Free You Are Here by Donald Breckenridge Page A

wary of Karen’s rush to judgment, “but we came out here to relax,” and afraid of her anger, “Okay?”
    The box fan in her kitchen window drowned out the Stereolab CD playing in the living room. Alan signed the company check for three thousand dollars, “I know someone who may be looking for a personal assistant,” and handed it to Stephanie, “but you can’t sleep with him,” while sitting at the table in his underwear. She took the check, “ha-ha,” and glanced at the amount before folding it in half. They had just finished a bottle of Macon Villages. “I’m just joking,” he rolled the pen between his palms, “besides, he’s gay,” and grinned. Elaine and Olivia were in Martha’s Vineyard for the month, “come on, don’t pout,” and he was flying out the following afternoon to join them, “you aren’t very sexy when you sulk,” for two weeks of family vacation. Stephanie was wearing the semi-transparent pink camisole he’d just given her. She opened the utensil drawer and slipped the check into it before asking, “Are you hungry?” Melting ice filled the tall water glass on the Formica counter. He leaned back in the chair, “I’m starving,” and crossed his arms over his stomach. She turned to him, “I’d cook you something but it’s too hot.” Two wine glasses were on the kitchen table beside the empty wine bottle with a sketch of a chateau on its beige label. “You know that I’m going to miss you.” She stepped toward him, “thanks for the money,” placed her hands on his shoulders, “can you call your friend before you go so I can get an interview,” and kissed him on the forehead, “as soon as possible.” He eyed her mouth, “Why won’t you let me buy you an air conditioner?” She considered his question, “Maybe a small one for the bedroom?” Alan reached for her, “What’s the matter?” She straddled him in the chair, “How could you think that I would have sex with just anyone?” “I was just joking,” he pressed his face between her breasts. She bit his earlobe before whispering, “I’m not a whore.”
    Karen’s thick cork-soled sandals were holding down two corners of the sheet, “When were you on the pill?” Stephanie’s blue beach bag, “last fall,” and a nearly empty plastic water bottle held down the other ends. “And he came inside you?” A pack of yellow American Spirits and a small green disposable lighter were on the sheet between them. She nodded, “twice.” Karen shook her head in disbelief, “twice.” Stephanie brushed a lock of hair away from her mouth, “the condom broke.” A plane pulling a broad banner for a car insurance company flew past them. “I don’t want to talk about it.” Karen took a cigarette from the pack, “What,” and placed it between her lips, “were you both drunk?” Stephanie shook her head while saying, “he’ll pay for the abortion,” then added, “but I really don’t think I’m pregnant,” with conviction. Karen lit the cigarette, “you don’t know that yet.” A large white seagull landed nearby and began picking at a brown paper bag. The smoke from her cigarette drifted along with the breeze. Stephanie uncrossed her legs, “if I am pregnant he’ll pay for it,” sank her heels into the hot sand and placed her hands on her knees. “Two condoms broke?” A black girl in a bright pink one-piece was digging a hole in the sand with a small orange shovel. “No,” Stephanie shook her head, “he came twice.” Karen cleared her throat before asking, “How did that happen?” The girl’s father stood beside her in cut-off jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt. “Weren’t you going to