by Roan Parrish
We chatted. He was handsome and funny and incredibly smart and so not my usual type. He was very clean and well dressed, like a perfect ivory tower Ken doll. But there was something about him that made me feel… grateful that he thought I was interesting enough to talk to. He asked me to dinner the next night and I looked up the menu online in a panic to see what I could order that wouldn’t wipe out my cash for the whole month. Not much.
It was, I suppose, a good date, if a good date is interesting conversation, common tastes, and an appreciation of each other’s senses of humor. But the entire time we sat there, I could tell he was half listening to me and half planning what I was useful for. There was a cold, calculating air to him that made it feel more like an interview than a date.
I was dressed all wrong for the restaurant Richard had chosen, I picked a wine that was (he informed me) a terrible choice given what I ordered, and when it came time to pay and I pulled out cash for my half, he slid the check from under my hand with a subtle shake of the head, as if I were embarrassing him. He paid the check, I realized later, the way I’d seen the fathers of fellow students pay checks when they took their kids out to dinner: with absolute knowledge that the person across the table wouldn’t be there if it weren’t for them, and with the gratification of being able to lift that person out of their sad world of cafeteria food and ramen noodles for one special night.
A treat. That’s what Richard thought he was giving me.
At the time, though, I was so distracted by trying to shove cash back in my wallet and thank him that I didn’t think about it. As we left the restaurant and I told him he needn’t have paid for me, he smiled indulgently and told me I could buy him a drink next time. That he wanted to see me again was a balm to my wounded ego; that he expected to see me again wasn’t something I thought about until later.
I pull on my black jeans and the maroon shirt that Ginger gave me, cuffing back the too-short sleeves and thinking about my best friend doing battle with the pro-lifers on South Street. Every few months they mass at the Planned Parenthood near her shop and make everybody miserable. Ginger insists that she doesn’t just fight with them because she finds them ethically and politically abhorrent, but also because she thinks signs of aborted fetuses are a deterrent to getting tattooed.
I towel-dry my hair and put a little wax in it so it won’t turn into a knot the second the wind blows. I look okay. A lot better now than I did when I got in the shower. There’s some color in my cheeks and my eyes don’t look so tired anymore. I brush my teeth, take a deep breath, and go to find Rex.
He’s in a crouch, picking at the painted-over windows in the living room. When he sees me, he gets to his feet.
“You look great,” he says, looking me up and down.
“Thanks. Um, should we go?”
“It’s not safe to have these windows painted shut,” he says. “If there was a fire… or carbon monoxide.”
I laugh a little at the shitty luck of living my whole life the way I have and then dying of carbon monoxide poisoning.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say.
“Seriously,” he says. “Carl should fix them for you.”
“I’ll mention it if I see him,” I say, mildly irritated.
I grab my backpack with the bourbon I bought for Rex and shrug into my jacket.
“Do you have a warmer coat?” Rex asks, running a finger over the shoulder of my leather jacket.
With him standing in my apartment I’m more aware than ever of how low the ceilings are.
“Er, it’s on the to-buy list,” I say, tucking the cuffs of my jeans into my boots. I doubt they’re going to be much help in keeping me dry, though. The leather is worn and cracked from years of puddles and rowdy concerts and the soles are worn smooth. I wonder if there’s a cobbler in this town.
Despite it killing my car, the snow is really beautiful. In Rex’s truck it doesn’t seem so formidable and the drive to his house passes in appreciative silence. The last mile or so is just the woods, dark and quiet, the laden pine boughs dipping to kiss the ground.
“I can see why Ethan Frome would remind you of here,” I say.
“Yeah.”
When we pull into Rex’s driveway, his little cabin is lit up inside like some kind of real-life Thomas Kinkade painting, the snow in drifts against the rough wood exterior and the windows glowing yellow. It’s beautiful, guiding us home like a lighthouse. Except, this isn’t my home. I can’t even imagine living someplace like this—someplace nice and clean and private. Someplace in the middle of nowhere.
Inside, it looks just like I remember. The wood makes it feel cozy and natural, and the scent of cedar seems to come from the walls themselves. The front door opens onto the living room, with the couch and armchair arranged near the fire, and the kitchen is off to the left, the bedroom and bathroom to the right. Everything is greens and blues and browns, but the cabin looks very clean. My eye catches on the blue flannel blanket neatly folded on the back of Rex’s forest green and black plaid couch. I’m flooded with memories of Rex wrapping me in that blanket back in February, of pulling it up over my nose after Rex went to bed, thinking it was the closest I would ever get to him. I know how that blanket smells, how it feels against my skin.
“So,” Rex says, once we’ve shed our snowy boots, “if you were at the library so late, you probably haven’t eaten, right?”
“Um, I had some soup earlier,” I say, distracted by Marilyn, who has come running to the front door to greet us. “Hi, Marilyn,” I say, squatting down to pet her. “Do you think… do you think she remembers that I was the one who hurt her?” I ask. “Like, when she sees me, does she remember that I broke her leg?”
“I think she remembers that you saved her,” Rex says. He steps close and takes my jacket, and then he runs his knuckles over my cheekbone. “Here, I’ll make us something.” He walks into the kitchen before I can say anything.
I follow Rex into the kitchen. He’s wearing another dark blue and gray plaid flannel shirt that doesn’t have even a centimeter of space to spare. You have to be born with the capacity for a body like Rex’s. No amount of protein or time at the gym would ever make it happen for me. I wonder what it would be like to be that big. I’m not small or anything, but it doesn’t feel like that long ago that I was a skinny kid getting kicked around at school. Rex’s size makes him seem… I dunno, impervious. Like I could throw myself against him with everything I am and he wouldn’t budge an inch.
“Can I help?” I ask as Rex pulls things out of the refrigerator and lays them out on the counter.
Rex gives me a singularly sweet smile and it transforms his whole face. There are faint lines around his whiskey-colored eyes when he smiles, the straight line of his brow softens, and he has dimples.
“I thought you didn’t cook?”
“Well, not really, no. But I could help cut stuff or whatever.”
“You only have macaroni and cheese,” Rex says.
“Were you looking through my kitchen?” I say.
“I was looking for a glass for water,” he says. “All you have to eat is macaroni and cheese and frozen burritos.”
“Looking for a glass in my freezer, were you?” I mumble.
“Looking for ice,” he says levelly, but I don’t quite believe him.
“I have soup.”
“Soup is flavored water, not food. No, just hang out,” he says. I slide onto a stool on the other side of the counter. He chops, slices, salts, and does a whole bunch of other things I couldn’t do if my life depended on it.
“You don’t use recipes?” I ask.
“Nah. More fun to just figure it out as I go along.”
“How’d you learn to cook?”
“My mom worked nights,” Rex says as he slices carrots into tiny uniform matchsticks. “She was an actress—well, she wanted to be. She wanted to be Marilyn Monroe.” I smile at him. “She was in a bunch of plays when we lived in Houston and Tulsa—that’s when I was little—so
I just fended for myself. Didn’t really care if I ate peanut butter and jelly every night. Then, later, when we went to LA she was working as a cocktail waitress, so she was never home in the evenings. We didn’t have the money for getting takeout every night and I was sick of peanut butter, so I decided I’d learn. Mostly I just experimented until I got it right. Since I had to eat anything I messed up it was a pretty good incentive to learn quick. I didn’t really like it, though.
“Then, later, when I was living alone, I started watching the Food Network. That’s when I fell in love with cooking, I think. I could just watch someone do something and then I could do the same thing. It was like going to cooking school for free.”
Note to self: Rex talks more when he’s doing something with his hands.
“I’ve never really watched it,” I say. “My brothers would’ve thrown a fit.”
Sam watches nothing but sports, Brian watches sports and those shows where frat boys dare each other to eat bugs and crawl through sewers, and Colin watches horror movies or war movies where people get blown to pieces. He would take one look at the Food Network and start ranting about pretentious faggots and how only girls watch cooking shows.
“I like it,” Rex says quietly, and there’s something about the moments when he pulls into himself that make me want to protect him.
“Well,” I say, “maybe we could watch some.”
Rex smiles that sweet smile again. God, that one crooked tooth catches on his lip just a little. It kills me.
“So your mom wanted to be Marilyn Monroe, huh? How’d that work out for her?”
Rex looks back to his vegetables, chopping for a minute in silence.
“She was in some movies. Small-time stuff. You know: screaming girl number three, secretary—that kind of thing. In LA, she was always dating someone who could get her a part because she was pretty, just never a big part. She was actually really good, though. We would watch all the old movies—those were the ones she really liked: Old Hollywood glamour—and she’d do the parts. She wanted to be Marilyn, but she was actually better at the dramatic parts. The really high drama death scenes and all—Helen Hayes at the end of A Farewell to Arms, you know?”
I don’t, though I read the book.
“Anyway, she loved being in front of the camera, but she was never going to have the kind of career she wanted. Old Hollywood had been dead for more than twenty years. No one was looking for that kind of thing anymore.”
“That’s sad,” I say. “So, what did she do?”
“Oh, along the way she realized it was never going to happen. And then she dated some guys who didn’t want her acting anymore.” He quiets. “Anyway, she still loved the movies, even after. Sometimes I wouldn’t even be sure if she was talking or doing the dialogue from a movie.”
“Sounds like you were close.”
Rex nods, but his expression darkens.
“Are you still?”
“She died when I was sixteen.”
I feel a rush of sympathy and I wonder if I should tell Rex that my mom died too. That I know what it’s like. Only, I have no idea what his situation was, so maybe I really don’t know what it’s like. I hate when people presume that they know how you feel.
Rex slides two plates of food onto the table while I’m still deciding if I should say anything. “Here, let’s eat,” he says, obviously not wanting to talk about it. He slices some bread and puts out butter. “Do you want something besides water? Wine? Tea?” I shake my head.
He gestures for me to sit down, but I push up on my toes and kiss him on the cheek, my hand braced on his firm chest. His cheek is smooth, and I realize I haven’t ever seen him clean-shaven before. I wonder if what Ginger said about putting effort into your looks for a date is true.
“Thanks,” I say. “For dinner and for picking me up earlier. You didn’t have to, but I—thanks.” Rex covers my hand with his own where it still rests on his chest and squeezes, smiling that shy smile.
On my plate is pasta with strips of grilled chicken and vegetables in what I assume is a white wine sauce, since I saw him add wine to the pan. It smells heavenly.
“Holy shit,” I say with my mouth full of pasta. “This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
Rex smiles and shakes his head, but I’m telling the truth. I guess I was hungrier than I thought too, because I barely stop to breathe for a few minutes, distracted by the food in front of me, which somehow manages to be hearty and delicate at the same time. Kind of like the man who prepared it. I glance up to find Rex looking at me, his expression unreadable. Immediately, I realize I’ve probably been shoveling food into my mouth like a starving orphan and I put my fork down, embarrassed.
“It’s so good,” I say, hoping to distract from my table manners. I usually eat while I’m reading or walking somewhere. Maybe Ginger should have listed “Don’t eat like a hammerhead shark” among her dating tips.
“I’m glad you like it,” Rex says. And though he’s staring at my mouth, he doesn’t seem disgusted at all. “I like watching you eat.” Then he blushes and looks down. That should seem creepy, I tell myself, but for some reason it’s just really hot.
Rex turns back to his own plate.
“No, seriously, you could be a chef or something.”
“I worked as a short-order cook at a diner for a bit,” Rex says. “But you have to go so fast that it kind of took the fun out of it.”
Rex has finished the food on his plate and is absently eyeing mine. I’m full and warm and happy and can’t eat another bite.
“I’m done,” I say, pushing my plate toward him.
“You sure?”
“I’m stuffed, man. I haven’t eaten that well in… ever. Please.”
He pulls my plate up and starts to take a bite with my fork.
“I don’t mean to be a pig,” he says, pausing, and it has the ring of someone else’s words being repeated.
“You’re not a pig. I was the one cramming food in my face,” I say, awkwardly trying to put him at ease. “Besides, you need fuel for all that.” I indicate his brawn, giving him an appreciative look.
He smiles and cleans my plate.
“When we were in high school, my brothers would practically fistfight over who got the last of the food,” I say. “They ate constantly. Don’t know how my dad kept enough to feed them.”
“You’re the youngest, right?”
“Yeah. Sometimes my dad would put a plate aside for me before he called out that it was ready. Probably afraid I’d starve to death otherwise. God, I was such a runt.”
“Were you?”
“Yeah, I was skinny and I didn’t really have a growth spurt until my senior year of high school. Don’t worry, though,” I joke. “I made enough trouble for two kids.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yep. I was a little runty kid from South Philly. I did what I had to do. Pissed everyone off doing it too.”
Rex regards me curiously.
“I can see it,” he says, considering me. “Not the runty part, I mean. So, you got in trouble at school?”
“Not on purpose, but yeah. When I was in high school my teachers thought I was a loser. I was always mouthing off because the teachers would say stupid things or I’d get bored. There were so many people in every class that the teachers could never keep people focused on the lesson, so it was hard to concentrate. I would cut class a lot to avoid people. Got in a lot of fights. As a direct result of my big mouth, no doubt.” I smile at him wryly. It’s true. As a teenager I just couldn’t stop myself from saying smart-assed shit to the wrong people.
“A lot of the time, they’d just assign busywork to keep the class under control, so I never did it because it was pointless. Then, when I actually did my homework, teachers acted shocked, which would piss me off. One year, I wrote an essay for my English class after I hadn’t turned in much homework and the teacher accused me of plagiarizing it. The only thing that saved me was that I’d written it out longhand because I h
ad to type it at the library, so I had the draft and everything.
“Anyway, got in trouble at school, at home. You name it. I got suspended for fighting, suspended for smoking, suspended for skipping. Then when the school’d call my dad I’d get in trouble with him.”
“You get picked on?” Rex says, and I swear, a vein pulses in his temple like he wants to punish the kids who beat the crap out of me in high school. I smile at him.
“A bit. I wasn’t a bad fighter; I was just small. Had to play to my other strengths.”
Rex raises an eyebrow in question.
“You know, freak them out a little so they’d leave me alone.”
At first that was all I’d wanted—just to be left alone so I could pay attention when Mrs. Caballeros would talk about Shakespeare and Emily Dickinson, and Mr. Seo about the Civil War. Then, later, when I was alone, I wished for a friend. A real friend. Not the kids I hung out with when we cut class, smoking while we leaned against the chain-link fence in the abandoned lot a few blocks from school, talking about nothing, fronting like we didn’t want anything else.
“Your brothers didn’t look out for you?” Rex asks.
I let out a bark of laughter. “Ah. No.”
The dark look in Rex’s eyes is back. He’s a rather strange conversationalist. It’s almost like he’s interviewing me. Not that he doesn’t seem interested; he does. His eyes never leave me when I talk. It’s more like he’s out of practice or something.
“Then junior year, when we did mandatory standardized testing and they found out that I wasn’t stupid, they gave me all this shit about applying myself and rising above my circumstances. Just total savior bullshit, you know. Like, we treated you like crap for years because you weren’t a good kid, and now that you have high test scores we suddenly believe you have a responsibility to yourself. It really turned me off school even more.”
“So, how’d you end up going on to college if you didn’t like school?”