The Opposite of Nothing

by Slade, Shari

  A mousy redhead noticed him standing at the threshold and beamed. She clapped her neighbor on the shoulder—the painter kid from earlier—and bounced on her stool. “Guys, I think the model is here and he’s a hottie.”

  He clenched his jaw. He couldn’t just leave now that he’d been spotted.

  “Dana, we do not objectify the models. They share their form with us, and we honor that with respect and dignity. We draw life.” It had to be the instructor, though he’d never guess by looking. She wore a gray t-shirt and faded jeans. From behind, she looked like she could only be a few years older than the oldest students in the room, even if her voice was commanding. Dana blushed and ducked behind her large sketch pad.

  The instructor turned to face him, and he was surprised by her very pregnant belly. “Sorry about that. You can change in the bathroom down the hall. There’s a robe hanging on the coat rack in the corner.”

  Change? Robe? He hadn’t taken the job yet. This was a fact-finding mission.

  “I’m not sure I’m right for—”

  “Can you sit still for long stretches of time?”

  “Yes.” Sit still. The opposite of dancing—entertaining—though still naked, still exotic.

  “Then you’re right for this job. It’s a fifty dollar stipend, paid in cash, at the end of each class.”

  “Cash?” He rubbed his damp palms on his shirt. Take clothes off, accept cash, repeat, problems solved.

  “Is that a problem?” She tilted her head, looking up at him like he’d suddenly started speaking Greek. He could feel the eyes of every single student studying their exchange. He felt naked already. The light bulbs in here had to be tiny nuclear reactors. He squinted against them. Was it a problem? Fuck, yes.

  “Actually, I don’t think I can sit still. Not for more than a few minutes. Sorry.” Maybe he could start flushing money directly down the drain. He exited the hot little room, full of scrutinizing gazes, with empty pockets. Dignity. Respect. Shit. He’d never had those. Why the hell did he care?

  * * *

  Callie paced the cracked sidewalk in front of her building, expecting to see the familiar, dented grill of Tayber’s car turning the corner at any second, terrified that the tiny flicker of hope she’d nursed since last night would be snuffed out the instant she opened her mouth. She sucked in a breath when he appeared on foot, illuminated by the glow of her neighbor’s porch light. So, they really were going for a walk. He bobbed his head in her direction and broke into a jog.

  “H-hey.”

  The slightly breathless huff reminded her of exertion. She imagined that almost-pant against her ear, how warm his breath would be, how strong his hands...Shit. She hugged herself against a chill she was now too warm to feel.

  “Why didn’t you drive? I didn’t think we were really going to walk.”

  “I can’t be health conscious?” He fisted his hands and struck an exaggerated body builder pose. “You know this body doesn’t happen by itself.”

  Laughter bubbled up inside her, despite, or maybe because of, all her tense yearning. “Says the guy who eats three bowls of rainbow loops for a snack.”

  “They’re a part of a balanced breakfast. It says so on the box.”

  “Do you believe everything you read?” Her mouth went dry. Did she really just say that? He believed too much of what he read. From her, anyway.

  “Only on cereal boxes.”

  They fell into pace beside each other, the sidewalk breaking up beneath their feet the further they got from the semi-disreputable outskirts of campus. Dilapidated row houses spreading apart, patchy brown lawns turning into actual yards with narrow driveways. Working class houses, with rusted swing sets and front windows glowing TV blue. Eventually, they were walking on the shoulder, the shadowy stretches between streetlights giving her time to shore up her armor.

  “How did your uh, thing go?”

  “The thing was a shitty job interview, and I blew it. So we walk, because I can’t afford aimless drives around town while you unburden yourself on my willing shoulder.”

  “I don’t need to unburden anything. I’m fine. And I could chip in on gas. We don’t have to—”

  “I don’t have gas money, period. Or phone money. Or housing money. I’m screwed.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, maybe to find some loose change he’d forgotten, or to hide their emptiness. Her own palms itched to hold those empty hands. To squeeze. To soothe.

  “So take the summer session off. Go home, re-group. Not graduating early isn’t the end of the world.”

  “I can’t go home. I don’t think I have a home anymore. And I don’t have enough financial aid left to cover tuition and my dorm.”

  She almost asked how that could be, him not having a home. But she knew how that could work. She looked back in the direction of her own small apartment. The apartment her mother paid a full year’s lease on, just so she didn’t have to deal with Callie coming home too often. “It makes sense, dear.” Her mother had chided. “If we’re going to pay all this money for an apartment, then we should save on transportation, shouldn’t we?”

  She didn’t want to go home anyway. She kicked a can abandoned on the roadside. The tinny scrape of metal on pavement echoed in the stillness. “What about one of the frats? They have cheap summer rent.”

  “You have serious faith in me if you think I can carry the credits I need living in the land of beer bongs and keg stands. Everyone chill is heading to Europe or the Shore. Maybe I can borrow a tent and occupy the quad.”

  “Campus security would probably give you a hard time.”

  He grabbed her arm, pulling them to a halt. “Hey, what about us?”

  Her heart stopped. No, it crawled up into her throat and attempted escape. Us? She’d hoped. Jessa had said. But she hadn’t thought it would happen like this. So easily. Words. Now was the time for words. “Uh?” It was all she could force out.

  “We get along pretty great, when we aren’t arguing about dumb shit. You’ve got a quiet apartment. And an unoccupied futon. Aw, fuck. Never mind.”

  He wasn’t interested in her, he was interested in her apartment. Shame heated her face. “You want to move in with me?”

  “I’ll be a perfect gentleman. You won’t even know I’m there.”

  What fun would that be? Also, impossible. “My apartment is the size of a shoe box.”

  He raked his fingers through his hair and huffed. “Like I said, never mind. It’s too much to ask. I’ll figure something out.”

  But he wouldn’t. Not this late in the semester. His time was up, and she had the power to help him. She swallowed the last bitter drops of shame and disappointment.

  “No. I meant we’ll be on top of each other. Not, on top on top. Just, I wouldn’t be able to miss you. I’m shutting up now. Of course you can stay with me.”

  “You sure?” He tugged at the sleeve of her cardigan. The slight contact sent a shiver up the length of her arm. She nodded, afraid to say anything else.

  His face broke into a dimple-busting smile, and he scooped her up into a bear hug. Her toes barely scraped the ground. “Great. After finals I’ll haul my shit over.”

  Her whole universe shrank down into the space created by the circle of his arms. This. This was what she wanted. The squeeze of his arms. The warmth of his chest pressed against hers. The two of them, occupying the same physical space. And so much more. “Maybe you should move in sooner. Instead of going hungry in the dorms. You can use my kitchen.”

  He set her down and cocked an eyebrow. The corner of his mouth quirked as he tried to stifle a laugh. “Got any rainbow loops?”

  “Stale Oreos.” She wasn’t going to lie about her homemaking skills. She couldn’t hide that if he was moving in right away. Shit, she wasn’t going to be able to hide anything. Her stomach churned.

  “Close enough.”

  Was it really? She’d find out one way or another.

  * * *

  Tayber fumbled his keys in a rush. He felt light
headed, like he’d pounded a six pack instead of walked a few blocks. He tripped over a useless lacrosse stick and kicked it across the room. Too much junk. Shit he didn’t even need. He was going to have to pare down to the essentials. Everything that couldn’t fit in Callie’s apartment, or his trunk, needed to go.

  He opened an email from someone he didn’t know, certain it was probably spam. It was worse than spam. Aaron. Stupid public directory.

  I want to make things right. Give me a chance. I’ll stop by your dorm... Blah, blah, blah. He deleted the email without finishing it and noticed Sasha online.

  Tay: My brother found my email address

  Sasha: What did he say?

  Tay: Doesn’t matter. I deleted it.

  Sasha: Really? You aren’t even curious?

  Tay: He wants to apologize.

  Sasha: For what?

  Tay: For being a selfish dick.

  Sasha: ?

  Tay: We’d been talking about leaving forever, but the same way we talked about playing pro ball or winning the lottery. It wasn’t real. Not for me. One day he had a bag full of clothes and a girlfriend with a car running in the parking lot. He promised he’d be back for me as soon as he could swing it. And I believed him.

  Tay: I guess he thinks eight years counts as soon.

  Sasha: Don’t you want to know why he didn’t come back?

  Tay: Fuck why.

  Sasha: Maybe he had a good reason. Like, he was locked up in prison.

  Tay: Prison is good?

  Sasha: Not good. But it would be a good excuse, right? Like, it wasn’t his choice.

  He tried to picture Aaron in prison but couldn’t do it. Some people from their neighborhood treated jail like a vacation from life. No big deal. But he and Aaron hadn’t been like that. No stints in juvie, no brushes with crime. Could’ve gone a different way. If they’d run wild in the streets...

  Tay: If he got locked up, that would be a choice too. A bad one.

  Sasha: Is everything always so black and white?

  Tay: Yes.

  Sasha: I think you should talk to him.

  An answer to the nagging question of why the fuck he left would be nice. If only he could get that answer and walk away.

  Tay: Maybe. But not right now. Everything is too messed up. I don’t need more drama on top.

  Sasha: What else is wrong?

  Tay: I’m crashing on Callie’s futon this summer. It might get weird.

  Sasha: How?

  He wanted the weird vibe that had been pinging between him and Callie to do something. To stop or grow. Anything was better than what they had now. It was like an unreachable itch. No, it had to stop.

  Tay: I’m worried that I’m taking advantage of her. That I might lose her as a friend.

  Sasha: How?

  Tay: We don’t want the same things.

  Sasha: What do you want?

  He wanted one day where everything in his life wasn’t threatening to crash down on his head.

  Tay: A break.

  * * *

  Callie wished she’d dropped a can of tomatoes on her foot and saved herself the trouble of that conversation. She’d been clearing off shelf space in the pantry, making room for Tayber to store his things, bouncing to some synth-pop, when she’d heard the familiar ping of a new message. If only she’d ignored it, distracted herself with a more desirable disaster. A broken toe probably didn’t hurt quite as much as a broken heart.

  They didn’t want the same things. His message might as well have been a blinking billboard. Big surprise. She wanted something. He wanted nothing. No, he wanted a break. Did he want a break from her? She slammed the laptop shut and stormed out of her room, banging her shin on the unfolded futon in her living nook. “Shitfuckdamn!” Hopping around on one foot, she rubbed the throbbing spot below her knee. That’s going to be an awesome bruise. He hadn’t even carted over one box yet and she was already tripping over him.

  It wasn’t all in her head anymore, the heat between them, she knew that much. So what the fuck kind of game was he playing?

  She was a rubber band stretched to its limit. No give left. Tears welled up, but she fought them back. She was absolutely not going to cry over this anymore. She had a crush, end of story. She’d nearly made a fool of herself over it, but she could start over. Time to lay Sasha to rest for good. She was done pretending, in public, in private. It was like an erosion of her soul.

  They’d both be so busy that they’d hardly see each other anyway. She’d make sure of it, take up jogging in the morning, study in the library after class. She pulled an Oreo out of the open package on the top shelf of what would soon be Tayber’s closet and split it apart. Every time she wanted a cookie, she’d have to look at his things. Smell his cologne and laundry detergent. Maybe she’d stop eating so much junk. Yay, silver lining. She sighed and slumped against the kitchen wall, licking the cream from the middle before shoving both halves into her mouth at once.

  Chapter Six

  Tayber lugged the last box up the narrow stairs. The first two were already stacked in the corner of Callie’s “living nook.” She seemed to think her place was embarrassingly tiny, but it wasn’t much smaller than the apartment he’d grown up in. Add one bedroom, and it would be damn near palatial. The box landed on top of the pile with a thunk.

  “Is that it?” Callie asked from her perch on the futon. She had her legs tucked underneath her and a pencil shoved into the twist of hair on the top of her head. She’d offered to help, but he’d refused. He could carry his own crap.

  “Yeah, I’ll get it all squared away soon. Don’t worry. I won’t spread out everywhere.”

  “It’s fine. There’s room for stuff in the pantry, too.” She kept her head down, focused on the notebook open on her lap.

  He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out the envelope he’d stuffed there earlier. It wasn’t anywhere near half the rent on a place like this—close to campus, clean—but it was something. He’d been scraping together a housing deposit. Now, he’d give that to Callie. He held it out to her, extended it like an olive branch. “Here.”

  “A present?”

  “More like a down payment.”

  Her mouth dropped open in shock and she shook her head, that ridiculous pencil bobbing with every movement. “No, no, no. Save your money. I told you my mom paid for the whole year in full.”

  “For you. Not for me.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Paid is paid.”

  “Take the damn money.” He dropped it on top of her notebook, and she knocked it off like it was a hot coal.

  “No. Buy some groceries if you want. Stock the fridge with beer. Put some gas in your car. You need the money more than I do.”

  He could hear the blood rushing in his ears, and his neck flushed. He ground his back teeth together. “I’m not a charity case.”

  She looked up then. Finally. All pink cheeks and wide blue eyes. At least she wasn’t giving him the sad, I-feel-sorry-for-you face. “I don’t think that. I just want to help.”

  “Not charging rent is more than help. You’re already doing enough.”

  “I can do more.” For a second he wondered exactly what more could be, blood rushing much lower than his neck, and then shook it off. He wasn’t here for that. Callie wasn’t for that. He picked up the envelope and shoved it back into his pocket. He’d find a way to give it to her later. Groceries weren’t a bad place to start.

  “I’ll go shopping tomorrow. Any requests?”

  She flashed a wobbly smile. “Twizzlers. And I’m almost out of Oreos.”

  Did she ever eat real food? I guess I’ll find out.

  * * *

  “Is something burning?”

  Callie jumped at the rumble of Tayber’s voice. He could have whispered it, and she’d still have heard him through the paper-thin walls. She’d spent the last few nights trying very hard not to hear him breathing on the other side of that wall. Pounding her pillow into submission, her nipples tight against he
r sleep shirt. Every tug, every shift, abrasive and electric.

  She finished yanking on the jeans she’d finally decided were clean enough for one more wear and bolted toward the kitchen. “It’s the garlic bread.” She hadn’t even been sure the oven would work. Apparently it worked too well because the box said the bread would take ten minutes and it hadn’t even been five. As she rounded the corner, Tayber flung open the enamel door, and smoke flooded the tiny kitchen. She grabbed the hand towel she’d planned to use as a pot holder and fanned the cloud toward the open window over the sink.

  “Are we having charcoal briquettes for dinner?”

  “Very funny. I don’t know what happened. I read the box. I set the timer. This should be idiot-proof.”

  “Here, let me.” He snatched the towel from her hands and removed the cremated bread, deftly dumping the smoking remains into the sink. He peered into the pot on the stove. “How long have these noodles been boiling?”

  “A while?”

  He used the fork resting on the stove top to fish out a single noodle and squeezed the pasta between his thumb and forefinger. “I think we passed al dente and are closing in on glue.”

  “Ruined it, didn’t I? Shit. I promised to feed you.”

  “No, you promised me a kitchen. The least I can do is cook. Seems you can barely feed yourself.”

  “I do okay.”

  “Give me a half hour. I’ll whip something up.” He stuck his head in the pantry and started pulling cans off the shelf.

  “There isn’t much to work with.”

  “Believe me, I’ve accomplished more with less.” He shooed her away.

  She sat on the edge of the futon. Her futon. Her apartment. Why did she feel like a guest?

  She couldn’t see around the corner into the kitchen, but she heard the can opener buzz and the bang of a pot being pulled from the cupboard. The water ran for a few minutes. And then he started singing to himself. Or to her—it was one of her favorite songs. She closed her eyes and leaned back, pulling her legs up under her. Letting the glorious sandpaper scrape of song lull her into a sleepless dream.