On the Night She Died: A Quarry Street Story Read online

  “Don’t,” he said. “I like it when you sing. It makes me think you’re happy.”

  “I am happy.” The impulse to admit it, say it out loud, surprised her, but she wasn’t sorry she’d said it.

  When he pulled up in front of a small duplex and killed the engine, Rebecca leaned forward to look through the windshield. Beneath the slash of rain on the glass, everything outside seemed to be moving. Unsettled, she sat back and looked at him.

  “Your house?”

  “Yeah. Is that okay? It’s nasty out tonight. I just thought we could watch a movie or something. Hang out,” Tristan added.

  Rebecca nodded after a moment. “Sure. That’s okay. Are your parents home?”

  “My mom doesn’t live with us anymore. I’m not sure where my dad is, but I figure he’s on a job. He’s a truck driver,” Tristan told her. “He’s usually gone for a week or so at a time, depending.”

  The idea of parents not being around all the time was intoxicating and unnerving. Rebecca’s parents travelled once a year on vacation without her, but her grandparents always came to stay while they were gone. “That must be hard.”

  “No. It’s better when he’s not around. I mean, he’s kind of hard to live with.”

  She twisted in the seat to look at him. In all their conversations, they hardly ever talked about Tristan’s family life. Well, they hardly ever spoke about hers, either. They didn’t have to talk about their lives to know how different they were.

  “Tristan,” she said, but stopped herself.

  He waited, then smiled. He reached to tug one of her curls, watching it spring back up. “Rebecca.”

  She wanted, desperately, to ask him about Allie. If there was something going on. She didn’t. What if he said yes? Could she be angry? Could she complain?

  “Let’s go inside,” she said instead.

  In Tristan’s small and messy kitchen, she accepted a can of cola and popped the top. Sipping, she tried not to stare at the worn linoleum, the stack of dishes piled high in the drainer, the lack of a dishwasher. The yellow fridge. A food and water bowl sat on a mat by the back door. The kitchen smelled faintly of bleach overlaid with damp.

  “The dog’s been dead since last year. We just never seem to get around to getting another or getting rid of the bowls.” Tristan looked embarrassed.

  Rebecca shook her head, not sure what to say. He took her into the living room, where none of the furniture matched and all of it looked worn. The console television was ancient. He waved her toward the stairs instead of the couch.

  “I have a DVD player upstairs. In my room.”

  She laughed. “Uh huh.”

  “It’s true!” Tristan laughed, too.

  Rolling her eyes, she followed him up the creaking stairs and into his room. It was cleaner than the other rooms had been. Same kind of worn furniture, but everything was tidy and organized. He had a small television on a stand with a DVD player and a collection of DVDs in a tall rack, along with a VCR and the accompanying tapes.

  “I have a pretty big collection. Pick whatever you want.”

  Rebecca studied the movies, pulling out a plastic case that had once belonged to the local video store. She ran her fingers over the price sticker. “I didn’t know they sold off their old movies. My parents usually just buy them. They don’t even have a membership there.”

  “They’re cheaper when you buy them used,” Tristan said.

  It wasn’t the first time there’d been a glaring difference in the way they each looked at the world, but it was the first time it embarrassed her. She put the movie back. Tristan reached around her to pluck a different one from the rack, some kind of gun-chase comedy.

  “How about this one?” He turned his face to look at her.

  They stood so close she could count his eyelashes and see the faint spray of freckles across his nose. He’d pushed his thick sandy hair, wet from rain, off his forehead. She wanted him to kiss her.

  He did.

  It was so good, this thing with Tristan. All of it, except the parts where she couldn’t tell anyone. The parts where she knew her parents would not approve. Where Richie would be hurt. Where her friends would all talk behind their hands about her. How she had to worry if there were other girls, or worse, just one other. How nobody could possibly understand this.

  Tristan put the movie into the player, and they settled on the bed. He plumped the pillows so they could get comfy while watching. She leaned against his shoulder, their fingers linked companionably at their sides between them.

  The movie played. Squealing tires. Shooting guns. Eventually, Rebecca pushed up on her elbow to offer her mouth to Tristan, who kissed her at once. Slow, sweet, lingering kisses that kindled a fire inside her that soon threatened to consume them both.

  They’d fooled around a lot but had never gone this far. This wasn’t the back seat of a car or the back row of a bargain movie theater just outside town or a sleeping bag in a field at the end of a dead end street. Tristan’s bed had more than enough room for both of them to wriggle and roll.

  Naked, he moved on top of her. Positioned himself. Kissed her. She kissed him back. Her arms went around him, pulling him down.

  “Are you sure?” Tristan murmured into her ear.

  Her body tensed, relaxed, every muscle answering for her. Still, she found her voice. “Yes. I’m sure. I want this. I want you.”

  It was supposed to hurt, but didn’t. It was supposed to be good for him, and not for her, but it was. It was supposed to be a lot of things, but it was not supposed to be love.

  “I love you,” Tristan said. Then again. “Oh, God. I love you, Rebecca.”

  The words were there, fighting in her mouth to get free, but she was too consumed with the sudden, overwhelming pleasure rocking through her. She couldn’t speak at all. Could only gasp and dig her nails into his back.

  He said he loved her, and she drew blood.

  Tristan was still on top of her when the first shouts rose outside his room. Something slammed into the hallway wall hard enough to rattle the cork board hung next to his bedroom door. Again, another slam, another shout. The crack of flesh on flesh.

  It took Rebecca too long to figure out what was happening. Tristan was still on top of her when the door flew open so violently that it hit the wall. He pulled the covers up to shield her, but as he moved, she got a clear view of who was bursting through the door.

  Jennilynn Harrison, blond hair tumbling over her shoulders, stumbled backward as the man in front of her pushed her without letting her move freely by keep his hand on her throat. She had her hands on his, but wasn’t fighting him. He shook her in his grip, while his other hand drew back and slapped her across the face. Her entire body turned from the blow. Blood spattered from her split lip.

  “Jesus Christ, Dad, get out!” Tristan shouted.

  The older man, who bore little resemblance to Tristan, turned his bleary gaze on him. “The fuck are you doing here?”

  “The fuck are you doing?” As he’d done the night of the party, Tristan tried to use his body to keep Rebecca out of sight, but it didn’t work this time.

  Jenni, clearly drunker even than her companion, staggered. Her gaze focused on Rebecca. “Holy shit.

  “You’re bleeding. Christ.” Tristan tugged off the comforter to wrap around him, leaving Rebecca beneath the sheet, and grabbed a handful of tissues from the desk. He shoved them into the blond girl’s hand. “Clean yourself up.”

  “Can’t, can’t,” she said and threw the tissues all over the floor. She waved an unsteady hand toward Tristan’s dad. “Has to look real or else they won’t believe it.”

  “It looks real all right,” Tristan said.

  His father grabbed Jenni by the elbow and yanked her through the door and into the hallway. “C’mon, you dumb bitch.”

  He didn’t slam the door behind them, so Rebecca had no trouble watching as the older man kissed Jenni. What a mess. Both of them came away from it smeared with blood. Rebecc