MATT STARTLES WHEN KENNEDY LAYS her head on his chest. He is sweaty and spent and should tell her he has to go. But his muscles don’t agree. He’s loose-limbed, loose-brained, loose-lipped.
“Where is your mom?” he asks as if they are halfway through a conversation.
“Hm?” She snuggles in.
“Your mom. I mean, we almost always do it in her bed. Where is she?” He doesn’t look at Kennedy. He’s learned that questions about parents are easier answered when nobody is staring, cataloguing facial expressions, trying to figure out what to say to minimize the damage when the answer comes out more shocking than expected.
“Not here,” she says.
“No shit,” he says. But he takes the hint. “She’s got a great collection of rubbers. Those ribbed ones are fucking awesome.”
Kennedy stretches across him, pulls the box of Trojans from the still-open night table drawer. “There’s only a few left.”
“We going to have to buy her some more?”
“No, she’s always got plenty of condoms around.” Kennedy sounds bitter, tosses the box into the drawer. She lies next to him, not touching.
“She brings guys home, huh?” he says. Kennedy says nothing. “My dad brings women home.”
“I’ve heard about your dad.” She is studying him, doesn’t subscribe to his don’t-look-too-closely philosophy.
“Doesn’t take long for my old man to get a reputation,” he says.
She fits herself under his arm, draws circles on his chest with her index finger. It is the only nail that is not perfect. She chipped it, eager to get his zipper down. She says quietly, “My dad left when I was five. Just walked out one day. Mom says he left for work and never came back. She took it pretty hard.”
Matt grunts. “Imagine she would.”
“But he sends child support, you know? No return address, but every month a cheque comes. Keeps us in this house.” She pauses in her spiral pattern. “I’ve never told anybody that.”
It is because they are lying here naked. A combination of vulnerability and trust. Nothing to hide behind. That is why her secrets are spilling out. It has always been quick fucks for him, not this. They are too naked.
“It isn’t enough to just get money. Does he write you letters, too?” he asks. As fucked up as their lives are, at least Dad is part of it.
“Does your mom?” Kennedy challenges. She starts drawing again, more a scratch than a tickle.
He stays silent, turns his attention to the room. Would his mom decorate with white flowers and sky-blue paint like Kennedy’s mom? Would she have a million cushions on the bed? Would her walls be so bare? No family photos, no paintings, nothing that adds that personal touch. This is nothing but a room to fuck in. It is not a room to share secrets in. “Got to go.”
“What?”
“Just, just got to go.” He has already pushed her off, already has his feet on the plush throw rug, already scanning the room for his boxers. This is too much. He can share his body with her, not his life. Not Mom. He doesn’t want this with Kennedy. “Ben said he has an early day today.”
Kennedy braces on her elbow.
He feels her judgment. What-the-fuck-ever. She is just a lay. “I don’t want to hook up any more.”
“What?” This time she sits up, hugs a cushion to her chest. Protection. From him? He sees the confusion in her face and hears something in her voice. Fear. Fear that he doesn’t want her. Fear that it is over. Fear that he will tell her secrets.
“I just . . . ” Just what? He doesn’t want to be with her. He doesn’t want to share with the girl he fucks. Jesus. “I don’t know. I’ve got to go.”
He finishes dressing, shoves his feet into his Pumas. He pauses in the doorway, listens to the soft rustling of sheets, her stuttering breath. He fingers the ring in his pocket, leaves without looking back.