The Thrashers

by Julie Soto

Zack was Jodi’s best friend. But she was only one of Zack’s many best friends.

I TRIED TO ASK HOW SOMEONE BECOMES A THRASHER. THEY SAID, “YOU DON’T.”

Maybe it wasn’t being lonely she was afraid of. Maybe it was being alone.

“Are you … Did you drink?” “A little bit. Maybe a lot. I don’t know what’s a lot.” She rubbed her face. “But I didn’t throw anything at anyone. Not that I thought I would, but … it’s nice to know that I don’t hurt people when I’m drunk, like my dad. Or yours.”

“Pictures?” Paige asked the group. “Just not the five of us. We can split a bit,” Zack said softly, and Lucy nodded. But once they were at the photographer, Lucy and Paige asked for a couple’s photo, then Paige wanted a picture with Zack, and then Lucy grabbed Julian for a funny pose. Jodi had that sensation of being underwater again, trying to fight for the surface. No one wanted a picture with her. It wasn’t that they didn’t want one, it’s that they didn’t think of it. She was an afterthought. She wondered how long she’d been an afterthought.

“When I got to the car, your window was only half-down and your seat belt was still on.” She could tell him about Paige’s shoe to her face, or remind him about her inability to swim, but she just swiped a new line at a new window. “Did you give up when the car flooded,” he whispered, “or before it even left the bridge?” Jodi finished a window. “Dad never let me near a pool because my mom drowned in our bathtub after taking too many painkillers.” And after a pause, “I was in the tub with her. I think she wanted me to die, too.” Her throat felt choked again, that same sensation from earlier. There was nothing else she could say without cracking into a million pieces. It was too quiet. The silence forced her to face him. There wasn’t pity in his gaze or a rush to say the right words. He just looked at her and saw her. “Maybe she did. But I don’t want you to,” he said. Like it was as simple as that.

His hands curled over her cheeks, pulling her face back to his. He kissed her in a way that wasn’t soft, but wasn’t aggressive, only stopping to tug the apron neck over her head and toss it to the side. He backed her into the worktable, his height looming over her as her eyes fluttered closed. His hand dragged down over her painted collarbones, resting between her breasts—where he’d pounded her ribs to get river water out of her lungs. And she wondered what it was they were doing, and if it was wise to let him crack her chest open a second time, just to see if he fit inside.

You haven’t been putting me first for a long time. Probably since, like second grade, to be honest. But I’ve been putting you first every second of every day since then. I don’t want to have pieces of a person.”