by Lily Jenkins
“This is Levi,” he says. “He’s used to living alone.”
Levi’s eyes go wide and he smiles. “Sorry,” he says, his mouth full of muffin. “I guess I should have asked.”
I smile, but I feel a little uncomfortable around this guy. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “They’re for everyone.”
Levi’s shoulders relax and he goes on chewing. I turn back to Adam, who looks like he’s almost in pain.
“Hi,” I whisper, suddenly shy.
“Hey,” he says back. “So how’s Prickly Pete?”
“Still prickly,” I say. Levi looks confused, so I explain, “That’s my cat. I don’t know what I would have done if Adam hadn’t helped me catch him.”
Levi nods and takes another bite of the muffin. “These are so good,” he says. “They homemade?”
He’s eating with his mouth open, and I try not to make a face. I nod. There’s another awkward silence, and Levi notices, glancing from one of us to the other.
“Well,” he says, “I’d better go tend to the General.” He grabs another muffin and walks to the rear of the store, where an immense bloodhound is tied to a post. I recognize the General, then notice Eliza’s motorcycle.
Then I look back at Adam.
His eyes are still searching my face, trying to figure something out. Then they close briefly, and he breathes in a heavy sigh. When he opens his eyes again, it’s as if he has put on a different face. This one is friendly, laid back, even chummy. “That basket looks heavy. Do you want to set it down someplace?” he asks.
I smile, the tension broken. “Yeah, thanks,” I say, and he takes the basket from me and walks us both to the counter in the back of the garage. He sets it down and smells the muffins with appreciation. I readjust the canvas bag over my shoulder, and my arms feel gloriously light after carrying that basket all around town.
“Did you really make these for me?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “Is that weird?”
“No. I’ve just never had anyone bring me muffins before.”
He leans against the counter and stares at me for a moment. My face goes red under his direct gaze and I’m forced to look away.
“It was Erica, right?” he asks.
I look back at him. “That’s me,” I say, trying to smile. Damn it, why am I so nervous? This is just supposed to be a fling. It’s supposed to be easy. “And you were Adam, right?”
He smiles, his face relaxing a bit. “Adam Lawson, at your service.”
“Erica Harper.” I smile, then realize I haven’t thought this far ahead. In my mind, trying to prepare for this exchange, I never thought past giving him the muffins. I’d stop there, and merely daydream about his face and hair and shoulders. But now there’s another lull, and I’m forced to say something, anything, to fill it.
“So,” I say, “how have you been adjusting to life in Astoria?”
“It’s all right,” he says, and looks down at the counter. “It’s pretty different.”
“Oh?” I ask, hearing the eagerness in my voice. “Where are you from?”
His face tenses, ever so slightly. “Here and there.”
There’s another silence, and I suddenly feel very stupid for coming here. Summer romance? We can’t even have a conversation. Maybe Nicole could smile and giggle her way into this guy’s pants, but I really don’t know what I’m doing. And every time I try to think, I end up just staring at him. My mind goes blank gazing at his strong profile, the messy brown hair falling over his forehead.
He looks at me, and the silence is almost painful now. I want to extend the moment, to be near him, but I’m so bad at this.
“What’s in the bag?” he asks, gesturing toward the canvas bag on my shoulder. I touch it lightly, not wanting to talk about it.
“Um, just a project.”
He looks at me, except now his expression has a hint of amusement in it.
“Yeah?” he says slowly. “I like projects.”
He leans in a little closer, staring at me with his intense eyes, and the world feels tighter. It feels so good to be near him. It feels so good to be close.
Suddenly a loud bark shakes the entire room, and I jump forward with a scream. I trip right into Adam, my hands landing on his chest.
“Sorry,” I say.
But he doesn’t move away. His body is warm, almost hot, even through his shirt. I look up, and I am just inches away from his face. Some deep part of myself reacts to his smell of sweat and—and—Adam.
I don’t just want him; I need him.
But I back away, and he says, “No problem.”
The dog barks again, and this time the bark is closer. I look and see the General charging for us.
“Bad dog!” Levi says, running behind it. “Bad dog!”
Adam shifts our positions so that I am behind him, and he stands in front of me as the dog leaps right toward us. I can see the muscles of his back flexing through his shirt as he readies himself for an attack.
But it isn’t us the dog is after. He leaps up, his front paws landing on the counter, and sticks his snout in the muffins.
“No!” I cry, and reach out to stop him. The basket is tipping over, and as I try to stop it I only end up dropping my canvas bag in the process. It goes sprawling on the floor, the contents spilling out in a wave. The muffins crash down next, and the dog pounces on them.
All three of us bend down at once. Levi is pulling the dog’s collar with little luck as the animal wolfs down half a dozen muffins in mere seconds. I’ve picked up my canvas bag, and Adam is picking up the random items that have fallen out: rolls of tape, markers, and about a hundred photocopies of Prickly Pete’s picture with the words FOUND CAT in bold letters.
Levi manages to pull back the General. No one bothers to salvage the muffins. I set the basket back on the counter, and Adam stands, holding the flyers. He looks down at them, reading them, and starts laughing. Levi looks over, and Adam shows him. Then Levi starts laughing too.
“Oh man,” he says, “that is one pissed-off kitty.”
Adam hands me the stack of flyers, and I look down at the black-and-white photo of Pete. It’s a close-up of his face, partly blurred because it was taken a moment before he attacked me. His teeth are bared and his eyes look almost demonic.
Levi is still laughing, and Adam is working to hide his smile.
“Yeah, well,” I say, putting the flyers in my bag. “Now you know why I’m trying to find his real owner.”
“You don’t want to keep the Cat of Satan?” Levi asks, then laughs again.
But it isn’t funny to me. “I think he could be a sweet cat,” I try to explain, “but I can’t really take care of him if he hates me. He won’t even let me near him.”
“That sucks,” Levi says.
I shrug. “It’s no big deal. I’m used to being ignored at home.” I meant it as a joke, but it comes out bitter. I look up at Adam and I’m startled to see that he’s not laughing at all. His eyes are sad, almost tearful.
It’s in that moment that I first realize what it is about him that makes me keep obsessing: he’s in pain too. I can see it in his eyes. It’s more than being a stranger in a strange land, it’s also a kind of guilt, a kind of blaming—there’s a pocket of grief in him that burns constantly. I know, because I have that empty spot in my heart too. It’s been hurting every day since Conner died, and it won’t heal because I know it’s my fault it’s there to begin with.
I look into his eyes and see that he’s damaged, and I try to shout with my mind that I’m damaged too. I think he senses it. I think he knows.
Then Levi speaks, and our connection is broken.
“You putting up the flyers now?” he asks.
I turn to him, feeling like I’ve been woken up abruptly. “Yes,” I whisper. I can feel Adam’s gaze on me.
Levi smiles, looking at Adam. Then he says, “You should help her out, man. She needs it.”
Adam looks at his friend, his own trance broken. “No, I
—”
Levi waves off his objection. “It’s fine. I got the shop. Besides,” he says, “it’s the least I can do after letting the General eat all your muffins.”
Adam is quiet, his face conflicted. “You sure?” he asks.
Levi laughs. “Go ahead. Take as long as you want.”
Adam looks up at me and gives a small grin. His eyes are so beautiful when he smiles.
“You want company?” he asks.
I smile back. How can I say no?
We step outside and the light is blinding. Erica is ahead of me, all business. She walks up to the lamppost on the corner, right outside the shop.
“Thanks for doing this,” she says.
“No problem,” I say. I try to catch her eye, but she won’t look directly at me. She pulls a roll of masking tape out of her bag and hands it to me. Then she takes out a flyer and holds it up to the pole. That damn angry cat is staring back at us, looking ready to jump out of the photo to bite at our faces.
I can’t help it; I laugh a little when I see it again. “That’s really the best you could do?” I ask. I wrap some tape around the top of the poster and rip it off. She’s watching what I’m doing, still avoiding my eyes when she answers.
“I figure any photo is better than none.”
I stretch some tape on the bottom and look at the cat again. “Yeah, but I mean, seeing him like that, they might not want him back.”
She frowns. “He’s not a bad cat.” Then she adds, “He was nice to you.”
We turn the corner and walk along the sidewalk. We’re heading toward the water now, and when we reach the pier, we cross over some train tracks. She pulls out another flyer and presses it against the side of what looks like a bus stop, except there’s no road here. The tracks must be for the trolley.
She holds the flyer again while I get out the tape. This time I have to lean over her to attach it to the top of the poster, and when I do, my face is right next to the top of her head. Her auburn hair smells like peaches.
I lean back. “You think people will see it out here?” I ask. “It’s not near any of the shops.”
“There’s a trolley that runs along here,” she says. “Okay, next block.”
We walk uphill again, hit the corner and circle the block. She’s walking kind of rigid all of the sudden, and I don’t really know why. Then we walk downhill, and she relaxes again as we near the water. She doesn’t even put up a flyer here, and we walk back uphill on the block after the one we were just on. She stops on the far corner of this one, across from the intersection we were just at. I don’t say anything, mostly because she’s all tense again, but I glance across the street and wonder why we didn’t just cross and save ourselves some time.
When we get to the end of this block, I stop by the intersection to cross. The light is still red. She pulls away and starts walking downhill. “It’s faster this way,” she says. I look back at the intersection. It’s just turned green, and the walk sign is flashing.
This time we go down one block to the pier, and she crosses the planks by the trolley tracks and starts going uphill again. Walking this way, zigzagging back down to the pier instead of crossing at the top of the blocks, is making this all take three times as long—not to mention much more difficult, with all the steep climbs uphill.
So when we get to the next block, and she starts to turn back toward the water, I stop.
“We’re crossing here,” I say.
She looks at me, then glances out at the intersection nervously. “No,” she says quietly, shaking her head.
“Why not?”
“It’s not a good place to cross.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask. “There’s a goddamn crosswalk right here, with a light. This is the place to cross.”
She takes a step away from me, away from the street, and backs up against the buildings behind her. She’s clutching her bag to her chest like someone’s going to steal it. “It’ll take too long,” she says, her voice shaky.
The light turns green and the cars start moving.
“Come on,” I say. “I can’t take all this uphill, downhill.”
She stares at the opposite curb and pulls her bag closer to herself. “Maybe you’re right,” she whispers. “About the posters.”
“What?”
“Maybe they were a mistake. Nobody’s going to want Petey from these. I’ll just reprint them or something.”
I look back at her, trying to figure out what happened. It’s very obvious she’s lying, but even beyond that, she’s having some sort of episode.
Then I remember. The girl I saw the first day I was here, the one who had to be led like a blind woman across the street by her friend. This is her.
“Erica,” I say slowly, my voice soft. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“Nothing,” she says quickly. “I just think you were right. These posters are stupid. Petey looks too mean.”
I’m quiet, watching her. She’s still avoiding my eyes, but she glances up to see how I react to what she’s saying.
I shake my head. “Why won’t you cross the street?” I ask. “I mean, really. No bullshit.”
She looks away again, and for a moment I’m worried she’s going to take off running. Then she takes in a big breath and squeezes the strap of her bag. She shuts her eyes and whispers, “I can’t.”
“What?” I ask.
“I can’t!” she screams, her eyes open and angry now. I don’t know if she’s going to cry or attack. “I just can’t.”
I don’t give up. “But you must have crossed some to get here?”
“There was less traffic then,” she says, her voice exhausted. “And Nicole helped me.”
“Who’s Nicole?”
“My friend.”
I’m quiet for a moment. Then I say, “I’m your friend. Maybe I can help you get across?”
Her face scrunches up. I know that look: she’s disgusted with herself. “I don’t think I can. There are too many cars.”
“Let’s just try,” I suggest. “I’ll even walk on the left side, so that I’m blocking you from traffic.”
She looks up at me, her face relaxing a little. There’s a small glimmer of hope in her eyes, and I want nothing more than to kindle it.
“I’ll even hold your hand. That way you can protect me too.”
There’s the slightest movement on the corner of her lip. It’s too small to be a smile, but it tells me I’ve won.
I hold out a hand. She looks at it, then back at the street.
“Look at me,” I say. “Keep your eyes on me.”
She turns to me and looks me straight in the eyes. She stares at me, questioning me, focusing intently. She is so fucking beautiful. I want to pick her up and carry her across. Her shoulders relax and she reaches out a timid hand, placing it in mine.
I let her walk up next to me and we stand there, breathing together on the corner of the intersection. She’s still looking at me, except now we’re inches apart, as if we’re about to kiss. I look down at her. She seems so fragile, so broken. I just want to hold her and make everything right for her again. I want to help her live in a world without pain.
The light changes. “Okay,” I say. “One step at a time.”
I take the first step onto the asphalt, and am impressed when she takes her first step without any prodding. Her whole body is tense, and she’s gripping my hand tightly now. We take three steps and I hear a huge truck passing on the street to the side of me. Her grip gets tighter and she starts to pull back toward the curb we just came from.
“I’ve got you,” I tell her. “You’re safe.” I squeeze her hand to remind her that I’m here, and she looks up at me. She gives the tiniest nod, and we take more steps.
When we’re past the halfway mark, her pace increases, and when we reach the opposite side, she lets go of my hand and practically jumps the remaining five feet onto the curb.
I join her. She’s looking back at the street we crossed, relief
spreading through her features. Then embarrassment, and we’re back to no eye contact.
“See?” I say. “I knew you could do it.”
She doesn’t say anything. She turns to the lamppost nearest the curb and she takes out another flyer. I help her tape it up, neither of us noticing the crazed cat on the photocopy. Then we walk side by side to the end of the block.
When we get here, she glances back toward the waterfront. I know she’s thinking of avoiding the street again, so I put out my hand.
“Come on,” I say. “You’ve got this.”
She blinks, looking at my hand for a moment. Then she takes it. Her palm is so warm and soft in mine. It’s all I can do to resist pulling it up to my lips to kiss it.
We walk across the street, and as soon as we step onto the next block, she drops my hand. We put up a poster in silence, and I can feel her watching me out of the corner of her eye. When we reach the third intersection, she’s reaching for my hand before the light even changes.
And this time, after we cross, she doesn’t let it go.
It’s excruciating, crossing street after street, but with Adam’s help we manage to get the flyers up in record time. Downtown is wallpapered with Pete’s snarling face, and just as I’m getting used to the feel of Adam’s hand in mine, I look up to see we’re standing outside my house. He’s walked me home.
I let go of his hand. “Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. I look up into his face, and the explosion of emotions inside me makes me realize how long it’s been since I’ve let myself feel anything. Were my emotions always this strong? Or is it Adam?
His soft lips turn up into a confident grin. “Anytime,” he says, and we catch eyes again. He’s looking at me like he wants to say more, and he runs a hand through his brown hair. It falls right back into place, and he grins shyly. I smile back.
Then I remember. “My friend Nicole’s birthday is this weekend,” I say. “She’s having this party, and I’m obligated to go.”
His face grows serious, his lips parting ever so slightly.
“It’ll probably be boring,” I say, trying to be casual, “but if you wanted to…?”