi.” I fingered my dragon pendant, touching the tiny rubies in the eyes, and then tugged down the hem of my black A-line dress to cover my knees.

  Without an invite, he slumped into the chair next to me, the table holding my drink between us. He set a full bottle of my father’s favorite microbrew beer next to the martini. The boy unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and rolled up the sleeves, uneven and sloppy. The barest hint of a tattoo peeked out under his sleeve on his left arm, and another where his left shoulder met his neck. He wore a worn silver-studded leather wrist cuff depicting guitars and musical notes in greens, blacks, and reds. Did his raspy voice stem from singing? Interest piqued further, I sat straighter in my chair.

  “What if we took off all our clothes, streaked across the yard, and jumped naked into the pool in front of all those boring people?” he asked.

  I stared at him a few seconds, the shock of his words rolling over me, startling me out of my haze enough to laugh.

  Please take them off. I’ll just jump you on the spot. No need for a pool. “It’d wake them up for sure. We could give them a show.”

  “Are you into voyeurism or exhibitionism?”

  “Far from it.”

/>   He smiled, closed-lipped, warm, and accepting. “I’m… Jay.”

  His narrow sculpted cheeks bordered on gaunt. His blade nose and full kissable lips drew me to his alluring charm. The tired pain in his eyes matched what I viewed in my own every time I faced a mirror. Did he mourn my father? Confusion reigned and my face grew warm.

  “Are you an intern?” Someone I’d never see again.

  He took a long pull on his beer, swallowed. “Son of a company man.” He looked over his shoulder at the row of crape myrtles and their watermelon blooms. He pinched a twig of blooms off. “Sorry about… your dad.”

  “Thank you. I’m Ivy, by the way.”

  He set his beer down next to my drink and leaned over the table closer to me, extending the twig. “I know.” I accepted the branch, twirled it in my fingers. “Your lips are the color of those blossoms. Kissable. Full of color and strength. Alive.”

  I threw him a wondrous look. He uttered the same thing on my mind about his lips, not that he wore lipstick the color of the blooms though. I wanted to kiss him, erase his pain and the straining lines aging him. I wanted to bask in his attention and in the comfort he brought me with his intrusion upon my solitude. Good grief, dragon lord. What am I thinking? Death did not turn you into Kristen!

  “Do you always toss pickup lines at strange girls at wakes?”

  “You’re not strange.” He scooted his chair closer until our knees touched. “And are you letting me pick you up?” He reached for my hand resting on my knee and traced my fingers one by one. His hands flushed a burnt red color beneath his deep tan, an unusual sign that had me curious if it was his tell of some sort.

  Heart slamming my chest, I stood and moved under the blossoming trees. His touch, his nearness, disconcerted me in a way I’d never experienced. Was this how it felt to fall under the spell of a boy or experience the first stirrings of interest? Or desire?

  He followed, carrying the martini. “Drink with me. We’ll feel better.”

  I kinked my head to the side. “Do you need to feel better?”

  “Yes. So do you.”

  “Will alcohol help?” A breeze brushed tendrils of hair over my cheeks, and he swept them behind my right ear, his fingers lingering as he tucked my hair behind it. Spice and cinnamon wafted off him, mingling with the scent of beer on his fingers.

  “A few sips will take the edge off. For a while.”

  “What if I want to feel the edge? Need to feel it?”

  “You’ll have plenty of time to dance on the edge later.” He held the martini close to my lips, and I crinkled my nose, smelling the hateful drink. “For now, you need this.”

  For now and forever, I need you. The insane poem line tackled my other thoughts. What was wrong with me? Maybe I needed alcohol to end the strange thoughts and feelings careening inside me. “Share it with me.”

  He shrugged. “Why a martini?” His intense eyes latched onto mine and his curiosity emanated in the heat off his body. Close in proximity and far in knowing. It was enough for me.

  No boy had ever come this close or wanted this intimacy through the shield I normally erected. Mind-boggling, alluring, and I didn’t care that he was a stranger. He reminded me of my fantasy romance novels. Epilogue: Fairy prince rescues damsel in distress from her inner demons, and they ride happily off into the sunset, a beer and an Ivy Spitini their only sustenance.

  “Vodka martini was my father’s favorite drink.” I nodded my chin at his beer. “That was his favorite beer.”

  “I know—” His lips clamped shut. “I figured it was since that’s the only beer stocked at the bar.”

  “My idea to serve it. You know, the last time and all.”

  “Then we’ll toast to him,” Jay said. “Give him a fitting send-off.” He touched a finger to my dragon on my neck, searing the silver charm into my skin. “Why a dragon?”

  I refused to confess my real love of dragons, something belonging only to me. “Lore says they’re good luck.” Jay’s eyes burned into mine and words escaped me, flying off into space, chasing my sanity.

  “Luck is a crazy mysterious thing. I hope it always works for you.”

  Oh, but it is working. It’s on double duty today.

  He held the glass closer to my lips. I swallowed the air clotting in my throat. Dare I tell Jay about my special ingredient? No. Then he’d want to know my reasons for spitting into my father’s cocktail. Yet, I couldn’t resist the idea of lessening my discomfort, no matter if I drank my own spit or let Jay drink it. It was no different than if he kissed me. Spit was spit in both cases. Ick.

  I took two sips, the bitter taste burning my nose. The drink went down smooth and immediately warmed my insides. I took the glass from Jay’s fingers and lifted the edge to his mouth. He took two swigs, and then we split the rest until only the lemon peel remained.

  Before my next blink, his hands cupped my face. He leaned in and kissed me, his soft lips gentle, exploring, his breath smelling of the drink we’d shared. For a few seconds, I pressed closer to him, my breasts alarmingly mashing against his chest, hands dangling at my sides not knowing what to touch, or whether to touch… him. Oh, my hormones knew what to do with them. Yet, my brain refused to let them exercise their right to independence.

  Dizziness blurred my vision. Jay’s mouth guided mine, and the kiss felt natural, as if I’d been kissing boys often and forever. He opened his mouth, nudging my lips apart, and I tasted the mix of alcohol sweetening his lips. His tongue darted between my lips once, twice and I mirrored the motion. I dissolved into the kiss that woke up my virgin body, sending my pulse beating a drum solo, butterflies dancing to the tune in my stomach, sensations of the kind I’d never experienced. Heat speared low in my torso, spreading south of decent. Had the martini caused it? Or Jay?

  Mom slurred my name from the pathway to the arbor. “Ivy?”

  I eased aside, my fingers pressed to my lips to hold onto his touch and taste forever, wanting his heat to cocoon me and whisk me to the land of forgetfulness. “Why did you kiss me?”

  “To make you forget. For a while.”

  “Ivy? Where are you?” My mother’s embarrassing voice grew insistent.

  Stepping outside the arbor to acknowledge her, I held my finger up to signal Jay to wait. “Hello, Mother.” Cue the evil Psycho soundtrack. I glanced back and he’d disappeared.

  For a too-brief chapter of my life, Jay made me forget.

  ~*~

  After surviving the two-hour wake and the resulting cleanup—I’d put a time limit on the party rather than drag it out all night—Mom put me to bed instead of the other way around for a change.

  “How are you doing?” She perched on the edge of my bed, her hand gloving mine on top of my gold and purple paisley comforter. “I’m sorry I dumped such a heavy burden on your shoulders over the last few days. You’re my rock.”

  “I’m okay.” I lay flat on my back, the plush bed drinking up my bone-weary body.

  “Things will be different now, I guess.” She unwound her hair from the severe bun she’d had me style it in, a style Dad both hated and loved. “He loved you, never doubt that. In his own way, but he did.”

  “I know,” I said, and believed it a little. “Did he love you? In the end?”

  She lifted her left hand from my leg, and spun her three-carat, platinum wedding ring set around her finger. “I suppose. Maybe we evolved and our love was different, yet I always believed he loved me.”

  “Did you love him?” I held my breath, waiting for her to admit an uncomfortable truth that might clue me in on her whereabouts the night of the fire. Or why my father had stepped out of their marriage.

  Her clear eyes met mine. Hourly eye drops had worked miracles. “I’ve always loved him.”

  “Did you ever hate him?” I expelled my breath before I spun myself into a coma.

  Disconcerted, she shook her spine steel rod straight. “Why would you ask that?”

  I clasped her hand, stilled her trembling. “I m
eant sometimes when he… hurt you?”

  Mom rose, folding the comforter over the foot of the bed. “Hate’s a strong word. Goodnight, Ivy.” She smiled, a weak uplift of the corners of her mouth.

  I bit my bottom lip hard. The metallic taste of blood and the sharp sting became my penance. The door’s quiet snick forced me to clench my fist as I realized I’d overstepped my boundaries. I needed to understand how she’d become an abused doormat when her free, fun-loving spirit had attracted my father to her in the first place. I hadn’t seen the light, fun side of her in over ten years. Yet, I knew it existed deep inside her. Had she experienced the rush of sensations I’d felt with Jay when she’d first met my father?

  My mind tripped to Jay. Why had he left? Would I ever see, hear, or touch him again? With an awareness I’d never forget? Was this the new beginning I had begged my lucky dragon for? A boy to take my mind off my life and open the doors to my fantasies and freedom?

  I snuggled under my sheet, the air conditioner’s soft hiss filling the room with a freshness I hadn’t experienced in a long time. The change I’d desperately sought for the summer lured me into its keep, infusing me with promises of fun and relaxing days on the horizon. The residual scent of freesia sailed on the cool currents blowing from the special filter I changed once a month. Tomorrow promised a new chapter, a tangle of trepidation and excitement. I made my first executive decision to nix my first monthly duty. I’d let the scented air filter change lapse until the scent dissolved. Screw the schedule.

  Dandelions filled my head, the symbol of spring, rebirth. Like a dragon, the weed feared nothing, grew anywhere, enjoyed life, and smirked at others with its yellow flower head and invasive seeds. They represented freedom.

  Floating free and weightless as dandelion fluff, I drifted off to sleep, the feel of Jay’s lips on mine.