by Bridie Hall
After the movie, Izzy and I stay on the couch chatting, discussing the movie, making a list of movies still to watch. Chris is there, but doesn’t actively participate in our discussions. Still, I feel his presence as he moves around the room.
It’s past midnight when Izzy leaves and even then only when she realizes that the couch is where Chris sleeps.
“Oh my god, have I been keeping you awake?” she says, embarrassed.
“Are you nuts? If I’d wanted to go to bed, I’d kick you out,” Chris jokes.
“No, you wouldn’t. I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”
“Iz, chill. He never goes to sleep before midnight.”
“Well, I might’ve today if I’d had the chance.” He grins widely, but that doesn’t alleviate Izzy’s blush.
“Don’t be a douche, Chris,” I say, but he’s smiling at Isabelle the way only he can smile—all soft and cool.
“It’s been nice having some fun company. Good old Chloe here gets boring after a while.”
I punch him in the arm, and he draws me in for a hug. It’s so unexpected, it takes my breath away. It’s just a short hug, warm and comfy, but it leaves a lingering sensation on my body when I walk Izzy to the door.
On impulse, I decide to accompany her down to the lobby in order for my body to cool down.
“Is he fooling around, or did he mean all that?” Izzy asks.
“I’m telling you, he never goes to bed before midnight. He spends hours on his laptop.”
“I meant what he said about liking you and all that. He seems into you.”
She’s watching me with an amused expression. I wonder how she can be so perceptive about Chris, when it took her months to see how deeply in love Harper was with her.
I don’t know what to tell her, but I guess that’s a good enough answer for her.
“He’s nice, Chloe. Don’t mess it up.”
I want to say that I won’t, but it would be a lie, as I’m already planning an offensive on Chris the moment I return upstairs.
She hugs me. “He’s good,” she whispers, despite or because she knows all her advice means nothing once I make up my mind.
I take two stairs at a time when I return upstairs. I burst through the door, incensed, but Chris is lounging on the couch, checking his email like nothing happened. This makes me pause. Have I been reading too much into this? Was he speaking just hypothetically? But no, it was his way of saying he hasn’t given up yet. It had to be.
“What was that all about?”
“What?” he asks, and smiles. He knows what I’m talking about. He knows, and still he teases me. But that’s good. If he’s annoying enough, I might start disliking him. It would save me a lot of trouble.
“‘I like you, so I’m just gonna say I like you’…?”
“It’s the truth.”
“Izzy didn’t need to hear it.”
“What are you afraid of?” He sits up and places the laptop onto the coffee table. His hair is all shaggy.
“I’m not afraid.”
“Why don’t you want her to hear it, then? She’s your best friend.”
“I don’t want her to hear it because she’s my best friend. Because she might misunderstand.”
He looks surprised at me. “I thought I put it quite clearly. There was nothing she might misunderstand about me liking you.”
“Exactly.”
“Except what you’re afraid of is that she might misunderstand what you’re feeling about me, isn’t it?”
“No ...” I say half-heartedly. What can I say? His observation is so spot-on, that it takes me by surprise.
“I bet you told her downstairs that there’s nothing there. That you don’t like me.” Even if the words were supposed to sound accusatory, they don’t. He says them kindly. He’s not reproachful, not even now, when I’m turning him down for the second time in a week. What does it take for this guy to turn into a mean dickhead? He sucks.
Uh-huh.
Ugh.
“No.” I turn away. I need to regroup. I need to find a different tactic because this one is not working. So I decide to be honest about how I feel.
“I didn’t tell her that. I’m not telling you that either,” I say. There’s a thin layer of guilt wrapping around my heart. But I forgive myself because I’m doing this as much for him as I’m doing it for myself.
“I do like you. I like you a lot, Chris. But I’m not ready for us to be anything more than roommates.”
I understand his confusion, when he asks, “Why?” I do. But he’s just too nice. Hurting someone who doesn’t really care for you, or you for him is one thing. That’s not hurting at all, to be exact. But ruining someone who gets under your skin so much it hurts is quite different. And hurt him I would, because I’m not at a place in my life where I could open up to him. I haven’t yet learned to trust people. I’m working on it. That’s why I’m studying psychology. Because I want to open up my mind and dissect it. I want to know the whys and hows of loving someone. I’m just not there yet.
“It’s complicated. It’s not something I can explain easily. Trust me, I’m trying to be a good person here.”
He gets up and steps to me, and I’m about ready to bolt if he tries to touch me. He can make me vulnerable just by looking at me. Touching me would be too much.
He seems torn, as he’s scowling with concentration. His gaze weighs me down. A moment more of this and I’ll take it all back and kiss him.
“Okay,” he says. The word is so soft, it’s almost a breath. “Okay. No pressure.” He smiles.
Now that he’s said it, a part of me, the selfish part, wishes he didn’t. I feel like he’s taking back that hug from earlier and all the warmth with it. I feel lonely and naked. I wonder if I’m doing the right thing.
But then he turns away, and starts getting his bed ready, and my chance to turn back time is gone, and I walk to my bedroom and flop on the bed, staring at the wall, staring at my soul.
It’s dark and still hot and I feel miserable.
Yoga doesn’t cut it anymore. Tomorrow, I’ll go jogging.
Chapter Ten
CHRIS
I don’t get it. Why would she not want to be with me if she likes me? I told her I like her. It’s not like I’m some jerk who’s out to hurt her. I’m nice to her. I’ve been doing all the right things. Any other girl would be drooling at my feet by now. Why not Chloe?
I get that she’s got issues. I get that. We all have them and they can suck the joy out of life. I remember how I was when I busted my knee. Those were the worst few months of my life. It wasn’t about the pain, as I still feel the physical consequences of the injury and I’m fine with them. It was about what followed—the change, the fact that I had to scratch the dreams of competing at the Olympics or even X-Games again. I’d never be any good at any sport again. Not professionally. Except maybe curling or something.
I went through a lot of shit back then. I got over it and moved on. Chloe’s had a difficult childhood, I know. Even her mom admits it. But I’ve got nothing to do with it. We’re grown-ups now, and I just want her, with all her issues and problems. Can’t she see that?
I told her I would leave her be. But how can I? I’m going out of my mind here. Fuck.
I check my cell phone, and it’s three-thirty. I have to get up in less than three hours for my delivery job.
I lie on my back, staring at the blackness above me. It feels heavy, even though I know it’s just air. I wonder if she feels so dark when she thinks about me, or about the things I told her.
Thinking like this only makes me feel like crap, so I decide enough is enough. I turn on my side and try to fall asleep. Sometime during my conscious and very oxymoronic effort to fall asleep I must’ve dozed off because I wake up when I hear Chloe open her bedroom door.
She’s trying to be quiet but I hear her tiptoe past the couch to the fridge. She fills a glass with water that’s barely dripping from the bottle because she’s afraid to make
too much noise.
“Morning,” I say cruelly, and she jumps sky-high.
She clutches her hand to her chest as if physically grasping her heart. Her expression of shock is priceless and a more light-hearted way to wake up after the crappy night I’ve had.
“You’re evil,” she says, and gives me a shaky smile.
“I know.”
“I needed a drink.”
“And I need to get ready.” I don’t mean to scare her, but as I start to get up, she drops a quick ‘bye’ and bolts to her room.
Jesus, she’s scared of me now? Crap. What have I gotten myself into? I sigh and the amusement from a moment ago is all gone.
It’s a busy day at work and it’s distracting me from thinking about Chloe. Until Salvo brings her up.
“How’s your girl?”
I groan. I’m loading the last box of pastries into the back of the bakery’s van. I sometimes deliver smaller deliveries in my car, but this time it’s an order of two hundred doughnuts for a community center’s opening.
“She’s not my girl.”
“So your mouth says, but your face tells a different story. It’s turning pink. I bet that’s her favorite color.”
His belly laugh is something that usually gets me in a good mood, but this time it annoys me.
“I only ask cause you’re grumpy,” he says, and I wish he’d stop talking. “You’re bringing down the mood. I don’t like that, boy.”
“I’ll be out of here in a minute.”
“Or you could just go get the girl and be fun again.”
As a bachelor, I doubt he knows what he’s talking about. I doubt he ever knew. He must guess at my sour thoughts because he says, “I know more about ladies than you think, kid. I was once like you. Not that you could tell now.” He looks down at his huge belly that makes it hard for him to tie his shoelaces when he switches his Crocs for boots after work. His hair is thinning, and his eyes are set deeply amongst a web of thin wrinkles. But his face looks … okay, I think, in an old Marlon Brando sort of way. Yeah, maybe he does know a thing or two about ladies. It doesn’t mean he knows anything about Chloe, though.
“Be persistent. She’ll crack, I’m telling you. With your looks … You’re unstoppable.”
“I wish I could believe that.”
He shrugs like he doesn’t care either way.
“Chloe’s not shallow. I don’t think good looks is enough to get her.”
He spreads his hands in an ‘isn’t it obvious, then’ way. I don’t know what he’s trying to say, so he spells it out for me.
“You think you deserve her?”
I’m about to say that I don’t know, but he continues without waiting for my reply.
“Then show her why you deserve her. If she ain’t shallow, she’ll get it. Now get the fuck out of here or them doughnuts’ll get dry and shrivel up like a chicken’s ass.”
I don’t wait for him to repeat the order. I’m not afraid of him. It’s just that getting love advice from an old bachelor like Salvo shows too painfully in what a miserable situation I am.
Chapter Eleven
CHLOE
I couldn’t sleep. I listened for Chris to leave for work, and then I jumped up and got ready to go for a run. Running is not my sport. I haven’t done it in ages. But I need to unleash all this pent-up energy. I guess vacations have made me lazy and I’m becoming restless or something. I just know I need to move, fast and hard until all my muscles hurt and my breath comes in painful gasps.
Also, you know Chris has something to do with it, but you refuse to admit it.
The jog is not what I imagined it would be. I’m breathless five minutes in, and lead could be cloud material compared to how heavy my legs feel. But I’m not giving up because of a little pain. I’ve experienced worse. Well, okay, I haven’t. But … but … but … I need to be in control, at least with this.
I’m gasping like a choking victim by the time I return to the building entrance. The three flights of steps are like maximum penalty. I drag my aching, heavy body upstairs and in through the door, collapsing as soon as I close it.
Although I’d rather die than do it, I force myself to do some stretching to alleviate, a little, the pain that will follow tomorrow. Chris told me how important stretching is in sport, so I do some yoga stretches, and bit by bit I regain sensation in my limbs. After a long hot shower, a little toast (god, I miss Chris’s snacks and lunches), and a cup of green tea I’m almost alive again.
While still munching on the last bite, Mom calls to tell me she found the perfect house. She asks me to come along with her to see it before she and Eric make the final decision.
I go out of curiosity, not to force my opinion on them. It will be their house, essentially. I will only visit occasionally once I move to Atlanta. And after college … Who knows where I’ll end up.
The house is ideal for a small family or a couple: Two bedrooms and a large living space with a small kitchen. Mom doesn’t cook much anyhow. There’s a well-lit nook by the back door where Mom could set up her work space. And once she realizes I won’t be home all that much, I might even convince her to convert ‘my’ room into a studio for her. I could always sleep on the couch.
We look around the back yard that is spacious and sunny, and when we return inside, the decision is made.
“I’ll call the realtor right away,” Eric says, and walks out into the hallway.
“How’s Chris?” Mom asks, trying to be all casual about it, but I see the glimmer in her eyes and I know to tread carefully.
“He’s at work,” I say, but realize then that it’s past noon. “Actually, he’s probably back by now, having lunch.”
“You know his schedule?” she asks, quite innocently.
“We share a four hundred-square-foot apartment, Mom. I don’t have a choice but to know his schedule.”
“We used to share a house too, but I never knew your schedule.”
“That’s ‘cause I knew yours to the minute.” I roll my eyes.
“That’s not the same.”
“Why don’t you just stop beating about the bush and say what’s on your mind?” It’s starting to get on my nerves that everyone is insinuating things. Can’t anyone be straight with me? What are they afraid of? I shiver as I’m reminded of the discussion I had with Izzy and Chris, about whether it’s better telling the truth directly or not. Ugh.
“Why don’t you admit you like him?” Mom says, complying ever so generously with my request.
“I like him. Okay? I do like him. Satisfied?” I’m aggressive and angry and confused. I want the vacation to be over. I want to move to Atlanta and never see Chris again. I want to coop up with him in our apartment and never leave it. I want to kiss him until my lips ache. Shit. Fuck. Oh, god.
“You don’t have to punish yourself for liking him, honey.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re forgetting that I’ve known you for nineteen years, Chloe.” She raises her eyebrows at me, like she’s a model mom who’s always known what’s best for me, while in truth she forgot which grade I was in most of the time.
But I don’t voice my thoughts because I don’t want to hurt her.
“Why is it so bad that you like him? Just tell me. Maybe I can help.”
“You can’t.”
“Maybe I can.”
“You can’t because liking him is not bad, as such. I’m making it bad. And why are you so interested in my love life all of a sudden? It’s not like you ever gave a damn about my boyfriends.”
“That’s not true. I’ve always wanted you to be happy.”
“Do you even know how old I was when I started dating my first boyfriend?”
She hesitates a bit at this. “Sixteen?”
“I was fourteen. Most moms would go nuts if their daughters dated a seventeen-year-old at fourteen. You didn’t even blink.”
“I’ve always trusted your judgment, Chloe.”
“No, you just didn’t know wha
t I was up to most of the time.”
She’s about to protest, I can tell, but then she presses her lips together and stays silent. Good choice.
We both turn to the door when Eric returns and announces that we’ll be moving in a couple of weeks.
At least that’ll keep me distracted.
For an hour or two.
Chapter Twelve
CHRIS
It’s not a romantic date or anything. I have a delivery to make down by the river and it’s my last for the day, so I thought I’d ask her to come along. She sounds hesitant at first. I think she’s afraid I’ll try to seduce her in a deserted alley or something. Well, no, I hope she doesn’t think that, but she definitely sounds doubtful when she asks why I’m inviting her along.
“I want some company and I’m sure you’d like some ice cream.”
Isabelle told me about Chloe’s soft spot for ice cream. It’s sneaky of me to use insider knowledge like that, but I really do want some company.
She waits in the car while I deliver the box of muffins and doughnuts. Afterwards, the fun part of the outing starts.
She’s in a good mood. I’m feeling pretty great, too. The next few weeks will be good. Maybe I’ll make some progress with her. Maybe I’ll even get to introduce her to my folks that are flying in two days before I leave for Atlanta. I think she’d get along great with Mom.
“What do you want to do now?” I ask as I start the car.
“Whatever we do, there needs to be ice cream involved,” she says. “You promised.”
“How about we go down to the river? We can grab a Ben & Jerry’s tub on the way.”
Her eyes sparkle and I take that as a yes.
But I change plans on the way, and decide we’ll go canoeing first, and get the ice cream afterwards.
She glances at me a few times once she notices we’re getting close to the river but we still don’t have any ice cream. When I park, she half frowns, half smiles at me.
“What are you up to?”
“We’ll go canoeing,” I say as I lead the way to the pier.