SEGAN
Age Sixteen
My whole life, I’ve felt like I didn’t belong. From a very young age, it was clear my beliefs didn’t align with those of my family, or the community I live in. In the very small, religious town in Utah, the morals are tall and the judgement is wide. Families are strict, church is considered mandatory by most, and everyone is meant to abide by very firm expectations. There is no room for disappointment, no mercy shown to those who walk the line. But me… I’ve always walked that line. I never seem to fit into the tight, perfect little boxes I’m meant to live inside of. I didn’t enjoy going to church every Sunday, I didn’t believe in following the Bible like it was law, and I certainly didn’t want to get married, have kids, and live a mundane life right out of high school like my parents wanted from me.
Tonight, like most nights, I got into a verbal sparring match with my good ol’ dad. It’s always something with him. Being at home isn’t tolerable anymore. It’s miserable. Insufferable. I’d rather pluck my eyelashes out one by one than sit around the dinner table with Mom and Dad, listening to them tell me how disappointed they are in me. How they wanted more for their only son. Their only child.
Dad and I wound up screaming at each other, a vase was tossed across the room—thanks to yours truly—all while my mom cried into her napkin from the table. It was a fucking disaster. I swear, the older I get, the more brutal the fights between us become. As soon as they retired to their room for the night—because Mr. and Mrs. Bradley are nothing if not predictable—I snuck out my bedroom window, like I do most nights.
It's a little after nine on a Friday night, and I’m on my girlfriend, Lana’s, front porch, banging my fist against her door while I wait not so patiently for her to open up. Normally, when I sneak over here, it’s her window I’m entering through, but tonight, her parents are out of town for some church function, and they won’t be home until Sunday.
So, front door it is.
Lana DeMille is someone I’ve known from a very young age. The community we’ve grown up in is close-knit, which meant the kids were all forced to play together and get to know each other, pass the time. We gravitated toward one another as children, and it’s stayed that way ever since. We’ve always been the black sheep here—the ones who dream of going against the grain and being everything our parents never wanted us to be. Lana’s my neighbor, and has been for a long time, but as of the last two years, she’s also been my girlfriend. I’d say we’re pretty serious. We lost our virginities to each other last year, and despite our rebellious natures, I know our parents want us to get married when we graduate high school.
It's how things are done here. Marriage and kids and the mundane, remember?
The door is yanked open, and Lana appears behind it, a roguish grin on her oval-shaped face. “Do you got the stuff?” she asks, stepping to the side to let me in.
She’s referring to the bottle of cheap red wine I swiped from the grocery store last week. I’ve been saving it for tonight when we knew her folks would be out of town. I’m really fucking glad I have it now, though, after the blow-out back home.
“Yup,” I chirp, opening my jacket to pull it out of the inside pocket.
A few glasses in, and we’re both a little tipsy, and it’s easy to forget about the fight with my dad, and how much of an utter disappointment I am to my parents.
We’re playing some dumb card game that I’m certain Lana made up on the spot just now when the front door busts open. Jumping nearly out of our skin, we both snap our heads toward the door, and I’m half-expecting Mr. DeMille to storm in and beat the shit out of us for drinking in his house while he’s gone.
Wouldn’t put it past him.
A DeMille man strolls in, but it isn’t the one I feared. Josiah DeMille, Lana’s uncle, walks in like he owns the place. He exudes confidence and swagger, and even though he’s only three years older than us—can you say“oopsie baby”—he carries himself with so much assurance. He isn’t someone I’ve spent a lot of time with up until recently. The age difference isn’t as noticeable now, but when I first started dating Lana, it was glaringly obvious.
He's been coming around more to hang out with Lana, and in turn, me too. Not that I mind. He’s a cool guy. Way different than his brother, who lives and breathes the church.
Josiah steps into the living room, his eyes falling immediately on our near empty bottle of wine before finding mine, a devilish smirk tugging on his lips. “Well, what do we have here, kids?”
His favorite thing is to refer to Lana and me as “kids,” despite him only being nineteen. I roll my eyes, huffing out a laugh as he comes to sit down with us. He grabs Lana’s phone off the table, turning up the music we have playing softly before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a flask. Josiah guzzles some down before, much to my surprise, handing it to me.
I take a swig—it’s whiskey, and it’s fucking nasty—wondering where he got this from. He’s not old enough to buy it himself. Although, he could’ve swiped it the same way I did with the wine, I suppose. Passing the flask to Lana, she takes a sip too before dramatically coughing and nearly puking all over the carpet.
Before long, Lana passes out—ever the lightweight she is—leaving Josiah and I to hang out alone. My chest is tight, heart thumping unusually fast as we pass the flask back and forth, nursing what’s left in it as we talk about anything and everything.
The longer we sit here, and the more whiskey-drenched my blood becomes, I start to see Josiah in a different light. I’m noticing things I’ve never noticed before, like the gray of his eyes. How bright they are. How piercing. I’m noticing the dimple in his chin. How it’s deep, and how it fits his face so well.
Butt chins don’t look good on everyone… but they do on him.
I also notice the way his whole face lights up when he smiles. It isn’t something he does often, probably because every time I see him, he’s surrounded by their family who, like with Lana and I, he doesn’t get along with. Josiah has the type of smile that’s contagious. It’s a fact I notice as I sit here with him. It’s bright, and when you look at him, you can’t help but smile too.
Josiah is in the middle of telling me about some car he fixed up—he’s a mechanic, and has been working on cars for longer than I’ve known him—and his voice, especially after too many shots, is like gravel on a long country road. It’s rough and husky. But I could easily listen to him talk all night long. It makes my heart race something fierce. Makes my blood heat.
My eyes become heavy, enough that it’s work to keep them open. He, of course, notices.
“Wanna help me carry Lana up to her room?” he asks, rising off the couch, sliding the flask back into his pocket.
I nod, standing too, swaying slightly as the liquor hits me all at once. Together, we carry her up the stairs, and tuck her into bed. Because her parents are gone all weekend, I’ll probably crash here too, but something about climbing into bed with her while Josiah is here to watch feels wrong, so I don’t. Instead, I walk him back downstairs to the front door.
The air surrounding thickens, and suddenly, I don’t know what to do with myself. My arms feel awkward hanging at my sides, so I cross them over my chest as I bounce between my feet uncomfortably. His steel-gray eyes watch me, his body unmoving. It’s never felt like this around him before. Then again, we’ve never really been alone before either. I don’t know what’s causing it; if it’s all in my head from the alcohol, or if he feels it too.
“Are you sleeping here?” he finally asks, breaking the deafening silence.
