may be wasted, but I remember. I remember.”
“Yeah, I guess I do.” I move to a sitting position on the edge of the bed and watch her as she kicks the blankets down and tucks her feet under them, making herself comfortable in my bed.
“I need a drink, Benji.” She leans against the wall, head lolling and eyes narrowed and watching me.
“I’ve got some water bottles and some Gatorade,” I tell her.
She shakes her head. “No, Benji. A drink . A fucking drink. I still remember, and I want…I want to forget. I need to forget.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea—” I start.
“You’re not my fucking mother!” she snarls, darting forward and jabbing the air with her finger. “You’re not my fucking mother, and I need a drink, goddammit.” She flops back against the wall, head smacking the drywall. “Ow. Please. Please, Benji.”
Every time she says that nickname, something inside me clenches, stings.
I push to my feet and limp into the kitchen, hating that I’m doing this. But I don’t know this girl, and her pain is bright in her eyes. So I grab a nearly empty bottle of Jim Beam from the cupboard over the fridge. I snag two juice glasses from a different cupboard, and a bottle of water from the fridge. When I make it back into my room, Echo is standing up, unsteadily at best, reaching awkwardly behind her back for the zipper of her dress.
“Fuck this dress,” she mumbles. “Done with this stupid dress.”
She’s facing away from me so I know she doesn’t see me, which makes it almost funny. It would be funny if this were any other circumstance. She finds the zipper and pulls it down, shrugs her shoulders, and the black material falls to pool around her feet. I swallow hard. She’s wearing a black dress, black underwear, and I can’t breathe, can’t look away, can’t avoid the desire and the guilt raging inside me.
“Um. Hi.” I clear my throat, duck my head.
“Oh. Benji-boy.” Echo turns, wobbles, and topples into the bed, then pushes herself upright. “Couldn’t handle that fucking dress anymore.” Her eyes go to mine, and I see an odd note of something I can’t decipher in her expression. “Hope you don’t mind, Benji. I just can’t wear that dress anymore. You don’t mind, right?”
“No…I mean…” I don’t know what to say. This feels wrong. She shouldn’t be practically naked, and I shouldn’t be struggling with my instincts. Not like this. Not her. “You want a T-shirt or something?”
“Yes! A T-shirt. What a great idea. There’s nothing as comfy as a boy’s T-shirt.” She points at me. “Shirt me, Benji.” And then she giggles, like she’s said something funny.
I move to my dresser and set the bottle and glasses on top of it, and then rummage in my drawer for a shirt. When I turn to hand it to her, she’s somehow moved to stand right behind me, and she’s lost her bra in the process. Breathing, swallowing, looking away, guilt…the list of impossible things grows by the second.
“Like what you see, Benji-boy?” She’s just standing there, two feet away, topless, in nothing but her panties.
My zipper tightens, and I’ve got to clench my fists to keep them at my sides.
I squeeze my eyes shut, breathing hard, and duck my head. I’ve got the T-shirt wadded in my fist, and I crush it with every ounce of strength I possess as she sidles toward me.
“Echo…” I move backward, but there’s nowhere to go except into the dresser. I’d be willing to climb in a drawer and close it over me, if only to get away from the burning knot of desire and guilt lodged in my chest. “Stop.”
She doesn’t, and I put a hand up, only…she walks right into it, and I feel the soft squish of her breast. I hurriedly drop my hand and slide sideways.
She’s just trying a different tactic, I know. Trying to forget.
It’s not about me.
Not about me.
I shake the T-shirt loose and find the neck hole, reach out and fit it
“Yeah, I guess I do.” I move to a sitting position on the edge of the bed and watch her as she kicks the blankets down and tucks her feet under them, making herself comfortable in my bed.
“I need a drink, Benji.” She leans against the wall, head lolling and eyes narrowed and watching me.
“I’ve got some water bottles and some Gatorade,” I tell her.
She shakes her head. “No, Benji. A drink . A fucking drink. I still remember, and I want…I want to forget. I need to forget.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea—” I start.
“You’re not my fucking mother!” she snarls, darting forward and jabbing the air with her finger. “You’re not my fucking mother, and I need a drink, goddammit.” She flops back against the wall, head smacking the drywall. “Ow. Please. Please, Benji.”
Every time she says that nickname, something inside me clenches, stings.
I push to my feet and limp into the kitchen, hating that I’m doing this. But I don’t know this girl, and her pain is bright in her eyes. So I grab a nearly empty bottle of Jim Beam from the cupboard over the fridge. I snag two juice glasses from a different cupboard, and a bottle of water from the fridge. When I make it back into my room, Echo is standing up, unsteadily at best, reaching awkwardly behind her back for the zipper of her dress.
“Fuck this dress,” she mumbles. “Done with this stupid dress.”
She’s facing away from me so I know she doesn’t see me, which makes it almost funny. It would be funny if this were any other circumstance. She finds the zipper and pulls it down, shrugs her shoulders, and the black material falls to pool around her feet. I swallow hard. She’s wearing a black dress, black underwear, and I can’t breathe, can’t look away, can’t avoid the desire and the guilt raging inside me.
“Um. Hi.” I clear my throat, duck my head.
“Oh. Benji-boy.” Echo turns, wobbles, and topples into the bed, then pushes herself upright. “Couldn’t handle that fucking dress anymore.” Her eyes go to mine, and I see an odd note of something I can’t decipher in her expression. “Hope you don’t mind, Benji. I just can’t wear that dress anymore. You don’t mind, right?”
“No…I mean…” I don’t know what to say. This feels wrong. She shouldn’t be practically naked, and I shouldn’t be struggling with my instincts. Not like this. Not her. “You want a T-shirt or something?”
“Yes! A T-shirt. What a great idea. There’s nothing as comfy as a boy’s T-shirt.” She points at me. “Shirt me, Benji.” And then she giggles, like she’s said something funny.
I move to my dresser and set the bottle and glasses on top of it, and then rummage in my drawer for a shirt. When I turn to hand it to her, she’s somehow moved to stand right behind me, and she’s lost her bra in the process. Breathing, swallowing, looking away, guilt…the list of impossible things grows by the second.
“Like what you see, Benji-boy?” She’s just standing there, two feet away, topless, in nothing but her panties.
My zipper tightens, and I’ve got to clench my fists to keep them at my sides.
I squeeze my eyes shut, breathing hard, and duck my head. I’ve got the T-shirt wadded in my fist, and I crush it with every ounce of strength I possess as she sidles toward me.
“Echo…” I move backward, but there’s nowhere to go except into the dresser. I’d be willing to climb in a drawer and close it over me, if only to get away from the burning knot of desire and guilt lodged in my chest. “Stop.”
She doesn’t, and I put a hand up, only…she walks right into it, and I feel the soft squish of her breast. I hurriedly drop my hand and slide sideways.
She’s just trying a different tactic, I know. Trying to forget.
It’s not about me.
Not about me.
I shake the T-shirt loose and find the neck hole, reach out and fit it
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