Love Me Like You Do: Books That Keep You In Bed

by Fields, MJ

  I move my hand to his, the touch bringing his gaze down as his chin tucks into his chest.

  “I can give you a shave sometime…if you want,” I say, and the left side of my mouth slightly curls.

  The long pause grows longer, and I start to feel trapped, afraid to pull my hand away because his focus is so intense on it. I’m growing anxious, and I can feel my hand tremble slightly and I know my palm is going to begin to sweat.

  “Anna owned a resale shop. She was incredibly handy,” he chuckles.

  I’m frozen.

  His dimples deepen as he blinks a few times.

  “She’s the one the Army really could have used.” The smile fades quickly, and his eyes flit to mine. “We had a daughter, Felicity,” he says, flashing a brief smile that breaks my heart.

  I shake my head just a little, part of me wanting him to stop sharing. I wonder if Memphis knows any of this?

  “They were on the way to the airport to greet me after my last deployment. I was done. I was coming home and then that was it…it was all over.” There’s a strange calmness in the way he’s looking at me, the way he just spoke those words. He might not speak about his past often, but he’s made peace with it.

  “Is that why you live in that park?”

  His eyes glaze slightly and his tight lips echo sweet sadness as his head bobs slowly in confirmation.

  “How do you go home after something like that?” he whispers, unable to force his voice any louder.

  I squeeze more where I’m holding his hand, and he pulls his bottom hand out from our pile and places it on top of mine, like a sandwich. His eyes move down to his foot, treated finally the way it deserves. His other foot is in a clean sock, probably donated from the hospital. He stretches that foot forward, pointing the toes and groans lightly from the movement.

  “You thank Memphis for me, will you? For watching my spot?”

  Standing, I let our touch slip away and pull my purse up on my shoulder as I nod.

  “Will do.”

  It’s getting late, but it’s never quiet in a place like this. It doesn’t seem to bother Miles much. I think distractions are welcome to his ears, and maybe that’s why he lives on the streets.

  I look back one last time before I leave, and he’s already put his glasses on. The metal rims look a little bent, so I make myself a mental note to steal a pair of Leo’s readers from home and bring them to him the next time I see him.

  Managing to catch the route just in time, I take the bus home. The cab ride to the hospital nearly gave me a panic attack, because I couldn’t remember for sure what the cab driver I stiffed a few weeks ago looked like. I don’t think it was him, but the jerky driving that had my seatbelt working overtime gave me pause.

  The bus is easy. People don’t talk, and as long as you take a seat near the front, but not right by the driver, you can count on being left alone. I’ve always preferred the bus, and not because I’m cheap. I like the idle time it gives me. When I was a teenager, this route was my savior. It got me to the west part of town for the mall, and the east side for clubs I was too young for and college boys I could never have, but whose attention I still craved.

  The ride was always my favorite part, though. No screaming echoing in the hallways. No parents threatening each other to walk out or weeks on end of living in an abandoned neighborhood all alone. Nobody to remind me of my big fat mouth and how I ruined the family fortune by telling the truth.

  It was quiet. It’s quiet now. Even as I step through the door and land at the dusty curb, the world is quiet.

  Silence disappears when the bus rumbles into gear behind me, the sifting noise of the door closing startling me enough to step forward a few quick paces. I glance to the left and watch my chariot fade, bathing in the exhaust. The nearby intersection light flashes green, and my quiet is overruled by drag-racing twenty-somethings, business people leaving work late, and people passing through or cruising the streets for trouble.

  Home.

  I might understand the tree even more now.

  My chest fills with air once the smog dissipates, and I breathe out heavily through my nose as my attention turns to the walkway and dark porch in front of me. I haven’t been inside since I left for the gym this morning, and I really didn’t put in a full day of work there, either. My mother will take it out of my pay, and I won’t argue, even though I’ve put in plenty of extra hours sorting through bank statements trying to make books match reality. She walked in at the absolute worst time—and the fact that I haven’t had a lecture from her yet about how I ruin everything, and how I’ll ruin Memphis too, is worth losing half a day’s pay.

  I can’t seem to get myself inside now either, though. I’m still wearing the sweatpants and T-shirt I tossed on this morning, and it’s comfortable enough to wear to bed. I don’t want to be in my bed, though. I want to be under a tree, standing guard because of a promise. I want to watch the sunrise out there with a guy I made a pledge to my younger self would never be my type.

  Instead, I settle on waiting for him, abandoning the walkway that leads to the dark room I’ve been living in and replacing it with an orange-lit alleyway. The back of my uncle’s house still smells of smoldering burnt cuts of meat. I toss my purse in the chair Memphis put out for me, and I shut the propane tank off, killing the small flame threatening to melt the tiny grill. I busy myself for the next thirty minutes cleaning up the area outside, making things look as neat as spare bike parts, old boots, and a broken lawn chair can. I kick larger rocks off to the side and out of his bike’s path, then give into the temptation to see if Memphis’s door is unlocked.

  I twist the knob slowly, waiting for it to catch, but it falls open easily. One step inside and I’m swallowed up by everything I know about him. My hand dusts along the fringe of an old quilt hanging off the edge of a loft bed behind me, while my eyes rake over the other side of this space. It’s a cave, in many ways, but it doesn’t feel dark inside despite the long-set sun outside. The buzz of a fan clipped to the top of a cabinet hums a passing breeze through my hair, and when I draw in through my nose, the scent is familiar. My hand automatically moves to my mouth, fingertips trying to find that same feeling of Memphis’s lips against mine.

  The cab of the RV doesn’t look drivable. Laundry is stacked in the driver’s seat, although it’s folded, which is impressive. Everything inside seems to have a place, even if it’s not what the space was intended for. A small collection of tools—screwdriver, wrench, and some ratchet-looking-thingy—live in the center console cup holder, and a few books and magazines are tucked inside the flap behind the passenger seat. It all feels so permanent for a home meant to be on the road.

  A few books are sandwiched between two protein tins on the small counter space near the single-burner stove. I slide one out and smile when I read the spine—TOM SAWYER. I wonder if it’s his favorite book, or if it belonged to his dad. I slide it back in and run my thumb along the next few books, stopping at the other end against the metal ridges of a spiral notebook. I slide it out and flip a few of the first pages, clippings from small town newspapers taped to the centers of pages.

  He’s skinny in the first picture I flip to. The muscles on his arms are these tiny bumps, and his eyes are swollen shut from the beating he took, but the referee is holding his arm in the air. There’s an intensity to his face, even at eighteen. It’s a look he was born with, that much I know. I watched people come in and out of our gym, rise and fall against my dad. There were only a handful that had that look in their eyes. My dad had it, and it’s in every picture I flip to that shows his face.

  Weigh-ins.

  Press conferences.

  I chuckle when I see one where he’s standing next to his opponent, fists formed on each of them—the typical comparison and a big show for the media. His opponent, Joseph Gomez, is smiling. Memphis is already there, in the ring, winning—I can see it in his eyes.

  Curious, I flip through the pages from beginning to end, counting twi
ce. There are twenty-three wins in here. Fighters keep all of their fights—even the losses. They use them as reminders of sore moments, weaknesses to erase. There are no losses in Memphis’s book.

  He’s good. He’s more than good. And this fight that’s coming up is bigger than anyone is saying out loud.

  I close the book and slide it in just as I found it, my chest growing heavier with each breath. Memphis is the real thing. I know the ride his life is about to take, and it’s…filled with temptation. It’s more than shortcuts and women and parties and celebrity—it’s a sense of feeling like a god, above the rules we live by to make sure we don’t hurt one another. It’s easy to forget those things when you’re invincible.

  My eyes fall to the floor, my black running shoes disappearing into the darkness. I can’t see where I end and Memphis’s home begins, and the parallel that draws makes my heart flutter dangerously.

  I move back to the doorway, pushing it open to let the glow from the streetlights flood inside, and I turn around to look at everything he owns one last time. His space is warm and sad, somehow kind of perfect, yet lonely. I pull my phone from my pocket to check the time, surprised to see it’s well after midnight.

  Frozen to the top step leading to his place, I glance up at my window, picturing his view of me. I fantasize a little about what he sees—what I let him see. When a smile touches my lips, I step down and sit on the top step. With the door pushed shut behind me, I lean against the gritty metal siding and pull my knees up to my chest, hugging them.

  I waste more than two hours in my own thoughts, reliving in my own head the nightmares I’ve survived. My eyes can barely stay open, and my sleepy mind is starting to make me panic about being doomed to repeat my mistakes. The memory of his touch, his lips against mine, is starting to fade more quickly, and I’m beginning to think I remembered something that wasn’t real at all.

  Standing in an effort to force myself back to Leo’s house, I wish for the butterflies to die inside me. I decide to face things with a clear head after a few hours of sleep—and the aid of sunshine and obscene amounts of caffeine. The quiet streets make his approaching bike stand out even more, though, and I stop with my back against his door, hairs rising on the back of my neck, some things still refusing to give up the fight inside my chest.

  When his headlight shines on me, I breathe in deeply, knowing this bit of air will need to last. Memphis walks his bike forward another foot or two, finally coming to a stop and killing the engine. He doesn’t get up right away, instead sitting where he stopped and keeping me in the spotlight.

  I lose a little more of the air I’ve been trying to save, and my throat closes with nerves. Memphis still doesn’t move. While I was here, staring up at my temporary window and this dirty strip of land that divides my old life from everything else—thinking about all of the reasons I should never have kissed this man—Memphis was somewhere staring and thinking, too.

  Fear starts to trickle into my bloodstream, down my spine, and spread through my nerve endings. My fingers grow numb, and I squeeze my hands into fists just to feel them. I’m afraid—afraid that Memphis was thinking of all of the ways I don’t fit in with the plan he’s clearly following, based on the spiral notebook filled with win after win. I’m afraid he doesn’t care that I’m a distraction, instead listening to momentary lust and greed. I’m afraid of what would happen after, if he had me and threw me away.

  I’m terrified about tomorrow, about facing my mother and feeling either shame or regret, because just like her, I am falling for a fighter. Neither is good, and Memphis has the potential to drive me right through both, but I still can’t move from this spot. Because as terrified as I am of the next five minutes, something is keeping him there on his bike, staring at me—just as unsure.

  “Miles liked the steak.” I had to say something.

  Memphis kills the light, and I’m finally able to see his form as he kicks his leg over his bike and pulls his helmet from his head. He holds it in both hands, in front of his chest, and a small part of me is hoping he’ll just put it back on and speed away.

  “It looked like they had him on some antibiotics, or some sort of IV. Maybe just hydration, or…I don’t really know how hospital stuff works.” I shrug, my knees shaking.

  Memphis looks down, and as my eyes adjust, I can make out the faint smile curling the edge of his lips. His head angles and our eyes meet. Ten, maybe fifteen, feet of dirt and gravel between us, but this barrier seems to hold steady.

  “He was glad you went to check on his tree.” A small, airy laugh falls from my lips, and Memphis’s smile curves a hint more just before he nods.

  I move my fingers slightly within my closed fists, my palms moist from nerves. The more I speak, the more content I seem to be with this—living just on the edge of possibility. There’s a certain rush from him being there, me being here—space between us to go along with a growing desire that fills the air from both of our staggered breaths.

  It must be three in the morning. The sky is as pitch black as it comes, and the thin amount of dust in the air colors the lights so everything feels like one of those old-time photographs. His bruises have darkened, and the swelling has settled a little. He’s one hell of a man to look at normally, but standing there—like this—still wearing the same sweats and white shirt he wore in the ring earlier, blood stains dried on his collar…well…only my mother would understand why this is so beautiful.

  And now it seems I do, too.

  “I don’t why I’m here.” I shake my head and let my eyes blink to the ground as I fold my arms over my chest and squeeze at my sides, undoing my fists. I can’t mask the hard swallow, and when I glance back up to Memphis, I know he saw it.

  His jaw flexes, and under his scrutiny I start to feel embarrassed, like I missed some nonverbal cue to leave. I never should have been here.

  “Why am I the only one talking?” My teeth catch my lip, and a quiet chuckle pushed out by my boiling nerves escapes. My right foot leaves the step, but I pause at the sound of Memphis’s feet shifting along the rough ground.

  “I…I don’t know what to say?”

  His mouth falls to a straight line, and I nod a laugh before letting my arms unfold so I can push the butts of my hands into my tired eyes.

  “Right,” I say. I nod again, then look up at the dust particles dancing under the streetlamp. “I…uh…” My chin tucks back toward my chest and my eyes meet his again. “I’m just gonna go.”

  I make it two steps this time before Memphis stops me.

  “Wait,” he says. I don’t look at him at first, instead my eyes on the other option—on leaving. It would take seconds for me to walk around the edge of Leo’s house and through the back door into my lonely, but safe, existence. I know Memphis wouldn’t follow me, because he’s a gentleman. He’d respect my need to be gone—away from this moment right here.

  “I can’t be that girl, Memphis.” I let my words linger for a breath before I dare to look at him. He was waiting for me, his fingers drumming on his helmet’s surface and his feet planted firmly where they stand. “This world…the things you are going to go through…”

  Flashes from my past run through my mind. All of the times my dad went home with someone else after a fight, the shouting matches I tried to drown out when he was making weight—his never-fully-won battle with opioids, a chronic craving from so many broken bones. And then there was the stroke—all of the signs leading up to it. You can only burn bright in this world for so long, if you ever burn bright at all.

  “I promised myself I would leave this place, that I would leave the people here in it.”

  “I’m not them,” he interrupts. His chest rises with a slow-drawn breath and he looks down where his hands grip his helmet.

  “You don’t see it like I do,” I say. His eyes snap to mine, and I pause. He’s undefeated. He’s on the verge of what fighters like him dream about when they first slide their hands into a pair of gloves they only hope will fit them
one day. He is what my dad had been searching for—a champion.

  “I know how good you are.” There’s a flash to his eyes, almost like the thought of someone praising him is a curse. He’s going to need to get used to hearing it. I can sense it coming—he is all this world will be talking about.

  “You can’t grow up in this family and not recognize it. There have been very few.” I glance up at the wall painted with my dad’s likeness and chew at the inside of my cheek.

  “My bike was in some pawnshop in Ashland, Wisconsin.”

  I draw my brow in, but keep my eyes on the brick wall and let him continue, even though I can hear his feet moving along the ground.

  “It was my dad’s,” he says, something I think I maybe knew deep down. It hits me with a punch, even still.

  “There was this picture of him on it, and he had this smile on his face like he’d finally made it, you know? Like…all he had to do in this world was get enough money to buy this bike, and he would be a satisfied man.”

  He laughs at the memory, the sound from his chest soft and warm. I run my hand over my opposite arm to stir away the tingles, and to embrace myself at the same time. I turn my head just enough to see him still taking slow, sauntering steps toward me, his helmet now down to his side.

  “He left me this box of…old…shit,” he smirks as he says it, his eyes flitting to mine then back to the few paces left between us. “Some unlucky lottery ticket with a girl’s number on it…which I called to see if she knew him. She had no idea who he was, and I’m pretty sure she was a prostitute.”

  We share a short chuckle, though it isn’t really funny.

  Memphis glances to the side, tossing his helmet to the ground next to his trailer, then takes a few more steps toward me, stopping where I’m just out of reach.

  “There were a few unsent birthday cards he probably didn’t even know where to send, and a bunch of pictures of him with this group of guys at this bar. I fantasized for a while that maybe he owned it or something, but I killed that idea with a few phone calls.”