Even Lovers Drown

“What five-year-old took a sharpie to your side?”

Blake hadn’t intended to ask Davy about his side. No, the only thing she noticed about him from across the venue hall was his lack of shirt, and she hadn’t thought anything of it. What she did care about was the redhead missing from their merch table. She meant to ask Davy where her beautiful Saylor was so she could scoop her up and bring her to the bus for her promised bunk playtime. Bunk playtime was more important than Davy’s naked torso.

But when she stopped in front of the merch table and opened her mouth to speak, the scribbled words, crooked arrows, and vaguely intelligible sketches around Davy’s tattoo interrupted her thoughts of playing with Saylor in her bunk.

The question came out before she could stop it.

“That would be me,” Saylor said, returning to the table, cardboard merchandise box cradled in her arms, two candy bars balanced on top.

As she passed him, Davy snatched one of the bars and perched on the shaky foldout table that acted as their counter, pleased smile on his face. Completely unconcerned about the sharpie markings he should have been scrubbing off his skin before the doors opened.

Saylor made those?

“What I meant was what artistic genius created a masterpiece on your body,” Blake covered, eyeing the “artwork.”

Was that supposed to be a heart?

“Cute,” Saylor said, shoving the box under the back table and turning to her, second candy bar in hand. “That’s not going to get you laid faster.”

A playful hint tinged her sultry tone. Of course, her accusation wasn’t serious. Blake didn’t need lines or fake compliments or a douche-bag rock star attitude to impress Saylor into her bunk.

And Blake didn’t just want Saylor naked in her bunk, among other areas of the venues and her apartment. She wanted her, all of her. She wanted Saylor to think about her before bed, she wanted Saylor to know how much she cared for her, she wanted to make Saylor smile, she wanted to have stupid couple inside jokes and nicknames.

She wanted Saylor to trust her enough to talk to her, to let her in so they could face their demons together.

Patience, patience.

“If I say your body’s a masterpiece, will that get me laid faster?” Blake joked.

Her body was a masterpiece.

“Just put on your old glasses and suspenders,” Davy said, “She’ll drop her panties faster than one of your ex-groupies.”

Blake looked at him, brows raised in amusement, then back at Saylor, whose green eyes were wide and her jaw slacked. Smirking, she leaned against the table. She’d don her old high school attire for Saylor, role-play an over sexualized version of her school experience.

Saylor had to wear a cheerleading uniform in return.

It was only fair.

“Don’t give me that look,” Saylor said.

“What look?” Blake asked.

“You know what look.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She knew exactly what she was talking about.

“I think she means the one that looks like you’re about to tear her apart or dig in your luggage for you suspenders and glasses so she’ll tear you apart,” Davy said, “Read a chemistry book while you’re at it. She’ll go wild.”

“Shut the fuck up and eat your candy, Davy,” Saylor snapped.

She would throttle him in his sleep if he continued to talk about her non-existent fetish. Her attraction to nerds was simply that, an attraction, not a fetish. They were just cute and smart and were willing to learn in bed.

Well, some were, the ones she dated in high school. Katie was gorgeous, brilliant, and less willing to touch Saylor the longer they stayed together. Katie didn’t count.

“Nerd fetish,” her brother sang under his breath.

And Blake laughed, melodious chime more amused than taunting. She seemed to enjoy their occasional sibling banter, wasn’t offended that she—and their recently started sex life—was the center of their conversation. Katie would have been furious, regardless of what her friends said about their sexual escapades. Davy making jokes was never appropriate.

The insinuation that she had been a nerd didn’t seem to be bothering her either, not the way it did when Sage let the fact slip. She was at ease under the title, maybe beginning to embrace it.

Smug, Davy tore open his candy bar, a KitKat, and took a large bite. Right out of the center.

“What are you doing?” Blake asked, blue eyes trained on the injured candy, her amusement falling into horror.

“Eating,” Davy said through a mouthful of chocolate.

“Didn’t your parents teach you how to eat a KitKat?”

Funny, Davy’s methods of eating the candy meant to be broken apart always bothered Saylor, too. When they were kids. She tried to teach him the right way to eat the candy but she learned ignoring him was best.

“There’s no right way to eat candy.”

“There is when you eat a KitKat.”

“Look at all the fucks I give.” He took another bite without breaking off one of the perforated bars.

“Oh my God.”

Sage, ornamented in her performance attire and makeup, walked up to the table, appeared almost magically in Saylor’s distracted state. Taking no notice of the inappropriately eaten candy in Davy’s hand, she nodded a greeting at him, which he returned while biting his chocolate, and one at Blake, whose stricken stare was trained on Davy.

“What’s wrong with you?” Sage asked.

“He’s committing a crime against candy.”

Eyebrows drawn, she looked to Davy for confirmation, or to make sense of Blake’s overdramatic accusation. He waved his KitKat, showing off the bite marks. Her expression didn’t morph in horror or irritation, only relaxed with lack of care.

She shrugged. “Get Andy to lock him up.”

Blake’s jaw dropped. “I’m not rewarding him.”

“Oh, no, I would hate that,” Davy said, tone sarcasm laden. “Don’t let Andy tie me down. That would show me.”

Sage rolled her eyes, shook her head, acknowledgement of her friends’ ridiculous behavior, and walked around the table-counter of the merch booth, gracefully leaving the argument. Saylor’s attention focused on her, her pulse an anxious flutter as Sage stopped in front of her, the volley of insults between Davy and Blake lost on her ears.

Sage didn’t come to the merch table to harass Davy. She didn’t come to the merch table to drag Blake backstage to get dressed. She came to talk to Saylor. And if she was coming to talk to Saylor, sought her out before the show, what she wanted to talk about was likely to focus on what she hadn’t told Blake yet. Her abuse. Katie. To see how she was. And Blake was standing mere feet away.

How frightening a realization.

“While they’re distracted,” Sage began, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a business card.

She handed the card to Saylor, and Saylor took it between hesitant fingertips. Her eyes dragged over the printed words, then met Sage’s again.

“This is Andy’s business card,” Saylor said.

“Yeah, I,” Sage paused, “borrowed a stack. But on the back.” She took the card, flipped it over, and placed it back in Saylor’s fingers. Elegant script adorned the back, a flourish of words that belonged in an art museum.

Was everything Sage did that perfect?

When she spoke again, her voice dropped to a whisper. “I wrote down the name and e-mail for the support group I’m with back home. For abuse victims.”

Another round of group therapy. The one her therapist offered her—forced her to go to—hadn’t helped. Saylor didn’t want to talk to strangers, who didn’t understand, under the watchful eye of therapist, who shoved words into her mouth.

“I don’t—“

“It’s really informal,” Sage cut her off, “No therapists. No stuffy conference rooms. We meet at each other’s houses, coffee shops, the park. Sometimes, we go out to eat or get drinks together. It’s helped me a lot. I thought it might help you, too.”

Heartfelt emotion glossed Sage’s green eyes. She was trying to help, trying to lead Saylor in positive directions on her road to recovery.

Maybe, this wouldn’t be like her failed group therapy sessions. Maybe, she would make new friends. Real friends again. Who wouldn’t judge her. Who could help her. And she could help them.

“My cell numbers there, too,” Sage continued, “Call me, text me, whatever, if you’re having a rough day or if Blake doesn’t realize she’s being inconsiderate or if you just want to rejoice in doing something you haven’t done since… well… you know.”

Tears stung Saylor’s eyes, her emotions a hectic clash of giddy excitement and overwhelming optimism.

“Thank you.”