by Bridie Hall
So I sit on a bench, eyes closed, catching the subdued late afternoon sunshine on my face. Every now and again I glance at the building entrance or the window of our apartment to see if he’s still there. He’s supposed to go out in the evening, but he’s still in. I saw him walk around the place a minute ago.
He seemed such a quiet, distanced guy in high school. He is different now that I’m living with him. He laughs a lot. He’s not reserved at all, but not too forward either. There is something boyish in him: he doesn’t possess the graveness and self-importance of other guys his age. There’s a softness and poise in everything he does or says. He’s not loud or rough like Adam, or sneaky like Jax. He’s just right.
Right for what? Shit, Chloe, get a grip.
And then I see him exit the building with his sports bag in his hand. He walks up the street to the coffee joint there. He’ll get black coffee for the ride downtown where he’s meeting with his buddies. After five minutes, he comes out of the café, brown paper cup in his right hand, the bag in his left, his shoulder pushing the door open. He’s tall and lean, and I can imagine his grace on the slopes. I don’t know much about snowboarding but I remember Harper saying he was really good. I believe him just looking at Chris walk. I remember how he danced last night … Sigh.
The second he sits in his truck, I cross the street and even before I close the apartment door behind me, I’m unrolling my yoga mat and I’m at it with more dedication than I’ve shown in months. I need to build my inner peace before he returns home and shatters my resolve.
Chapter Eight
CHRIS
On Mondays, Salvo’s bakery is closed so I don’t have any deliveries to make. Today, I sleep in just because, although that’s not my usual MO. When I wake up and drag myself to the coffee machine, I find Chloe’s note on the fridge. She’ll be at Izzy’s the whole morning.
I can’t believe I didn’t hear her get up or go out. I feel shitty that she probably skipped breakfast and tea on account of me sleeping on the couch. Because I don’t believe I slept soundly enough not to hear her putter around the kitchen.
I check my email while I sip coffee. Just as I take the last sip, there’s a knock on the door. Did Chloe forget her keys?
I open the door wide, grinning at the chance to tease her, when I see an unknown woman in the hallway.
“Morning. Is Chloe up yet?”
I have the impression that I’ve seen the woman before, but I can’t remember where.
“Sorry, she’s gone out already. Can I help you?”
“Oh.” She looks around distractedly. “I just wanted to see where she lived. I’m her mother.”
So that was it. I haven’t actually seen her, I just recognized her features. Now that I look at her, it’s obvious. The large blue eyes, the delicate features, and the full mouth. Only this woman is shorter and painfully slim, while Chloe is all soft and graceful.
“Pleasure,” I say and shake her hand. “Come in, please.”
She enters the place and I become self-conscious because of the mess. The sheets and pillows are still on the couch. I bundle them up and take them into Chloe’s room.
“Sorry about the mess. I’m off work today and I slept in.”
“Don’t judge me by Chloe’s standards. I’m messy myself,” she says with a conspiratorial smile. I like her. But then again I would. Because of Chloe, if for nothing else.
“I hope she hasn’t given you too much grief over cleaning after yourself and putting things away.”
“Some. But I deserved it.”
“My name’s Natasha, by the way,” she says, as I invite her to sit at the table. She’s easy to talk to. Her voice is soft and melodious. A lot like Chloe’s. But she has a dreamy way of talking, while Chloe is direct.
She accepts my offer of coffee. While I fumble with the machine, I wonder about her reasons for coming. I’m not entirely clear on Chloe’s home situation. It can’t be something you’d call normal if she’s crashing with me while her mom is staying with her boyfriend.
“I apologize for barging in unannounced like that.”
“’S okay.”
“She probably told me she was going out today, but I forgot. I can’t really bring myself to care about all this … stuff.” She flails her hands about a little, and the gossamer blouse she’s wearing creates an image of an ethereal creature. That reminds me of Chloe telling me she was an artist.
“Chloe says you’re a painter,” I say to fill the quiet.
“An illustrator, actually.”
“Cool. Books for kids or graphic novels?”
“Picture books, mostly.”
“Shame, I prefer graphic novels.”
She laughs quietly. “Are you interested in art?”
“Not really. I’m more a sporty type.”
“Oh yes, Chloe mentioned you did some winter sport … hockey, was it?”
“Snowboarding.”
“That must be nice. I’m so uncoordinated I’d break my neck on my first ride.” As if to prove it, she knocks the mug when I place it in front of her, and nearly spills the coffee.
“See? It’s not safe to be me.”
I’m not sure if she means it as a joke, so I smile tentatively. I don’t want her to think I’m laughing at her.
“Are you staying here for college?”
“No, I’m moving to Atlanta in the fall. I’ll study sport pedagogy there.”
“Chloe is going there, too,” she says as if it should matter to me. I mean, it does, only she doesn’t know that.
“She’s obsessed with psychology. I tried to get her to change her mind about her study choices, but she wouldn’t listen.”
“She’s good at it.”
“I know. It’s just that she has a lot to deal with on her own. I don’t want her to have to deal with other people’s mistakes and problems.” The grave demeanor ages her for a few years all of a sudden. The change astonishes me. She seemed so flighty and youthful a moment ago.
“You see, I haven’t been the best mom to her. She had to shoulder too much responsibility at a young age.”
“I think she’s stronger than she seems,” I say, but at the same time I remember Chloe’s words about not being happy with who she is, about how complicated she is. But I can’t exactly tell her mom she was a shitty mom, can I? Besides, everyone has their problems. Who am I to judge her?
“She’s coping in her own way.” She smiles a little as if trying to lighten the mood. “You’ll do her good.”
I don’t know what to say. “I-I’m … It’s just for a few more weeks before we move out.”
“Still. You’re a good influence on her.”
I desperately want to know what got her thinking that, but I don’t know how to ask. She reads my mind again, however.
“She mentioned you, you know.”
“She did?”
“Well … It’s more about how she’s avoiding talking about you, really.”
This confuses the hell out of me. How is not talking about someone good? As far as I’m concerned that just means you don’t think them important enough to talk about them. Or worse, they annoy you, or something.
She must see my confusion, because she continues, “She’s never too keen to talk about the people that matter to her.”
“Huh.”
Yeah, I know, not the most intelligent response. Bear in mind, I’m discussing a girl I like with her mother. That’s pretty weird and nerve-wracking.
“Adam, she talked about constantly. They were too casual for it to really matter. Or Tony, or … or …”
“Yeah, I get it.” Whoa, lady, I do not want to hear about every single boyfriend Chloe’s had. It’s enough that I know what a jackass Adam is. Really, TMI.
“Oh,” she says and jerks back. “I apologize.” I guess my horrified expression took her by surprise.
“Are you two …?”
“No.” I say it too vehemently, I know, but it’s too late to take it back. “I jus
t … that’s her life. I’m just a roommate.”
“Sure?” She smiles again. The skin on the back of my neck crawls. She certainly shares her insight into people with Chloe. Another reason why she should understand why Chloe wants to study psychology.
I don’t know what to tell her, but I am saved by the bell. Or actually by Chloe, as she opens the door and then stops dead when she sees who’s sitting at the table.
“Mom?”
“Hi, honey. I wanted to see where you lived. Christopher was kind enough to invite me in for a coffee despite me barging in here unannounced.”
Chloe’s eyes flit to me and then back to her mother. I can see her mind trying to work out how much damage has been done in her absence. Not much, she must decide, because she relaxes, smiles and gives her mom a kiss on the cheek.
“You should’ve told me you were coming.”
“Didn’t I?”
“Mom, next time Eric offers to buy you a smartphone, grab the opportunity. It’ll remember things instead of you.”
Natasha chuckles, but it sounds nervous. I think she’s aware of being terrible at ordinary life. I feel sorry for her. She seems a nice person, just absent-minded.
“It’s fine,” Chloe says. “As long as you didn’t bring the family albums.”
“No, not whole albums, I just brought your naked pictures,” Natasha deadpans.
I snort with laughter, and Chloe rolls her eyes. These two must be the most fun mother-daughter duo I’ve ever met. I can’t stop grinning.
“So,” Chloe says as she drops her bag on the floor and sits down. “What have you two been up to while I was gone?”
The way she asks, she sounds worried. I figure, if she’s worried, what her mom and I’ve been talking about must mean something to her. I must mean something. See? I can do this psychology thingy, too. The better I know her, the easier she is to read. And if I add to that what her Mom’s told me about her … I’ve got a pretty clear picture of what my chances are to win her. Pretty high, I think.
I make her a tea and she thanks me with a smiling gaze when I pass her the mug. In the past few weeks, I’ve figured she’s not a grand gestures sort of girl. Renting a limo to take her to dinner in a posh restaurant would be lost on her. Cooking her lunch or helping her put a picture frame on the wall is what gets her. I like that. She’s not like one of those girls that are competing with each other whose boyfriend or parents got them the most expensive gifts. Her needs aren’t extravagant. She’s got her priorities straight. Without wanting to, this only makes me more smitten with her. Depending on how things develop in the next few weeks, her moving in with me might just be the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Or it might well be the worst.
Chapter Nine
CHLOE
My mom visiting while I was out worries me. She knows me like the back of her hand. I know she suspects what troubles me about Chris. And I know her well enough to know she’s capable of telling him all about it. Privacy boundaries are not a concept she’s familiar with.
I don’t want Chris to know any more than he needs to. Fighting him off is difficult enough as it is.
After a crapload more inquisitive questions and blatant hints, Mom leaves and I can breathe more easily.
The first few moments alone again in the apartment, Chris and I are quiet. Because I don’t know what Mom told him, I’m not sure what is safe to say and what is not. But he surprises me when, after avoiding my eyes for long minutes, he says, completely unrelated, “I’m sorry about the other night.”
“What?”
“When I drove you back from the party drunk. It was a dick move. I should know better. I’ve been meaning to apologize but I missed you every time or I was out.”
“Ah …” I don’t know what to say. I sure wasn’t happy about it, but it is a thing of the past. “It wasn’t cool. But we were fine.”
“Yeah,” he says on a long, slow exhale. “But shit could’ve happened. I wasn’t thinking.” Obviously embarrassed, he adds, “I feel so stupid, with you seeing that video and all.”
“Don’t do it again. I’d hate for something bad happening …” ‘To you’ is on the tip of my tongue but I manage to bite it off just in time. Still, the sentiment persists, settling with a cold weight in my stomach when I think of him crashing the car, getting injured or injuring someone else and then feeling guilty over it. Or worse.
It unnerves me, this deep worry. I can barely look at him when I excuse myself, saying I’ve got another piece of clothing to design, and retreat into my room. Unfortunately, the heavy feeling follows me, and instead of being creative and productive, I just mope around, feeling constricted and miserable.
By the evening when Isabelle comes to watch a DVD with me, I’m almost relaxed again.
We’re watching Casablanca, a film we’ve been wanting to watch together for a long time.
At the last minute, Chris’s buddy Ral cancels their plans, and Chris decides to watch it with us. I’m none too pleased with this, but I can’t say no. It’s not just that it would be rude. I simply can’t.
Because you want him to be there. You miss him when he’s not.
Izzy, who’s more tech savvy than I am, is prepping the DVD, while I get some napkins from the kitchen to eat the pizza that just arrived.
Chris is lounging on the couch so I have to swat his legs to move and make space for Iz and me.
“I can’t believe you were ever a competitive athlete. You’re so lazy.”
He chuckles, but doesn’t comment.
“No, really. You don’t seem the competitive sort.”
“I reserve competitiveness for the slopes. Or used to, anyway. And even there the important thing is to enjoy yourself. You can’t win otherwise.”
“Hm.” I think I understand what he means. I saw it in my mother too. Not the competitiveness, but the passion. Her best illustrations were the ones she painted with love. Sometimes she worked on commissions that she didn’t particularly like but she had to take them on to earn some money. She always struggled with those, and was never quite satisfied with the creations.
“Hm?” He raises his eyebrows, grinning.
“I get it, what you’re saying. I think.”
“I know you do.” He says it so surely that I want to ask how he knows. But his gaze is dangerously charming, and I decide he’s up to something and I better leave it at that. When he sees my hesitation, he grins. He enjoys seeing me squirm, I can tell, and that fires up my fighting spirit, so I have difficulty holding back.
Izzy, oblivious to the exchange we just had, sits back and presses play. The movie starts, and we go quiet. Izzy’s curled up in the corner of the couch, and the pizza is going cold in her hands. Chris, however, is finishing his third slice, and he seems to be watching the screen only cursorily. I can’t focus on the story, either.
When Rick says, ‘Tell me, who was it you left me for? Was it Laszlo, or were there others in between or … aren’t you the kind that tells?’ Isabelle says, “That’s harsh.”
For a second everything’s quiet and I think the moment has passed. Then Chris says, “Harsh, but right.”
“But he didn’t have to say it like that,” Izzy says.
Chris is sitting on my left, Izzy on my right, and Chris leans forward to look at her when he says, “I don’t understand you, women. What difference does it make if you tell the truth wrapped up in niceties or if you put it the way it is? It’s the truth.”
“It makes a big difference how you present it,” I say, because I know Izzy’s right.
“Why?”
“Because …” I’m trying to think of how to explain it in short. “Think about the ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ situation. Most people, when breaking up with someone, will say it’s their fault and not their partner’s. You don’t want to break up with them and then add insult to injury and accuse them of it being their fault. In most cases, both partners are to blame, of course, but you do the nice thing and assume the blame.�
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“But it doesn’t matter, does it?” Chris says, and now his focus is on me. I can feel Izzy’s eyes watching us intently. “The breakup sucks either way.”
“It sucks more if you feel like shit for ruining everything.”
He makes a face like he’s thinking about it. “Maybe there’s a grain of truth in there somewhere. But I still think saying it straight is the best policy.”
His gaze is becoming too intense. I shrug and turn back to the screen. “Let’s agree to disagree, then.”
I take a sip of beer just to give the impression of calmness. But I’m far from it. Just knowing that he’s still watching me makes me all antsy.
“Let’s,” he finally says. “But if I like you, I’m just gonna say I like you. I won’t beat around the bush about it.”
The sip of beer almost goes down the wrong pipe.
I know he’s making it sound ambiguous on purpose, because out of the corner of my eye, I can see the hint of a grin on his face.
Izzy chuckles beside me. “Am I in the way here? I could always go home.”
“Stay where you are,” I say, and it sounds terse and strained. I think both of them notice it. Shit.
I try to divert the attention back to the initial issue, and I say, “If subjective interpretation weren’t important, there’d be no need for Isabelle’s art. We’d just have photos. And even those contain a certain level of interpretation in them.”
Izzy raises her eyebrows at Chris. “She got you there.”
“I surrender.”
But even that simple verb holds double meaning. And I want to tell him about interpretations and insinuations and all that, but with Izzy there, I’d just dig myself a deeper hole.