Rain Check?

A short story

The shelves shake violently as we rock.

Up. Down.

Up. Down.

Fast. Breathless.

It’s dark, too dark. But I love it that way. I’ve always preferred doing it in the dark.

The scent of polished wood and fresh paper lingers in the air. Rows of pristine shelves tower around us, still and obedient, except this one.

One hand grips the back of his neck, the other braces on the shelf behind me for balance. Hardcover edges press into my palm.

He’s strong, holding me up with both arms, thrusting in and out, his breath ragged, syncing with mine.

Suddenly, the lights snap on.

We freeze.

I push him away. He yanks up his pants in one swift motion.

“Who’s there?” a voice barks from the door.

I stumble back, adjusting my clothes and slipping deeper between the rows of books, heart pounding in my throat. I glance at him, but it’s not his face anymore.

It’s my father.

Staring.

Right into my soul.

I scream.

Claire jolts upright beside me in bed. “What the hell, Maire? It’s 2AM, for God’s sake!”

I clutch my chest, shivering. That was the third time this week. Same dream. Different setting, same horror: sex with my boyfriend, then all of a sudden, he morphs into my dead father.

I can’t tell anyone. Not my mom. Not Claire. Definitely not Ronnie.

My boyfriend.

My father died in the Vietnam War. 1972. I was three. All I have of him are faded, war-torn photos of a man I never really knew.

Mom never remarried. She stayed devoted, lost in the shrine of his memory.

My first boyfriend came when I was seventeen. His name was Ezra. He died of pancreatic cancer just months in.

I was in love first, deep, wild, open.

I never really let him go.

At nineteen, I decided to try again. That one left. Said I wasn’t ready. Said I was still mourning a ghost.

He wasn’t wrong.

Maybe I’m more like mom than I care to admit.

I took two years off school. Depression, grief... call it what you want.

When I came back at twenty-one, I was technically a sophomore.

Feeling empty and out of place, I decided to try something new.

Since I’d always been good at sports, I joined the women’s football team.

That’s where I met Ronnie.

Captain of the varsity football team, the school’s toughest male athletes. Sun-kissed skin. Stupidly beautiful smile. Six-foot-two. Broad shoulders. Golden hair that glowed like it drank the sun.

After games, the male and female teams often caught drinks together, unwinding, laughing, blurring the lines between rivalry and friendship.

Somewhere between those post-game meetings and shared moments, I fell.

Ronnie is three years younger, but it doesn’t matter. He treats me like royalty. I’m his Queen. He’s my King.

It‘s the kind of whirlwind love that makes you dizzy in the best way.

Within six months, we move in together.

I go back home only on weekends.

Yvonne and Julie my best friends, adore him, like everyone else in school.

Ronnie has that rare magic; charming, easygoing, impossible to dislike.

And he’s my person.

I feel lucky.

But Claire isn’t impressed. “He reminds me of Uncle Bartolommeo,” she muttered once, eyes narrowed. “You know, the bastard who threw us out of the family house after Dad died.”

I rolled my eyes. Claire always hated someone.

But it stung. Uncle Bart was a monster. Mom had been pregnant then, six months in. She lost the baby. Our baby brother.

We used to be rich. Filthy rich.

The house we lived in wasn’t just a house, it was a mansion.

Now, we live in the suburbs. Comfortable enough, but nowhere near where we once belonged.

Ronnie and I…we’re wild.

Sex in locker rooms. Sex in libraries. Back alleys. Quiet lecture halls.

The thrill, the danger, it was addictive. And always my idea. I was the risk-taker. The one chasing the high like death might come tomorrow.

But lately... I’ve been off.

Withdrawn. Distant. Turning down sex. Not craving the adrenaline rush like before.

Ronnie notices.

“Babe,” he says one hot afternoon, brushing the hair from my sweaty face. We’re on the bleachers, his cheeks kissed pink by the sun. He looks like something out of a dream.

“Wanna go away? Maybe a week? Clear our heads. I’ll plan it all. You won’t miss any assessments.”

I look up from between his legs and smile. “I’m fine, babe, really. It’s just the weather. You know how much I hate summer. It just makes me feel off.”

He doesn’t buy it. But he nods anyway.

He’s probably tired of prying.

So I change the subject.

“Why don’t you come over for dinner? Officially meet Mom. She’s only ever heard stories about you, my stories.”

He agrees. That seems to lift the weight off his shoulders. I’m relieved. There’s no way I’m ever telling him about the dreams.

The next weekend, he shows up. I open the door, slip my hand into his, and lead him towards the dining room.

Mom is setting the table.

“Mom, this is Ronald. My boyfriend,” I say, smiling from ear to ear.

But something shifts immediately.

Mom stops smiling. Her face turns pale, like she’s seen a ghost.

“Mom?” I step closer. “What’s wrong?”

She staggers, gripping the table for support. I rush to her side. “Mom! What’s happening?”

“Ronnie, call 911!” I yell.

“No!” she gasps, regaining herself with terrifying control. “I’m just…dizzy. I’ll be fine. But I’m afraid dinner won’t be possible anymore.”

She turns to Ronnie with a tight smile. “I’m so sorry, Ronald. Rain check?”

I notice how she says his full name. Ronald. And forces a smile.

I walk him to the car, apologize. Promise to fix things.

He kisses me gently and drives off.

I turn back to the house, back to my mother, still rattled, still clutching the table like it might anchor her to the moment.

“Mom, what was that?”

“I’m fine,” she says too quickly, straightening her blouse like that’ll fix anything.

“You’re not fine,” I say, stepping closer, eyes locked on hers. “You nearly passed out.”

She meets my eyes, but her face gives me nothing. Blank. Like she’s just shut every window inside her.

“You cannot date him, Maire,” she says quickly, words tumbling over each other like a rush of panic.

My stomach knots. “What?”

“You simply can’t.” She repeats, with a note of finality.

“Why the hell not?” I ask, forcing my voice to stay even, though I feel it rising, clawing up my throat. My hands curl into fists at my sides. I'm trying, trying hard not to lose it.

“Because he’s not right for you,” she says, softer now. “He’s not the one. Believe me.”

She reaches for my hands, but I pull them away. They’re trembling.

Claire walks in just then, like she’s been waiting her whole life for this moment, arms folded, smirk already in place.

“Told you there was something off about that boy,” she says, leaning on the doorframe like it’s a throne.

“Oh, shut up,” I snap. “When have you ever approved of anyone I’ve dated?”

“That’s because all you do is date screwed-up guys.” She shoots back.

I glare at her. Something in my chest cracks.

“You know what?” I grab my bag off the floor, the strap jerking as it snags on the chair. “To hell with both of you.”

The room’s too quiet now. Even the clock on the wall seems to hold its breath. Through the dining room window, the garden outside is still, the roses Mom used to tend now overgrown, reaching, like they’ve been starved for light.

“This is why I only come home on weekends,” I snap, voice raw and shaking.

“This house is fucking toxic. I’d rather be with someone who actually loves me, than rot here with people who say they love me but can’t support a damn thing I do.”

I whirl around and storm to the door, throwing it open and slamming it hard. A blast of hot air hits my face like a punch of truth.

Mom calls my name, but I drown it out, my footsteps pounding on the porch.

My car is parked at the edge of the driveway, silver dusted with leaves, the windshield catching the late sun. I yank the door open, toss my bag in, and slide behind the wheel. My breath is sharp, chest tight.

“Maire, wait—” my mom calls after me, but I slam the door shut and start the engine.

I don’t look back.

The tires crunch over gravel as I peel away from everything that’s supposed to feel like home, but never does.

I ignore their calls and texts for a week.

Until Claire barges into my lecture one afternoon like a storm.

Heads turn. My professor pauses mid-sentence, frowning as she strides in.

“Maire, come out. Now.”

“What the hell, Claire, I’m in class.” I say, stunned by her audacity.

She doesn’t care. She’s already dragging me out by the arm.

“Check your goddamn phone,” she hisses through clenched teeth. “Stop being a pissy brat.”

“I’m not doing this right now,” I snap, yanking my arm free as we step into the hallway.

The corridor is wide and quiet, lined with floor-to-ceiling windows and soft carpeting that muffles our steps. A few students glance up from their laptops on nearby benches.

“Trust me, Maire. You want to check your messages.” She’s looking me dead in the eye, like she knows something I don’t.

“No, I don’t need to check my messages, I say, brushing off her death stare. I have class. And this is none of your—”

“For fuck’s sake,” she groans. “It’s about Ronald!”

I stop.

Turn to her, slowly.

“What about him?” I ask, voice steady but tight.

She swallows hard.

“You cannot date him.”

I laugh, a short, dry sound. “Are you serious? You came all the way to campus to repeat this same tired crap? Did Mom send you?”

Sunlight filters through the windows. I can hear the faint hum of a vending machine down the hall. But everything else is just static, swelling in my chest.

“What is it, Claire? What exactly is so wrong with Ronnie? Why can’t I be with someone who actually sees me, listens to me?”

“Because—” She breathes heavily, almost like she’s bracing for impact.

“Because he’s your half-brother!”

The world stops.

The hallway.

The lecture room behind us.

Even the air.

I blink, trying to process. My brain stutters.

“What… did you just say?” My voice drops. I take one slow step forward.

She looks around, finally aware of how loud she was. She curses, rubbing her temple. “You should’ve just checked your goddamn phone.”

“Claire,” I say again, voice cracking. “What did you just say?”

She stays silent.

And the knowing hits me like a brick.

I grab her by the collar of her blazer, my eyes burning. “Take it back. Take it back! Take it back right now!” I scream, tears welling in my eyes.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t argue. Just stares at me with that look.

The look of pity.

The look that says it’s real.

That it’s the truth.

My grip loosens.

"How... wh—" I mutter.

But the words don’t form. They just break apart in my throat, too heavy to speak.

The corridor tilts. My stomach churns violently.

I lurch forward, clutching the wall for support.

Suddenly, nausea and dizziness crash over me.

Students walk past, glancing, whispering. A teaching assistant steps out of a classroom with a concerned look. I don’t care.

Because in that moment, nothing matters.

Nothing but the sound of everything I believed,

collapsing.

One Month Later

It’s been one month since that horrible day,

the day Mom’s secret exploded, and I, along with everyone at school, found out I’d been dating my half-brother.

All thanks to Claire’s stellar sense of sisterhood, turning my worst nightmare into everyone’s favorite gossip.

Mom had gotten pregnant a few months before Dad’s last deployment.

Dad had been worried. Uncle Bart wasn’t always around, and there was no one else Mom could really rely on.

Claire said she remembered the tension.

The whispered arguments.
The way Mom stopped eating for days.

I don’t remember anything. I was only three.
Claire was six.

She tells me everything that day, piece by piece, like pulling off a bandage, one inch at a time.

Dad didn’t know Mom had been having an affair with Uncle Bart.

He’d left for the war believing the baby was his.
But he never came back.

And when Uncle Bart found out, he gave Mom a choice:

Terminate the pregnancy… or leave.

She left.

Mom confessed to Claire the day Ronnie came over, after I stormed off, because she had no other option.

She told her how she’d lied to the world, claimed she miscarried from the stress of being kicked out of the house.

But the baby came premature, at six months.
Small. Quiet. But Alive.

And she gave him up for adoption; quietly, privately.
Because no one had to know.

But she could never really let go.

She kept tabs on him. Found ways to stay close without ever showing her face.

She followed his school records. Donated anonymously. Sent gifts she never signed.

She watched him grow.

She just never imagined this.

Us.

Everyday I try so hard not to believe it.

It feels like something from a horror movie.

But it’s all true.

Ronnie told me once about the anonymous gifts.

How his mom tried to trace where they came from.

And when she couldn’t, she started throwing them out.

I want to stop thinking about all of this.

It makes my stomach turn.

But now… now it’s all I see.

The strange familiarity I always felt with him.

The guilt that clung to my ribs like fog.

The dreams.

My father’s eyes staring back at me.

The way he looked at me, like he knew.

Ronnie’s come over a couple of times. But Yvonne knows not to let him in.

He’s been calling and texting.

Nonstop.

I don’t answer.

Because what’s left to say?

That I didn’t know?

That I still love him?

That even now, I ache for something I can never unfeel?

I can’t go back home.

I can’t face my mother.

But worse?

I can’t face Ronnie.

So I’m crashing at Yvonne’s place until I’m ready to face the world again.

Knowing Ronnie, he’ll need to hear it from me, to look me in the eye and understand.

He’ll need closure to stop the ache that’s been tearing him apart.

But how do you tell the love of your life that he’s your blood?

That your comfort was born from betrayal?

That your peace has become your punishment?

He was the place I ran to when the world spun too fast.

Now I can’t breathe in the same room with him.

I don’t know if I will ever speak to Ronnie again.

I don’t know if I will ever have the courage to face him again.

The memories of our time together are dark now.

Ugly.

The warmth of his breath on my neck still lingers in my memory, but now it’s a chill that seeps in, a reminder of what’s lost.

The way he used to hold my hand, how it felt like home, that image haunts me now, distant and hollow.

And the way his palm used to fit perfectly around my waist? It feels surgical now. Cold. Like a stranger’s touch I never consented to.

Everything feels like a broken, distant dream.

But somewhere inside me,

a scream still echoes,

reaching for a past I never chose,

and a future I can’t unmake.

Some days, it whispers.

Most days, it wails.

But everyday, it grieves.

And no matter how far I run, it follows, like a shadow stitched to my soul.

A reminder that some wounds don’t heal, they just learn to live inside you.

.

.

Thank you for reading.❤️

.

.