Have Me Forever by Ally Blythe

1

Elias

“You said your dad will be gone all weekend, right, Ang?” our friend Thomas asks, leaning over his girlfriend, Violet.

Ang props an elbow on my knee, glancing at Tom. She waggles her eyebrows. “Yeah. He left last week and won’t be back till Sunday. He’s got some stupid conference. Something about some dead author and how the writing is symbolic for—”

Tom cuts her off, pretending to snore. “Sounds boring as hell.”

She laughs as if it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. “Yeah. Glad you cut me off, that’s all I can remember. He’s told me at least six times but, yeah. It’s boring.”

It’s the International Authors’ Convention, and he goes every February. I want to say as much, but I bite my tongue instead. I don’t need to butt in on the conversation. This is his third trip, and he always comes back so excited, ready to talk about the authors he’s met, and books he thinks Ang would enjoy. Unfortunately, she hates reading, so he’s stopped telling her about them. This past year, he came back and gave me a few recommendations. He tripped over his words at first, maybe worried I might react like Angel, but I was happy to have more books to read. I went to the on-campus library soon after and it had most of the recommendations Mr. Baker gave me. I’ve always thought it was funny how much he gushed about others because he’s a published author himself. He nerds out and acts like a superfan, when thousands of fans would kill to meet him.

Ang is more of a physical person, playing softball and basketball, swimming—pretty much anything that keeps her active. It’s part of the reason Mr. Baker had a heat pump installed in the pool. He wanted Ang to have the option of swimming any time of the year, even during the winter in Southern California. I haven’t seen her use it this winter, she prefers to spend most of her time partying with friends, but it makes days like today nice. It’s a brisk and sunny sixty degrees. Most people are floating around the pool, warm despite the cool air, and some of us are relaxing in chairs nearby.

“Guess what that means…” Tom says while pulling a bag out of his pocket. Ang claps her hands, excitement lighting her eyes as he pulls out a few rolled joints. She grabs one, twisting it between her fingers as he lights the end.

I tense as the smoke plumes around me. If my parents smell that stuff on me, I’ll be in so much trouble. I may live on campus now, but they drop by unannounced often, and make me go home at least three times a week. I haven’t seen them in two days, so I’m expecting them to drop by my dorm sometime this evening or early tomorrow. They have the strict, overbearing parent thing down to a science. That hasn’t changed even though I’m living on campus. I don’t want to imagine the punishment if they found out. I’m a sophomore in college, older than the rest of my class, but I might as well be ten. That’s how they treat me.

I took a year off to visit relatives in Mexico City last year, where I helped local churches and spent a year with my father’s family, who were almost as controlling. Wherever I went, my parents kept tabs on me, which made parties like this inconvenient. It’s also why Ang cares more about partying now, I think. She wasn’t happy when I left because our relationship was so new, even though we’d been friends since childhood. Despite the distance, we stayed together, though she got lonely a lot and partying was her way of meeting new people. It strengthened us in the long run, making me certain I’d found the one, just like mi padre and Mama.

Despite that knowledge, the idea of getting caught partying makes me nervous. My parents would kick my ass. I’d prefer to hang out with her one-on-one, but that’s been hard lately because she’s so busy. “Come on, guys. We’re already drinking. Do we need to smoke too?”

Ang rolls her eyes and shoves my shoulder with hers. “You mean we’re drinking, and you’re pretending to drink?” I squeeze her hand where it’s resting on my leg to get her attention.

When she looks at me, I mouth, “What the hell?” She rolls her eyes again like it’s no big deal. It is to me. I’ve already drunk one beer because Ang told me I was being uptight, and she was right. It’s already swimming through my head because I’m a lightweight. I need to have the ability to get home tonight, and if our friends notice I’m not drinking, they won’t let it go until I give in. More beer, shots, anything they can find. I’m lucky my parents let me come here at all, and drinking heavily would put an end to that.

It’s no secret they don’t like Mr. Baker, Ang’s father. After her parents’ divorce, mine sided with her mother, Debbie, which was convenient because Ang ended up living with her and we could keep hanging out. Where Mrs. Baker was also strict, Mr. Baker let us be ourselves and take risks, as long as we were safe while doing it. I didn’t know if it was in hopes that Ang would be more open with him, or something else entirely. He was a teen when he had her, so maybe he thought this was better than being strict. It was certainly more enjoyable than how my parents ran their house.

Ang only lives with her father now because her mother is traveling the world with her boyfriend. They thought it would be too hard to travel with a teen, and it was pointless to take her along at the time, because she was starting college. Even though it’s been a few years, they rarely return home. I think Ang has only seen her a handful of times since.

Originally, Ang wanted to live on campus because she didn’t know her dad back then, but he made a deal with her: he would pay for anything she needed at school, tuition included, if she lived at home with him. She thinks, even now, it’s because he wants to control her and stick it to her mom. I think he wants to get to know her again, which she doesn’t always make easy.

My stream of thought is cut off as someone shoves a joint into my hand. “Stop being such a pussy, Eli,” Tag yells, bobbing in the water. I swear under my breath as I pinch it between my fingers, a flicker of annoyance vibrating under my skin. Also, would it hurt Tag to be less offensive? I hate when people use that term. It’s overused and sexist.

Tom snorts at Tag’s comment and I cringe. “You know how offensive that is, right? I don’t care if you call me names, but you could at least be a bit more creative. Less sexist.” A collective groan echoes around the pool, except for Vi, who doesn’t join in.

My girlfriend’s annoyed groan is the loudest as she pinches her face. I get it—I’m not the coolest. I don’t drink, I don’t do drugs, and I try my best to not offend others. I am who I am, and I’m fine with that. I pass the joint to Ang and she takes a hit, exhaling the smoke with a carefree smile on her face.

“Okay, how about this? You’re a pansy. Does that work better for you?” Tom adds, helping Tag. God, I have the worst friends sometimes. No, it’s no better, and he damn well knows it.

I run a hand through my hair, leaning forward, ready to respond when I see that look from Ang. The one that means I need to shut up or face her wrath. It’s somewhere I don’t like to be, so I keep my mouth shut.

“He’ll try it,” she answers for me. Then, she leans close to my ear. “Just stay here. If they ask where you were, say you had to stay at the library late studying and you’ll go over tomorrow.”

I shake my head. I’m pretty sure they track my phone if I don’t respond to them or let them into my dorm. They have an app set up to spy on me whenever they want. “They’re going to stop over tonight. I need to be back at the dorms.” I pitch my voice low, making sure no one else in the group can hear me.

“Please. I’ll do something for you… later. If you try this for me,” she says with a suggestive smile. I hate saying no to her, bribe or not, and I want to make her happy. I know I shouldn’t, but I’m human.

I grab the joint again, the tip sending up a lone tendril of smoke.

Before I take a drag, I hear a noise. “Do you guys hear that?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, take a hit, man,” Tag yells from the heated pool as he snakes his arm around a girl. I think her name is Dana? Everyone chants, “Do it, do it, do it” so I take a drag before passing it back to Ang.

The noise has to be my paranoia. My parents wouldn’t come here looking for me. I think. I hold it in for a few seconds, doing my best not to cough.

As I exhale, I hear a few of our friends gasp. I follow their line of sight, frozen, praying to God it’s not my parents.

“Angel, I’m home.” A deep, rumbling voice echoes through the crowd. Hell. Why is Mr. Baker home already? He’s never returned from the conference early. An uncomfortable swirling sensation starts in my stomach causing me to squirm in my seat, which catches his eye. I have to keep reminding myself he’s cool, nothing like my parents. He won’t get mad that I smoked some pot. And that we’re drinking.

Ang looks at him, annoyed by the interruption. “What are you doing home early?” She passes me the joint, and like an idiot, I hide it behind my back. I’m certain he catches the movement because his weighted gaze flicks to my hand, then back, his lips tilting up in a hint of a smile. I wince in response. Logically, I know he doesn’t care, but all my instincts are screaming at me to hide, lie, seem as innocent as possible.

I look around, everyone frozen to the spot, uncertain how he might react. It seems like everyone’s feeling the same way. No one besides me and Vi has met Mr. Baker outside of the classroom so it makes sense why they’re nervous.

Vi is Ang’s best friend, so she’s here almost as often as me, but Ang only invites the rest of the group over when he’s gone. Considering half of them only know him as their professor, a strict but fair one, I’m sure they’re ready to shit their pants.

“I had to come home for a meeting with my agent. Are you having fun?”

“Dad.” She shoots daggers at him, tilting her head in the universal signal to get lost.

He puts his hands up in surrender. “Alright, I’m going. Have fun, be safe. I’m going to order some pizza.” He looks at the crowd. “I’ll order enough for everyone.”

“Great.”

He steps closer to her, lowering his voice, intending the rest of the conversation only for her. I’m close enough to hear it, though. “Everyone’s staying here, right? No drinking and driving.”

“I know the rules, Dad.” She rolls her eyes.

“Okay. Just making sure. Have fun, sweetheart.” He squeezes her shoulder, and she shrugs it off, rubbing his touch away. What I wouldn’t give to have my parents be this cool. “I’ll let you know when the food’s here.”

“Yeah, sure.”

He faces me again, “Eli, hope you’re doing well?”

“Dad.”

His eyes flick to his daughter, his jaw tensing. “Okay. I’m going.” He makes his way back into the house, leaving everyone in stunned silence.

“Damn, I wish my dad was that cool,” Anders calls out from the hot tub. A few mumbled agreements circle the group.

“Where have you been hiding Daddy, Ang?” Dana asks as she fans herself, Tag’s arm still wrapped around her. Ang glares at her and Tag makes a disgruntled noise. Dana isn’t wrong. Mr. Baker is young and handsome, objectively speaking. He had Angel as a teenager, so he’s already younger than most of our parents. He could pass for twenty-six, except for when he smiles. Whenever he smiles, lines crease his eyes from years of laughter. Or so I’ve been told by his female students. I wouldn’t notice something like that myself.

Ang snaps. “Shut your fucking mouth, Dana.”

Dana says something snarky back, which seems to relax everyone but me. I get this itching, unsettled feeling under my skin, like if I don’t move right now, I’m going to go insane. I can’t tell if it’s the weed or getting caught, but I can’t sit still. “Ang, I need to walk. I have this like… I don’t know how to describe it. Does weed make you paranoid?”

She doesn’t respond, too caught up in a story Tom’s telling. “Ang.” I tug on her arm, but she bats my hand away. “Ang.”

“What? Oh my God. You’re being so annoying.”

“I feel like I’m going out of my skin. Does weed do that?”

“No. Take another hit, it’ll relax you.”

“Okay.” I do, then pass it back to her.

I wait for the sensation to go away. I check my phone, fifteen minutes pass, then thirty, and I still feel that sensation under my skin. “Fuck,” I whisper under my breath. I need to move.

My cursing and the shifting of my legs must grab her attention. She rolls her eyes, shoving my beer into my hand. “You’ll be fine. Drink this, it’ll help.” I’m not a doctor, but that definitely doesn’t seem right. Turning to Ang to say as much, I notice she’s already listening to Tom again.

I try it anyway. She knows better than I do. I take a sip, hating the taste. It’s cheap and warm, making it so much worse. My stomach lurches, feeling the effects of the nasty, warm liquid. My skin feels overheated as I look around, wondering if anyone else is feeling this way. They all seem fine. Maybe water will help? Getting to my feet, I tell her where I’m going, and shrug when she doesn’t respond, not wanting to wait for her acknowledgement.

I take a step forward, a wave of nausea rolling through me. Mierda, I might be sick. I walk to the kitchen in search of a cup. My stomach lurches again as I grab one out of the cabinet.

I flinch as something lands on my shoulder. A hand. I turn too quickly, my stomach churning angrily as my surroundings tilt. I close my eyes, trying to swallow down the bile, the hand a weight steadying me as my mind swims.

“Elias?” The hand shakes my shoulder, rocking me like I’m on a boat, back and forth. Oh no. Stop. I attempt to say that, but I don’t know if I manage. If I open my mouth, I… I think I’m going to throw up.

I try to turn to the sink as my stomach cramps, the only warning I get. Bile rises, burning past my throat. I heave, expelling the contents of my stomach with angry abandon.

“Fuck,” the voice mutters. Two warm points brace my shoulders, steadying me as I continue to heave.

When I empty the last of my stomach, my eyes pop open, making me feel significantly better, but then I realize who I’ve thrown up all over. My face heats, as I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to will everything away. It doesn’t work. The acrid scent of puke wafts through the air. Powerful enough I can’t ignore it. Mierda. I reluctantly open my eyes, and I’m met with a concerned, stormy blue gaze and high cheekbones. “Hey, are you okay?”

I shake my head. “I’m so sorry. That’s so fu—Ehm, so embarrassing.” I stare ahead, not meeting his eyes. Instead, I stare at his forehead, catching sight of a brown curl that falls out of place as he nods to acknowledge my words. My hand twitches, reaching out to push back the curl, but I miss as I’m manhandled into a seat.

A long sigh leaves bowed, demanding lips. The kind of mouth that’s used to getting what it wants. I bolt upright at the thought. Fuck, where did that come from? What a weird thing to think. Then, that same mouth tells me it will take time to feel better. “Try to drink some water. Don’t move if you can help it, okay?”

I stay silent, accepting the command.