over Echo’s head, which works to cover her from my gaze and pinion her hands at the same time.
“What’s the matter, Benji?” she says, a sultry pout on her face.
“You’re drunk, and I’m not doing that.”
“But I want to. Don’t you?” She’s still shifting closer to me even as she slides her arms through the sleeves.
“No you don’t, Echo. That’s not going to help you forget.”
“Yeah, it will.”
I shake my head and grab her wrist as she reaches for me. “No, Echo. It really won’t.”
Except…how would I know?
She jerks her wrist out of my grip, eyes blazing. “Fine. Fuck you, then.” She grabs the bottle of Jim off the dresser, unscrews the cap and puts it to her mouth, takes three long swallows, hissing as it burns down her throat. “Or don’t, whatever. You could’ve, but no. Too damned… chivalrous , aren’t you? Benji, my honorable knight in shining armor, is that it?”
She turns away and misses a step, catches herself with a hand on the bed, the bottle clutched in her other hand. I just watch from across the room, not daring to speak or move. Echo makes it to the side of the bed, sits down and scoots back, tucks her legs under the blankets and settles with her back to the wall. The bottle goes to her mouth and she tips it back and gulps a big mouthful, and then sets it down with a loud thud on the bedside table.
“Put on music, Benji. Something Mom would like. Country music.”
I fish my phone from my pocket and bring up Pandora, then dock the phone in the Bose alarm clock on my bedside table.
When the first song comes on, Echo lets out a sound that’s half-sob, half-laugh. “Are you for fucking real?”
It’s “Whiskey Lullaby” by Brad Paisley and Alison Krauss.
“Should I change it?”
She shakes her head floppily. “Don’t you fucking dare. It’s perfect.” She pats the bed beside her. “Sit down, Benji. I won’t test your virtue again, I promise.”
If only she knew how deeply that cuts.
We listen to music for a long time. She doesn’t say a word, and neither do I.
“Henry Lee” by Crooked Still comes on, and Echo is horizontal now, scrunching a pillow under her head and a cheek under her hand, long eyelashes fluttering against her skin.
She’s snoring in moments.
I watch her sleep and can’t help wondering what I’ve gotten myself into.
FIVE: Ease the Ache
Echo
Oh…oh Jesus. It feels like the sun is exploding inside my skull.
Throb…throb…throb…
I blink my eyes open, and thank god the blinds are closed.
Shit, I’m not at home. Where am I?
I sit up, look around. I don’t recognize the room. It’s a dude’s room, spartan and messy and male. A six-drawer bureau, piles of clothes on the floor, a white laundry basket with folded clothes. Boxer-briefs, jeans, gym shorts, T-shirts.
I look down, and…yep. I’m wearing a guy’s Mumford and Sons concert shirt. It smells of him, and that worries me a little, because it smells good, familiar and comforting somehow. There’s a bottle of Jim Beam on the nightstand to my left, empty but for maybe a shot’s-worth. Beside that is a Bose alarm clock/iPhone dock with a black iPhone connected to it.
I grab the bottle of Jim, uncap it, and finish it off, as in my experience hair of the dog is the best way to negate a hangover. That and lots of water and aspirin and greasy food. But first…my clothes.
And that’s when it all hits me: I see my dress on the floor. The black dress, the one I bought before leaving school.
The one I bought for the funeral. Mom’s funeral.
Mom.
Oh god, Mom.
It’s instantaneous. I go from zero to hyperventilating sobs in a split second. My chest is being torn open. My heart is in pieces.
It all comes back. The call from a police officer in San Antonio, informing me of my mother’s death. A car accident. She was dead before the paramedics even showed up.
The funeral. Father Mike…Grandma and Grandpa…
And
“What’s the matter, Benji?” she says, a sultry pout on her face.
“You’re drunk, and I’m not doing that.”
“But I want to. Don’t you?” She’s still shifting closer to me even as she slides her arms through the sleeves.
“No you don’t, Echo. That’s not going to help you forget.”
“Yeah, it will.”
I shake my head and grab her wrist as she reaches for me. “No, Echo. It really won’t.”
Except…how would I know?
She jerks her wrist out of my grip, eyes blazing. “Fine. Fuck you, then.” She grabs the bottle of Jim off the dresser, unscrews the cap and puts it to her mouth, takes three long swallows, hissing as it burns down her throat. “Or don’t, whatever. You could’ve, but no. Too damned… chivalrous , aren’t you? Benji, my honorable knight in shining armor, is that it?”
She turns away and misses a step, catches herself with a hand on the bed, the bottle clutched in her other hand. I just watch from across the room, not daring to speak or move. Echo makes it to the side of the bed, sits down and scoots back, tucks her legs under the blankets and settles with her back to the wall. The bottle goes to her mouth and she tips it back and gulps a big mouthful, and then sets it down with a loud thud on the bedside table.
“Put on music, Benji. Something Mom would like. Country music.”
I fish my phone from my pocket and bring up Pandora, then dock the phone in the Bose alarm clock on my bedside table.
When the first song comes on, Echo lets out a sound that’s half-sob, half-laugh. “Are you for fucking real?”
It’s “Whiskey Lullaby” by Brad Paisley and Alison Krauss.
“Should I change it?”
She shakes her head floppily. “Don’t you fucking dare. It’s perfect.” She pats the bed beside her. “Sit down, Benji. I won’t test your virtue again, I promise.”
If only she knew how deeply that cuts.
We listen to music for a long time. She doesn’t say a word, and neither do I.
“Henry Lee” by Crooked Still comes on, and Echo is horizontal now, scrunching a pillow under her head and a cheek under her hand, long eyelashes fluttering against her skin.
She’s snoring in moments.
I watch her sleep and can’t help wondering what I’ve gotten myself into.
FIVE: Ease the Ache
Echo
Oh…oh Jesus. It feels like the sun is exploding inside my skull.
Throb…throb…throb…
I blink my eyes open, and thank god the blinds are closed.
Shit, I’m not at home. Where am I?
I sit up, look around. I don’t recognize the room. It’s a dude’s room, spartan and messy and male. A six-drawer bureau, piles of clothes on the floor, a white laundry basket with folded clothes. Boxer-briefs, jeans, gym shorts, T-shirts.
I look down, and…yep. I’m wearing a guy’s Mumford and Sons concert shirt. It smells of him, and that worries me a little, because it smells good, familiar and comforting somehow. There’s a bottle of Jim Beam on the nightstand to my left, empty but for maybe a shot’s-worth. Beside that is a Bose alarm clock/iPhone dock with a black iPhone connected to it.
I grab the bottle of Jim, uncap it, and finish it off, as in my experience hair of the dog is the best way to negate a hangover. That and lots of water and aspirin and greasy food. But first…my clothes.
And that’s when it all hits me: I see my dress on the floor. The black dress, the one I bought before leaving school.
The one I bought for the funeral. Mom’s funeral.
Mom.
Oh god, Mom.
It’s instantaneous. I go from zero to hyperventilating sobs in a split second. My chest is being torn open. My heart is in pieces.
It all comes back. The call from a police officer in San Antonio, informing me of my mother’s death. A car accident. She was dead before the paramedics even showed up.
The funeral. Father Mike…Grandma and Grandpa…
And
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