by Penny Reid
“It’s not about calling, Emily.” I deepened my voice to keep it controlled. “I’m not mad about that, not at all. You should always call me. Always.”
“Then why—”
Inexplicably, I exploded, “Why are you driving this piece of shit car three hours twice a week on the highway? Are you nuts? You’re lucky it didn’t stall out in the middle of the road! You could have been seriously hurt. Or killed!”
She reared back, her eyes wide, bouncing between mine like she didn’t recognize me.
I tore my stare away, muttering under my breath, “I’m . . . dammit.” I wasn’t sorry, so I couldn’t say it. She was making me crazy. I pushed frustrated fingers through my hair. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you. But, Em, this car isn’t safe.”
“You’re mad because my car is old?” She sounded like she didn’t know how to feel about this.
“No. I am angry because your car is falling apart and you could hurt”—yourself—“someone. It’s not safe and it’s irresponsible to be driving on a highway with other cars going seventy plus miles per hour when your car shouldn’t be going more than forty. It puts”—you—“everyone in danger.”
I glanced at her. She was blinking like I’d thrown sand in her eyes, swallowing thickly, looking remorseful.
My heart squeezed punishingly. Not pausing to think, I halted the crank and pulled her into my arms. She returned the hug, albeit limply, leaning against me just slightly. I sighed against her temple, struggling under the weight of repentance.
Now I was sorry.
“I’m sorry.” My voice was roughened with guilt. “I’m sorry. You don’t need me getting angry at you right now. I’m sorry.” I kissed her forehead and smoothed my hand down her back, more thoughtless actions. All I could think about was that stunned, mortified look on her face, and that I’d put it there.
She made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sniffle, and I held her tighter.
“God, Em. I am sorry. You’ve had a shitty day, and I—I’m making everything worse.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay. Don’t say it’s okay.”
“Fine. It’s not okay. You’re an asshole.” Emily leaned more fully against me, finally hugging me back with feeling.
I grinned, kissing her temple now, inadvertently smelling her hair. Her hair always smelled good, sweet, like how sugar tasted.
“I mean—” she sniffled, and then huffed “—you’re right about the car. It is a piece of shit.” Leaning away, she captured my eyes, her eyebrows drawn together. “But it’s my piece of shit. It’s what I can afford. And I have to see my mother once a week. She . . . she needs to see me.”
Chastised, I nodded. I understood her perspective. If my mom were still alive, I’d do the same, no matter what kind of car I could afford.
“So, yelling at me about it isn’t going to help an impossible situation.”
Biting the inside of my lip again, I examined her. “You’re going to keep driving it?”
She shrugged. “I stay in the slow lane. People just go around me.”
Not good enough.
Glancing over her head at the traffic moving so fast they might as well have been on a runway, I sighed. “Will you let me help you fix it?”
She stiffened immediately, pulling away. “No. You’re not paying to fix my car.”
“No, not pay for it. Fix it. I could fix it for you. I could get you a new engine and take care of this body work.”
Crossing her arms, she glared at me beneath furrowed eyebrows. “You can do that?”
“Yes.” I wanted to reach for her again, an instinct, the need to touch her, to assure myself she was unhurt. Instead, I restarted the crank, surveyed the stretch of highway behind us, and studied my sneakers.
“How much would it cost?” she finally asked.
EXCELLENT.
I shrugged, feigning indifference while I debated a number that wouldn’t sound fake but wasn’t so high that she’d turn me down. This was difficult for me. I wasn’t a good liar because I didn’t like to lie. However, it would cost more to fix this car—just in parts—than to buy a more reliable one.
Instead of answering directly, I hedged, “I think you’d be surprised how cheaply I could do it. Most of the cost involved in auto repair is labor, and you wouldn’t have to pay for that.”
“I’d want to reimburse you for your time.”
I shrugged again to hide the spike of irritation at this statement.
I didn’t want her money, I wanted . . . I wanted—To take care of her.
I couldn’t say that, I could barely admit it to myself. Taking care of her wasn’t my place.
No. She can take care of herself. It’s no one’s place but hers.
And yet, I still wanted to take care of her. “Okay. How about a trade?”
“A trade?”
“Yes. A time trade. I put in time working on your car, and you do some work for me.”
She looked confused, and then suddenly her cheeks flushed. “Work for you?”
“Yes.”
“D-doing what?” she stammered.
Her flustered expression perplexed me, and I examined her for a moment, wondering what she was thinking. “Something you’re good at and have experience with already.”
Emily sucked in a breath, her gaze dropping to the gravel at her feet, her face bright red. “You mean—you mean you want me to—to—”
“To?”
Her eyes cut to mine, wide and rimmed with several contrary emotions I couldn’t decipher. Her lips parted, like she was going to fill in the blank, but then she snapped her mouth shut, crossing her arms and swallowing.
“Do literature searches? Maybe format some graphs? Make a few pivot tables?” I watched her carefully.
Her lips parted again. Now she appeared to be stunned.
“Or we could figure something else out. You could help at the airfield instead.”
Abruptly, she breathed a laugh, and I couldn’t tell if she looked relieved, or disappointed, or embarrassed, or what.
“Yes. Actually, that would be great. Both would be great. I’d love to help with the lit searches, and I’d also like to help at the airfield, especially when you fix my car so I can learn how.”
I nodded lightly, still intensely curious why this suggestion would fluster her so completely. “Are you sure?”
“Mmm-hmm.” Emily shoved her hands in her back pockets, and then withdrew them and rubbed the back of her neck, and then folded her arms again. “It’s hot out here.”
Locking the crank into place, I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye. “It’s thirty-seven degrees.”
“But it’s humid, right?”
She was so cute. And nuts.
I finished securing her car into place and then I walked around to the passenger side of the truck. She followed, murmuring behind me, “Yeah, but I’m hot. I’m hot and you’re not and there’s got to be something that rhymes with besot.”
Opening the door, I let my eyes move over her. She still seemed fidgety, embarrassed as she climbed into the truck, settled in the seat, and clicked her seatbelt into place.
“Emily.”
“Victor the Victor.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Certainly.” She was fiddling with the hem of her sweater, not looking at me.
“What did you think I wanted?”
Her gaze cut to mine. “What?”
“As a time trade. What did you think I was going to ask you to do?”
She tucked her lips between her teeth, her eyes wide again, and a new blush—pink, not red this time—stained her cheeks. “You don’t want to know.”
“I do want to know.”
“No. You don’t.” She laughed self-deprecatingly as she said this, her attention dropping to the tops of her knees.
“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know.”
“It’s stupid.”
“I doubt that.”
“Ohhh, man. You are so, so wrong.” More self-deprecating laughter.
“Prove me wrong.”
“I . . .” Emily lifted her chin, gazing at the visor above the windshield, visibly uncomfortable. And then she laughed again, like something was really funny. “It’s actually hilarious.”
“Tell me.” I stepped closer to the truck, drawing her eyes to mine, and—for some strange reason—not caring if my question or closeness made her uncomfortable. “I consented to inside jokes, remember?”
She was still laughing, but in fits and starts, like she was trying to stop. “Okay, okay. I’ll tell you. But—it’s so ridiculous. I’m such an idiot.” Clutching her stomach, she closed her eyes, a new bout of laughter shaking her shoulders.
“You are definitely not an idiot.” Now I started to chuckle because her laugh was contagious.
“So, I thought you meant—” her eyes drifted to my hairline and I got the sense she was having trouble meeting my eyes “—you wanted me to model lingerie for you.”
Emily covered her face with the sleeves of her sweater as soon as the words were out, laughing hysterically.
And I was glad she couldn’t see me. I was not laughing.
I thought you meant you wanted me to model lingerie for you. She had no idea. I couldn’t think of anything I wanted more.
Or less.
My attention flickered over to her form in the passenger seat and I swallowed thickly, returning my eyes to the road. No matter how I struggled to focus on something, anything else, my thoughts were of a particular flavor. One that definitively suggested I was not—in fact—asexual. At least, I was not asexual where Emily was concerned.
Yes, I very much wanted Emily to model lingerie for me. Thinking about it made me dizzy with disorienting and selfish eagerness and anticipation. And I’d touch her. And I’d kiss her. And . . .
No. I very much did not want Emily to model lingerie for me. I had no illusions about myself. I knew a great deal about a great many things, and nothing about physical intimacy.
She deserves a content expert.
We drove in silence. I didn’t have any brainpower or willpower left to dedicate to appropriate conversation. I certainly didn’t trust myself to speak and not suggest or admit something foolish.
During this protracted moment, my conversation with Andy from weeks ago echoed between my ears, prophetic in retrospect.
“Hanging out with her would be good practice at least.”
“Good practice?”
“Yeah. Hanging out with a lady you want to bang and not making things awkward. And don’t try to deny that you want to bang her.”
His assessment had been crude but accurate. And now here we were. Say nothing. Don’t make it awkward.
Eventually, mercifully, we made it to the airfield, picked up my car, and I navigated to her place. It wasn’t too late. We still had time for dinner as originally planned. I suggested conversationally that we call in an order for delivery rather than either of us cooking. I was tired, and I imagined so was she.
“Or we could eat at the restaurant,” she suggested after reading off a list of possibilities from her phone.
“Delivery is better.” Her attention moved over me, and I gave her a little smile. “I like your place. You have all those movies and your couch is comfortable.” Emily had an impressive DVD collection, but that wasn’t why I didn’t want to go to a restaurant.
I didn’t like the attention. I didn’t like how people looked at me now, and I couldn’t seem to keep myself from noticing. Being over three hundred and fifty pounds had very few advantages, but one of them—after the smattering of initial looks and comments of disgust—was being invisible. But now women especially continued to look. They continued to comment. They kept pointing. They kept talking and smiling. Sometimes they wanted to talk to me. Sometimes they insisted on it, like I owed them something because of the way I looked.
This type of attention never happened when I was heavier. Never. And I hated it.
“Couch? You mean my chaise lounge in the billiard room? Or the settee in the music room?”
We both laughed. She had a small sofa in her bedroom (billiard room) and a miniature pool table on the top of her bookshelf. The living room (music room) had a bigger couch and a kazoo next to the lamp.
“Music room, obviously.”
“Okay. Delivery it is.” She clicked through a few screens on her phone. “Greek okay?”
“Yeah. I’ll just have their house salad.”
“Chicken on top?”
“No thanks.”
She was quiet for a beat. “Steak?”
“No.”
Her continued examination led me to glance at her again once we stopped at a red light.
“Did you have a late lunch?” she asked, making a stern face. “Is it because you didn’t want to eat my cooking?”
“What are you talking about? You’re a great cook.”
“Yes, but I was supposed to cook tonight. Now you just want a salad. Are you already full?”
I swallowed, not wanting to answer. In truth, other than the egg white omelet this morning, I hadn’t eaten anything. I was hungry. But I’d stepped on the scale at the gym and I was three pounds heavier than the last time I’d weighed myself. I’d checked again, thinking the scale was wrong. It wasn’t.
Weight gain, any weight gain, even a few pounds, made me nervous. But since Emily and I had started spending so much time together, the additional three pounds had made me panic.
Nonetheless, I wouldn’t give in to the urge to lose even more weight.
The therapist I was seeing to help with behavior modification for weight loss said that I’d be tempted to go underweight as soon as I hit my goal. He’d warned me against this, saying it was a typical thought process, but that it was also a dangerous one.
A subject change was in order, one that would distract her completely from this topic. My mind grasped at possibilities.
“Victor—”
“How are you going to get to work tomorrow? Do you need a ride?”
Emily tensed. “Uh, I’ll take the bus.”
“I can drive you.”
“No. That’s okay. It’s not that far. Sometimes I take the bus even when my car works. But, Victor, are you sure you don’t want me to add chicken or—”
“Do you like your job?” The light turned green. I shifted my foot from the brake to the accelerator. “How long have you worked there?”
In my peripheral vision, I saw her tuck her hair behind her ears, and then place her clasped hands between her legs. “Let’s see. Two years this January. I started my sophomore year.”
“And you like it?”
“It’s fine.”
“Have you thought about doing something else?”
“Why?” Her voice held an edge, and she’d turned her face to look out the window.
“Meaning an internship. Something in your field of study,” I explained conversationally.
“Sure. But internships don’t pay what they used to, professor.”
We glanced at each other, sharing a smile at her use of my phrase from the first time we’d gone out to dinner as friends.
“Valid point,” I conceded.
Emily breathed out, turning her attention back to the window and lifting her elbow to rest on the sill. Now that the subject of my eating choices seemed to be well and truly forgotten, I was content to drive the rest of the way in silence. Just being with her was enough.
A moment later, her eyes still trained out the window, she said, “I actually don’t hate it.”
“Pardon?”
“Modeling lingerie for rich people. It’s not terrible. I’ve been a cashier at a grocery store, a server at a restaurant, an “associate” at a clothing store, a barista, and it pays better than all of those. All I have to do is stand there and let people look at me. It’s kinda boring.”
I wanted to ask if she’d been bored that night she’d poured me a drink and e
ncouraged me to touch her red silk robe. The words were on the tip of my tongue, but then I decided I didn’t want to know.
A noncommittal “Hmm” was all I said.
She wasn’t finished. “Sometimes it can be irritating, though. Like, when they want to touch me, like they think I’m there to be felt up or something.”
My temper spiked, sharp and sudden, and I gripped the steering wheel forcefully, fury sticking in my throat.
Then she added, “But they’re really good at putting a stop to that stuff. If Madame Purple or Madame Pink don’t like the way someone looks at us, their membership is revoked. And you don’t see the security team, but they’re there, watching everything. I feel . . . safe. I guess. Respected in the workplace. Valued by my boss. It’s nice.”
“Good,” I said, my blood pressure decreasing as I told myself to calm down.
The single word earned me a quick look from Emily and a tiny smile before she returned her gaze to the window. “Thank you,” she said softly.
“For what?”
“For asking Dr. Ford to keep my job a secret. For not judging me for what I do.”
I frowned. “Why would I judge you?” Ideally, it’d be great if she also felt fulfilled, challenged, and passionate about her work. But hearing that she was valued and felt safe, that was good.
“Because many people would.” She chuckled, it sounded sad.
“Not anyone you want to know. Not anyone worth your time or worthy of your friendship.”
Emily’s head whipped away from the window and she stared at me like I’d surprised her. “That’s a—uh—a valid point.” She huffed, and then added something else under her breath.
“Pardon?”
“No one knows,” she said louder. “Other than you and my mom, no one knows.”
I opened and closed my hands on the steering wheel, frowning out the windshield. “Not even your friend Anna?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
Her fidgeting intensified and she shifted in her seat, her knee bouncing. “I don’t want her to look at me differently.”
“Why would she?” I asked without giving the question much thought. Anna—what I remembered of her as a student—didn’t seem to be the type to judge people or even care what they did for a living. But then, I only knew her as a student.