by Bridie Hall
“So are you,” I say, because I can’t lie.
Or won’t.
He insists he will drive even though I think he’s not sober enough. He won’t give me his keys. He does seem okay when he starts the car, though. And it’s not a long ride.
“You could get party plates for this,” I say, hiding my nervousness behind a strained laugh.
“Nah, I’m below the limit.”
“You stumbled on the curb,” I point out.
He glances at me and my anxiety spikes. He should be watching the road, not me. Thankfully, he seems to read my panic and looks ahead again.
“That was because of the darkness, not ‘cause I’m drunk.”
“I saw your video on YouTube,” I say because I need to talk or I’ll pull the hand break and get behind the wheel.
“You Googled me?”
“Technically, I YouTubed you, but yeah. It was Izzy’s idea.” I’m suddenly all defensive when I realize it was a bad idea to mention this. Time for a diversion…
“But the point I was making was that you filmed a promo video against drunk driving.”
Drunk or not, he looks embarrassed at my words. “You saw that? It was ages ago. And I’m not drunk. Buzzed, maybe.”
“Hypocritical much?”
“I’m fine, honestly.”
I don’t say anything more but I’m still mad at him when he parks in the lot behind the building. But when I see him drag himself up the steps, and I notice he’s started limping, I forget about my frustration.
“Is your knee okay?”
“It’s giving me grief because of the dancing and standing up for so long.”
“You should’ve told me.” I feel responsible. I should’ve thought of his injury, but I enjoyed myself so much that I completely forgot.
“It’s okay. I’m used to it.”
“It’s not okay,” I protest, as he unlocks the door and goes straight to the couch. He sits down heavily and massages his knee absent-mindedly.
“Do you want a cold compress?”
“That’d be nice,” he says, and winces.
Before going to the fridge, I lift his leg up onto the couch and prop it up with a pillow. “Less strain on the joint like that.”
I bring him a frozen gel pack. I want to hand it to him, but he’s leaning back, his eyes closed, so I put it slowly on his knee.
“Thanks.” He sighs, and then opens his eyes. He’s half asleep, probably still tipsy, but grinning.
“Thanks,” he repeats. It’s only when he continues that I realize he’s not talking about the compress. “We should do this again soon.”
“People are going on vacations. There won’t be many parties for the next month or two.”
“Just us, then,” he says, and his eyes sparkle.
Risking that I might sound an idiot, I ask, “Are you asking me out? On a date?”
“You sound surprised.”
“Just hesitant,” I say. “I’m not looking for a relationship, Chris. I don’t want you to think that I am.”
Quite unexpectedly, he laughs. “How serious and grown up she sounds.”
I swat his arm. “Jerk. I am serious, because I don’t want you to expect something that’s not going to happen.”
“Why’s that?”
“Why’s what?”
“Why is it not going to happen?”
“’Cause,” I say, as if it should be obvious. Because really, it should be, right? In exactly six weeks, I’ll be moving to Atlanta. I don’t know where Chris is heading to college because I haven’t managed to ask him yet. Isn’t that enough of a reason in itself? You can’t have a relationship with someone when you don’t even know where they’ll be in two months’ time.
“’Cause? That’s your argument? For a future psychologist, that’s a lame-ass explanation.”
He’s enjoying this. Way too much.
“’Cause I only date terrible people. Bad, bad boys. You’re too nice for me,” I say, joking.
He makes a face, not buying it for one second.
“You want a reason? Here’s a good one—I don’t want anything to happen between us.”
“Why not?”
“I have my very personal reasons which I am not inclined to share with you at this moment.”
“At a later moment perhaps, then?” He keeps looking at me with this half-smile on his face that drives me nuts because I have the impression that he’s playing with me, that he can foresee my every word and that he can prepare his response in advance. I don’t like being two steps behind. Usually, I’m the one to have everything under control. He’s unbalanced me with this.
“At no moment at all. I just don’t want it, and that should suffice, Christopher Quinn.”
“How can you be sure you won’t change your mind?”
For god’s sake, can’t he take a hint?
Maybe you’re not convincing enough? Because … you don’t want to be?
“Because I’m actively working on not changing my mind,” I say in order to drown out my evil inner voices.
“What if I’m actively working on swaying it?”
“Ugh! Stop it,” I say, but I can’t help but laugh. God, I think I like arguing with him. That’s very worrisome. Very, very worrisome.
It gets worrisomer when he leans towards me and asks very quietly and calmly, “Why?”
With his green eyes staring at me, his deep voice cutting right through to the core, and him being so close, I feel goose bumps form on my forearms but I ignore them, annoyed. He will not win. He cannot win.
But the worst thing is that his question is now resounding in my head, and I forgot what the correct answer was. Why was it, again?
“Do you really want me to spell out all the reasons?”
“One’s enough, if it’s a good one.” He grins.
“And you’re the one who decides if it’s good enough, right?”
“Of course. Because the way I see it, it would have to be pretty damn good. I like you. You like me, don’t try denying it.”
I lift my hands in a ‘wouldn’t dream of it’ fashion, because really, there is no point in denying it after I’ve flirted with him, danced with him, and laughed with him until I had tears in my eyes. I do like him.
“We have a good time together. I’ve made you lunch four times this week. We’re both single.”
“True. And the lunch almost swayed me. Almost.”
“Ahh,” he moans, letting his head fall back onto the pillows. “You’re hopeless, and I’m hopelessly falling for you.”
For a moment, I feel my heart stop. But then I realize he’s joking. Which is good. Just great.
“You’ve known me for what, two weeks?” I say to support my claims. “You barely know me.”
“I don’t have to know you for twenty years to know you, Chloe.”
I make a frustrated sound and get up from the couch.
“This discussion is not over yet,” he says. “But I think I’ll doze off right about now.”
He starts to get up, but I stop him. “I’ll get you the sheets,” I say. He’s been sleeping on the couch, leaving the bed to me. I tried to convince him I could easily sleep on the couch because I’m shorter, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Which is just another thing that bugs me, him being so nice. Even though he had a point when he said it’d be easiest because most mornings he got up before me and he’d wake me if I was the one sleeping on the couch. But still, people being nice to me force me to be nice to them. And with boys, niceness can lead to … other things.
“Thanks,” he says as I return with the bundle and start putting the sheet onto the couch. He tries to help, but his knee seems to be in pretty bad shape, and I order him to sit on the coffee table while I work.
“Is your knee always going to hurt like that?” I ask to distract myself from other thoughts.
“It’ll get better with time. It’s only been nine months since the surgery. But it’ll never be a hundred percent again.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It won’t always hurt this much.” His voice sounds just as tired as I feel. Two hours of dancing really did me in this time.
“I meant I was sorry about you having to end your career over it. You were good.”
He shrugs, but I can tell he’s not over it yet.
“I still am. Good, I mean,” he says, grinning, and catching me between his spread legs. I like how he’s staring up at me with his green eyes. I like it too much.
So I push the pillow in his chest. “There. Have a good night,” I say, and nearly run to my room.
“Night.”
I hear him chuckle behind me. I close the door and lean onto it, just trying to catch my breath. I focus on counting to ten, which calms me down, but it also helps form clearer thoughts in my head, and they are all troubling.
“Shit, shit, shit!”
****
I get barely any sleep, and the morning comes much too early. Well, morning is putting it loosely. It’s noon when I finally gather the energy to get up. I take a sip of water from the bottle on my nightstand, then stop and wonder at how quickly this place has become my place. There’s no point in ignoring the fact that this is all because of how welcoming Chris has made me feel. Since last night, I’m beginning to realize he’s been perhaps too welcoming.
I resolve to be more careful around him, but the moment I walk out into the living room and find him still asleep, I melt. His arm is hanging off the couch. His face is relaxed in slumber. He looks younger and somehow vulnerable. He reminds me of the Chris in the promo video. He groans and his eyes fly open, catching me staring.
“Coffee?” I blurt out to cover for how flustered I am and the fact that I’ve just been ogling him in his sleep.
He clears his throat and then groans again, and I take that as a yes.
As I busy myself getting the coffee and tea ready, I hear him move around on the couch and I presume he’s getting up and putting his clothes on. I refuse to check because I’m afraid I’ll see more than I’d want to.
Yeah, I don’t think that’s possible, seeing how you want to see all of him.
I mentally roll my eyes at the ludicrous thoughts attacking my barely awake mind. I can’t believe I’m harboring a traitorous part of me that’s actually thinking that.
You can believe and you also know that part of yourself very well.
Shut up.
I will when you shut up.
Ugh.
When I finally turn, two hot mugs in my hands, I see he’s still lying on the couch, asleep again, one of his legs uncovered up to mid-thigh. I notice the long scar running down the inside of his knee. It looks pink and raw and hideously painful.
I avert my eyes, walk to the coffee table and leave his mug there, while I retreat into my room. That was decidedly too much skin for the peace of my mind. I wonder if the knee still hurts him this morning.
Maybe you should offer him a massage?
Shut up. Shut up. SHUT UP.
I stay in my room for another hour when I leave to meet Mom and Eric for lunch. I find Chris sitting on the couch, dressed, thank god, watching some sports on TV.
“Thanks for the coffee.”
“Sure. I’m going out for the afternoon.”
“Have fun.”
When I close the door behind me, I realize I’m a little disappointed at the short, impersonal chat. Then I admonish myself. This is what I wanted—distance, I wanted for the situation to cool down before it’s too late. I should be grateful he didn’t bring up the discussion from last night.
Grateful? That’s not how I’d describe these feelings.
In the restaurant, I have to wait for Mom and Eric for twenty minutes.
“Sorry, love, I forgot my sunglasses,” Mom says when she kisses my cheek.
Eric smiles. “And her purse, and she forgot to lock the door the second time we left.”
I swallow the chuckle and give him a peck on his clean-shaven cheek. I used to think he was dull and reserved. Now I know he’s calm and trustworthy. This is the first time in my life that my mom is in a happy relationship with someone, and I’m happy for her. With Eric, I don’t have to worry about her wellbeing. He’s the one who does that. Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean she’s any more organized or orderly. It just means that Eric has taken over my job of cleaning up her messes.
“How’s Adam?” Mom says.
“Excuse me?” Her question catches me unprepared. Adam and I haven’t been together for over three months.
“Isn’t it Adam that you’re sharing an apartment with?”
“No, Mom, it’s Chris. Adam is my ex-boyfriend whom you didn’t like. And neither did I very much, to be honest.”
“Oh.” She does this thing with her eyes where she looks as if she’s dizzy and is trying to find solid ground. I think, in her mind, she is dizzy most of the time. Her view of things rarely levels up with reality. It must be very disorienting.
“Chris, then. How is he?”
“Adam’s complete opposite,” I mumble. But I know she’s not asking me that, so I say, “He’s fine, but I’d rather not talk about him, if it’s all the same. This is a family lunch.” I try smiling to tone down my rather rude tone. Eric just watches me. He hasn’t spoken for the past few minutes, except to relay his and Mom’s order to the waiter.
“Let’s discuss Natasha’s latest find, then,” Eric says to change the topic.
“Find?” I look at him, and then at Mom. “Oh, a house, you mean?”
“Yes.” With that, Mom starts hauling folders and papers out of her bag, and I realize why she’s using that big ugly leather patchwork bag that she hasn’t used in ages instead of her small black purse. Half of the papers scatter on the floor between the tables, and I hurry to pick them up before Mom overturns a chair, spills something, or jabs one of the diners with her pointy elbow.
As I sit back, Eric and I exchange a look, and he smiles indulgently. It could not be more obvious that he loves Mom. I really like him for it. Putting up so graciously with everything she puts him through, he deserves her. Thinking about what a good man he is reminds me of Chris, and I panic. I start browsing the papers briskly, without really seeing what I’m looking at, as long as I’m not thinking about Chris. But thinking about not thinking about Chris is just as much distracting and not in the least helpful, and the more I think this, the more difficult it gets to not think about him. I realize I’m driving myself insane over this guy. I tell myself to stop. Inhaling deeply, I release the stress through my lips and decide it’s time for a long yoga session in the evening.
“Everything okay, love?” Mom asks, peering at me over her reading glasses.
“Yes. Tell me about this house,” I say, and then look up when Mom’s silent. “What?”
“There’s something else we need to discuss first,” she says, and she looks disturbingly grown-up and responsible.
“Eric and I,” she says and covers his hand on the table with hers, “we’ve been looking for an appropriate house.”
“I know,” I say, confused.
“What Natasha’s trying to say is that we’re looking for a house for the three of us,” Eric explains.
“Oh.”
“Oh?” Mom laughs nervously.
“Oh as in ‘I didn’t expect that but I’m on board’.” I guess that was a lie because I knew it would eventually happen. They’re living together now, so there would be no point in them moving apart again. Perhaps moving in together after a six-month relationship might seem premature, but I could see it work with the two of them. I wouldn’t have to worry about Mom being on her own while I’m away at college.
When I look at Eric, I think he agrees when he says, “I’d take care of your mom so you can focus on your studies. And the money we save by only having to rent or buy one place can go against paying out the loan.”
“Sounds sensible,” I say.
“You’re okay with this?” Mom asks. Usually, other people�
��s opinions, including mine, are way off her radar, as if she weren’t aware of people having opinions that might clash with her own. But this time she seems concerned and in tune with the world around her. It amazes me.
“I’m happy you’ve decided to do this,” I say.
“Good,” Eric says, and then the food arrives and we dig in.
Not long after dessert, Mom starts again. “So, this … er … Chris. Is he treating you nicely?”
“We’re sharing an apartment for a few weeks, Mom. He could ignore me, for all I care.” In fact, that would be the better option.
As if.
“But does he?”
“Ignore me? No.”
“I meant treat you nicely.”
“Oh, Mom,” I complain.
“Well, you’re avoiding talking about him, so I’m worried that he’s unkind to you.”
I put down my spoon slowly to have some time to form my thoughts. “He’s not unkind, Mom. He’s actually a very nice guy.” I feel a blush creep up my neck and I wish I could bolt out of the restaurant before anyone notices my discomfort.
“Uh-huh,” says Eric, and then less convincingly, “That’s good.” The way he looks at me, I’m afraid he sees right through me. He might know me better than my mother.
But she’s not very far behind, when she says, “You’re nice to him too, then?” It’s a neutral enough question, but her tone is far from it.
“We don’t see each other much,” I mumble, finishing my drink. “He works mornings, and I spend a lot of time at Izzy’s.”
Mom smiles widely.
I’m angry at myself for being so transparent. Everyone seems to know what I’m thinking and how I feel. Everyone but me.
That’s what happens when you insist on ignoring the truth.
Didn’t I tell you to shut up?
****
I spend most of the afternoon walking the streets or resting in the park across from my place. Now, when I’m alone, I let myself think about Chris. I know myself well enough to know I won’t be able to avoid thinking about him for long. The things I don’t allow myself are always the most tempting, and the last thing I want is for Chris to become even more tempting than he already is. So I let myself think about last night, about his smiling green eyes and the drowsy entreaties to give him a chance. It all feels too real, too honest. That’s why I’ve decided not to give him a chance. But I let myself dream about it. If I let myself saturate this needy, gentler side of me with thoughts of him, I will eventually become fed up and I’ll get over him.