by Roan Parrish
I nodded. I knew just what he meant. The spark of connection that made you feel like someone’s art was speaking directly to you. That made you feel that no matter how others received it, it was different from what it meant to you. The desire to see more of the mind that created what you connected with because surely there was something akin.
He shrugged. “I just know that I like the bits of you I’ve seen, and I want to see the rest.” He said it sincerely, but then his face turned red as he realized what that sounded like, especially with us still so close on the couch, and he rolled his eyes. I laughed.
I thought back to a conversation I’d had with Daniel before his first date with Rex, in which I’d told him to be his actual self. To be the way he was with me instead of with the rest of the world. He’d gotten all offended and asked what that meant, and I’d told him that with other people he was guarded. Quick to throw down. He’d be endlessly amused to hear that I was now giving myself the exact same advice.
I said, “Your bits aren’t so bad, either. I wouldn’t mind seeing what else you’ve got going on.”
“Yeah?” His face lit up.
“Yeah. I’m not great at, uh… So when I was in sixth grade, I had a crush on this boy, Jason. And like five of my other friends had crushes on him too, because, you know, he was dreamy or whatever. But even though they’d talk about how cute he was or liking him, I would never admit that I did too. It felt too vulnerable. As if, as long as I hadn’t admitted that I liked Jason, then his rejection wasn’t really rejection. No one would know. No one would feel sorry for me. You know?”
He nodded slowly. “But what if Jason actually did like you?”
“Huh?”
“What if he really liked you and he thought you didn’t like him?”
“Oh, yeah, well that turned out to be what happened. He asked me out at lunch one day and I thought it was a joke but he said he was serious. So then we were dating”—I made finger quotes around dating—“which basically meant nothing. Of course then one Monday I got to school and everyone was saying that this girl Caitlin gave him a hand job in the woods,” I added absently, because, wow, apparently it was nervous oversharing hour on The Ginger Show.
“I’m not a cheater,” Christopher said, eyes flashing.
“Yeah, no, I didn’t mean it like that—that actually wasn’t the point. The point was that I’m pretty bad at doing things that make me feel like I’m leaving myself open for a hit, you know?”
His expression softened. “I’ve definitely gotten that, yes.”
Christopher leaned in and cupped my cheek, looking at me closely. My heart started pounding and my vision narrowed to only his mouth, full lips slightly parted, stubble gleaming like copper in the sun. Heat bloomed low in my belly and burned between my legs. I wanted to squeeze my thighs together at the delicious feeling. If he kissed me again, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop.
“So I have to go,” he said, voice low, eyes on my mouth. He got an amused, teasing look on his face. “But I think we’ve done good work here today.” He shook my hand like we’d concluded a business transaction, the cocky little shit. And I wanted to kiss that look right off his face.
“You’re a tease,” I said, surprised.
“I work with what I have, Ginger,” he said, and he pressed a hot kiss to my cheek.
“This is going to be an absolute disaster,” I said, squeezing his hand. But I felt suffused with a warmth I hadn’t felt in a very long time. “Just for none of the reasons I’d thought.”
⌃ ⌃ ⌃
J—
Okay, it’s cool if you don’t want to write me back every time, but you know I’m not gonna stop, right?
So, I really hope you haven’t become claustrophobic because I think Mom and Dad have turned into hoarders. I don’t know how I never noticed it before, but swear to god, they have kept every single thing we ever did. Every piece of paper and postcard and old toy and soccer trophy. And, uh, it’s all stacked into this weird wall of nostalgia in your bedroom. So. Gird your loins for your return, prodigal son, because I think if you try and move even one thing the entire wall could come tumbling down. I tried to get Mom to throw that shit out, I swear, but she gave me the HOW COULD YOU look and I…you know I can’t take that shit. So then I tried to move a lot of it into my old room, but I guess the roof’s leaking in there. Sorry, man. I tried.
I have confirmed that Ginger does, indeed, date guys, so that’s something. Bro, her paintings are out of this world amazing. I don’t even get how someone’s brain would have to work to be able to do that. To see the details of a thing rather than the thing itself. Or to see them both at the same time, like the world is some kind of Magic Eye poster and you can constantly shift between seeing the details and seeing the whole. I can almost see her doing it sometimes. Seeing me and then cocking her head and seeing me differently, like she’s taking a picture in her mind.
She actually reminds me of you a little bit. She has this way of talking, where things are kind of a joke, but I know she means it, the way you do. Like your shrink used to say, right? That one with the big teeth and the terrible comb-over?
C
P.S. She kissed me. I’m grinning as I write this. Because I can’t stop grinning every time I think about it. God, I’m a geek. And if you want to know the story, then you should probably write me back…
Chapter 6
“Okay, so here’s the deal,” Christopher said, leaning across the counter toward me. “I want to go on a date with you.”
I’d spent the whole previous day after Christopher left my apartment getting lost in thoughts of how his mouth felt against mine. Imagining what would’ve happened if he’d stayed. Making bets with myself about what the skin of his shoulders would taste like, or how his stubble would feel on my inner thighs. Then I’d forced myself to come into Melt this morning, because I’d known if I stayed away I’d start to feel awkward.
But the idea of a date made me feel awkward for much less pleasant reasons. Dates always felt forced and overly scripted and I never felt like myself on them. And I didn’t want to not be myself with Christopher. Besides, it seemed like the perfect occasion for him to realize he wasn’t actually into me. I shot him a faux-shocked look and gestured around us to the empty café where we were currently sharing coffee and conversation. My sleeves were pulled down over my hands, so the gesture probably looked a bit like I’d pulled loose from a straightjacket.
“Yeah, yeah, a date that does not take place within the walls of the establishment where either of us are the proprietor. Agreed?”
“Uh, well, agreed in theory, but I work until late and you open the shop early, so I don’t know when we’d do it. Besides, just know that in my world the d-word portends disaster, and I thought things were going kind of well, so. Be warned.”
“What disaster could it portend?”
“Sweet innocent angel, I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”
He grinned and shook his head. “Come on a date with me. Tomorrow. Seven a.m. I’ll get Stevie to open for me.”
“Seven in the morning? So you’re skating past disaster and straight into torture?”
“Ginger.” He took my hand, pushed up my sleeve, and ran warm fingers over the inside of my wrist. He traced the ink around to the back of my hand. “Come to breakfast with me. At Morning Glory. It’ll be great.”
“Why is it so important to you that we go have a date in a diner rather than here?” I asked, genuinely curious. “I mean, truth, Morning Glory has better breakfast food than you, but.” I winked at him and he raised a hand to his heart like I’d wounded him.
“Um, because I want to take you out on a real date…”
“Paging tautology, party of one.”
“Fine, fine, okay. Because I want to kiss you again. Okay? There.”
My eyes shot to his mouth. Soft lips surrounded by rough stubble; the way the tips of his incisors bit into his bottom lip when he smiled. Heat flushed through m
e.
“What does that have to do with a date?” I asked dazedly, and looked up into his eyes to find them trained on my mouth too.
He stepped around the counter and was in front of me in seconds. His broad chest pressed me back against the counter, and suddenly my senses were overwhelmed by him. His scent was all around me: something green, like aloe, the clean cool scent of fabric softener, the spice of whatever he used in his hair, and the smell of his skin, warm and slightly musky.
“You’re right,” he said, voice soft and low. He cupped my cheek and touched my lower lip with his thumb.
“Huh?” I said stupidly, but I wasn’t listening to him. His eyes were like fire and water together—some impossible conflagration—his lashes dark reddish brown.
When his lips touched mine his eyes fluttered shut and I felt a wave of tenderness for him. Then it was replaced with heat as our mouths moved together. Slow at first, but then he made a sound in the back of his throat and leaned into me, sliding his hand into my hair like he couldn’t get close enough.
My heart beat faster and the kiss sent shivers down my throat and into my stomach. I pushed up onto my tiptoes and threw my arms around his neck. In the space of one breath he groaned, grabbed me around the hips, and lifted me up so I was sitting on the counter. I hooked my calf around his thigh, pulling him toward me. He tipped my chin back and kissed me again, a deep, slow kiss that gave me time to feel the softness of his lips and the sharpness of his teeth. The slick tease of his tongue against mine.
I made a sound in the back of my throat as heat ripped through me, and felt his answering arousal in the hardness pressed against my stomach. We were lost in each other. The shop disappeared as Christopher took over all my sensations.
We broke apart suddenly at the sound of tinkling bells.
✕ ✕ ✕
“His mother!” Marcus cracked up.
The look on Christopher’s face when his mother walked through the door had been priceless. He’d retreated behind the counter immediately to hide his erection, but he couldn’t hide his flushed cheeks or mussed hair. He’d cleared his throat and tried to go back into grown-up mode, introducing me to his mom and telling me he’d see me later, but he hadn’t quite been able to pull it off.
“So what does Daniel have to say about all this?”
My stomach tightened. “I, uh. I haven’t told him yet.”
“What? Why?”
I’d been asking myself the same thing. Usually, I’d’ve told him right away. Usually, it would be no big deal to text Daniel, Hot guy alert! Also, tried a new granola bar flavor. But telling Daniel about this hot guy felt momentous. It felt like admitting that I maybe, just a little bit, kind of, had a crush. More than a crush. It meant making it real.
Marcus’s expression was pained, like he could see my train of thought.
“This thing with Christopher will probably blow up in my face at any moment, let’s be real. He cares about stuff like making people happy, and he’s got real parents, and he’s…at peace with the world or something, you know?”
“This is bad?”
“Come on. The only people at peace with the world are either too stupid to know any better, they’re sociopaths devoid of empathy, or they’re self-deluded, privileged fuckers who are fundamentally incapable of acknowledging reality. And lemme just say, he ain’t stupid. I don’t know, he probably wants…normal person things like meatloaf and peas and…children, and…I don’t know. Never mind.”
“I’m ignoring you because I know you aren’t really that shallow. Also—” He tweaked my hair knowingly. “Because don’t forget that I know you love meatloaf. And peas. But your secret’s safe with me.”
✕ ✕ ✕
Come on, go on a date with me? Christopher texted the next day, after we’d finally exchanged phone numbers.
“I kinda dig the whole hiding secret notes in napkins and climbing fire escapes at the crack of dawn to be in touch and all, but it’s convenient to be able to let you know if I’m running late, or dead in a car accident,” he’d said.
“Yes, I’ll hold my breath for your future calls from beyond the grave,” I’d told him, but programmed his number into my phone and been pleased when he’d put me in as “Ginger” with no last name needed. Not that it was a common name or anything. But still.
I’d thought the whole “making out on the counter of his diner” might have convinced him there was no need for a formalized date, but apparently I wasn’t that lucky. And maybe with Christopher, going on a date would be different. Maybe.
What’d you have in mind?
It’s a surprise ;)
Surprises frighten me. They usually involve insects, public humiliation, or stand-up comedy. Actually those last two are the same thing. In case it isn’t clear, I hate insects and stand-up comedy. If you take me to one of those zoos that’s for bugs or to a stand-up show I will never speak to you again.
Hand to god it’s not stand-up and there are no bugs. But why do you hate?
BECAUSE THEY CRAWL INSIDE YOU AND EAT YOUR BRAIN. Well more like because they’re all secretive and hidden and then they JUMP out at you.
I meant why do you hate stand-up but point taken. I really don’t like those water bug things.
*Shudder* No those are terrible. Most art allows for a variety of responses. Comedy tells you the one response you’re supposed to have.
Well, maybe it’s just not art, then?
Yr telling me. If you don’t have that one reaction then it feels like it fails. And I don’t like watching people fail at stuff in front of a crowd.
But it doesn’t always fail…
*Gritting my teeth while sitting surrounded by ppl staring at a stage knowing there’s a 97% possibility that it will fail for me emoji*
Ok, got it. Not your thing. No comedy, no bugs, no problem ;)
*Rainbow vomit emoji* Also it makes me uncomfortable to see ppl try so hard to be liked. Middle school flashbacks of shame by proxy. Full body shivers of horror.
NOTED. I will never ever subject you to comedy.
Um but real talk: was it gonna be comedy?
NO! Jesus, fine, I’ll just tell you.
*Angel with a halo emoji*
Do you want me to?
Mmmmmmm. Ok, keep your surprise. When?
Friday night? Can you get done early enough to meet me at 8?
Can’t Friday—going to NYC. Tattoo convention.
The convention was coming at a bad time, what with Malik’s art show looming, and the extra business from the G Philly article, but I hadn’t known about either when I’d signed up for it last year. I was looking forward to meeting up with tattoo friends I only saw at cons though. And I had two people I was going to see if I could hire for Small Change.
Oh, bummer. When are you back?
Sun pm.
Ok, well, I’ll try you again next week I guess.
Would it help you to make up an emoji? *Leering, vaguely patronizing emoji that I’m using to distract from an uncomfortably sappy feeling of being glad that you’re bummed I’m not here this weekend* <— see?
Ha, hmmm… Ok. *Patient on the surface but agitated at the thought of not hanging with you this weekend emoji* How’d I do?
That’s a description of a feeling, not an emoji.
Dang. Harsh. How about *Twiddling my thumbs and sighing while pacing my sandwich shop emoji*?
Aw. Better I guess. More visually dynamic in any case. But “twiddling” is kinda creepy bc “diddling.”
Noted. Got it!
Then he sent a picture of himself making a face like he was weeping and pining. Then another of him winking.
✕ ✕ ✕
I fell into bed Sunday night completely exhausted and aching in every muscle. After spending three straight days tattooing from early morning until late at night, networking during every minute of downtime, and hardcore socializing over drinks with friends, my hands were claws, my back a knot of pain, my head and eyes throbbed, and my br
ain was oatmeal, pleading with me in a tiny voice not to make it see or speak to anyone for at least a week. If oatmeal could plead.
I had managed a quick voicemail to the shop phone that Lindsey would find when they opened, saying that I was taking the day off and not to come get me unless the shop was actually on fire.
I slept until noon, took the hottest shower I could stand, then sat on the couch with a cup of coffee in one hand and a bowl of coffee ice cream in the other, dipping spoonfuls of ice cream into the coffee to make tiny floating islands that I devoured one after another like a capricious god.
I should’ve been working on my paintings but I was finding it difficult even to reach over to deposit my empty bowl on the coffee table. When was the last time I’d taken a day off? Not since before Daniel left, I didn’t think. I’d give it ten more minutes and then I was going to paint. Really, I should’ve done something useful like go to the grocery store or do laundry, but those were absolutely not happening. I sketched absently on the back of an envelope from the bank.
As I sketched, my mind drifted to Christopher. He’d texted me a few times while I was in New York, but though each text had put a smile on my face and kindled a warmth in my stomach, I’d always been gloved up and covered in blood and ink when they came through, so I hadn’t answered.
I grabbed my phone to text him back, when I realized what I’d sketched was him, in three-quarter profile, like he was turning toward me. The blade of his nose catching the light, the cut of his cheekbone throwing a shadow, the curve of his brow above those extraordinary eyes. Jeez. Hung up much, Holtzman? Distracted by my sketch and what it might mean, when the phone suddenly rang in my hand, I accidentally swiped to answer the call without looking.
Because god knew I would never have answered a call from my sister intentionally.