He Must Like You

by Danielle Younge-Ullman

  “Yes,” he says.

  “This little . . . potential romance we’re thinking about is turning us into terrible conversationalists,” I say, and that seems to break the tension.

  “I dunno,” he says, “maybe it’s cute, both of us acting like huge dorks.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  “Oh, burn.”

  I grin.

  “But I like how you’re calling it a ‘little romance,’” he says.

  “Potential little romance.”

  “Yes, potential. And ‘little’ is just the right amount of disparaging to keep me on my toes.”

  I laugh.

  “But maybe it won’t be a little romance,” he says. “Maybe it’ll be a big romance.”

  I don’t even have a response for this. Just a crashing feeling in my chest.

  “So what if I’d rung the doorbell,” he says, switching topics smoothly. “Does something bad happen?”

  “Demons, rabid dogs, my parents coming up and staring at us.”

  “Oh,” he says, “okay.”

  “It’s them I’m jumpy about, not you.”

  “You don’t have to feel jumpy.”

  “Okay,” I say, making no move to go inside yet. “But, for example, you should probably know that although they need some help with the furniture, it can’t all get done tonight. Ideally we leave them with enough to keep them occupied through the weekend. Also you should probably know about the fictional renters.”

  “Fictional renters?”

  “My dad thinks they’re getting ready for some renters. And there might be renters at some point—they’re not entirely fictional—but he thinks they’re coming on Monday, which they definitely are not. I’m really throwing you into the fire.”

  “I’m ready,” he says. “Confused, but ready.”

  Then he comes up beside me and takes my hand, once again causing me to feel like I might keel over, and pulls me toward the door.

  * * *

  —

  Within five minutes Noah has taken charge. He sets my mom and dad on the task of putting the bedframe together while he and I tackle a side table, and goes back and forth, helping and cajoling them along.

  Miraculously both my parents are on their best behavior— which is to say actual good behavior from my mom, and a not-small amount of talking from my dad about the “gold mine” Jack’s and my rooms are going to be, and the occasional rant about hotels and the evils of big corporations. He’s obviously energized to have a brand-new, captive listener, but Noah deals with good humor. I even feel safe enough to go to the kitchen to make sandwiches at one point, and Mom grabs a bottle of wine for her and Dad.

  After the sandwiches and a final pep talk from Noah, we take the empty plates back upstairs and leave them to it.

  He follows me into the kitchen, which is dimly lit by the stove light, and therefore looking its best—the metal, harvest gold cupboards, matching appliances, and coordinating plaid wallpaper softening, the colors giving off their warmest vibe.

  We set the plates in the sink.

  “That was impressive,” I say.

  “It’s just building stuff,” he says with a modest shrug. “And don’t worry, there’s lots for them to finish up tomorrow and Sunday.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I didn’t realize your dad was so set on booting you from the house, though,” he says, his expression serious.

  “Well, it’s not like I want to stay here,” I say, the brewery tour job suddenly flashing through my mind and causing me to inwardly shudder.

  “But I’d think it’d be weird, not having it to come back to,” he says, “at least to visit.”

  “Yep.”

  “Should we do these?” he says, then gestures toward the dishes.

  “Sure.”

  “You know what?” He stoppers the sink and turns on the water. “It’s actually a good idea, how we’re thinking about things, and not rushing.”

  “It’s only been a day—not sure we can really claim the ‘not rushing’ thing yet,” I say, and pass him the soap.

  “My point is, high school is almost over, and that comes with a lot of change. Neither of us wants to hurt the other, or be hurt, and it’s worth taking time, figuring things out. Last night I would have just jumped in.”

  “And now you wouldn’t?” I say, seized with sudden fear, but trying to sound calm anyway.

  “No, I just mean I had time to think about the stuff you said,” he says, and puts the sponge in the water and starts to wash the first dish. “We talked about whether it would be a fling, and right away I thought no. And having slept on it, I know it for sure. It wouldn’t be a fling—for me anyway. Even if it didn’t end up lasting past the summer, it wouldn’t be casual on my part. Not that there’s anything wrong with casual.”

  “So . . .”

  “So you were right to ask questions. Because I think if we do this, and if we fall in love . . .” He hands me a dish to rinse.

  “Jeez, Noah,” I breathe, taking it.

  “What?”

  “I always knew you were blunt, but I never thought about how that would be in a situation like this.”

  “Too much? Talking about love and stuff? Am I not supposed to do that?”

  “No, it’s . . . great, just . . . a bit shocking. Anyway, sorry, go on—you were saying, if we . . .” I swallow. “If we were to do this, and fall in love . . .”

  “Then it’s going to suck come August.”

  I exhale, and nod. This is the weirdest, most intense conversation to be having while standing side by side doing dishes. And yet I’m very happy to have something to look at, something to do with my hands.

  “If we decide to do long-distance, it’ll suck, if we decide not to, it’ll suck,” he says. “I mean, basically the better it is, the worse it is. Like we could end up spending the whole summer crying.”

  “Wow, you make it sound so appealing,” I say, laughing.

  “Hey, I am that guy. Hard sell, all the time.”

  “Ha.”

  “The question we both have to answer for ourselves is: are we up for a big emotional risk—for everything sucking in August? Or is it better to stay friends?”

  “What about if we just . . . decided without deciding?” I suggest. “Like, not rush, as you said, but also not have to come to some big decision—just . . . see.”

  “Libby, I’m a very definite person. Not rushing makes sense but at some point I want to be past thinking, ‘Does she like me?’ and ‘Will she still want to be with me tomorrow?’ At some point I want to feel like, if I’m going to jump in, you’re coming in with me.”

  “You mean emotionally, or . . .”

  “Or what . . . ?”

  “Or do you mean . . . sexually?” I say, embarrassed, but determined to have better communication about all possible sex in my life going forward.

  “Oh, shit, no,” he says. “I meant emotional risk.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I grab a dish towel and start drying and placing everything on the counter beside me. Even though this is everything I’ve wanted to hear from Noah for over a year now, my brain is really full, and my feelings are all over the place, and I’m scared. Finally I turn toward him, and say, “I like everything you’re saying, but I just need to get through the next few days and this thing at the Goat before I can give this my full attention, you know?”

  “I’m cool with that,” he says, and pulls the stopper out of the sink while I take the small stack of dishes across the room and put them in the cupboard. “I’ll take partial attention.”

  I turn and lean on the opposite counter and look at him. My attention is more than partial. And already just staying on the opposite side of the room is challenging. It’s like there’s an elastic band stretched tight between us, pulling me back. />
  “What about kissing?” he says, gazing at me with singular focus. “Could that be added to the thinking phase?”

  “Wouldn’t that be cheating?”

  “It’s more like . . . helping. Gathering information.”

  “I think . . .” I say, as the elastic pull draws me back across the kitchen toward him. “I think yes.”

  And then I’m reaching my hand up to touch his face, and he’s catching it in his, and holding it there, and then, super slowly, we move closer, and I go up on my toes as he leans down, and then we pause there, just a couple of inches apart.

  Finally our lips meet, and brush, and meet again, and it’s like lightning, but if lightning moved like molasses. It’s slow and sizzling and perfect, and I start to lose track of time, of everything . . .

  And then the bad thing happens.

  And it happens fast.

  We’re kissing, and it’s perfect, and then it’s more intense and still perfect, and then, wham—a flood of images and sensations slices through reality, slices between Noah and me, and my brain is flashing like some kind of malfunctioning PowerPoint presentation, with visions of Kyle/Boris/Kyle/Perry/Boris/Perry/Kyle, and it’s not real but it feels real. They feel more real than Noah, who’s right here with me.

  I cry out, and then hurl myself backward from Noah, and stand, gasping, against the cupboards on the other side of the room.

  “What’s wrong?” Noah says, looking panicked. “What is it?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I’m fine!” I say.

  But I’m not.

  He starts coming toward me and I hold a hand up.

  “Don’t,” I say.

  “Okay,” he says, backing up. “What did I do wrong?”

  “You didn’t do anything.” I hug myself and shake my head, and can’t stop shaking it, trying to get those images out.

  “Are you having a panic attack?” he says. “Like Emma?”

  “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I have to—”

  I break off, and bolt from the kitchen, past the dining room, and down the hallway to my room, where I throw open the door, dive underneath the ghastly duvet, and curl up there with my entire body, including my head, covered.

  I huddle there, squeezing my eyes shut and willing myself not to cry, willing so hard.

  It’s not long before I hear careful footsteps in the hall, and then Noah’s voice from the open doorway.

  “Can I come in?”

  “No,” I say from under the covers.

  “Can I . . . talk to you from here?” he asks, voice incredibly gentle.

  “Maybe,” I say, making my hands into fists.

  “Could I . . . would it be okay if I just come in far enough to close the door? Since . . . your parents . . .”

  “Fine.”

  I hear the door closing and then for a few long moments nothing happens. I’m under the covers, and Noah must just be standing there. And feeling . . . what?

  I whip the duvet off abruptly and sit up.

  Noah’s leaning against the door, very still, watching me, looking worried.

  “You might want to rethink your thinking,” I say.

  “About what?”

  “Me. I’m . . . I don’t know what just happened, but I’m . . . I guess I’m a bit damaged. You might not want that.”

  “Maybe we just moved a little too fast.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “What is it, then? Has it happened before?”

  I shake my head.

  “Talk to me,” he says, taking a step toward me, then thinking better of it and reversing. “Please.”

  “I can’t, Noah. I need to . . . I can’t talk right now.”

  “Okay. Puppy videos?”

  “I think I need to be alone,” I say, the tears finally spilling onto my cheeks.

  “All right. Should I call Emma to come be with you? Or . . . ?”

  “No, I’ll be fine.”

  “You don’t look fine,” he says, and the worry on his face pierces me.

  “I am,” I say, swiping at the tears and getting up and coming partway toward him. “I had a great time tonight, but I have to sort this out . . . by myself before I can talk about it with you.”

  “Okay,” he says, and drops his head. “I’ll go.”

  “It was a good kiss, Noah.”

  “Yeah, it was,” he says.

  And right then, when he lifts his eyes back up to mine and I see the confusion in them, I feel the unspoken fact there between us:

  Yes, it was a good kiss, until it wasn’t.

  23

  BREAKING

  The first thing I do Saturday morning is email Dahlia Brennan.

  I remind her who I am, ask for an appointment, and give her my cell number, because damned if I’m going to let this Kyle/Boris/Perry stuff ruin my ability to make out with Noah. Assuming he’s willing to make out with me and hasn’t decided after sleeping on it that I’m too much of a head case.

  I don’t know if I’m even equipped to talk to this almost-stranger, and the idea makes me nervous, but I figure the earliest I’ll hear back from her is Monday, so I have time to think about what to say, and how to say it.

  But then my phone rings, and it’s her.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Libby,” she says, her voice just as simultaneously commanding and calming as it was in person. “I got your email.”

  “Wow, that was fast.”

  “I know it can take a lot of courage to make that first move in reaching out,” she says. “I don’t like to leave people hanging once they have.”

  “Oh, well, thank you.”

  “We can meet sometime next week, but I’ve got a few minutes now, too. Is it a good time?”

  “Just a sec.” I get up from my desk, cross the room, and pop my head into the hallway. Seeing and hearing no sign of my parents, I pull back in and close the door.

  “Yes. I can talk,” I say, and then perch tensely on the end of my bed.

  “So,” she says, “how are you?”

  “Fine,” I say, although that’s not true. And why did I contact her to talk if all I’m going to do is lie? “Sorry, no. I’m having trouble, but I’m crap at talking about it. I just mean, I’m not, as I said when we met, in an emergency situation.”

  “What would you consider an emergency situation?”

  “An emergency situation would be where I should be going to the hospital or the police. I’m not in danger, not physically injured, or even hurt, and never was. It’s not that kind of situation. But, well, actually it’s two situations. Oh, wait, no,” I say, remembering Perry, “technically it’s three.”

  “Three! Wow, I did not see that coming.”

  For some reason this makes me laugh—a slightly embittered snort, but still a laugh.

  “So, three situations . . . ?” she prompts.

  “Yeah. One pretty clear . . . you might have heard . . . ah, about a recent . . . thing with Perry Ackerman?”

  “Oh!” she catches her breath. “That’s you. I’m so sorry. What a nightmare.”

  “A bit.”

  “A bit, huh? I’m starting to see you’re a master of understatement.”

  “Maybe a little,” I say, a grin in my voice despite the fact that I haven’t got much to smile about. This woman seems to get me. And she’s being so normal and real.

  “So that’s what you call a nonemergency?” she presses.

  “Oh, no, I guess that is a bit of an emergency. Sorry to confuse you—I’ve got some mid-level family emergencies going on too. Life goes on all boring and uneventful for so long and then—whammo—ten kinds of shit hit the fan. I can barely keep track at this point.”

  “All right, so . . .”

  “But that’s not the main thing I contacted
you about. It’s the two other situations that are messing with my head. Each totally different but with the common theme of . . . that the consent was . . . murky.”

  “Ahh,” she says. “Go on.”

  “I freaked out in the middle of kissing someone last night—someone I really wanted to kiss. He didn’t do anything wrong but suddenly I felt sort of . . . well I can’t even explain it in words.”

  “Can you try? Take a couple of long breaths,” she suggests, “and just see if anything occurs to you. Any words or feelings.”

  I realize that even though I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what happened with Noah, I’ve been pushing the actual moment away every time it starts to replay. And now my stomach is clenching and I’m gripping the ruffle of the duvet.

  “Or not,” Dahlia says. “It’s up to you.”

  “No, I can do it,” I say, and take a couple of the suggested breaths. “I guess it was . . . well it was so good, because I’m into this guy and finally we kissed and it was amazing . . . and then I guess . . . we’ve been waiting a long time so it got intense really fast, and then it was like, boom. There they were. Kyle and Boris. The two other—situations. And a bit of Perry, too. Suddenly it was like they were there too. Almost . . . between us. Noah and me. And then I just felt so gross and embarrassed, and I stopped and kind of shoved myself away from him.”

  “And what did he do?”

  “He was—we were both totally shocked. He thought he’d done something wrong and I didn’t know what had happened. He was good about it, but I didn’t even know what to tell him. I mean, what the hell was that?”

  “I suspect you had what’s called an intrusive memory,” Dahlia says. “Which is exactly what it sounds like—a memory, usually of something difficult, negative, or traumatic, which intrudes, comes when you don’t want it, didn’t expect it, and when you can’t necessarily control it. It’s very common in situations of sexual assault. You may be experiencing some post-traumatic stress disorder.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “I should not be traumatized. I refuse to be traumatized—that’s ridiculous.”