Drowning Is Inevitable (12 page)

I looked up to see Max standing down the street, a whiskey bottle hanging from his hand. He was officially off the wagon, and it no longer mattered. The world as I knew it was over, so who cared if Max had a drink? His face was tired and sad. I didn't have to be a lawyer's son to know the journals showed intent, and if we went home, it was certain Jamie would be tried for murder. I tried not to think of what that meant for the rest of us.

I closed my eyes and imagined St. Francisville, recalling every little detail, from the way the moss hung in the trees to the way the sun felt when you stood next to the river to the feel of the slope of my grandmother's backyard under my feet. You never knew when you were going to see someone or someplace for the last time.

When we walked back to the house, Max offered the bottle to Jamie, and Jamie surprised me by taking it. Maggie was sitting on the front steps. She stood as we walked up the steps to the front porch swing. Jamie and I sat down.

“Everyone's gone across the street to help the band set up,” she said. “Steven said we could sneak in the back if we wanted to see the show.” She pointed at the alley that ran next to the bar. There was a side door.

“Not now,” I said.

She looked at me and could tell something was very wrong, because her face dropped. When Max stepped up onto the porch, he opened his mouth to tell us his dad's news, only barely parting his lips, but that was all the room his dad's words needed to seep out and up into the air. They rose high above us before hitting the roof of the porch and falling down on us.

I didn't want the words to enter my head, so they hung outside my body in a whisper that played over and over again.
Intent, first degree, change of venue, life sentence, death sentence, accessories, plea deals …
I was angry at the last one, because there were no deals being offered to Jamie. They were reserved for Max, Maggie, and even me, but not Jamie. If we went home, Jamie would be judged, tried, and sentenced by strangers who didn't know the monster his dad was, strangers I wouldn't be allowed to get close to so I could explain that Jamie was still a boy.

“With the journals, the DA's office is pushing for a first-degree murder charge,” Max said. “My dad says he can get it down to second degree with a plea. If you agree to the plea deal, then the death penalty is off the table. My dad can make sure you're not sent to Angola.”

Angola, Louisiana's state prison, where 90 percent of inmates died behind the walls. Even if Max's dad could make it so Jamie wasn't sent there, he'd still be sent somewhere to wait until he died, because even a second-degree murder conviction carried a mandatory life sentence, something we all learned in our Louisiana government class. A life sentence in Louisiana was just that.

Max's dad, who was using his power and position, trading in every favor to separate his son's fate from Jamie's, had convinced them that because we weren't mentioned in Jamie's journals, this wasn't a conspiracy. He'd even convinced them that we weren't accessories, just caught up in teenage instincts, flawed friendships, and poor judgment.

“If you don't take the plea, you can take your chance with a jury,” Max said. “But then all bets are off.”

At first Max spoke confidently, but as he continued, the words tripped out of his mouth, like he was only now hearing them. He was only now realizing there were things worse than death.

Apparently Louisiana wouldn't be understanding or forgiving, but instead required Jamie to trade his life for his dad's in some way or another.

“Tell your dad thank you,” Jamie said, “but I won't need a deal.” He got up and handed Max the whiskey bottle, then walked down the front porch steps. He turned back to us. “I'm not going home.” He walked across the street and then down the alley, before disappearing through the side door of the Maple Leaf.

Max stood and turned to me, his face deflated, the lines in his forehead making him look much older. There was fear in his face as well, like he was afraid I blamed him for being the one to tell Jamie his dad's news, that I blamed him for not being able to save us. Part of me wanted to go to him and make him feel better, to tell him all of this was out of his control—a hard concept for someone like Max to understand.

“Olivia—” he said.

I sighed. “I'm not leaving him.”

“Jamie's dad was a bastard who deserved what he got,” Max said. “If Jamie goes home, he'll go down for it. I get why he wouldn't want to go home. But not you. My dad can make it so we don't go to jail. We'll have community service and records, but we won't do time.”

“You don't know everything. You don't know what I did.”

“What do you mean? What'd you do?” he asked.

“I hit him with a skillet.”

Max just stared at me, like he was waiting for me to make sense.

“They were fighting. Jamie had a knife. His dad lunged at Jamie and I tried to stop Mr. Benton. I hit him in the head with a skillet.”

Max gaped. I didn't take that as a good sign. He recovered and said, “You hurt him. You didn't kill him.” It was the same argument Jamie had made. “My dad didn't say anything about a skillet.”

“But it'll come up. Won't they do an autopsy? It'll show a head trauma.”

“Why can't Jamie have done that, too? They were fighting. Jamie hit his dad with the skillet. He grabbed the knife. He stabbed him. End of story,” Max said.

“But Jamie's mom was there. She saw.”

“She's not talking to anyone. She's not saying anything. My dad says she's traumatized or something.”

“My fingerprints are in the kitchen, they're on the skillet,” I countered.

“Jamie invited you over for dinner. My dad can say you were helping Jamie's mom cook.” He paced on the porch. “This doesn't have to be your crime. You can come home.”

Max sounded almost hopeful, like he'd found a way out for me. I hated to crush his hope.

I guess he could tell from my expression what I was about to say, because he twisted his face up. “Olivia—”

“No,” I said. Jamie hated being alone. Whatever Jamie's fate was, it'd be mine, too. “I'm not leaving him,” I repeated.

“Of course you're not,” he said.

Where does that leave you and Maggie?
I thought it, but didn't say it; I already knew what the answer should be, what it needed to be. I needed to let them go home, back to their lives.

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“Don't be. I should have known better. If it's a choice between him and me, I always know who you'll choose.”

“Max—”

“I know you love him, and I know it's different from the way you feel about me.” He started pacing on the porch again, his hands going to his hair. “I know I shouldn't be jealous of him, but I am. I'm so fucking jealous of him.”

“No, don't—”

“He has you. You're only on loan to me. Everybody knows you're his girl.”

“It's not like that,” I said.

“I know. I know it's not like that. You know what I mean.”

“You're drunk.”

“Yeah, I am. That doesn't make what I said not true.”

“I can't talk about this right now,” I said.

“When do you want to talk about it?”

I wanted to say never, but I stayed quiet.

“I hate you sometimes,” he whispered.

I knew that, too. I looked over at Maggie, who'd stopped moving after Jamie went across the street. She didn't look over at me, didn't act like she'd heard anything we'd said. She just stared in the direction that Jamie went. I called her name, but there was no response. It was like she was stuck, her body not able to absorb what was happening around her. I wanted to go to her, to hold her, or hug her, to help her understand what was happening. But I needed the practice in walking away from her, so I followed Jamie's steps across the street.

I looked back at the porch once I got to the bar. Max was talking to Maggie, but her eyes were on me. He was wringing his hands as he no doubt explained to her the deals dividing us, and she kept shaking her head. I knew that, like all of us, she'd been holding on to the dream that the stakes weren't this high, that we'd be allowed to go home together; that somehow, we wouldn't be punished.

I turned from them and slipped through the side door. The band was on stage, tweaking their instruments. “Check one. Check two,” Steven said into the microphone. My eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room. The crowd was already standing and swaying, their bodies moving in anticipation of the music they knew was coming. I looked around for Jamie. He was sitting at a table. We locked eyes.

“Here.” Luke appeared next to me and handed me a shot glass. “You look like you could use one,” he said.

I needed something. Maybe this was it. Jamie was looking at me with a question in his eyes.
Do you need my help?
they asked. I shook my head. I didn't need him to defend me from this strange boy.

The liquid was pale yellow. I didn't know what it was, and I didn't care. I slammed it back and forced myself to swallow.

“Thanks,” I said.

“No problem,” he said and disappeared into the crowd.

Jamie was still staring at me.

“I'm okay,” I mouthed.

He nodded and turned to face the stage.

A few minutes later, Maggie and Max walked into the bar. Maggie and I had so much to say to each other, but I could tell she didn't want to talk now. Neither did I. She went to sit on a bar stool near the entrance, looking carefully into the faces of the people coming in. Maybe one of them would be her mom. She tried to look aloof as she studied each person, but she mostly looked vulnerable.

Max had followed me to the back of the bar, where I could keep everyone in sight. I didn't want any more surprises today.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“Me too. Do you still hate me?” I asked.

“A little.”

“I don't want you to be mad at me,” I said.

“I'm not mad.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Okay, I'm mad. But not at you. Not at him. Just at the situation.”

Max pulled me into his arms and buried his face in my neck. “I'll help you,” he whispered into my hair.

I put my arms around him, hugging him tight. I needed Max's help, even if it wasn't fair of me to take it. I had guilt stacked upon guilt. I didn't deserve him.

“You break my heart every day,” he said. “Loving you hurts so much.” He squeezed me tighter to him. “I'll help you leave me. Whatever you need. Me and Maggie won't turn ourselves in until you and Jamie can get away safe.”

I knew it wouldn't be that simple, that he wouldn't make it easy to leave him, but I said, “Thank you.”

He reached out to brush my cheek, touching the spot he'd kissed earlier. “You're welcome.”

I planned on staying hidden at the back of the bar, but when the music started I found myself moving toward the stage with the crowd, my body drawn closer to the sounds. Max followed. I wanted him to come closer. I stopped abruptly, making his body almost touch mine. He still smelled like home. I missed home so much. I leaned back into him, laying my head back. His hands were on my stomach, pulling me tighter against him. He dipped his head down, his mouth brushing my neck. He kissed my shoulder. I thought he'd turn me around to face him, but he didn't. He just held me to him, pressing his face into my hair and inhaling, making me wonder if I smelled like home, too.

I closed my eyes and then turned to face him. I already missed him, so I reached for him, pulling his face down to mine. Our lips touched, and I tasted whiskey. The alcohol tasted sweeter on his tongue. My body sagged into his, and I allowed him into my bloodstream.

I was drunk from the shot and Max's kiss. His eyes were heated and his hands were everywhere. My breath came fast, and I felt desperate. I reached for his face again, because I wanted more, more of him and more time. I plastered myself to him, sealing my lips to his. Max pulled me even closer. I raised up on tiptoe. I might climb him. The song ended, and the crowd applauded. For a second I thought it was for us. I pulled away, and my lips felt bruised.

“Goddamn,” Max said quietly.

Luke came up to us, his hands full. He offered me another shot. The look on Max's face said he didn't appreciate being interrupted. I took it without saying anything. That one went down easier. I was getting better at it.

“Is that tequila?” Max asked.

“Yeah, you want one?” Luke held up the other shot glass, but Max shook his head.

The band started a new song, apparently a crowd favorite because people started yelling and whistling. I turned to see Jamie still watching the band. Then, as if he felt me watching him, he turned his head to me. His confession hung heavy in the air between us.
For so many years I just watched. … I watched him hurt her, but he never hit me. He'd walk past me like I wasn't even there.

“I'll take it,” I said to Luke, who was still standing there, looking at the band.

I wasn't sure what I was doing, I just knew I wanted to forget our troubles and be someone else for a little while. This shot didn't go down as easy as the others. Jamie was still watching me.
I wrote about killing that prick every day for the last two years.
Swaying on the floor, I put my head down. I concentrated on breathing. Max's hands were on my back, rubbing up and down.

“I think you need to slow down,” he whispered, his lips at my ear.

Eyes closed, I shook my head. There was no time to slow down, and I didn't want to.

I reached out and squeezed his hand. The music was louder now, pulsing in my ears, delta blues spliced with zydeco. I wanted to get closer to it, to help drown out the sound of Jamie's words in my head, but there were too many people. Turning around, I bumped into a table. I pushed the chair back and used it to climb on top of the table, knocking over a glass. Max grabbed my legs, steadying me.