by Lori L. Otto
“Speaking of blue eyes,” I break the silence– and our gaze. “Sinatra fan?” I ask as I tune into the background music he’s selected. Three Coins in the Fountain. My favorite song of his.
“It’s a prerequisite for any man from Hoboken.”
“Ahhh,” I smile. “I thought I heard a little Jersey in there.”
“Yeah, right,” he rolls his eyes, taking a bite of the salad.
“So, you’re just playing his music as an homage to your hometown hero, then?” I quirk an eyebrow at him playfully.
“And what exactly are you getting at, Poppet?” I look at him curiously, searching my memories for the moment I first heard this term.
“Wait, you called me that in college, didn’t you?”
“I did,” he tells me. “Remember?”
“Vaguely,” I admit. “Do you remember that night?”
“I remember it like it was yesterday,” he says.
A warm blush settles on my cheek. I barely remember him from that night at all. Thanks, jello shots and quarters. Jack takes another bite of the salad and compliments me on my contribution to the meal.
“Lettuce, tomatoes... cheese... kinda hard to screw that up.”
“Oh, it can be done,” he laughs. “When we were younger, Kelly loved to experiment in the kitchen. And my parents were always very supportive of her. They’d let her be in charge of one dish, every night... and most the time they were fine.
“One night, though, she let me help. She was trying to be encouraging of me, so she let me pick the ingredients... and just trusted that I knew what I was doing.” He takes another bite of salad.
“I knew lettuce was the base. I got that. I figured that much out. But when I was a kid, I hated most vegetables, and I decided I was going to make a salad that I liked, with my favorite ingredients... I was too young to understand that flavors should actually go together...”
“Mmmm... this sounds like it’s gonna be tasty.”
“Let’s see... I felt it was very important to represent the same colors in the salad. Like that would fool my parents. So instead of tomatoes, we had gummy bears. Only red ones. I couldn’t stand celery, so I chose lime chunks because I loved lemon-lime soda. Carrots were out, but we had some apricot jelly, so I put a few dollops of that in. One of the few vegetables I did like was onions. So I made sure to add huge chunks. I liked them that much. And I added cheese, nice, big, square blocks of cheese. Loved cheese, too. Instead of croutons, we had Cap’n Crunch. Oh, and there were marshmallows, too.”
“Dressing?” I ask, cautious.
“Oh, Ranch, of course.” I cringe. “Exactly.”
“Did they eat it?”
“My parents wanted to be so supportive... but no. Can I tell you how painful lime juice can be when the roof of your mouth is torn up by Cap’n Crunch?”
I nearly spit my wine out at the thought.
“I wanted it to be good. I ate my entire serving, hoping to find that one magical bite, but it was horrendous.”
“You know,” I tell him, “you’re really not giving me a whole lot of confidence in your signature dish.”
“There may have been some limes involved. And onions. But I promise you, the flavors go together. I don’t know you well enough to experiment on you quite yet.”
I laugh and raise my eyebrows at him.
“Yeah...” he laughs back at me. “Your turn. Embarrassing childhood memory.”
“Oh, I don’t have any,” I say brightly.
“I don’t believe that for one second.” Oh how true he is... so many to choose from.
“Okay, I have one. This is filed under the category of ‘when art projects go bad.’”
“Wait, did you taste it yet?” he interrupts, signaling to my plate. I cut a piece of chicken and pop it into my mouth. Thank God it tastes nothing like marshmallows and ranch dressing.
“It’s really good! And I’m not just trying to encourage you, I promise.” I take another bite of his savory dinner. It truly is good.
“Thank you,” he says. “Continue.”
“Okay, this story stars me and a sweet, little, naïve neighbor-boy.”
“Name?”
“Jeffrey Fisher.”
“How old?”
“Mmmmmm...” I ponder back. “First grade. Seven?”
“Okay.”
“So, we had this project, where we had to lie down on big sheets of craft paper. We had to partner up, and in all honesty... I kinda had a thing for Jeffrey.”
“You started young.”
“Shut it,” I tell him, pointing my fork at him before trying his asparagus. “Mmm, this is good too!”
“Thank you. Keep going,” he encourages.
“So, I lie down, and Jeffrey had to trace an outline of my body on the paper.”
“Kind of early for crime-scene training, wasn’t it?”
I laugh heartily, nodding my head. “I did the same for him. When we had our body shapes drawn, we got to decorate them... you know, clothes, eyes, hair...
“So we took them to his house to finish them, and I went to get some supplies from my home to jazz it up a little. I was always a little too creative for my own good.”
“What sort of supplies?”
“Finger paint. Glitter. Glue. Stickers. Pipe cleaners for my pigtails. Deodorant.”
“Deodorant?”
“Yes. I said deodorant.”
“You were very concerned about hygiene back then, huh?”
“I had no idea what it was. To me, it was this awesome container mom had in her bathroom that I used as a microphone sometimes when I played Madonna. I wanted to find a way to attach it to my hand because I wanted to be a singer.”
“Yes, because pipe cleaners and glue can attach an object like that to kraft paper,” he chides me.
“I was never a science buff. Physics is still a foreign concept to me,” I rationalize my first-grade thinking.
“So what happened?” he asks.
“Well, at some point, we realized there were distinct... ahem... differences between boys and girls.”
“What did you do?” he laughs.
“It was all innocent. When we finished with our decorating– and after I gave up on attaching the makeshift microphone to my hand– at Jeffrey’s prodding, I opened up the deodorant and rolled it on to, um, highlight a couple certain girl assets... and one certain boy asset.”
Jack busts out laughing. “That’s great.”
“Oh, it gets better. Jeffrey changed his tune immediately. His face crumpled and the loudest wail I’ve ever heard came out of his mouth. ‘Mommmmmyyyyyy!’ he was yelling. And I had never climbed under a bed so fast in my life.
“I scooted to the farthest corner, away from any hands, and I hid there, scared to death of what his mother would do to me.”
“Did she get you?” he asks, his eyes bright and interested.
“Eventually, after picking up his mattress, she found me. She was crying, appalled that I ruined her son’s work of art. She wouldn’t listen when I said it was his idea.”
“Was it?”
“I doubt it, but he still encouraged me,” I laugh slyly, knowing how boy crazy and curious I was at such a young age. “She marched me over to my house, handed my mom the deodorant bottle– which she was just mortified that I had– and she made me make new shorts for his paper doll.”
“Shame on you, Emi Hennigan.” He winks at me.
“I know. Our relationship never went anywhere after that.”
“I guess that’s good news for me.” The look on his face tells me he didn’t mean to say it aloud, but I just smile back. Maybe it is.
“So, Sinatra, huh?” I ask, changing the subject as we both finish eating. “I think there’s more to this music than you just wanting to support your fellow Hobokenite.”
“Are you asking me to dance, Poppet?”
“Is that why you’re playing Old Blue Eyes?”
“Come on, Em. How can anyone turn down N
ight and Day?”
“I don’t know, Jack,” I smile, putting my napkin on the table as I stand up and straighten out my dress. “I’m not sure anyone can.”
After laughing and dancing through a few songs on the kitchen floor, I help Jack with the dishes. When we’re finished, he takes my hand and leads me downstairs to the small theatre.
“You can pick the movie,” he says, closing the doors to all the kid’s rooms. It’s as if he could sense my apprehension of being down there, but I am immediately comfortable again.
“There are too many,” I comment. “I don’t know where to begin.” I browse the selection, worthy of its own video store, and find a movie I haven’t seen, but have heard that it was funny and a little romantic. Not too heavy, not too girly... “Have you seen this one?”
“Actually, no, but I’ve heard good things.” He takes it from me and puts it in the DVD player. I find a place on the love seat while he goes to a small refrigerator in the corner and takes out two bottles of water. After he turns off the main lights, he grabs a blanket and hands it to me. “It can get a little chilly down here.”
“Thank you.” I take off my shoes and spread the blanket out over my bare legs. Jack sits on the other side of the sofa, farther away from me than I had secretly hoped he would sit. He is such a gentleman, though, it shouldn’t surprise me. What does surprise me is how much more comfortable I am with him than I’ve been with other men after multiple dates. Other men except Nate. With Nate, once we decided to date, we already knew everything there was to know about one another. There was no period of discovery. It was easy to just... love him.
About thirty minutes into the movie, I ask Jack if he’s cold, hoping to share the blanket with him. He plays along, although I doubt he is actually cold. I move closer to him, wanting to be comforted by him. He makes me feel at ease, and he makes me forget things. With my feet tucked onto the couch, my arm touching his, I arrange the blanket over both of our laps. A few minutes later, he puts his arm across my shoulder. I lean my head into his chest, my hand draped in his lap and touching his knee, and continue to watch the movie.
This is exactly what I want. I want to feel close to someone again. I want to feel safe. I felt safe before, with Nate... comfortable... but it was too comfortable. I could never have anticipated what would eventually happen. I now have to contend with those what-ifs for the rest of my life. I’ll always be a little guarded, learning the lesson that all things end the most difficult way possible. I notice my thumb involuntarily rubbing his knee at some point. His thumb, in turn, is rubbing my shoulder. Aside from these small gestures, neither of us makes a move through the rest of the movie.
When it ends, though, Jack turns on some music. Small bulbs along the wall, similar to those on the aisles at movie theaters, are the only source of light in the room. I take a deep breath and look at him, impulsively deciding that I want to kiss him. He leans into me as I position myself on the couch and put my hands on his shoulders, pulling him toward me.
“Emi,” he says, hesitating, as I remove my hands from his neck and place them into his lap.
“Yes?” I look up.
“I need to tell you something.”
“Sure, go ahead,” I encourage him, swallowing hard and standing up, now embarrassed to look him in the eyes. “Do you mind if I get another bottle of water?”
“Not at all,” he says, then hesitates again.
“Ouch!” I exclaim, feeling the corner of the coffee table dig into my shin. In the dark, I misjudged the distance between myself and his furniture.
“Are you alright?” he asks, getting up and turning on the lights.
“I’m sure I’m fine,” I tell him, limping toward the refrigerator.
“No, you’re not. You’re bleeding,” he laughs.
“Crap,” I mutter as I stop walking, seeing the blood begin to trickle down my leg, not wanting it to get on the carpet. “Band-Aids?”
“Upstairs,” he says, then swiftly sweeps me up into his arms before I can protest. He removes my shoe as the blood inches toward it and hands it to me. “I didn’t think I’d need to child-proof the basement tonight,” he jokes.
“Yeah, I can be pretty dangerous,” I tell him, his face only inches from mine. He pauses as I push some strands of hair off of his forehead, smiling gently as he looks into my eyes. Excitement pulsates through my body. “Um, you were going to tell me something?”
“Let’s get you taken care of first,” he says as he ascends the stairs to the second floor, and then the third.
“Is this how you lure women into your bedroom?” I joke with him.
His laughter is slow to begin, then he pauses in thought. “I guess it would make more sense to have some bandages downstairs, but I don’t.” He sets me down on the edge of his bed and makes his way into the bathroom. I examine the cut. The wound seems pretty shallow but is bleeding more than I would expect.
“Does it hurt?” he asks as he kneels down in front of me with a few bandages, some alcohol and some cotton balls.
“It just stings a little,” I tell him, embarrassed.
“This is going to make that a little worse,” he says as he dabs the alcohol-soaked cotton ball on the cut. I cringe as the pain sets in, but it goes away quickly. Jack applies two large bandages to cover up the wound, then wets another cotton ball. Slowly, he traces the line of blood from my ankle up to my shin, which tickles and makes me shiver. “You okay?” he asks as he gets up to take the supplies back to the bathroom.
“Definitely,” I tell him as I feel my cheeks get hot. I can’t deny how good it feels to have a man touch me again, even if it is to clean up after my clumsy injury. He walks back into the room and kneels down again in front of me to inspect his work. I begin to put my shoe back on, but he takes it from me and sets it on the floor. He puts his hands on my leg, as if to see my shin in better light, then runs them down my leg to my ankle. He sighs heavily, his head angled as he curiously stares at a scar on my knee. I put my hand over it, self-conscious.
“Is that from the...” He clears his throat. “Is that from the accident?” He looks up at me and places his hand on mine, moving it out of the way.
Looking into his eyes, I nod my head slightly. He looks away, back down to the scar and traces his thumb over the four-inch mark.
It is impossible for me to hide from his hands the physical effects that his touch has on me as goosebumps arise all over my body. He glances back up to me, and the look on his face shows conflict, indecision. I run my fingers through his thick, dark hair, wanting him to kiss me, wanting to nudge him in that direction. I begin to lightly rub his thigh with my toes. He laughs lightly, shakes his head, puts my shoe back on and sits down next to me on the bed.
“God, Emi,” he pauses. “Remember I said there was something I wanted to talk to you about?”
“Yes,” I say, encouraging him to continue.
“It’s something that’s been bothering me for awhile.” His look is serious and almost sad, full of regret, maybe.
“What is it, Jack?”
“Emi, that night...” He purposefully puts his hand on my knee, his finger outlining the scar again.
“Which night?” I immediately know.
“That night... um, New Year’s Eve.” He pauses, gauging my expression before he continues.
“Yes...”
“Right after Nate took you off the dance floor...”
Why is he bringing this up? And now?
“God, Emi, I’m so sorry. I don’t know how to say this, I just feel so bad...”
“What do you feel bad for?” I can’t imagine now what he’s going to say. I search his blue eyes for a clue.
“After he took you off the dance floor, I wished to myself... that he... that Nate... wasn’t in the picture.”
My brows furrow as I stare at him, questioning him, disbelieving him. I don’t understand. I don’t know what to say to this.
“What?” I barely manage to choke out, the famili
ar lump swelling in my throat, my eyes watering. I let go of his hand as I remember his apology from that dark night in the hospital.
“No, Emi, please don’t cry. I didn’t mean it, of course I didn’t mean it, but it’s been eating me up for months and I had to tell you before this goes any further.” The lights outside the window spread out as the tears blur my vision. I feel my head become cloudy, too, as a rush of memories comes flooding back, beginning with that night, then into the hospital, to the gravesite, to Nate’s apartment, my apartment, and finally to this place, Jack’s house, and this night. This night that had been perfect up until this very moment.
“Say something, please,” he adds.
It’s not that I don’t know what to say, as much as I don’t know how to feel. I say nothing and feel... everything. Sad, angry, betrayed, fooled.
“If I could take the thought back I’d do it in a second... even if it meant he would still be here,” he explains, pleads.
“Why would you think such a thing?” I ask quietly, wanting to understand.
“I just felt something between us that night... it was the same feeling I had on the night I first met you,” he begins, “and I desperately wanted another dance or two or twenty... another chance. I didn’t want to let you go... like I let you go in college... and his determined posture, that look in his eyes, and the way you looked back at him... I knew I couldn’t compete.”
I remembered with perfect clarity that moment exchanged between Nate and me. It was the only thing I could see clearly at the moment. “I have to go,” I tell him, feeling sick to my stomach. I stand up hurriedly. As I begin to leave the room, he gently grabs my wrist.
“Let me go,” I whisper to him through clenched teeth, my angry eyes pleading with his, and he drops my arm.
“Please, don’t,” he says.
“Just leave me alone,” I warn as I turn my back to him, heading downstairs to the couch in the living room to grab my bag. I begin to hyperventilate. Why the fuck did I come here? Who the hell is this man?
“At least let me take you home,” he says as I hear him following me down the stairway.
“No, that’s alright,” I say stubbornly. “You’ve done enough.”