By Dusk Read online

  But that didn’t mean he had to like it. And it didn’t mean he wouldn’t fight the bastards with his dying breath.

  10

  Shaggy

  Another warm day. It was so warm, in fact, that Shaggy had put on a sundress, trying to jolly herself out of her nerves.

  It was one of her favorites, a pale blue with sprigs of white branches in a repeating pattern. She’d sewn it herself in high school. Standing near some concrete benches in the middle of the quad, she gazed up at a small stand of Douglas firs tucked into a corner of the quadrangle. Inhaling the scent of sun on concrete and trees, she decided she could really get used to the wide variety of Pacific Northwest trees. Towering firs, spreading oaks, ginkgo biloba, with maples and dogwood leaves turning gold and red. California neighborhoods tended toward monoculture with their trees if they had them, and every freeway sprouted billboards, while up here, the sides of the roads were a sea of green.

  She rolled her shoulders and her neck. Damn, she was tense. She felt nervous, out of sorts, not the laughing, confident person who had dragged Moss into her bed. She looked around at the groups of students wandering by, messenger bags slung over their shoulders, cups of coffee in their hands, and wished, just for a moment, that she could trade places with them, knowing full well people looked at her and thought the same. It was all an illusion. How much could you really know someone else anyway?

  She tapped one sandaled foot and checked her phone for the time. Moss still had two minutes before he was late, so why this impulse to run away and pretend he was a no-show?

  She rolled her shoulders again. Maybe she just needed more exercise. She’d signed up for private tutoring at a circus school off Hawthorne Street, but really needed to get back to regular group classes. Maybe she could convince Laura to check the place out one day. She missed being on the silks, feet and arms wrapped in the long swaths of fabric, head thrown back, the closest she’d ever been to flying. She missed the sense of freedom that it gave her. Missed the connection to her strength, too. The few tutoring sessions she’d made it to so far weren’t quite enough.

  Right now she wasn’t feeling either strong or free.

  Yeah. Maybe she should run away. Like, really run away. Indulge her late night tantrum fantasies. She could have the abortion, call it quits at school, and fulfill her circus dreams. Buy a tiny house, hitch it to a truck, and get the hell out of town. Even without Bianca’s help, she could make it, at least for a while. She was a good enough seamstress to make festival clothes and if she could pick up work as a performer on the way…

  Shaggy ran her fingers through her short pixie cut, then dropped them to her sides. Who are you kidding, Shaggy? You need a lot more training for anyone to hire you as a performer, and yeah, people like your clothes, but it’s not as if you have any business sense.

  But was that her voice, or Bianca’s?

  Shading her eyes with one hand, she scanned the quad again. And there he was, sunlight shining on his black fauxhawk, walking with a confident lope. A smile creased his face when he caught sight of her.

  Damn. She inhaled a breath so huge it felt as if she were breathing in the whole world. How in the hell could a man she should probably be running far away from affect her like that? She needed for him to not affect her that way.

  How was she supposed to deal with this entire situation? All of a sudden, she resented her father and Bianca for taking away her chances to make close friends.

  She could really use someone who knew her, right about now. Maybe Laura would become that, but…

  “Hey Shaggy.” His voice was low, and his breath smelled of mint. “It’s good to see you.”

  “Let’s walk,” she said. They walk past the concrete benches, and toward the series of grassy, tree-filled squares known as the South Park Blocks. Moss seemed a little distracted, but also happy to see her. His hand kept reaching out to brush her arm, which made her squirm.

  The words she needed to say to him were shoving at her lips, and her tongue, but she couldn’t speak them. Not yet. And the more he touched her, the more confused she got.

  She jerked to a stop in the middle of the quad. “Moss. Stop. Please.”

  He dropped his hand and stepped back, concern and confusion warring on his beautiful face.

  “I’m sorry. I should have asked permission to touch you. But after the other night, I thought…”

  “It isn’t that.” Shaggy crossed her arms over her chest, hands gripping her upper arms as though she were clinging to a life raft, or as though she stood in the middle of a blizzard instead of in the middle of campus on a beautiful, sunny autumn day. “I have something I need to tell you, and you’re making it really hard.”

  The sun bounced off Moss’s hair. His fauxhawk gleamed like a crow’s wing. He stood, arms loose, completely still. Waiting. All of his attention was focused on her. She’d never had that kind of attention before, except, come to think of it, one of the times they’d had sex at Bliss. It was their third round, and they’d both gotten over the initial “rip your clothes off and do as many hot and acrobatic things as possible” rush.

  Moss had slowed things way down, and began massaging her, rubbing the scented oil she’d bought from one of the vendors into her skin. He started down at her feet, paying attention to each toe. To the spaces in between her toes. To the balls of her feet. Her arches…on up he went, so slowly. Carefully.

  With intention.

  That’s how he looked at her now. As if it was his intention to hear every word and every space between each word.

  Shaggy didn’t even know such a thing was possible. Her father had been pretty absorbed in his own misery, and Bianca barely listened to her at all.

  Poor little rich girl. The thought flickered through her head before she could stop it. Her constant refrain. Her “people would kill for your life” reminder. Shaggy’s way to cut herself off from feeling anything real.

  And now, here was this man, standing in front of her, real as could be. And she felt it. She felt him.

  “Do you need to sit down?” he asked, voice so quiet she had to strain to catch the words above the noises of skateboard wheels and cars, of conversations and music playing from the student café a few yards away.

  Shaggy nodded. She did. She did need to sit down.

  “May I?” he asked, holding out one hand. An offering.

  She nodded again, and unhooked her fingers from her upper arms. He gently took one of her hands and led her through the quad, as if he knew exactly where he was going.

  He was so certain. More certain than she currently felt about anything. Shaggy let herself follow.

  It was funny. Her mind had been so hectic ever since yesterday. But right this second, she felt calm. As though a door had just opened inside of her.

  The trouble was, she still didn’t know what was on the other side.

  11

  Moss

  Moss brought Shaggy to his favorite tea house. He could tell she was upset, and just hoped she would tell him what was up. He got her settled in one of the benches that lined the far wall, against a great tapestry that hung practically ceiling to floor. Moss loved this place. There were plump fabric cushions in muted colors everywhere, and low tables. It was a perfect place for lounging, hanging out, drinking tea, and having the sorts of conversations that wandered and rambled over the course of a few hours.

  He had a feeling it wasn’t going to be one of those kinds of conversations. Too bad. He would like to have one of those conversations with Shaggy; he would love to tell her about the actions he had planned, and find out what her hopes and dreams for the future were.

  Who are you kidding, man? he thought as he got in line at the counter. He looked out one of the giant plate glass windows, barely seeing the sun shine or the people walking by. You, the guy who’s never made a commitment to anyone? The guy who always says saving the earth is more important than any person? You want to know someone’s dreams for the future?

  Thing
was, he really did.

  He ordered a pot of gen mai cha and two tiny porcelain cups, and threw in a few almond cookies too. As he picked up the laden tray and walked towards the table, he realized he was worried about Shaggy. She seemed like an automaton. Except for the fact that she was still hot, he could barely see the woman he’d met at Bliss. Shit. He had too much going on to deal with whatever this was. To deal with her. But he also couldn’t walk away. He couldn’t treat anyone that way, let alone a woman he’d had sex with.

  He settled himself on the bench next to her, but far enough away to give some space. After the distribution of tea cups and napkins, he finally poured tea from a round metal pot into the little porcelain cups. It should have steeped a little longer, but he just needed something to do.

  Remember, Moss? Bruce Lee. Be like water. The teaching of a Chinese martial artist? Or the Willamette itself? Didn’t matter. It was all the same.

  He took a long, slow breath and tried to relax, focusing on the teacup in front of him. Steam swirled up, carrying the scent of green tea and toasted rice. This was his favorite tea, and had been since he was a teenager.

  Shaggy sat stiffly on the bench, leaning as far away from him on the silvery green and brown cushions as she could. It was clear she wasn’t ready to talk yet. Okay. Small talk. He could do this.

  “I never got around to asking you before, why Shaggy?”

  “My name? When I was little, I really, really, liked Scooby Doo, and my dad said I was always rushing headlong into trouble. He’s the one that started calling me Shaggy, and then it just stuck.”

  “How about now?”

  “How about now, what?”

  “Do you still rush headlong into trouble?”

  She looked down at her teacup and frowned.

  Great. Just great. Now he felt like an ass.

  “Okay. Sorry. Change of subject…”

  She waved a hand at him, as if to say “it’s okay” but he could tell it wasn’t. So, he began to babble. About how cool it was to see her. To reconnect. About all the places in Portland she should visit. About Mount Tabor. And hiking on Mount Hood. About a secret creek he knew….

  “I’m pregnant.” She blurted the words out fast, as if she could slip them into the space of Moss’s inhalation. Her right hand flew up to her mouth, trying to catch the sharp sounds that had burst like a raptor going in for a dive, ready to hook a fish.

  Moss’s body jerked. Hot tea splashed over his hand. He set the cup down, mopping at his hand, his jeans, her sundress. Her beautiful, pale blue dress.

  His mind was a jumbled tumbling of thought and no thought, sound and no sound. It was roaring. A roaring that made no sense. A roaring that…

  “Moss? I’m kind of freaking out here.” Her voice finally penetrated the white noise inside his skull. “Stop.”

  Stop. That word again. He looked down. Oh. Her small, pale hand was on his. Clutching at it. Jerking on it. Trying to get his attention as he clutched a soggy paper napkin and frantically mopped at her dress. Gods, how long had he been doing that?

  He disentangled their hands.

  “I’m sorry. I guess I… Pregnant.” He sat back against the cushions and threw the half-shredded napkin on the table. “You’re pregnant. I thought you said…”

  He finally looked at her. Really looked. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright with tears. She grabbed a napkin off the table and wiped her eyes, then blew her nose.

  “I know. It’s messed up. didn’t know whether I should tell you,” she said. “I almost…”

  He leaned towards her, closer, but not too close. He could hear the pant of her breath, close to panicking. He could smell her. Lilacs. “You almost what?”

  “Left.” She looked across the crowded café, out the windows, a crease between her brows. “I almost just left.”

  She sounded forlorn, and a little bit lost. Moss wanted to wrap his arms around her and hold her close, try to make her feel safe. He also wanted to run out the door as fast as he could, and never stop.

  He took in a shuddering breath, then picked up the teapot again and poured them both more tea. They needed time, and tea helped everything. Holding her cup out towards her, he forced himself to wait. She finally looked his way again, startling a little at the offered cup.

  “Thanks,” she said, taking it from his hands and raising it to her pale, unadorned lips.

  He drank his own tea, small cup warm beneath his fingers, tasting the nutty rice and the sharp, spring-grassiness of it, trying to calm himself down further. It was all he could do to keep his feet still on the floor. He pushed air into his belly, slowing his breathing down, trying to connect to the kami of the floorboards and the tea. But could he connect to the spirit of the woman sitting next to him?

  How could he not? At least a little. She was warm, and he remembered the softness of the skin across her exposed collarbones. Remembered her tiny feet. But would she want him to connect to her?

  Would she want to link with him? The thought brought the image of the two of them on her bed in that ridiculous fancy tent. He felt his face grow warm, and took another quick sip of tea.

  He swallowed. Cleared his throat.

  “So, do you, umm, have a plan? I mean, I’ll support whatever you want. I should’ve said that right away, I’m sorry I didn’t, it just…”

  “It just freaked you out?” she asked. The left side of her mouth quirked up in half a grin. It wasn’t a real smile, but he would take it.

  “Yeah, it freaked me out. But seriously, just tell me what you want and I’ll do my best to show up.”

  Her eyes darted between the teacup in her hands, his face, the plate glass windows, and back to the teacup again.

  He leaned closer again, trying to catch her gaze. He decided to take a risk, and reached out to touch her arm. “I mean it, Shaggy. I’ll do my best to do right by you.”

  “And why should you?” she asked. “I told you I was protected. It was just supposed to be sex. We were never even going to see each other again. There’s no way you have any responsibility for the situation.”

  Her voice sounded half panicked, with a tinge of bitterness.

  He shifted on the bench, drawing one knee up so he could face her head on. “None of that matters,” he said, and realized that it was true. “What matters is right now. Do you want an abortion? I’ll go with you. Do you want a kid? We’ll work out the details of how that might look.”

  She had lowered her head, trying to avoid his gaze. But she raised her eyes to him then, and licked her lips.

  “I’m not sure I want a baby. But it’s complicated.”

  “So tell me about it,” he said, and poured them both more tea.

  He was acting much calmer than he felt, but that’s what stand-up guys did. Right? Made holy fuck situations not all about them.

  Shaggy grabbed her purse, face creased. “I…I can’t do this, Moss. I’m sorry. I thought I could but…” She shoved her way up from the table.

  Moss half stood, hands out. “Shaggy, wait. I just want…”

  “I’m sorry, Moss. I’m sorry.” Blue sundress swirling around her pale calves, she wove her way through the tables.

  Moss sat back down and slammed his hands his thighs.

  Damndamndamndamn. Shaggy. The woman who meant something. She’d left. She’d just left him.

  And he’d just watched her walk away.

  12

  Shaggy

  Laura was ensconced on Shaggy’s rust velvet sofa, shoes off, feet tucked under herself, glass of Malbec in hand.

  Shaggy had a glass of the red wine at her own side, but was at the dining table that looked into the living room, fabric scraps around her, sewing machine whirring as she pressed the foot pedal down.

  This evening, she needed conversation, wine, and creativity all at once, and had decided, fuck it, she was going to get all three. Laura had said she was willing to listen, and fortunately she was also willing to hang out in Shaggy’s space, drink her wine, a
nd stare out the big windows at the lights of the Steel and Burnside bridges.

  Maybe Shaggy would figure out how to make a friend after all.

  She wasn’t sure if her need to sew costumes and festival clothes was a sign that she leaned toward the “run away with the circus” end of the spectrum, or if she just felt the need to have a tiny bit of control over one part of her life. She and fabric had an understanding, and working with the trusty little machine always helped somehow. The colors and textures soothed her, and, pattern or no pattern, the halter tops and loose pants were put together in a way that made sense.

  “I notice you’re drinking wine again tonight,” Laura said. “Does that mean you’ve made a decision?” Her lightly accented voice was high and a little bit tinny, which still startled Shaggy. Looking at Laura, she expected the woman to have a deeper voice, though she had no idea why.

  Shaggy’s foot froze on the pedal, causing the thread to snarl on the orange jersey fabric under her hands. She swore under her breath, snapped the presser foot up, and turned the wheel on the side of the machine to lower and raise the needle. Gingerly, she extricated the snarled fabric until there was enough slack to snip the threads.

  That done, she looked at her new friend, picked up her Malbec and took a drink, inhaling some of the liquid in the process. Still holding the wine in her right hand, she coughed into the left, then took in a shuddering breath.

  “Sorry. I think you startled me.” Shaggy took another drink, more slowly this time. “I haven’t, though I’m leaning toward an abortion.”

  “Did you want to talk about that?”

  Those were almost the same words Moss had said to her, before she ran away. She felt so stupid. But she’d also known she couldn’t stay.

  Shaggy’s phone buzzed on the table, rattling itself on the wood surface. Probably some late-night telemarketer. No else actually called. She flipped the phone over, intending to reject the call and block the number.