Should Have Grace Hasson
As he twists the wheel again my stomach lurches and I grit my teeth so I don’t scream. He laughs and the smell of spicy red wine brings me back to our evening together before he offered to take me for a drive. I tell myself I’m being paranoid, but I can’t take my hand off the door handle. He plows through another red light and I know I have to say something. “Pull over. I’m getting out.” “What?” “I said pull over.” “Why?” “Just do it,” my voice is tense. I sound like someone else. And he sounds like someone else. Not the sweet, elegant man I met in a bookstore, but a drunken, careless man at the wheel of a racing car. Not the man who caressed the scar on my wrist, but a man who argues when someone is afraid. The tires screech and I cover my ears as he spins the car around. Headlights flash and all I can think is I don’t want to die like this. I remember the beginning of the night when I wasn’t gripping the car door handle. Him making fun of my religious phases. He said religion is for people who don’t trust the universe. My problem is I did trust the universe, and I trusted him, and look where it brought me. He pulls into a church parking lot. I sit in silence, taking deep breaths, trying to get my heart to stop hammering in my chest. “That was fun,” he says, and then, “Look where we are.” The church is small, and decaying. The red, yellow and blue stained glass reflects the starlight, making the faces of the saints glow. A depiction of Mary stands out to me as she holds her dying son. Her stained glass tears look like diamonds. I look over at him, but he’s just staring at the church. One time I swear I saw him wearing a wedding ring. I’ve been telling myself I just imagined it, but looking at him
American Literary Magazine | 26
gazing at the church makes me wonder if he’s remembering a vow he didn’t keep. In the beginning things were so easy between us. But things have lasted longer than we both expected. I should have ended it months ago. Should have. He’s still staring at the crumpled little church. I sigh, knowing there’s something I need to say. “You’re not…you’re not good for me,” I say, finally. I think of what my mother would say if she knew I was drinking wine before I’m twenty one. And doing it with an older, reckless man. An older, reckless man who might be married. “Isn’t that the point?” he asks, and turns to look at me with a wicked smile. I shake my head, “What we’re doing, it doesn’t-it doesn’t feel good anymore. You’re bad for me, I know it.” “You think I’m a bad guy?” “No, I just think you’re bad news.” He laughs, “I could be worse.” He turns the key and the engine roars to life like a dragon the knight forgot to slay. He looks at me and I repeat I hate myself over and over in my head because I know where that look leads. He leans across his seat and I listen to the car humming to life as he pushes my hair behind my ear. Sometimes he acts like he’s a gentleman. He’s not. “We can’t all be little angels like you.” “You could try.” He laughs, a devilish glimmer in his eyes. “What’s the fun in that?” He kisses me and his lips taste bitter, like the end of a bottle of wine. I let him kiss me and soon I’m pulling him closer by the collar of his shirt. All I can think about when his mouth moves down to my neck is that I walked myself into this trap. I’ll have to gnaw my own bones to get free. I should have done it long ago. Should have.
