eyes open
?”
The guy laughed. “I never watched two
other
people, who were not me, having sex,” he said.
“Live?” Brigid asked. “Or pornography as well?”
“Live,” said Lacoste boy.
No one drank.
“All right, then,” Brigid said, “so I’ve got to think up something I
haven’t
done, is that right?” She pretended to be racking her brain.
“Don’t tax yourself,” said the boy in the pink shirt.
“I’ve got it: I never rented pornography,” Brigid said. All the boys drank, and she laughed at them and they laughed back.
By the time the game broke up there were at least ten of them playing and Brigid was plastered—there were actually
plenty
of things she hadn’t done, involving all manner of relatives and root vegetables, that she was all too happy to admit to never having done. Jeremy and Peg, who were clearly about to become the new staff lovebirds, had gone for “a walk on the beach,” and there was much speculation among the rest of the group as to what that meant. Gavin had made his way over from the card game and sat in a chair just behind Brigid, close enough that she could feel him shift and sigh, not close enough that she was sure he’d done it deliberately. She liked the feel of him close to her. He was driving her a bit insane. She liked that some. Not too much. But some.
“YOU THINK I DON’T KNOW, LANCE? You make an ass of yourself— you think I sit here with no fucking clue?”
“You talked to my mother?”
“I never talked to your mother. I don’t talk to your damn
mother.
”
“So what the fuck are you talking about?”
“You come in blasted out of your fucking mind, three in the morning . . . You think Squee doesn’t hear? You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”
“What am I doing? You tell me what I’m doing. Waking up your goddamn
baby
?
Oh! Oh!
” Lance threw his hands in the air, his voice high and squeaky.
“Oh, don’t hurt my baby!”
Lorna looked as if she might strike him, but then she sank down to the table and buried her head in her hands.
Lance’s body released. He went to kneel by her chair, pushed his face into her lap, his cheek against her leg. “Baby,” he said, “Lorna.”
She let one hand fall to his head, ran her fingers through his hair, soft, greasy at the scalp, but so soft for a man, softer than anyone would think. “Go,” Lorna said quietly, “just go. Fuck whoever you want. Just go.”
“I didn’t fuck anybody.”
“Sure you did,” she whispered to the table.
“No I didn’t.” He opened his mouth on her thigh below the seam of her shorts. “I didn’t.”
“Why?” Lorna was crying now. “Why not?”
“I love you, Lorna Vaughn.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters,” he said.
She shook her head.
“Don’t talk stupid, Lorna.”
“What do I care anyway? Fuck them . . . all those girls . . .”
Lance lifted his head abruptly, his demeanor changed again, his face accusing and hurt, a shield of defense shot through beneath his skin. “Why?” he demanded. “You guilty about something, Lorna? Maybe it’s you we should be talking about now? Who’s the one who goes and fucks whoever she goddamn pleases? You tell me that, Lorna. Who’d you go and fuck this time? Find yourself a waiter? What were
you
doing last night? Want to tell me that?” He stood and backed away haltingly, as if suddenly repulsed.
Lorna didn’t move, didn’t lift her head. She just stayed there face-down at the kitchen table in their shack by the Osprey Lodge, her arm wet with tears, her nose dripping on her arm, her head stuffed so full she couldn’t breathe, just let the snot and tears run down her, too afraid to lift her eyes. It was dark outside, but the overhead light above the table was on, and she heard Lance turn from her in disgust, stride away, across the room toward the door. She wanted to call out, to ask him to please put out the light, but she couldn’t. She tried, her head down, eyes
?”
The guy laughed. “I never watched two
other
people, who were not me, having sex,” he said.
“Live?” Brigid asked. “Or pornography as well?”
“Live,” said Lacoste boy.
No one drank.
“All right, then,” Brigid said, “so I’ve got to think up something I
haven’t
done, is that right?” She pretended to be racking her brain.
“Don’t tax yourself,” said the boy in the pink shirt.
“I’ve got it: I never rented pornography,” Brigid said. All the boys drank, and she laughed at them and they laughed back.
By the time the game broke up there were at least ten of them playing and Brigid was plastered—there were actually
plenty
of things she hadn’t done, involving all manner of relatives and root vegetables, that she was all too happy to admit to never having done. Jeremy and Peg, who were clearly about to become the new staff lovebirds, had gone for “a walk on the beach,” and there was much speculation among the rest of the group as to what that meant. Gavin had made his way over from the card game and sat in a chair just behind Brigid, close enough that she could feel him shift and sigh, not close enough that she was sure he’d done it deliberately. She liked the feel of him close to her. He was driving her a bit insane. She liked that some. Not too much. But some.
“YOU THINK I DON’T KNOW, LANCE? You make an ass of yourself— you think I sit here with no fucking clue?”
“You talked to my mother?”
“I never talked to your mother. I don’t talk to your damn
mother.
”
“So what the fuck are you talking about?”
“You come in blasted out of your fucking mind, three in the morning . . . You think Squee doesn’t hear? You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”
“What am I doing? You tell me what I’m doing. Waking up your goddamn
baby
?
Oh! Oh!
” Lance threw his hands in the air, his voice high and squeaky.
“Oh, don’t hurt my baby!”
Lorna looked as if she might strike him, but then she sank down to the table and buried her head in her hands.
Lance’s body released. He went to kneel by her chair, pushed his face into her lap, his cheek against her leg. “Baby,” he said, “Lorna.”
She let one hand fall to his head, ran her fingers through his hair, soft, greasy at the scalp, but so soft for a man, softer than anyone would think. “Go,” Lorna said quietly, “just go. Fuck whoever you want. Just go.”
“I didn’t fuck anybody.”
“Sure you did,” she whispered to the table.
“No I didn’t.” He opened his mouth on her thigh below the seam of her shorts. “I didn’t.”
“Why?” Lorna was crying now. “Why not?”
“I love you, Lorna Vaughn.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters,” he said.
She shook her head.
“Don’t talk stupid, Lorna.”
“What do I care anyway? Fuck them . . . all those girls . . .”
Lance lifted his head abruptly, his demeanor changed again, his face accusing and hurt, a shield of defense shot through beneath his skin. “Why?” he demanded. “You guilty about something, Lorna? Maybe it’s you we should be talking about now? Who’s the one who goes and fucks whoever she goddamn pleases? You tell me that, Lorna. Who’d you go and fuck this time? Find yourself a waiter? What were
you
doing last night? Want to tell me that?” He stood and backed away haltingly, as if suddenly repulsed.
Lorna didn’t move, didn’t lift her head. She just stayed there face-down at the kitchen table in their shack by the Osprey Lodge, her arm wet with tears, her nose dripping on her arm, her head stuffed so full she couldn’t breathe, just let the snot and tears run down her, too afraid to lift her eyes. It was dark outside, but the overhead light above the table was on, and she heard Lance turn from her in disgust, stride away, across the room toward the door. She wanted to call out, to ask him to please put out the light, but she couldn’t. She tried, her head down, eyes
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