It was December. And I remember it was December because of the way the snow felt against my skin. Soft, at first, and then sharp, like a bite, later.
I remember how hard my fingers got, numb after the first hour. I blew air into them but it became impossible after a while, the air was already cold before it reached my palms.
The red and blue Christmas lights twinkled from the Killians house next door, and every time I looked at the red door I considered knocking, asking for just one cup of tea. Anything.
But I knew my father was watching, the curtains ruffled every few minutes. I stayed put.
I was 13 at the time, and we were still in Carpen. My father still worked at the old Maritime company, my mother shelving books at the library. It started like this.
We were watching soccer, everyone gathered around our small TV. Mom standing in the doorway pouting like she didn't enjoy it. One of those rare moments when we almost seemed like a normal family.
It was warm inside and everything moved slow and perfect. Until I spoiled it.
It was during the first-half break, Jotham went into the kitchen for a glass of water, and I followed him, wanting to tell him something that had been bothering me all week.
"Jotham."
He barely glanced at me. Something pushed me to continue.
"I had a weird dream the other day."
He turned to face me completely, his face reflecting his annoyance. "And why are you telling me this?"
"I woke up.. with a stain in my shorts—"
He almost fell to the floor laughing. "You little faggot." Those days he called everyone a faggot, it was nothing personal.
"What was the dream about?"
"Well first there was a boy… " His eyes danced with mirth. Why did I say that?
He walked out, leaving me confused. Shaking.
The next thing I heard was my father's voice, rough. "Liam!"
And it was at this moment I knew I had fucked up.
Everything after that happened so fast. The first slap (I saw stars for the first time in my life). A kick to my groin before I could protect myself.
My mother's screaming—which stopped abruptly, after my father shouted at her to shut the hell up. My brother rubbing his hands together like a cartoon villain, how loud the door slammed.
My father, almost foaming at the mouth, stumbling out profanities. You knew he was at the highest point of his anger when he started stuttering.
And then, silence.
I was out till the clouds grew dark, and the moon hung over the sky. Standing under the Mulberry tree.
"Liam!"
And I'm pulled out of the memory as fast as I was pulled in.
He looks at me, eyes squinted, then finally he leaves. I go to close the window, feeling cold out of nowhere.
Jasmine's voice through the speaker: "Are you still coming?"
"Yes," I say, and I start changing into more comfortable clothes. She remains on the line, the sound of our breaths keeping us company.
I keep reliving that moment, the door banging shut. The sudden cold.
I leave through my window.
I find Jasmine curled up in her bed, squeezing the life out of at least two pillows. Blonde hair scattered, mascara running.
I go to her, tiptoeing around her clothes strewn along the floor, and holding her is so easy, effortless. Tucking a stray lock of her hair in, I look into her eyes before saying, "Tell me everything, Jazz."
"So… this morning—" She sniffles, looking away for a moment before looking back at me. When I nod, she continues. "When I woke up this morning he was gone, and my mother was in the—"
She interrupts herself with the smallest sigh.
"I don't want to talk about it yet, William." And I think about how she only ever calls me William when she's sad. She touches my face, tracing an invisible line.
I want to kiss her sadness away. Her lips are so beautiful.
So I kiss her. She responds feverishly, her fingers twitching at my zip. Straddling me. Baring her breasts. Putting one nipple into my mouth as she grinds me, slowly. I hold her waist with one hand, taking my other hand lower. Her breath is mine.
My phone rings. Startling the two of us, her more than me.
I want to let it ring, but the sound is grating. I switch off my phone after looking at the Caller ID. Timothy.
She starts kissing me again. But the momentum is lost.
Why was Tim calling?
Her hand snakes around my shoulders, my chest. Soft and careful.
Tim's hand was calloused, easily swallowing mine.
My mind takes me down the darkest road as she starts kissing my neck. I imagine his lips, his laugh.
I close my eyes. The slope of his arms around my chair yesterday. I open my eyes and her face blurs for a split second. "You good, babe?"
"Why?" I ask.
I feel everything and nothing all at once.
I take the lead and flip her over, so that I am on top of her.
My body has betrayed me.
I break from the kiss and go lower. The nape of her neck. Her stomach. Lower.
I'm in the back row again, laughing at the bad acting of the teens in the Youth Program. The title of the drama was "For The Master's Use."
Jasmine's moans get louder. More desperate.
I can't wait to see him tomorrow.