Heartbreaker Read Free

into the water.
    You have a grout problem, she says, shaving her legs with his razor. It’s missing in a lot of places.
    Mm, he says.
    Will you wash my hair?
    He stares. Why?
    She stares back, then shrugs. Nicer that way.
    Scratching his jaw he sighs. Close your eyes, he says, and kneels beside the tub.
    She leans forward, her chin on her knees. He scrubs shampoo in circles over her head, his thumbs hard against her scalp. He does the conditioner, then puts one hand on her forehead and the other on the back of her neck and lays her down flat in the gray water.
    Rinse, he says, the ceiling light bright behind his head. From beneath the water she looks straight up into his face. When she is finished he squeezes her hair into a rope that drips over her shoulder.
    You’re all set, he says.
    As she gets out of the tub water slops over the porcelain and onto the floor. She stands in front of him, water slowing in the hair between her legs. He reaches up to touch her face. She opens her lips and he pushes two fingers past them and as she closes her eyes she thinks, Now. But she is wrong.
    *   *   *
    Because she wins the next night’s game of Rummy she is allowed to have one beer.
    Toast me, she says, lying next to him on the living-room rug. She tips the neck of her bottle toward his.
    No chance, he says. You cheated.
    She laughs and forces the lip of her beer into his. When she is finished drinking she turns toward him, propping herself up on her elbow, her fist against her cheek.
    So where do you work? she asks.
    Slaughterhouse.
    Oh, she says. She can’t tell whether he is joking or not. Do you have a girlfriend?
    He shakes his head.
    Why not?
    He shrugs. Just don’t.
    You have me, though.
    He grunts, taking a long swallow of beer. She scoots closer to him.
    Your hair is in my face, he says. She leans down to kiss him and he kisses her back. She tastes alcohol and that night’s spaghetti sauce. His eyes are closed for a moment but when she lifts her leg and spreads it over his hip, reaching for the zipper on his jeans, he puts his hand on her chest.
    Stop, he says, sitting up.
    Why?
    Because.
    Don’t you like me?
    I like you, he says, rubbing his eyebrows. I like you.
    Why, then? Why not?
    He gets up and takes the bottles to the kitchen, throwing them into the trash so hard they crack. She follows him in, hands on her hips, and he turns to her and says Don’t you know anyone who doesn’t want to fuck you?
    She flinches. You’re the one who brought me here! she shouts. We do the same things every day and you never want to go anywhere and I have to lie down in your stupid truck on the floor and you make me—
    I don’t make you do anything, he cuts in, flinging the back door open. You want to go? Get out.
    Fuck you! she screams, kicking the door shut so hard the windows rattle in their frames. His face twitches.
    What’s wrong with you? she says. He looks away.
    It’s late. You should go to bed.
    Would you stop telling me what to do?
    *   *   *
    Early the next morning she goes to his room. He is lying on his side beneath the sheets, one rough cheek resting on his bicep. Everywhere there is cracking plaster, more bookshelves, the painted dresser with its drawers shut tight. Water and a cluster of keys stand on a little table beside his bed. Everything feels familiar to her but also strange, because she sees so clearly the pieces but not how they fit together.
    Come here, he says.
    I thought you were sleeping.
    No. I don’t sleep very well.
    She shuffles toward him until the backs of her hands brush against the mattress. He makes room for her and she lies on her side next to him, her breasts chafing against her T-shirt.
    He touches her eyebrow with his thumb. I’m sorry I made you lie in the back of the truck.
    It’s okay. She tries to look him in the eye but she can’t.
    Go to sleep, he says, and somehow she