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Chrissy Cunningham is perfect.
Through the eyes of anyone but herself, she’s immaculate. A straight-A student, cheer captain, enough extracurriculars to fill an entire page. She’s impressive to anyone who looks at her.
They’ll tell you she’s the sweetest person they know. Kind to everyone, always says please and thank you.
Jason places her on a golden pedestal and her mother makes sure she stays firmly upon it; not a hair out of place, trim waist, stark-white smile. Untouchable.
Saintlike, that’s what Jason called her once, laughing as he twirled the curl of her ponytail around his fingers.
It made her stomach churn, her skin prickle, worse than when her mother pinches at the taut skin of her belly, her thighs.
All of it makes her guilt-sick.
Because Chrissy Cunningham is a liar.
The pretty girl in the mirror mocks her, knows that she hates being placed so far out of reach. She can’t climb down; it’s too high of a ledge, too steep of a drop.
She’s being eaten alive by the expectations. Stress darkening the hollows beneath her eyes, all the headaches and nosebleeds she’s forced to smile through. She’s a husk. A mannequin to be dressed up and displayed in a wall-length window.
“This is my castle,” Eddie Munson says with a small flourish, van door shutting with a groan. The trailer is the exact place she isn’t supposed to be. Good girls don’t talk to people like Eddie. Good girls don’t meet a boy like him in the woods to buy pot.
Good girls don’t look him in the eye and ask for something stronger.
Inside, Chrissy idles awkwardly in the middle of the small living room as Eddie cracks open a beer, sips at it casually.
“You want a drink?” he asks with a lazy grin. “That’s what good hosts do, right? Offer refreshments for their guests.”
“Oh, um. Water? Would be lovely,” she answers, fingers twining over themselves in clammy nerves.
“I don’t have any of that fancy mineral shit, or anything in a bottle–”
“Tap water is fine,” she says with a tiny, gracious smile.
She watches him rummage through his cabinets, pulls out a chipped mug with a faded unicorn on it. He sets the tap to cold, fills it nearly to the brim.
“Here you are.” Some of the water sloshes over the side as he hands it to her. Her fingers dig into the ceramic like a lifeline.
Outside, some poor dog yips away, the sound makes her muscles tight with tension. Eddie settles a hip against the kitchen counter, holds his beer as he looks at her.
Nervous, she shifts from foot to foot, tries to avoid locking her knees. The water in the cup trembles with the subtle movement. “So, um. Do you know where to look for it? The special K.”
Those dark eyes keep peering at her and for the first time, she doesn’t feel like some animal behind glass, a trained monkey to dance for everyone’s amusement. Eddie looks at her like he sees.
“Change of plans,” he says with a gentle smile. Turning, he flips the latches on that grimey metal lunch box. “I’m gonna roll a joint, and we’re gonna smoke it. Together. And you’re going to relax.”
Her mouth parts, confusion pinching her brows. “But I thought you said–”
“You ever do that, sunshine?” Eddie interrupts, and the pet name makes something warm settle over her shoulders, pool in her gut. “Relax?”
“Of course, I–” Chrissy argues, starts to lie.
Eddie tsks, nods towards the worn sofa. “Have a seat, you’re gonna spill that drink on the carpet with all your shaking.”
For some ungodly reason, Chrissy finds herself obeying, sitting ramrod straight as she settles the mug on her knees, fingers clenching around it, a little desperate, disappointed.
Time stretches, all elastic, and they don’t speak. Eddie leans over the counter, focusing on his work, and she chews on her lip until it’s sore, raw with the weight of all her worries.
Eddie eventually joins her, but doesn’t sit close enough that their thighs touch. Long fingers lift the joint up at her eye level, his other hand holds a fluorescent pink lighter.
“Alright, this is how this is gonna go, okay? You’re gonna cough. That’s practically a given. You’re gonna be super embarrassed about it. Just chug your water, you’ll be fine.” Those dark brown eyes soothe her; she listens with rapt attention. “The second go around, you breathe deep, and you hold it. This shit’s pretty strong,” he gives a soft laugh. “Not as strong as what you were hoping for, but it’ll do.”
“And this will– this will help me relax?” She asks, one manicured hand coming up to touch his. Her french tips look good against his skin.
“Yeah, sunshine. It’ll help.”
Chrissy nods, the handle of the chipped mug still firmly gripped in her palm, her free hand takes the joint from his, places it between strawberry-glossed lips.
The wheel of the lighter grinds, but Chrissy can barely hear it over the blood rushing in her ears. Her eyes never leave Eddie’s, even as the flame catches, lights the joint.
Too short of a inhale, her throat tight, the smoke burns and she barely has time to turn her head before her lungs try to exit her body. Water splashes against her knees as she coughs, eyes burning. Her face feels too hot, blush covering her cheeks.
Eddie’s hand presses between her shoulder blades, smoothes warmth along her spine, and something in her begins to unwind.
Her knuckles wipe at the wetness under her eyes, she gives him a look of disbelief. “Why does it taste like that?”
His laugh is boisterous, loud in the quaint space, has her laughing too, before she brings the cup up to drain it. Suddenly so thirsty.
“You’ll get used to it, promise.” He passes her the joint again, touch lingering in a way she wants to be more familiar with. Her lip gloss has stained the paper a soft, inviting pink. She thinks about his mouth being in the same place as hers.
This time, it’s less of a struggle. She holds the smoke for a bit longer, exhaling gracelessly, a small shuddery cough trailing at the end of it.
“So, Chrissy Cunningham,” he starts, the weight of his gaze is heavy as he leans against the opposite arm of the sofa. “What burdens have brought you to my doorstep?”
She pauses, a raw swallow ripples the length of her slender throat. “I told you, I feel like I’m going crazy.”
He looks good, Chrissy absently notes. Sprawled against the frayed cushions, smoke billowing from his nostrils. It paints the image of a dragon and a princess.
“You have a lot to live up to,” he comments, taking another hit, lazy with it.
“Yes.” Carefully, she places the mug at her feet, her teeth start to worry her lip again. “I’m– I don’t– I don’t know, I sound ridiculous. What do I have to complain about?”
“Anything. Everything. Whatever you want.”
The dog is barking again. Chrissy blinks away the sting in her eyes, can’t bring herself to look at him as she admits, “I’m lonely. I’m so miserable.” The confession is so quiet, she thinks it might not have even left her lips.
The couch gives a muted groan as the weight upon it shifts. A touch at her chin guides her eyes, his thumb soothes over the gentle slope of her jaw.
“You know, I’ve never seen you look less than perfect,” Eddie murmurs, his thumb wipes away the tears that sneak over her cheeks. “Your skirt is always neatly pleated, lashes lined with mascara, not a frizzy hair to be seen. There’s never been a speck of mud on those pristine white sneakers. They treat you like you’re a collectible, a sparkling blown glass bauble that they’ve put on the highest shelf of the display case. God forbid anyone get close enough to smear your surface, they might send you tumbling, leave you in sharp, shiny bits. Ruin you.”
Her breathing turns shallow, little hiccups escaping from her trembling lips. More tears spill over, line his palm in shimmering crystal. “I’m sorry,” she gasps, but the tears don’t slow. “I’m so– I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to cry.”
Eddie shushs her; the joint forgotten, smoldering in a dirty ashtray. “You’re okay, it’s okay.”
“I’m so tired of being so far out of reach.” He’s cracked her open, and he looks at all her dirty, bloody insides, and keeps holding her, his hands covered in all the filth no one is supposed to see. Her shoulders slump in wilted exhaustion. Chrissy leans into his palms, trusting him with all her burden. “They love a girl that isn’t real. I’m not real.”
Those long fingers shift up, gently pull at the scrunchie holding back her curls. Her golden hair falls loose, makeup smeared under pretty blue eyes.
“You’re real,” he says, gaze locking with hers. “Right now, you’re real.”
Her lashes flutter. Chrissy shifts her knees into the cushion, turning to press closer to him, bury her face in the hollow of his neck. Eddie doesn’t hesitate to hold her, the denim of his jeans rough against her smooth thighs, so different from Jason’s pressed khakis, better.
“I’ve ruined your high,” she mumbles into his shirt collar, those pretty painted nails have somehow hooked in his belt loops.
Eddie answers her with a quiet laugh. “No, I’m still plenty high. I mean, I must be. I have Chrissy Cunningham in my lap on a Friday night.”
She laughs too, sniffing wetly. “I’m going to get makeup on your shirt.”
His touch lingers over the rungs of her ribs, tracing patterns she can’t place. “Good thing I have plenty of shirts then, huh?”
They rest like that; he ends up rocking her a little, humming some choppy song that’s likely not meant to be a lullaby.
Eventually, her eyes dry, but they itch with the aftermath of aching emotion. Chrissy doesn’t move, body still pressed tightly to his, all those points of contact have her floating, calm. “Can I come back? Please?”
He pauses his humming, fingers tapping lightly over the knobs of her spine. “Yeah, sunshine. You can always come back.”