by Bridie Hall
“We’ll do what?” She sounds incredulous. “I’ve never been in a canoe before.”
It takes me a while to hire a canoe and all the equipment, but then we’re by the water. Chloe looks anxious.
“It’s okay. I know how to do this.” I try to comfort her. “It’ll be fun.”
“So you say.”
“Don’t you trust me?” I ask when I get her to climb into the canoe.
“Of course,” she says, unconvinced.
I climb in too and then the owner of the shop gives us a push and we’re in the river. Chloe goes green when the canoe rocks on the water.
“Relax and enjoy.” I start paddling, slowly at first. I don’t want to scare her. “Breathe.” I chuckle. It’s nice to have the upper hand with her for once.
When I glance over my shoulder, she’s still clutching her paddle in her hands, which is good, because if we paddle out of sync we might well capsize.
“Listen to my signal and start paddling with me,” I tell her gently. The satisfaction of feeling superior to her is over in two seconds. Now, I just want her to enjoy this trip with me. I want her to remember it. I want her to just be there with me.
She does a great job of following my moves, and we’re sliding smoothly across the surface in no time.
Suddenly, I hear a laugh behind me. I glance over my shoulder and I see her happy face. I wish we were on solid ground so I could kiss the hell out of her. But that probably wouldn’t go over very well.
“This is really great,” she says, and her voice sounds it.
I’m beginning to think I should’ve hired the canoe for more than half an hour. Once we’re in the middle of the stream, we just float on the surface for a little while, enjoying the heavy sun sliding off the sky towards the horizon.
“I’ve never even been on a boat before,” Chloe says.
“I’ll take you to New Orleans one day. There’ll be plenty of boats to choose from.” The promise feels too big and I begin to worry it might scare her off. But it’s too late, and she seems okay with it.
“You’ve been to a lot of places,” she says.
“Mostly because of my dad’s work. Some also for snowboarding.”
“Must be fun. Travelling, I mean.” She sounds lazy, lulled by the river sounds and the warm sun.
“It’s pretty cool.”
“Isabelle’s been to Paris. Harper’s been all over the place, too. I just pretend to be worldly. Atlanta is the farthest I’ve been.” She laughs, but there’s a tone of bitterness in her voice.
“It’s not too late.”
“Ah. The Great Gatsby, promising to show me the world.”
I laugh. “Well, why not?”
She’s silent, but I know she wants to say, ‘because we don’t stand a chance’. I can feel it.
We turn back towards the bank. We’re almost half an hour late, and tired. When we stop by the pier, I rock the canoe on purpose. Chloe shrieks.
“Hey, you!”
Her panicked expression makes me laugh. The amusement seeping through her fright and annoyance gives me hope.
“Well, that was fun,” I say as we walk to my car. When she makes a face, I chuckle, because it’s cute how hard she’s trying to make it look like she didn’t enjoy herself. I decide to tease her some more, so I add, “For a spur-of-the-moment date.”
Her attempt at a death glare is funny, and I laugh harder when she protests.
“This was not a date. I came along as you made your delivery. Not a date at all.”
“Does it matter what we call it? We had fun together.”
“You had fun threatening to capsize us. I spent an hour on the water terrified for my life.”
“Sure you did.”
Then she cracks a wide grin. “It was super fun. I can’t believe I’ve lived here all my life but never thought of going canoeing. But it was not a date,” she adds after a short pause.
I got what I wanted—her admitting she had had fun—so I leave it at that.
Chapter Thirteen
CHLOE
When I come home in the evening from shopping for college stuff on Tuesday, Chris has made a mess of the kitchen. He jumps when he hears me enter.
“What happened?” I ask when I see the thin layer of flour on the floor and all over the counter. There are egg shells in the sink, and some sort of batter in a bowl with a whisk covered in it up to the handle.
“I’m making pancakes,” Chris says. Then he looks sheepishly at the destruction behind him. “Or trying to.” He’s wearing an apron and it looks funnily cute on him. Like he’s not used to wearing it, but he wants to make a good impression.
I put the bag on the table. I’m not Harper when it comes to cooking, but I’ve always cooked for Mom and me. I can get by with my skills. But pancakes are not my specialty.
“Can I help?”
“That’d be nice,” he says gratefully.
I get a skillet out of the cupboard, but then I stop because I’m not sure whether to add any oil or not.
“This is a non-stick pan, right? So I don’t have to add oil.”
Chris shrugs. He holds the bowl with the batter while I scoop out about half a cup into the skillet. I put it onto the cooker.
“This is it?” Chris asks.
Now it is my turn to shrug.
“Have you ever made pancakes before?”
“No. I saw Harper make them a few times.”
“So our chances of success are about … zero.”
I grin. “Why did you start making them, anyway?”
Instead of answering, he says, “Shouldn’t we turn it?”
I grab a flour-covered paddle from the counter and try turning the pancake. It’s stuck to the pan and I tear it in the process.
“Maybe the skillet wasn’t hot enough,” Chris says. “Next one will be better.”
I push my hair off my forehead. It’s hot next to the cooker.
Sure it’s just the cooker?
Chris chuckles.
“What?”
He points to my forehead. I realize I must’ve smeared flour on my face with my hands. I want to wipe it off, but Chris dabs my forehead with a moist paper towel before I can react.
“There.”
“Thanks,” I say, and my voice sounds somehow hollow.
By the time we stop gazing at each other, the pancake is thoroughly burned. I throw it in the trash and proceed to sample number two. This one actually ends up being edible, mostly because I’m trying not to look at Chris, so I’m focusing on the pancake instead. Once I use all the batter, we get six golden pancakes. They don’t seem too bad.
I tip two onto a plate and offer it to Chris.
“Do we have any maple syrup?”
“Nope, but we have strawberry jam.”
He takes the plate from my hand, but instead of eating it, he places it on the counter.
“Mmm, I love strawberry jam.” I sigh a little, imagining how good it will taste with the pancakes.
I think I must’ve closed my eyes because suddenly I feel Chris kissing me. My body reacts as if electric current runs through me. I shiver and go tense, until I finally grasp what’s happening.
His body is so captivatingly beautiful it’s like a magnet that draws me in. I don’t remember leaning in to him, but I’m there, pressed against his chest, my hands around his neck and in his hair. The warmth our bodies create is like a soft, tempting pillow. This feels so good and so right, and that makes it all the more wrong.
I hesitate slightly, but he senses it, and pulls away. I feel robbed when his lips stop kissing me. I feel cold. But it is the right thing to do, and I make half a step back, avoiding his eyes.
He clears his throat, and I can see his uncertainty. But then he grins, in a sad sort of way, and jokes, “Even this didn’t convince you, huh?”
I can tell he’s put a lot of effort into sounding cheerful. I feel such a bitch and I wonder yet again why I find it so hard to give in to this … thing that�
�s happening between us. Then I realize that’s not the part that I find hard. Giving in would be oh so easy. Finishing off this hot summer with a hot little tryst with this gorgeous boy would be perfect. But Chris is too good to use him and then discard him like he doesn’t matter. And I know that I’m not ready to give him any more than that. Nothing at all is therefore the better option.
The right one.
Strawberry jam tastes bland after that. I eat the pancakes at the table, while Chris is balancing his plate and laptop on his knees on the couch. I try not to look at him too often, but it’s hard. He hasn’t looked at me once since the kiss. I wonder if he’s hurt or if it’s just his pride that’s chipped. Should I apologize? And say what? ‘I’m crazy about you, but I can’t let you kiss me again?’ Yeah, like that ever stopped a man.
I shiver, but I’m not sure it’s just because of the frigid water I’m swallowing in large gulps. My nerves are so tense, my teeth are nearly chattering. One thing I’m sure about—I won’t be able to suffer this pressure for another month.
Chapter Fourteen
CHRIS
So, a guy goes to all the trouble of making pancakes for a girl. He kisses her like his life depends on it … and she still says no. Are the girls getting more and more demanding or am I slipping? I’ve never before had trouble getting a girl. I get asked for my number like … every frigging day. What is it with Chloe, then?
Because I know she likes me. I can see it in her eyes every time I catch her staring at me. I felt it in how she reacted to me kissing her. She kissed me back with her entire body, for god’s sake. Why pull back afterwards? Why say no over and over again, when I can tell she’s this close to saying yes?
It makes absolutely no sense. It’s pissing me off that I don’t know where I stand with her, and I don’t want to be pissed at her.
When I return home after work the day after the kiss, I find her under a blanket on the couch. That wouldn’t be strange at all if the temperature outside weren’t in the nineties. The apartment is only a few degrees cooler, and she is trembling.
“What’s wrong?”
She pokes her nose from underneath the blanket and mumbles something.
“What?”
“I didn’t hear you come in,” she whispers, and makes a painful face. “My throat is killing me.”
“You’re serious? It’s summer.”
“I don’t know what happened.”
I can hear it in her voice, her throat sounds raw and she looks terrible. Well, she’s still cute, but I feel sorry for her.
“What can I do?” I make some space on the couch next to her. She moves a little. Her state makes the situation after last night less awkward.
I touch my palm to her forehead and she’s burning. “You need a doctor.”
She nods, but it’s barely perceptible with her entire body shaking. She looks small and miserable.
She says she’ll get to the car on her own, but after she slips twice on the steps, I practically carry her most of the way. She’s shivering so hard, I’m afraid she’ll slip out of my hands.
There’s a line at the doctor’s. Chloe sits on the only available chair. She seems out of it. Her head keeps leaning onto my side as I stand next to her. But every time, she jerks away and tries to sit up.
“Relax,” I say quietly and pat her head awkwardly when she leans onto me again. There’s really no point in feeling awkward when she’s only half alive. She seems to get the message and stays put.
An hour into the wait, I get her a bottle of water. It’s cold from the vending machine, so I hold it in my hands to warm it up a bit. Freezing water can’t be good for her sore throat, I figure.
She rasps a quiet thanks.
“I think the fever’s … better. I’m not so … cold anymore,” she says after a long sip.
“It just means it’s stable, it’s not going up anymore. But that’s only because it’s super high already.”
She looks at me as if she’s alarmed by my words. I’ve only told her the truth. I’ve had sore throats plenty of times. I got them by being careless on the slopes, not putting my jacket on after a run. I’ve gotten an earful about it from my coach more than once.
“You’ll get something for the fever. You’ll be fine in a day or two.”
It’s finally her turn to go in. Thankfully, her visit with the doctor takes a fraction of the waiting time. She’s got a strep throat and a prescription for antibiotics.
She waits in the car when I go get her the pills from the pharmacist’s.
When I’m helping her up the stairs back home, she keeps thanking me. I think it’s the fever muddling her brain.
She gets under the blanket on the couch, shivering again. It’s painful to watch her like this. I keep expecting to hear her bones rattling, so violent is her trembling.
I run to get her a glass of water for the pills. While she drinks down the medicine, I make her some tea. It’s not just that she likes tea, the doctor apparently told her to keep hydrated and drink a lot of tea. So that’s what I’ll give her for a week if I have to. I really don’t want to watch her like this.
Chapter Fifteen
CHLOE
Thank god for antibiotics. With their help, my temperature is almost back to normal after two days.
The visit to the doctor’s was torture. I was only half present. The bodily half. But Chris was there to help and hold on to me in case I wobbled and dropped to my knees. I catch myself thinking what a shame that my body was so numb from the fever. I barely felt his arm around my waist, or his palm checking my forehead. What a waste of perfectly nice, warm touches and caresses. I sigh.
“You okay?”
“As okay as I can be, feeling like a river of lava.”
He chuckles, and I even manage to smile.
“That’s what I admire about you most—you’re positive in the face of suffering and pain,” he teases.
“Most?”
“Huh?”
“Does that mean … there are other things you admire about … me?” I have to pause every few words in order to swallow and alleviate the pain in my throat. I know I should shut up and let it heal, but I need his soft, low voice to lull me into relief. I need his green eyes to smile at me and speed up the effect of antibiotics. I’m aware this is contrary to what I wanted two days ago, but I can’t help myself. I’m in love with this perfect boy and I’m too sick and weak to fight it.
“Are there any things I don’t?” He grins and comes closer. He makes some space on the couch and sits down. The thought of how close he is only makes my temperature rise. This fever is doing strange things to my mind.
He’s been taking care of me for the past twenty-four hours like a trained nurse. He guesses at my every need even before I do. My tea mug is constantly full of freshly made tea with honey. He’s been heaping blankets on top of one another whenever I shiver, and putting them away as my temperature comes down. He’s watched hours of stupid TV programs with me to keep me company. He massaged my feet, for chrissakes.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to call your mom?” he asks for the third time.
“No. I’ll be fine by tomorrow. She doesn’t need to know.”
“Anything else I can do for you?” He looks at me as if he means that quite literally. There are plenty of things I want to ask of him, but none are very proper or even fair. So I just ask for another mug of tea and a thermometer to check my temperature.
His phone rings when he hands me the mug. He picks up, and from his answers I gather it is work.
“I’ve got an extra delivery to make,” he says, and my mood sours.
“Do you have to?” I know I sound whiny, but I have a right to. I’m sick.
“I’m afraid so. I’ll be back in an hour tops. Do you need me to get you anything else before I go?”
“No, I’ll be fine. Bored as hell … but fine.”
“You can watch movies on my laptop,” he says, and gestures to where his laptop is lying on
the table.
I’m tempted. Peeking into his laptop would be like peeking into his soul, he spends so much of his free time on it. I have to remind myself that that is not who I am. I’m appalled at this person that’s suddenly taken my place. I don’t know her. She’s feverish and kooky.
Chris picks up his car keys and cell phone. At the door he hesitates and looks back at me. “Call me if you need anything.”
“Thanks.” This feeling of being taken care of is strange and unfamiliar. It scares me and reminds me once again why I shouldn’t get involved with him. But there are also other feelings, warmer and softer and consuming, that eat away at my resolve. God, how I want him to stay and cuddle with me under the blanket…
But he turns and leaves, and the door closes, and I fall back onto the pillows, deserted.
Chapter Sixteen
CHRIS
What does she want from me? Two days ago she pushed me away when I kissed her and told me that I’m her roommate and nothing more. Now she’s staring at me with those longing eyes. What’s with the mindfuck? Is that the fever scrambling her brain? It pisses me off that I don’t know where I’m at with her. I’m a simple guy, I like a simple life. I hate mixed messages and complications. I didn’t think she was one to play hard to get. But maybe that’s not it at all and I’m just misreading her signals.
When I stop at the bakery to pick up the pastries to deliver, Sal asks what’s wrong.
“You look worried,” he says with a smirk. He thinks I lead a charmed life––that my worries are insignificant, just something my mind makes up so I’m not bored. He always says that when I complain or worry about something.
“It’s nothing.” I’m not in the mood to share, but the past year he’s always been there for me in his strange, foul-mouthed way. He’s almost like family, and after this summer I’ll probably never see him again. I’ll miss him, his grumpiness and all.
“Chloe’s sick,” I say.
The smirk vanishes and his face goes dark. He reaches in the cupboard beneath the counter and pulls out a bag filled with pastries.