I Know What Sin Is

Chapter 32

The breeze was a killer.

The night air had already proven to be freezing here, but every couple of minutes this awful, bone-chilling breeze would sweep in and make me regret ever leaving my room.

We sat in the field across from campus, on a grassy hill where I could see the sun almost fully set in the distance. Soon street lights would flick on for the students walking home late and after that, if you were still outside you might just get eaten by native Indiana coyotes.

"Damnit," I muttered, pressing down on the side button of my phone again. "I thought I charged this thing."

"Who needs phones anyway?" Michael's eyes were red and unfocused. "We should all go back to the good old days. No phones. No internet. Living off the land."

I pictured Michael as an old farmer, dressed in some dirty overalls and boots. "You're weird," I said. He sipped his beer, staring at something in the distance. He'd grabbed two bottles on our way here, and out of courtesy I'd forced myself to endure a mouthful. I looked at my bottle then tossed it out into the grass.

Michael smirked. "Great throw, Benny."

"Shut up."

He laughed and tilted his head back to take another swig, making the remaining beer slosh inside the bottle.

"You sound like my dad. Walking around with his fucking can of beer and his fucking gut hanging out and saying, Why don't you ever go outside?" I muttered, adopting a scratchy voice. "Throw a football around like a normal boy?"

His smile dimmed. I twisted my loose shoelace between two fingers, begging myself to shut up.

Why would I want to talk to him anyway? The guy whose emotions ranged from happy to hungry to horny, and openly admitted to not putting thought into anything? Stupid.

I looked over, and Michael was studying my face carefully.

"You live with him?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"Where's your mom at?"

I tried to staunch the panic blooming inside my chest. Michael wasn't some counselor bothering me about a black eye or asking why I jumped every time the door opened unexpectedly. He was just making conversation and I could tell any lie I wanted and nothing would happen to me.

Or I could tell the truth, and nothing would happen to me.

"She's dead," I said.

I hadn't spoken those words in eleven years.

"Jesus," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine." It made me sick to think about, to say, like I was giving away someone else's secret. I remembered when it happened, and how my dad started drinking more, and having to move to that awful apartment building because he couldn't keep a job, then meeting Sarah and Andrea, then the rest of my miserable life. "Can we just... talk about something else?"

"Sure." He was quiet for a long time, then chuckled to himself. "Tell me 'bout... the first girl you fucked."

I let out a choking laugh. "What? No."

"C'mon." He nudged my shoulder encouragingly. "Come onnnn."

"Um..." I took a deep breath. How did one begin to describe Patty Hartley? "She was short," I said.

"Big tits?"

"No," I said. "I mean, they were- they were normal. I guess."

"Normal," he repeated, squinting like he was trying to visualize them.