Esme Chapter 7 free porn video

Chapter 7 Flashback: 10 years ago Esme pushed her hair behind her ears. She still wasn't used to how short it was. Her mother had insisted on keeping it long and, as an undergraduate in Manchester, she'd been too lazy and nervous to change it. The day after she arrived in New York, she'd found a hairdressers that only intimidated her a little bit and had it cut into a short bob. Even now, two weeks later, she'd catch herself looking in the mirror, tracing her new fringe/bangs with her finger. Outside the room, she could hear loud voices. The other girls were preparing for another night out. Esme looked down at her books and sighed. Once they had left, she'd get a chance to do some proper reading. Music started, the sort of pop she hated. She put her hands over her ears, while trying to use her pointy elbows to open her drawer and find her earphones. On previous nights she had developed the technique of putting in earplugs and putting over them the over-ear earphones her brother had bought her. There was a loud noise as someone slammed against her door. This was too much! Esme opened the door to see a drunk blond girl lying on the floor laughing hysterically, there was an upturned skateboard in front of her. "What the fuck!" She looked up at the other girls. All wore short skirts and were looking at her like she was nothing. "Sorry Princess Di," Amanda, the lead bitch said in her sing song voice. God, she hated America. Had this all been a massive mistake? The drunk blonde at her feet burst into another fit of giggles. "I'm sooo, sorry!" She paused short of breath from all the laughter. "I lost my balance." Esme slammed the door shut, more than aware of the howls of laughter behind her. She threw herself on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. If she went back now, everyone would know she'd failed. She couldn't face that. She heard voices from the other side of the door and buried her face deep into her pillow. "Please go away," she muttered to herself. "If I stay quiet will you go away?" She should have turned her lights off and kept the door locked. They would have left for whatever skank nightclub they were headed to soon enough. There was a gentle tapping at the door. "Go away!" The tapping kept up. She had no choice but to open it, slightly. It was the blonde girl. "Hey, don't be like that," she said, in a southern accent, the kind she recognized from American soap operas. Why was the south the worst part of any country? "Can we talk? I sent the others away." Esme looked around the door and sighed. They were neighbors, and she seemed to be friends with Amanda. Although god knows why. She'd have to see her sooner or later, may as well get this over with. She opened the door slightly more, expecting to get cold water or silly string or something thrown in her face. "Sorry about that," the blonde said. "I didn't mean to scare you." "You didn't scare me. You just startled me. No harm done," she said, hoping that this ended the discussion. It didn't. The blonde walked in and stuck her hand out. "I'm Freya Parsons. You're Esme Entwistle, aren't you?" She just stared at the hand. "Uh huh." "We're in 'intro to investigative' together." Esme remembered a blonde girl in her class, always in the front and taking copious notes. "Er, yeah?" Out of awkwardness, Esme took her hand. "Yeah. I mean the questions you asked were amazing. Everyone's been talking about them." Esme felt better with 'them' than 'you.' "Cool t shirt." Did this girl never shut up? Esme looked down, she'd forgotten about what she was wearing, and was embarrassed by the old stains. "It's my brother's," she winced at how she'd tried to deflect the blame. She'd put it on earlier when she was feeling down. She'd been tempted to email him, but had stopped herself. This needed to be a clean break if it was to work. "It's the Fall. He went to see them live." Freya nodded enthusiastically. "I had an older cousin, he was obsessed with Nirvana. He even got to see them when I was little." Esme pushed her hair behind both her ears. It was a vain gesture, there wasn't enough to keep it there. She stood nervously, not sure what to say next. Freya's smile seemed infectious. She wore a blue top and a short, red skirt. Esme wished she could look like that in clothes. "Look, I'm sorry about Amanda. She's this total bitch from home. She's at Teachers' College. I don't even know why we're still friends. I've known her since we were little and even then it's because our moms played golf together." The two women looked at each other in silence for a while. "Anyway, this guy I met, he's in business school, is having a party on Morningside. Do you want to come?" Esme stood there silently, still not able to think of a response. Freya leaned in. "I'm planning on ditching them when I get there. She's just here for her M.R.S., you know? I bet we have loads in common." She couldn't help but laugh at her enthusiasm. "Really?" "Yeah, really. We're both studying journalism after all. That and everyone hears your accent and thinks one thing, and mine and thinks the opposite." She looked around her room and her heart sank. The plan had been to close herself off to the world, just to focus on study but already she was sick of the sight of these four walls. Freya smiled. "If you hate it, you can come back. It's only a couple of blocks away." True to her word, Freya dumped Amanda and her gang as soon as they got to the party. Esme overheard Amanda talking to some guy in an exaggerated version of her accent. 'Northern guys fall for that shit left and right,' she had said, as they walked over. Esme leaned against the wall, watching the other party goers. As the B-school guys began doing Jager-Bombs, Esme all but hid behind Freya. She watched as Freya talked to everyone, not flirting just talking. The way she could do it seemed like magic. And she always brought the subject back to Esme, asking her opinion on this and that. At one point, confidence rising, Esme wandered off mumbling something about looking for a drink for them both. The apartment was, as Freya said, 'some old professor's apartment. Huge. Now, like ten guys live here,' which explained the smell. She went down the hall and saw the walls in one room covered in posters for various torture porn movies. Why was it always the girls who ended up screaming and covered in blood? The next door was slightly ajar and she could see a dim red light coming from inside. The smoke made her cough, it smelled sickly and sweet. She didn't yet have a dealer in New York and, after a moment's hesitation, knocked on the door. The face that greeted her was older than she'd expected. Perhaps in his late twenties. She noticed the arm that held the door open was tattooed and muscular. "Er, hey," she felt like an idiot. "Hey," his voice was deep and relaxed. He didn't seem bothered by her presence. "Er, I was looking for a drink, then I could smell..." "How old are you, little girl?" "Hey. I'm twenty one! There's nothing little about me," she meant her height but couldn't help notice his eyes dart across her chest. "Well, maybe not nothing." He laughed and she suddenly felt more relaxed. "OK, if you got a cup, I've got vodka. Sean by the way." "Esme. Two cups? Me and my friend." She indicated Freya a little way down the corridor. He smiled and opened the door further letting her in. Of course, she thought, he fancies her. His wall was covered in band posters. "Hey, you like the Arctic Monkeys? I saw them at Band on the Wall." He took the two cups from her. "Yeah, they're alright. I'm into harder stuff mostly. You from England?" She nodded. "What brings you here?" She shrugged. "Cool. Wanna sit down?" He indicated the end of his bed. She stared at him, but she couldn't detect any immediate danger. "No, I'll stand. Mind if I look around?" It was his turn to shrug. On the front of his wardrobe, were a number of different photographs. She recognised him of course, but the others she didn't know. They were all dressed in black hanging out in what looked like a music video from the early 80s. Or maybe a better description would be an amature dramatic production of Dracula. She noticed one of the girls had one of those dog collars that punks used to wear. She opened the door and he stood up. It looked like a normal boy's wardrobe, just with a lot of black. Something silver caught her eye, a pair of handcuffs half covered by a dark blue bag. Not the heavy duty ones the cops used, but still fairly sturdy. "What's..." He thrust the two cups back into her hands. "Shouldn't you better get back to the party, little girl?" "Sure." She shook her head. "Whatever." Her voice seemed distant to her. Over the next couple of weeks, Freya became a near permanent fixture in Esme's room. Amanda and the others had decided to just ignore the two of them since the party, having found guys to occupy them. A tactic Esme had no problem with. She didn't really know why she didn't tell Freya about Sean. She envied her new friend's easy way with people and could see the way men looked at her. In order to avoid Amanda and her posse, she'd taken to getting breakfast from a little shop just around the corner from the college. They sold bagels that tasted a million times better than the ones she'd had back home. She'd knock on Freya's door and they'd walk down together. They were normally amongst the first in the lecture theatre and she'd eat her bagel with cream cheese while listening to Freya telling her about who had said what to whom. Freya was talking about a new couple in her 'business strategies and social media' class when she received a text from Sean. 'McNasties, 8. See you there' "Where's McNasty's?" "Huh, what?" "It's a bar, I think." "Oh that place. That place is a dive. Why do you want to know?" Freya eyed her suspiciously. "Er, nothing really. I just saw it on a poster. I was thinking about going to a gig. Sometime." The suspicion didn't leave Freya's eyes, but she did drop it. The lecturer had entered the room and she had her notebook out. One pen ready in her hand, two next to it. The first as back up, the second because Esme always forgot hers. After the lecture finished Esme said goodbye. She told Freya she wanted to do some reading and scurried off. The bar was on the Lower East Side, off Avenue C, and it had taken her almost an hour and a half to make her way there. She sat with her pocket subway map on the 1 train, tracing the route, but it was hopeless. She got jostled at Columbus Circle transferring to the B and then spent 15 minutes in the maze that was Bleecker Street station getting to the F. How typical of her to find a city with a worse transport system than London's. And then she still had to walk another ten minutes, down blocks where she was catcalled by the men on the stoops. There were two big bouncers on the door. She felt small despite her size. One took her hand and stamped the back of it. The back of his hands were covered in faint ginger hairs, freckles and liver spots. Veins stood out like the road map of an abandoned city. It was very small. A narrow bar lead into a small dance floor with a tiny stage. A couple of tables were set up on the dance floor and there were people sitting on the stage. At the bar she ordered a bourbon and coke, having to produce her passport as proof of age. Unless he was in the toilet, there was no sign of Sean. She took a stool at the bar, keeping her legs together. She wasn't used to wearing skirts this short. Two guys at the other end of the bar looked her over. She turned away, praying they didn't come over. It was nearly nine, and she was close to giving up, when Sean appeared. He sauntered into the bar waving at the bartender before turning to her. "You're late." "Sick passenger in the train. Get used to it, happens all the time in this city. What are you drinking?" She took that as an apology and told him bourbon and coke. He ordered her a double. It wasn't the first time she'd had sex, but Sean seemed different. He knew what he was doing and she liked that. There was a poster for the Dropkick Murphys on his bedroom wall. She hadn't noticed it before. "Is that a band?" He snickered. "Yeah, you could say that. From Boston," which he pronounced "Bah-ston." "I take it you're from there," she said. He nodded. "My old man is from Dorchester," he said, deliberately pronouncing it 'Dor-Chestah' with a smirk. "They heard your accent, they'd run you out of there." "I'm not surprised. I've been to Dublin and Belfast and never had a problem, but some American who couldn't find Ireland and England on a map... Ow!" Her backside stung from a slap. "Enough geopolitics, undress." She looked at him for a while before pulling her t-shirt over her head. She was dimly aware she should be doing this slowly. That there was a proper way to do this. She almost fell over trying to take her jeans off. It felt good being underneath him. The extra pressure on her body heightened how she felt. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he pushed inside. She gasped, because she knew that was what she was supposed to do. Then she gasped again when he started moving his hips. As she came close to orgasm, she closed her eyes, thinking of the handcuffs she'd found in his closet. As she came, her head banged against the headboard. She couldn't help laughing. The noise her key made in the lock seemed oddly disproportionate as she fumbled. She'd almost got it figured out when the door swung open. Amanda stood there looking at her. "Er, hi, sorry did I wake you?" Amanda held the door for a while. "Frey, Princess Dorkana has returned. I guess she didn't run away," she said, sounding annoyed at the fact. She saw Freya appear behind Amanda. "Hey Esme. You OK? You weren't answering your phone." Esme pulled it out of her pocket. "Shit. Sorry, the battery went dead. I didn't mean to worry you." Amanda rolled her eyes and walked away. Esme tiptoed into the living room. "Don't worry. We were just watching a movie," she said, then whispered, 'How to Lose a Guy in 10 days, Amanda chose it.' Esme could hear Amanda banging around in the kitchen. "Did you go out anywhere good?" Esme thought she picked up on a hint of anger in her friend's voice. She felt panic. "No. Well kind of. There was this guy's." Her head hung down like a naughty schoolgirl. "Really?" Freya suddenly seemed more interested. "Who is he? Is he that Jewish guy who sits next to you in data mining. I knew he had a crush on you!" "What? No." She stumbled over her words. "It was this guy I met at that party. He texted earlier," she couldn't look straight at her. For some reason she felt like she'd betrayed her. "Wow, really." There was a pause while the pieces came together. "Oh, he was the McNasty's guy?" "I hope you didn't meet him there," Amanda returned carrying a large bowl of popcorn. "Er, yeah. Why not?" Amanda plopped herself down on the far end of the couch. "It's a total power play. Make you travel to the opposite end of the city." Esme looked at Freya who nodded in agreement. She slumped into the armchair. "I bet he turned up late as well." Esme just stared at the ceiling, not wanting to see the smirk on Amanda's face. "I hope you didn't sleep with him." Esme said nothing. "Oh my god, you did!" Amanda burst into howls of laughter. "Shut up Amanda." Freya's voice was stern. "It's not Charlotte anymore. Esme can sleep with whomever she wants" Amanda looked pissed off. It was Esme's turn to smile. --- The next time she saw Sean, things were different. She was working late in the library, aware that Amanda had her girls over. The library shut at seven, and after that Esme was planning on going to the little pizza place she'd found with Freya. With any luck, Amanda and her friends would be gone by ten and she could have the flat to herself. She had her nose stuck in an autobiography of Martha Gellhorn. It seemed to care more about what she wore than the events she covered. Distracted, she nearly missed that someone was talking to her. "What?" "Hey Sunshine, what are you up to?" It took her a moment to realise Sean was talking about her. She felt unnerved seeing him in this environment. "Sunshine?" "I was using it ironically." "Gee. Thanks." She held the book awkwardly, unsure if she should put it down. He slung his bag under the table and half flopped into the chair opposite her. She watched him like a gazelle inspecting its first human, unsure if it was looking at a predator or prey. "You doing much?" "Research," she held up the book. In truth it wasn't really research. She'd been looking into some things for her Gender in Journalism assignment and had become distracted. He ran the fingers of one hand through his hair. The cut was expensive but she could already see the first signs of the hairline retreating. She tried to imagine him bald. "So, nothing much then." He leant over and pulled the book from her hands. "Martha Gellhorn, wasn't she Hemingway's wife?" "She was also a war correspondent." "Shit, I know that," he gave a dismissive huff. "Is that what you want to do then?" "No. Maybe. I don't really know," she went to grab the book back, but he was too fast. He laughed and then tossed it back to her. "Let's go get a drink." The bar was popular with grad students. Quieter, with fewer frat boys and under aged drinkers. Esme had been told it had once been a cinema, back when there were cinemas all over the place. If you looked up, you could see the old balcony. In theory they used it for private parties, but for the most part they stored old chairs and tables up there. Along the front of the balcony, they'd fitted flat screen TVs, silently playing different sports. You came in here any time of day and they'd all be playing something. She was planning on finding out what breakfasts they served in time for the next Ashes series. Sean suggested a game of pool and Esme nodded her agreement. When she'd been in the bar before, it had mostly been full of students. Today, it seemed to be office staff, the secretaries and clerks from Columbia, the types who placed her with Amanda. She wondered if it was some office party? Sean broke, putting down a stripe. She let him lean over her, instructing her how to line up her shot. When he'd moved back she readjusted, aiming for a more difficult ball that would give her better positioning. Two games in and he was regretting his hubris. "You learn to play from your dad?" "Yeah," She remembered him buying her her own proper snooker cue. That must have been the Christmas before. Esme potted her last coloured ball and started lining up on the black. She tapped the far corner pocket with the end of her pool cue. "I name this pocket." "You don't have to do that," he pouted. She shrugged and knocked it in. He hadn't potted a single ball. "You played it a lot then?" "Not that much. But the tables are bigger, the balls smaller and heavier and the surface more curved in England." She smiled, then followed him to the bar. After buying them both beer and whiskey, he seemed to settle down. They chose a table and she waited for him to talk. He just leaned back in his chair and watched her. She felt it was unfair, she didn't know what was happening. Was there any cheat notes you could buy that told you what to do when a boy takes you for a drink out of the blue? They continued drinking for several hours. Over time, her sullen silences were replaced by insistent talking on subjects she was passionate about. It was like she had to make him understand, and she grew frustrated when he didn't reciprocate. She couldn't stop herself, but was still mortified. She'd watch him, wishing they could be sat closer, able to touch. A while later she felt his leg touch hers, then stay there. She didn't know what she was expected to do, but she didn't pull away, which was a first for her. When he suggested going back to his flat she felt relief. Not sexual relief. More just relief that she now understood exactly what was going on. That night she stayed over. In the morning he woke her, saying he needed to go to the gym. She grunted and sat up in bed, watching him go to the cupboard. The one she'd investigated at the party. He saw her looking and laughed. "It intrigues you, doesn't it." She looked directly at him, not nodding her head, but not shaking it either. He reached in and pulled out the handcuffs. Again she watched him silently, feeling a complete idiot, but having no idea what to do or say. He made a turning gesture with his finger. It took her awhile to figure out what he wanted. The metal felt cold around the wrists. For a moment, she felt fear as he snapped them shut, but it soon turned into nervous energy. Did she want him to stop? He leant down and kissed her, first on the neck, then on the mouth. It forced her to lean back slightly. Then she heard the click of the key unlocking them and felt disappointment. He sat in the one chair and pointed to her clothes. She got dressed and watched him drop the cuffs into his bag. "Something to think about. Till next time." She hated this feeling, wondering if there'd be a next time one minute and then waiting for it the next. Back at her apartment, she texted Freya. It was Friday and she only had two classes, one of which had already been canceled. She said that she had a headache she wanted to sleep off, but asked if they could have dinner later. Then she collapsed into the bed, not remembering when she fell asleep. She woke at three and stared at the ceiling. She could hear Amanda and her friends wandering about the living room. She fell asleep again, half listening to Amanda deconstructing the new guy she was dating. He sounded like a bore. -------------- Jay Jay stood there while the editor at the magazine thumbed through his portfolio. 'Meh,' flick to the next one, 'meh,' flick, 'too artsy,' and so on. The best he got was, 'this could be better, but it's not awful.' Then she handed it back to him. "What is it you're trying to accomplish here?" Jay rolled his shoulders, the way he did whenever he felt under attack. "I'm not sure I understand what you're saying." She saw the editor look him up and down again. He had worn jeans, a black button-down shirt and boots. He thought it made him look more professional. He could imagine his mother asking why he wasn't wearing a suit. To her, you wore a suit to an interview. When he worked at Seven Springs, his mother had made him wear a shirt and tie to apply and the hiring manager looked at him and laughed. On the other hand, he had gotten the job. "What is it you're trying to accomplish here?" she said, in the same tone Sister Margaret used to use in 6th grade on Kevin Riley, the slow kid. "I see a lot of overly arty shots that we couldn't use, and then a bunch of stuff that belongs in a high school yearbook." He felt ashamed and angry. "I, uh..." She snickered. "I know you won all kinds of collegiate awards. Patty told me. That's why you're here, by the way. Not because you won awards. Big effing deal. Everyone won awards. You're here because Patty vouched for you. Said you had potential." That hurt. Potential. "But, what I see here is someone who doesn't know what he wants to be. Who do you want to be?" "I don't want to be anyone. I want to do my own work," he said, trying to hold back his anger. "Bull. Everyone wants to be someone. I wanted to be Dianne Arbus, then Annie Liebovitz. That guy," and she pointed to someone hovering over a light table, "wanted to be Richard Avedon. Who do you want to be?" He thought for a second, afraid to answer the question. He didn't see photography when he was a kid, unless you counted snapshots on vacation. They weren't the kind of family who went to museums. His father would have called photography 'faggy shit,' his preferred term for anything that wasn't sports (football, baseball and hockey only) or cars. Not that it mattered what he would have said. And his mother was too busy dealing with the three of them and picking up shifts at the hospital to appreciate much of anything. He thought about how he'd pick up his Uncle George's Sports Illustrated and look at the little names below the pictures, how Uncle George and Aunt Ginny told him that was who took them. He remembered the names, Neil Leifer and Walter Iooss, the way they made the athletes look like something more than the pictures in the paper. How, on his 14th birthday, Uncle George surprised him with the old Nikon from the pawnshop near the plant. How he used it to get the scholarship to Penn State and how he got to see Walker Evans and Henri Cartier-Bresson and Garry Winogrand and how they made him appreciate the beauty in the everyday. Then, he thought about this woman, with her blunt haircut and her plain white shirt and black pants and her metal glasses, that probably had non-prescription lenses, and how she'd laugh at all that. He took a deep breath and decided to go with. "I don't want to be any one person. I mean, I didn't grow up going to museums and looking at Ansel Adams and Diane Arbus and all that. I grew up with the paper and magazines. And then I saw everything in college. I want to be someone who can take artistic shots, but can also take the right shot quickly. That's who I am." If he thought this speech was going to impress her, he was wrong. She looked at him up and down and said, "that was a wonderful speech, but," and she slid his portfolio back at him. "it doesn't change the fact that these are worthless to me. Did you even look at what we do here?" It was an airline magazine, the sort businessmen thumbed through on the plane, to take a break from work. "I need someone who can make the people in the stories look good. I don't need reality. I need good." "I can do good," he said. "Not from this you can't," she said. "Tell Patty to call me," and she turned back to her computer. Jay left the offices feeling like shit. She had looked at his portfolio, at his life and called it shit. He found a Starbucks a couple of blocks away and counted out his change. The warmth of the coffee did little to revive him. He stared at the phone in his hand. Patty had texted asking how it had gone. He couldn't bring himself to reply. This woman who edited a fucking airline magazine had told him that he took yearbook photos. He sat and thumbed through his portfolio, think of the hospital and home. New York seemed so much brighter and alive. He could only think of home in browns and reds. Or as some faded painting found at the back of a thrift store. The thought was too much, he had to run to the toilet and throw up. During the bus ride home, he took out the postgrad fellowship form Professor Drew ('call me Mitch') had given him. Some arts organization down in Mexico run by old friends of his. He lay back in his seat, feeling the weak Fall sun on his face. He could already hear what his ma would say. He had it all written out in his head like a script. A very old script. --- "Really, ma, today?" They were leaving the VA Hospital in Altoona where Uncle George was being treated. He hated seeing him lying in the bed attached to the respirator. He had lost 75 pounds and had joked, 'well, they've been on me for years to lose weight. Screw Weight Watchers. Silicosis - eat what you want and lose weight,' and then he laughed, that raspy laugh that made Jay want to cry. "I just don't understand why you want to go to Mexico," she said, putting her arm in his. She had been doing this ever since he was a kid, except when Bill was around. When Bill was around, she made sure to never do it in front of him. Jay remembered the way he would say, 'there's something wrong with that.' He waited for her to say something and was still waiting. "What's there?" "I told you," he said, pulling his arm away from her a little too quickly. "This is a huge deal. They don't give these fellowships to just anyone. I earned this," he said, with a mix of pride and defensiveness. She moved to take his arm and he moved away. "And you should be proud. But, you could get a job at the Tribune-Democrat. They said they loved your pictures." "They said that they could give me some freelance work. And then what? I could spend the rest of my life here?" "There's nothing wrong with here," she said defensively. "Well, anyway, this is a big deal. I'll get to live in Mexico. See someplace else. Meet new people. Become a better photographer." "There's people here who need you." Since Bill left, she had been on him to visit more. "Amber needs a man around." On the one hand, Jay felt guilty. When his dad left, Uncle George had stepped up and he would've with Amber too. On the other hand, Bill was still around. Well, he was in town at least. Patty had told him how the last time she was home, she saw, 'fuckface feeling up some 22 year old skank outside Stosh's. He decided to, if not lie, evade the truth. "Ma, it's only a year, not forever. Besides, I'll be better if I go do this. You don't want me to not go and become bitter and resentful, do you? I'd be no good to anyone that way." "Jaybird, I love you. I want you to be happy," she said. "I'm sorry if I'm worried," she said, slipping her arm back in. He decided not to fight it. "I'm a mother. That's what we do." He sighed. "I know, ma." The family came with him to the airport in Pittsburgh. "Be safe, Jay," his mother said. "You're not going to Juarez, are you? I saw something on Dateline about that." He smiled, thinking that this had to be the hundredth time they had covered this. "No, ma, I'm going to be far south of there." "You're sure?" He could see the look of concern in her eyes and felt bad. "Yes, ma," he said. "I promise I'm not going to Juarez." This was a potential lie. If there were pictures to take there, he'd go. But, since he didn't know of any..yet, he wasn't lying...yet. "I'm sorry if I'm worried..." Stef piped in, grinning. "you're a mother, that's what you do." "Be quiet, you," Margaret said. "Will you email me pictures?" Amber said. Jay looked at her. She was 13 and was coming into her own. She had shed her baby fat and was becoming, if not a woman, a teenage girl and would have the hounds sniffing around soon enough. He picked at the dead skin on his fingers. He felt prickly, like he had when mom had made him wear that itchy second hand suit to church. Like his skin couldn't breathe. "Whenever I have a connection," he said, with a smile. "You guys be good for ma, OK?" They exchanged 'I love yous'. ----- He ended the fellowship two weeks early when Aunt Ginny called. "Jay, I hate to do this but it's not good," she said. He could hear her crying through the static on the phone. "How soon can you get here?" One bus from Colima to Guadalajara. A flight from Guadalajara to Dallas. Another from Dallas to Pittsburgh and then the bus to Altoona. All in one day. He came into the hospital room and Uncle George rasped, "you couldn't shave?" Then he gave a weak grin. Jay smiled and joked, "Jeez, Uncle George. You look like shit." He saw Aunt Ginny smiled weakly and give him the thumbs up. "You didn't have to come all the way from Mexico," he said. "Did she tell you to?" Jay sat next to the bed. "I decided to. I missed scrapple," he joked. George wheezed, "yeah, well...." and then he had to stop. The few words he said had taken their toll on him. Jay couldn't decide whether to cry or throw up. He took an album out of his backpack. "I wanted to show you some of the pictures I took in Mexico." His professors had told him to call them 'his work,' not 'pictures,' but this was Uncle George and Aunt Ginny. If he called it 'work,' George would've looked him up and down and said something like, 'if your back doesn't hurt at the end of a day, it's not work.' He started flipping through the pictures, of teenagers dressed like cowboys, drinking beer and leaning back on their truck. Of a women in the supermarket carrying a baby and pushing her cart with one hand and dragging a crying toddler with the other. Of the purple sky at night. "These are terrific," Aunt Ginny said. "I always said that you had talent." "Thanks, Aunt Gin." Uncle George smiled and gave a thumbs up. He tried to speak but Jay put up his hand. "I know, Uncle George. I couldn't have done it without you two, you know that." Uncle George put his thumb to his nose and waved his fingers, the way he did to say, 'bullshit.' 'It's not bullshit,' Jay thought. Then, Uncle George closed his eyes. "He needs to nap, Jay," his aunt said. "Let's go in the hall." "Is he going to be OK?" The question caused stabbing pains in his chest, Jay didn't want to leave. Aunt Ginny said, matter of factly, "No. Not in the long term." She laughed a dry laugh. "Not in the short term either. But for now, he's napping. I hope that one day he goes down for a nap and doesn't get up." She looked at Jay. "He's been through enough." "I know," he said, starting to tear up. Two days later, Uncle George didn't wake up. For three days, they had the viewing at Passanic's. He couldn't bear to look at his Uncle George in the casket. This wasn't Uncle George, not the man who used to throw him over his shoulder and threaten to put him in the garbage pail. Or the man who took him once a year to the Steelers game, Jay having no idea how he'd got the tickets. Or the man who took him aside before he went to Mexico and said, 'go. You're 23. You have the rest of your life to have the rest of your life.' He looked at the pictures around the casket, of George and Ginny in Florida, of George in front of the plant with his crew, of George in the Army, 'the lightest I've ever been,' he'd joke. That was Uncle George. He went out front and saw a guy talking to Amber, a guy clearly older than her. The guy had her leaned up against a wall, not in a threatening way. But, still.... "Hey asshole. At a viewing?" "Fuck you want?" the guy said. "Who the fuck are you?" "Her brother, asshole." The guy moved back. Jay knew that this guy could probably kick his ass. Not that he was stronger, just that he looked like a dirty fighter. Still, the guy looked like he understood the code. You don't fuck with a guy's sister, not in front of him at least. "And she's 14." With that, the guy walked away quickly. Well, he ran. "He wasn't doing anything, Jay," Amber said. Her hair still made him smile. She'd cut it while he was away. Shorter with a long fringe and a streak of purple, just like Minnie's. The girl he'd brought back during his first summer break at college. "How old was he?" "I dunno," she said, looking at a spot on the wall behind Jay's ear. "17?" "Bullshit, Am." "19?" "In other words, too fucking old. And what kind of guy hits on a girl at her uncle's wake? 'Hey, just 'cause he's dead, we should celebrate life." She laughed. "Ewww, gross...I wasn't going to do anything." Jay looked at her. "It's not you I'm worried about. Anyway, let's go back in. For Uncle George." He stayed in Uniontown for another two weeks. The first five days were fine. He could occupy himself at Aunt Ginny's, helping her put together George's stuff for Goodwill. They were in the house when his Aunt Ginny took a picture off the wall. "George wanted you to have this," she said. It was a picture Jay had taken at the Penn State-Wisconsin game, of linemen crashing into each other, the sweat and blood flying off. It had been published not only in the Collegian, the student paper, but it had been picked up by the Daily Times. Jay had made a special print of it for Uncle George. Uncle George had always watched the linemen. 'Quarterbacks are wimps,' he'd say. Jay started to tear up. "I made this for him, for you." She smiled and said, "it would mean a lot to him, to me for you to take it. Please." They finished boxing everything up and drove over to Goodwill. They went to eat at the diner. "So what are you going to do, Jay?" Aunt Ginny said, pushing her french fries around. "I dunno. Send out my portfolio. See if I can get work somewhere." "What about your mom and the girls?" "What about them?" "What are you going to do?" She said, looking at him straight in the eye. He flinched and looked down. "What am I supposed to do?" She gave him the line he hated. "I can't tell you what to do. I can tell you it's not good." Jay intently studied the napkin dispenser. "Stef is doing great." She was doing well in school, getting As, his mother said. He wasn't surprised. She was always a good, solid kid. Aunt Ginny put her hand over the dispenser. "You have another sister." "Yeah, well, what can I do?" "Jay," she said, taking a deep breath. "I love you. Like my own." Ginny and George couldn't have children, 'woman problems' was all he knew. "Amber worships you. Whenever you sent emails, she would show them to everyone immediately." She smiled. "She's not the sharpest though. Didn't notice how you cc'ed me." Jay laughed. "OK, and..." "And she's at that point, you know. And Bill, that piece of crap, pardon my French, isn't around." He smiled, thinking of the women at school who cursed enough to make a mill rat blush. "And then what happened at the viewing." "How did you hear about that?" "I know that boy, his mother worked with me at the plant," she laughed. "And you looked like your grandfather when he caught George and me in the car." Jay barely remembered his grandfather Stosh, who died when he was six. What he remembered was a man who smelled like Pall Malls and would tell him, in Polish, that he was going to feed him to the bears. Apparently, this was good luck. "Anyway, she needs a man around. Too much of nothing here. Idle hands and all that nonsense." Jay went to say, 'she has a father,' then realized 'so do I,' and George stepped up. "I know, I know," he said. "But what can I do? There's no work here." "Ain't that the truth," she laughed. "Jay, how about you stay here for a while? Send out your portfolio from here. If something comes in, we'll figure it out. We never gave you guilt, but your mom needs you. Do this for me, OK?" Jay spent the next ten days at his mother's house. Every morning, he'd come down to find a list of things that needed doing around the house. He had an English professor who used to rhapsodize about 'the joy of doing things with your hands. The feeling of a job well done.' As he sat cleaning out shit from a stuck drain, he thought, 'only an asshole who never had to work with his hands would find joy in it." Every day Amber would come home and ask him how his day went, 'if you got any leads.' The first couple of days, he told her the truth. She tried to be supportive but always looked disappointed. After that, he'd lie, telling her, 'the art director loved them but there's a committee that decides. They're meeting next week. Keep your fingers crossed.' Hopefully, one day the lie would become true, before she discovered it was a lie. The breaking point came on the ninth day, a Thursday. Jay was at home blankly staring at the Pirates game. His mother had gone to setup the church rummage sale, and Stef was out with friends. Amber was upstairs, listening to crappy pop radio and talking to her friends. Then, he sat on the couch and looked around. He saw the pictures on the wall, how his mother always had her arm around him. Never Stef. Never Amber. Him. He saw the 'to do' list on the table, with half of the items crossed off and realized that there'd only be new stuff tomorrow. He opened up his laptop and saw an email from a magazine. They were offering him a chance to go to Nashville to cover a story about the rise of the New South. The editor said that he liked what he saw of his work for the Collegian. The money wasn't much but at least it was a foot in the door, the magazine being owned by a large publishing house. He let out a whoop. Amber came downstairs. "What's up?" Jay picked her up, felt uncomfortable and put her down. "I just got offered a job!" "Cool!" She seemed genuinely overjoyed. "I mean it's an assignment. In Nashville. But it could lead to something else." "When do you leave?" He thought about what Aunt Ginny had said, what Uncle George had done. "I dunno. I don't want to leave you guys." "Are you stupid or something? This is amazing. You can get out of here." He smiled at his little sister, happy that she ignored the fight about to come. "So, it's not a job," his mother said. "It is, ma. I do this assignment and, if they like it, I get more." "So," she said, stirring her coffee ('decaf, it's too late for regular, I'll be up all night'), "it's a temp job. Like Christmas at the mall." Amber butted in, "Ma, it's his break." She smiled tightly. "Thank you for that, Amber." Then, she turned to Jay. "I just don't understand why you won't go to the Tribune-Democrat." Jay sighed, exasperated. "They're offering the same thing. The difference is this could lead to something more, something bigger. Don't you want that for me?" Playing on her guilt always worked. Except when it didn't. "Well, let's see." He felt like he was sucker- punched. 'Let's see?' Jay looked at her and said, "yeah, let's," and left the table. By morning, he had booked a flight. Nashville led to an assignment in Chicago. Then Los Angeles. Then South America. --- Esme "I'm not sure about this," she didn't have to look to know Amanda was glaring at her. It clearly hadn't been her idea to invite Esme. "Come on, it's the beach. We've finished the first year. What's there to think about? Everyone's going to be there!" "We're not all going to fit in," she glared at Freya's car. It looked inconveniently large and comfortable. She'd secretly hoped there wouldn't be enough room. Then she could stay home in what would look like a noble gesture, hiding a coward's way out. She'd have been able to read, have the flat to herself. "Don't be stupid," Ethan was Freya's current, steady boyfriend. Esme eyed him with suspicion. Guys aged twenty four shouldn't be that big. Esme was pleased when Freya gave him a look. They crammed into the car. The three girls in the back, with the bags on their laps. Ethan and Amanda's boyfriend Tyler in the front. Freya's dad had met Ethan once and already put him on the insurance. "Everyone good in the back?" Esme hated Ethan's smile. Too white, too perfect to be natural. "Yeah sure. Woo, the beach!" Amanda's arm bumped Esme as she stretched them out. For the rest of the journey she stared out of the window, trying to control her sense of claustrophobia. It took them a good hour to get to Jones Beach on Long Island. Despite it being early, the parking lot was already filling up. "Wow," Esme mused, taking in the parking lot, which was filled with huge SUVs and little sports cars. "Is there a lot of money around here?" Tyler smirked, looking at one of the sports cars. "Rice rockets," then added cryptically, "you'll see." Ethan put his arm around Freya's middle. "A couple of years, we'll be out east." Esme noticed how Freya looked mildly nauseous through her smile. Ethan and Tyler were finishing their first year at B-School. They had internships with an investment bank and, as Esme had learned, would be headed to lucrative careers, 'so long as we don't fuck up.' For a moment she just stood there, taking it all in. The beach was obscured slightly by sand dunes. It reminded her a little of the beaches along the Irish Sea coast back home. Although it'd never been this hot. Past 80 in American money. She ended up giving Tyler a hand with the bags. Ethan had pulled Freya aside to 'discuss something', Esme craning her neck to see what her friend was up to. Amanda took only her wicker bag, containing a towel and sunscreen. That left her with a rucksack full of various beach things and a cooler full of beer. Her flip flops slapped against the concrete as they made their way out of the parking lot. She watched Amanda walk away, blithely unaware or uncaring about them. Tyler smiled. "Always the way," he joked, as they walked together, the others further ahead. "Do you always get stuck with the bags?" She hadn't meant it to sound so harsh, but looking at the back of Amanda's head she didn't mind. "She's not all that bad," Tyler didn't look at Esme as he spoke. Esme rarely saw Amanda on weekends, which was alright by her. She'd return most Sundays carrying a bag from some expensive boutique. Freya and Amanda headed to the locker rooms to change. Tyler looked at Esme. "Don't you want to go change?" "I, uh, wore my suit under," she said. "I, uh, didn't realize that there would be changing rooms. The beaches in England don't have them," she said. Freya and Amanda came out in bikinis that were so small as to barely qualify as swimwear. Amanda looked at Esme's Ramones t-shirt and sneered. Then, she said, "Oh my god, you had to see who was in there." Tyler gave Esme a quick look and smirk, then said, "Huh?" "Seriously, it's like the 1 train in there. 'Ay, mami,'" she said, in an exaggerated Puerto Rican accent and then laughed. No one else did, Freya looking mortified. "And then all the bridge and tunnel people." Esme smiled, remembering how a bartender told her that no one who lived in Manhattan would call them 'bridge and tunnel.' "What," Amanda said, "what is so funny?" "Nothing," Esme said. "Thinking of something I read." "Yeah, well, whatever, Camilla," she said, to Tyler's obvious and utterly ignored disdain. "This place is gross. I don't understand why we didn't go out East." Freya said, "How about we just have a good time, K? No worse than Myrtle," she said. Amanda looked around and just said, "whatever." They found a spot and put their bags down. The others ran straight to the sea, Esme staying to 'keep an eye on the bags'. Neither Ethan nor Amanda objected, at least Tyler made an effort to look like he cared. She pulled out her book and put on her shades. She stopped reading after about half an hour and laid back.. Even through the towel, she could feel the heat of the sand. The sound of the waves blocked out the voices of the people around her. With her low down and the sand dunes around her she could pretend she was alone. Checking the others were still in the sea she pulled out her phone. The signal wasn't great out here and it took her a while to open the email and download the photo again. Cassie stood in her bathing suit on Blackpool Beach. Holding up a small plastic bucket and spade she grinned, showing her two new teeth. The caption read, 'missing her aunt'. She stroked the screen with her finger before forcing herself to close down her phone. It wasn't doing her any good. She lay back and felt the heat press against her skin. A shadow fell over her, she must have drifted off. "Hey," the face grinned down at her. It took her a while to realise who was talking. He'd shaved off his beard and cut his hair short. Just another graduate about to enter the workplace. "Oh, hi Sean." She hadn't realised he'd be here, but it made sense he'd share classes with Ethan and Tyler. There were a few others, people she didn't recognise. But they stood back a little. "Haven't seen you in months." He smiled awkwardly, she didn't say anything. "Not since I took you to that club." His voice became quiet. "Sorry if it freaked you out." "It wasn't really my scene," she'd been back twice since then. Both times she sat at the back, just watching and left after one drink. Another woman came over to Sean. Her skin was tanned, contrasting against her white bikini, and her blond hair fell down her back. She looked like she'd just come straight from a casting agent. "Esme, this is Ava. Ava, this is Esme. Ava's an actress. You two would get along." "Uh huh," the expression on Ava's flawless face suggested otherwise. Esme turned back to her book as the others returned from the ocean. This was exactly what she'd wanted to avoid. Ava and Amanda were glaring at her, Freya and Ethan constantly walking off to go through their own private drama. She was stuck here with no ride to get her home. One person who did benefit from the situation was Sean. Ava was going into overdrive flirting with him. Tyler offered her a beer. "Hey, he your ex?" his voice was quiet, conspiratorial. "I wouldn't say ex." She enjoyed the pissed off look Amanda gave her. "But yeah, we hooked up at the start of the term." The beer tasted good, refreshing. She thought of those little stubby bottles you got on holiday in France. "He's a dick," Tyler said. "He'd show up in class in Black Sabbath and Napalm Death t-shirts. Interviews come and suddenly it's like he mugged Paul Stuart." She laughed and he leaned in closer. "I hear he's had his tattoos recovered with a laser." It figured, and the timeline fitted when he'd stopped trying to reach her. She took another swig of her beer, finally enjoying herself. Scanning around she couldn't see Freya or Ethan. "So, what's your plans over summer? Back to England, do they even have summers over there?" "No, I've got a summer internship with a digital media startup. You know, photocopying, scanning, making the coffee and getting hit on by some forty year old with asymmetrical hair and ear piercings." In fact the internship was only for two weeks and she had no idea what she was going to do with the rest of the summer. In that email, Nick had offered to pay for her flight back. She hadn't replied. When Freya returned she looked annoyed. She stood apart from Ethan, her arms crossed. She looked at Esme who took the hint, picked up a couple of beers, and followed her to the other side of the dune. "Everything OK?" Esme stood uncertainty, and not just because of the shifting sands. "Fine, Esme, everything is just fine," Freya spoke tersely. Esme looked at her feet. She knew she was failing her friend but wasn't sure how. "Sorry." Freya seemed to deflate. "I didn't mean to take it out on you. Ethan is rubbing me the wrong way." There was a pause, when she spoke again she sounded tired. "He wants me to move in with him." Was this the way she wanted to tell her? No way Ethan would want her coming around, their friendship would be over. "Did you say yes?" "Esme, do I sound like I said yes?" "Good." Freya laughed at her evident relief. They sat down, hidden in a sand valley. Esme passed Freya a beer. She watched her friend closely as she took her first sip. The sun had already started turning her skin browner. "Are you gay?" "No!" It was the one thing she was sure of, she fancied guys. She just didn't know why. "It wouldn't matter, just that Amanda thinks you are." "Why?" "She says you stare at me. You do." "Sorry," Esme took her flip flops off and pushed her feet into the sand. "Why do you do that?" Freya looked towards the sea. "I guess sometimes I don't understand you. Like, why are you so nice to me?" Freya turned back and smiled, nudging Esme and nearly knocking her over. "You goof. Because I like you." "Hey," They both turned around to see Tyler standing there. "We've got a fire going, gonna roast marshmallows." "Thanks Ty. We'll be there in a minute." He turned and left. She lay her head on Esme's shoulder. "You remind me of a cat." "Huh?" "All cute, but with claws." Freya laughed at her own joke. "that's what I'm going to call you, 'Kitten'" Esme laughed. "Thanks," she deadpanned. Freya sat up and took her hand. "I need you today Kitten." As they climbed back over the dune they could see the smoke from the fire. Further down the beach families were packing up as day time transitioned into the evening. The guys stood around the fire poking it with sticks while the girls sat back talking. Amanda was in the centre of a huddle and she shot Esme a dirty look. By this stage, Esme's hide had grown resistant to it. The sun went down turning the sea inky black. In the distance she could see the lights of the big freighters slipping away to distant lands. She had liked to think that England and Ireland were directly ahead of her, but actually it was Spain and Portugal. She had to look further north for home. Esme and Freya stayed huddled together, drinking from the same can of beer. Neither talked, they just watched the flames growing higher. Someone went and brought back hotdogs. Esme ate hers with onions and a little mustard. She missed proper sausages. Even in the night time the air was still warm. She'd been trying to ignore the pressure on her bladder for at least an hour, but it came to a point where she could no longer hold on. "I'll be back as quickly as I can," she whispered to Freya. She took her hand and they held onto each other for a few minutes. When she did let go, Freya turned around. For a moment, Esme looked at the back of her head, surrounded by fire. Esme walked for a while into the long grassy sand dunes, the changing rooms shut down and too far away besides. They were deeper back there and in places she couldn't see the sea. Behind her was the light of the fire, and the voices of the business school students. The crowds had thinned but there were still enough stragglers that she had to walk to find privacy. Facing the dilemma of one-piece wearers through history she stripped off and crouched down in amongst a little patch of scrubland. She went down into a fetal position, her arms around her legs. A tiny light lit up just a few feet away and she nearly toppled over backwards. In her panic it took a moment to realise it was Tyler lighting a cigarette. For a few minutes, she sat still weighing her options. She could hear music, merengue or salsa (she wasn't sure which), in the distance. As if in slow motion his head turned, she crouched down low. Then a light came from the direction of the parking lot. "Hey, is someone there?" Tyler held his hand up to his eyes. "Er," she tried to think of something to say. "Don't look." "Esme, is that you?" "Er, shit. Please don't look." "Are you naked?" "Fuck, fuck, fuck." "Is this some European thing?" The light, possibly from a car or a truck, turned off. Esme could just see his face outlined in the dark. He was silhouetted by the fire further along the beach and the moon in the sky. "No!" she sighed. "The two piece bikini has its plus side." "But you're not..." Tyler stopped. For a moment there was no sound apart from the distant laughter coming from the fire. "Oh," he laughed, "I'll turn around." She pulled her swimming suit and t-shirt back on as quickly as she could then stood up. "OK, you can turn around now." He did. She wondered what he saw? "Want some?" he held up the cigarette. "I don't smoke." "It's not just a cigarette." "Ah." They sat down with the sand dune facing the fire behind them. He relit the joint, took a long drag then handed it to her. She watched as he held the smoke in his mouth and lungs for a moment, then laughed when he started coughing. She took a drag, held it for a while then let it out. Some things she could do well. "You don't want to share it with the others?" He shook his head. "With her?" She knew how she sounded. He laughed again. "You really don't like her, do you?" "Sorry." She handed back the joint. "I know you love her." He took a long drag, his face illuminated by the joint. She felt guilty about Freya, hoping she was OK. "I don't." She was suddenly very aware of how exposed the skin on her legs and arms were. She pulled her knees underneath her chin. "You're that sure?" "I am. I know that exact time, date and place when I realised it." "Well now you have to tell me." "This dumb cafe, called something like Christabel's or Christina's. Me, her and some friend from the Teacher's College. And I'm sitting there drinking some weak ass coffee, listening to the two of them. They had been talking for, I guess, at least thirty minutes and I knew." He looked directly at causing her to wobble slightly. "I knew I couldn't do it. Not for life. This couldn't be everything. The stores, the cafes, walking in the park listening to her? Then, kids on top of that? No fucking way. I need more than that." "All that from bad coffee?" She was going to mention Proust but figured he wouldn't get it. He didn't laugh. "No. It was more than that. It was the way I wasn't even sure she wanted me there. She wants someone, but not necessarily me, you know? I need to be with someone who wants me to be there. At least." He seemed to be getting emotional. Without realising it she reached out and grabbed his hand. He was looking at her again. Their faces were close together, she could see where the sun had caught the end of his nose. Then they were kissing. His mouth tasted of weed and her tongue was sensitive from where it had been burnt slightly by the poorly rolled joint. "We better get back. Freya," Was all she could say. He looked down at her hand, she was still holding his. She let go a little too quickly. "You go first," he said. "I need a moment." By the time she reached the fire someone had got their speakers working. They were playing Hip Hop, the sort of overproduced stuff white kids liked. Nothing like B-School guys throwing up gang signs. She found Freya sat on her own a little way back from the fire and put her arm around her. "Hey Kitten, you took your time." "It was hard to find a spot." Freya didn't say anything. She just lay her head on her shoulder and they went back to watching the fire. Esme would have prefered it if the main sound had still been the crashing of the waves, but Amanda and Ethan ha stopped bothering them. At least that was something. Esme wasn't sure when they decided to crawl and find a sand dune to sleep in, but when she woke the sky was just starting to lighten. The fire had died down and she couldn't hear music or voices. She sat up and looked around. The others were all asleep, some in each other's arms, a few who had the foresight to bring sleeping bags. She couldn't see Amanda or Ethan, but she did see Tyler curled up on his own. She felt sorry for him, and hated herself for it but found him cute. In a boy band sort of a way. Back at high school her and her few friends. The other geeks on the bottom rung of the social ladder had called guys like that the 'Kens', but he really wasn't that bad. Getting up, she slid over to him. "Hey," she shook him lightly. "Urgh, Esme?" She put a finger to his mouth to shut him up. When he had, she kissed him. She didn't know what made her so bold. Maybe the drink and the drugs, perhaps because she hated Amanda so much. In future years she'd tell Freya she'd hated Amanda because of the way she treated her. And there was some truth in that. But more honestly, she hated her because she reminded her of the girls at school. The silent ones who had the birthday parties she only found out about when it was all everyone could talk about on the Monday. The ones with the right clothes and right stuff who laughed at her for not knowing what that was. She felt excitement as Tyler touched her breasts. The boys she'd known at university hadn't known what they were doing, or were too drunk. Sean had been too rough. Tyler seemed to know exactly what he was doing, and they could be caught at any moment. She undressed quickly and he pulled off his shirt. He found her clit surprisingly quickly, but she felt uncomfortable. What if he worked it out? The others were too inexperienced, that had been part of why she'd chosen them. Sean was too into himself. But Tyler was different. She pulled away, looking at the disappointment on his face, then she felt the bulge in his underwear, caressing it with her hand. When it was big and hard enough she pulled down his shorts. She was on him, the first time she'd been on top. They'd only finished a few minutes when she heard Freya speak, "What the fuck is going on?" Esme almost jumped out of her skin. "Goddamn it, you two! With Amanda over there? I don't need the drama." And then she tailed off, laughing. "But she does," she said, looking over at Amanda with a group of other women. "Oh god, Freya, I'm so sorry." She tried to make herself small, extra contrite. "I didn't mean to." Tyler just sat back, frozen. Then Freya smiled. "Let's get the fuck away from here." "What?" Esme felt the effects of the booze and the drugs. Her mind couldn't focus. "Get your stuff, both of you." then she pulled something out of her bag. "I made Ethan give me the keys when he started drinking. Let's blow this place. There has to be a diner around here somewhere. I want waffles and," she looked at Tyler, "you're buying." Esme looked at Tyler who just nodded. Then they got up. Silently they collected their things. The campfire just looked sad now, a heap of ashes and used beer cans. Getting in the car they turned the radio on. Roadrunner, the version by Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers was playing. It was so perfect a choice in later years Esme would think she had made it up. Looking over the beach, no one was moving. When they got back, after dropping off Tyler, they went to the apartment Esme shared with Amanda. It took them less than an hour to move all her stuff into Freya's apartment. Over summer, she'd get the main bedroom and then, in September she'd move onto the sofa bed. It didn't last long with Tyler. He wanted to know too much about her, but she didn't hate him. A first for one of her exes. The last she heard he made a bundle trading, retired and was teaching upstate somewhere. She bumped into Amanda last year at a party, a launch for a fashion website. They had a forced but civil conversation. At least, no one proposed getting lunch. --- The Present They'd spent the last two nights and one day of their holiday in Jay's flat. When they weren't having sex, they were cuddled up on the couch under a duvet, binge watching comedy on Netflix. Esme getting to introduce Jay to lots of old British stuff. Blackadder and Spaced he liked, Vic and Bob just confused him. In exchange, she couldn't understand his fascination with Jackass. That night she lay with Jay's arm draped over her unable to sleep. The couple on the floor above them were arguing again. She wondered how many times they'd fought while they'd been away. Had they just saved it all up for them? The curtains were pulled shut but, even in the grey light, she could just see the outline of the skirt suit Freya had made her buy. Tomorrow they were recording the first podcast since Christmas. A look forward to the next year. As usual Zoey, Tasmin and Jess, one of their regular contributors, would be there. There was also going to be this guy from the Times. He was doing a story on Jess, but the podcast was going to be featured. She turned her back on the suit, pushing Jay's arm off her. She much preferred the written word.