The Co-op

Chapter Fifteen

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Before

L A RYNN

“I cannot believe you’re hungry again,” I say to Deacon as he inhales his fourth taco of the day. I had to go up to the window for him this time because he was embarrassed to be back for seconds.

“Gotta keep up my energy,” he says while he chews. “You’re very demanding.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” I say. “You could choke.”

“I’ll remember you said that later,” he teases, brows dancing.

“Pig,” I say, backhanding his shoulder even though I’m chuckling and also surely blushing. He slides down the bench and kisses my cheek, food still in his mouth. Ugh, of course I like it. What is wrong with me? Whatever is happening in my stupid chest all the time over the ridiculous things he does and says, and why it all works, are so beyond my comprehension. It’s hysteria in this body at any given moment, I swear. It’s addicting as hell. He is addicting as hell. I don’t trust it, and I don’t understand it. Even as I watch him tear into yet another taco, frowning down at his sand dollar–print shirt and wiping some stray lettuce from it, I am hot and bothered. I need to get a grip.

I like how interested he is, though. How he’s always so engaged in things. I like that he can pick something up and figure out how to put it together or take it apart or fix it. I love that he is never afraid to make a fool of himself just to make me laugh. I love that he wants my attention. The other night when he climbed up into my room via the balcony, I’d been on a call with my dad while he went over the pre-semester reading material I should be getting a head start on because “asking for accommodations later would be like expecting sympathy and” yada yada yada… I couldn’t get him off the phone, even when I gently suggested that he might want to go enjoy Croatia rather than wringing his hands over me. I can always tell when things are going extra poorly for my parents because I’m the nearest thing my dad can exact some control over, and his calls have been more frequent than normal. In any case, for once I was able to tune it out because Deacon, in his restless boredom, started rifling through my swimsuits and treating me to a full-on fashion show. The longer it went on the more outlandish he became, strutting alternatively from the balcony and my room in a thong and a pair of my wedges, shaking his hair in the breeze like he was on a Sports Illustrated shoot. He waved brightly to the grands’ neighbor Mrs. Nguyen and her parrot Montague when they strode by on the sidewalk below, to which the bird cawed, “NOT IN MY EYE MOTHERFUCKER!” I had to keep my phone on mute and eventually acted as if I’d lost the connection altogether because I could not get ahold of myself for so long.

It’s already been four weeks since our first time, and I thought I would have felt a little calmed down by now. Instead, I feel… ravenous. A word that is likely coming to mind because of a specific section he read out of a book I’d found hidden in his car this morning, with some half-naked duke on the cover. I tried to poke fun at him, and he turned around and pitched me the virtues of it by reading a part aloud, which led to me rubbing up on him like some cat in heat until he tossed it haphazardly onto the dash and tossed me into the back seat. He also offered to lend it to me afterward, but it’s got tiny print and hard-to-read pages, so I politely declined.

“Hey, why do you want to be a lawyer?” he asks suddenly, finishing his last taco and crumpling up the paper.

I mentally stammer. “What?”

“Lawyer,” he says. “Your grandma said something about that being what you’re headed to school for.”

“As of now that’s the plan,” I say.

He waits for me to say more, but there’s nothing more to say. Sometimes I feel like I’m auditioning for something or doing improv with him. He’s always so confirmed in his choices. He has no intention of going back to school, he knows when he likes something and when he doesn’t. I don’t know how to explain that I don’t always know what I like in life in the first place… at least not apart from being here, and most recently, the time he and I spend together. That going against the grain now seems like it’d be a waste after all the countless hours in tutoring and struggling to get through.

“Speaking of plans,” I say. “What are your plans later?”

He turns to look back out at the beach with a wistful sigh, knees spreading wide. “I was actually going to ask you the same thing,” he says. “Was going to see if you wanted to do something with me?”

I almost remind him that we’ve been doing all sorts of somethings for a few weeks now, but there’s also something a little too earnest in the way he’s said it. Every time I’ve made sure he knows he owes me nothing, he still shows up and wants more.

Again, he’s addicting.

“Yeah,” I tell him. “I’d love to do something with you.”

He beams at me, hot sauce on his goofy-ass shirt. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

Elyse texts me around five and asks if I’m busy, and it’s the second time she’s tried to get together this week. I have one real friend and I cannot believe I am going to turn her down again when I truly can’t afford to lose her, but I also know she’ll understand. We make plans for tomorrow after she’s off instead.

I open up my messages with Deacon and text him shortly before seven. Hey, text me when you’re out front

Larry I’m pretty sure the grands know we r hanging out , he responds.

I am also fairly certain they suspect something, yes, but I think it’s probably easiest for all of us to avoid any discomfort over it. I’d prefer not to have to explain this little arrangement in detail. What would I even say? “Hey, Deacon and I are having an abundance of car sex for the summer, plus sex in trailers and once outside and basically anywhere we can, and yes, that is a patch of rug burn on my lower spine from when he climbed onto my balcony and I snuck him in three nights back. No we are not a couple, we are merely coupling. No, I don’t think it’ll make Christmas weird?” Please , I say.

Ok , he says. Then, Here .

“I’m headed out!” I tell the grands. Helena is sipping on chardonnay and toying with the end of my grandmother’s long, dark braid, with its single white streak woven through, all while she does a sudoku puzzle.

“Oh, fun!” says Helena. “Be safe!”

My grandmother only hums and keeps her focus on her task.

I practically hopscotch past the shelves stuffed with their tchotchkes and pictures. A framed finger painting I made for Grandma in first grade of her and me, in which we both bear a striking resemblance to penises with smiles. I drew a pet dog between us, too, though I’ve never even had a dog. I don’t think my parents have a single one of those silly mementos, come to think of it. I’m sure they’ve all been lost over various moves.

I take the stairs in pairs and skip out the front door into a perfect summer night, through the courtyard and its gate, before I hop into Deacon’s Bronco.

His smile is more muted than normal, but he still gives me one and says a soft, “Hey.”

“Hi,” I say. “Where you taking me?” I infuse it with cheer.

“It’s pretty edgy,” he says. “I hope you’re ready.”

I frown.

“Very high-stakes,” he adds.

When we pull into the parking lot at the bingo hall ten minutes later, I am less than thrilled, but I gin up a grin and try to hide my budding anxiety.

He surprises me when he gets out of the car and practically slides across the hood to open my door. He grabs my hand and pecks a kiss against my knuckles before he tucks it in his.

“Oh look, it’s Sal,” he says brightly as we get through the doors. The place is packed to the gills with a variety of colorful sorts. A woman wearing a beer goggle hat has thirteen troll dolls with highlighter hair arranged in a weird sort of altar in front of her at her seat, her stampers and multiple game sheets at the ready. Another wiry woman with something that looks like a taxidermy rabbit sitting beside her for good luck. I drop Deacon’s hand when I see Sal make her way toward us.

The games are already going, letters and numbers are being called out. A video of the bingo ball selections is being projected onto a screen at the front of the room, and people are moving fast across their cards, eyes scanning up and down the sheets rapidly. The next ball is up before they’re done going through the previous. I wipe my hands on my shorts before Sal pulls each of us into a hug. Her face tips into a frown when she sees whatever’s on mine, and I give my head a small shake. I don’t… I don’t want him to know that I can barely read. He’s asked a few times how I ended up two grades behind him instead of only one, given our age difference, and I’ve had to creatively sidestep telling him I was held back a year before everyone figured out that my brain worked differently. Plus, I already worry that I might be fun in only one kind of way, and what, he tries to take me to something lighthearted and cute like bingo and I’m going to ruin that? I could do it, but I can’t go fast like this with all of those letters and numbers shoved so close together that way. I’ll have to concentrate painfully hard and I’ll get frustrated as hell. Shit . He goes out of his way to spend his time with me and that alone makes me want him to have fun, too. This was him trying to be sweet.

“I’m headed to the smoking room, kids,” Sal says. “You two have fun.” She leaves us with a wink.

“Where do you want to sit?” I ask Deacon. I have to shout a little so he can hear me.

He’s searching my face. I think he wants me to approve and I do approve. I approve so much but I also have to find a way to fake my way through this and I hate that. I, ironically, have never had to fake a thing with him up until this point. I’m not a good liar, and he’s too good at reading me.

“You pick,” he says. “I’ll go snag us some snacks.”

“No,” I say, a little too firmly. “You go get us a good spot, I’ll go grab the snacks.”

His smirk is bemused. “Alright, I’ll be somewhere by the rabbit lady,” he says. I dart a furtive glance around the room for Sal before I lay a quick kiss on his chin. The smirk hesitates before it melts into a smile. I don’t know why I want to cry. God, I’m truly losing myself. This is why addicting things are notoriously bad, isn’t it?

I get one of every single snack at the counter that is available, which makes it so I have to take multiple trips back and forth from the table, but it also buys me a few more minutes before I have to take my seat. But then I see a secondary counter that sells Instant Pull-Tab cards. They’re like ten bucks a pop but what the hell do I care? I buy forty of them and give everyone at our table five each. They look at me like I’m insane.

“It’s good luck!” I shout over the noise.

Deacon’s already got a ton of dots on his pages blotted out, tongue between his teeth in concentration as he continuously scans them in loops. I love that concentrated look, the way he loses everything else but the task at hand. He barely looks up when I sit, just urges my pages toward me.

“I’ll catch the next one,” I say.

“Bingo!” comes from somewhere in the troll section. A collective groan goes around the room.

“Here,” he says to me, turning the page to the next set of games. He reaches over and rubs the stuffed rabbit’s foot, and the lady slides it away with a filthy look thrown at him. I suddenly get very distracted by the snacks. I miss the first combination called. Then start to slowly pull on the Insta-Tabs. I can feel him looking at me and can practically see the disappointment etching itself into his shoulders. He thinks I’m not into this at all.

But then. “Oh my god,” I say out loud on the last one.

“What?” he says.

“I won!” I squeal, turning it around to show him the INSTANT $250! Sign.

He springs up from his chair and throws his fists in the air with a whoop that is so far above what this calls for. I try to yank him back down by his shirt but he won’t have it. He pulls me up to my feet and jostles me into a bouncing hug while he continues to shout. I’m leaking tears from laughing so hard.

When he finally calms down (after we’ve both been sufficiently mean-mugged by the entire room) he says, “We’re the luckiest people alive!” This buffoon.

“I spent more than this just buying the things,” I say, still laughing.

“Who cares?! You’re a winner, Larry! Let’s go collect and blow this Popsicle joint!”

“Would you shut up?!” rabbit lady yells.

“Nope! My girl here’s a winner!” he cheers.

I freeze up a little, then, at being called “his.” At that belonging. We walk to the counter and collect my winnings and I keep the smile plastered on my face, but all I’m thinking about is how good… and how dangerous it feels.

I lie to my grandmother that night and tell her I’m staying with Elyse. I don’t know why, really, because she would never infringe upon my freedom. I’m an adult and can do as I please. She’s always given me so much trust. But, Deacon’s mom is gone on a girls’ trip and he’s got a place to himself. We pick up a Pizza My Heart and eat it on the way, music blasting in his car. I feel the strange rift though. He wanted me to have more fun at it, tried to make a plan and do something fun with me, and I think I’ve let him down.

The moment we get through the door I feel a little frantic. I push him up against the wall and press myself into him and he lets out a surprised grunt.

“Wait,” he says into my lips. “Lemme just”—I kiss him some more, chasing his mouth—“the pizza box.”

“Oh,” I breathe. “Sorry.”

He puts it away while I stand awkwardly in the living room of his mom’s manufactured home. I run my palms up and down my own arms like I can put myself back into place. I don’t know if I like this feeling, the way this desperation makes me feel so weak. I don’t want to need him. I told him I wouldn’t need anything. I promised, in fact.

But I like him. I like him so much it hurts.

It’s simplest when I can see and feel him wanting me in all the exact same ways. When he can ask me how something is working for me and I can answer him plainly. When I can tell him what I want and exactly how fast and I can see what I do to him, too. He makes me feel powerful, when I take him apart as much as he unravels me. I think he even likes it when I’m a little mean. I never feel like I’m auditioning when we’re touching or when he’s inside me. But then we finish and I only want to keep him more, so I try to make sure I don’t need anything or accidentally hand him something heavy. I don’t want to burden him with my sad shit or all my worries, and I keep our conversations light, or focused on him. I do my best to keep things sexy and cool because I think that’s got to be what he wants. That’s what all twenty-year-old dudes want, right?

I like him so much. I like him too much.