by S. K. Falls
“Home, maybe.”
“Oh.” I was disappointed, and a little angry at myself for being disappointed. What the hell did I expect? That he’d want to go back to Sphinx and hook up? That we’d have another non-date at China Garden? One he could refuse to talk about later, as if he was ashamed of it or something?
“You can come in. If you want to, I mean.”
I looked at him, and he was watching me, a small smile at the corners of his mouth. Did he mean he wanted us to fuck? Was this some sort of guy code that I didn’t know? With my limited history of interaction with my peers, I tended to carefully scrutinize every word people said and what each of those words could possibly mean. It was like those pictures that, at first glance, looked like a jumble of colors and meaningless scribbles. Only when you stared really intently, looked past the thing to the essence of the thing, that you saw the wondrous house or boat or person that the artist had wanted you to see in the first place.
I really didn’t want to have sex with Drew. It wasn’t that I hadn’t had casual sex before. And I definitely found Drew painfully, ridiculously attractive. A kind of attractive that seeped past his hair and eyes and height to his bones, his flesh and muscles.
But there was something else about him, too. Something about the chemistry or whatever between us that I didn’t want to fuck up. And I knew casual fucking would definitely fuck it up. “Um…”
“I thought we could listen to some music, hang out. I’m sort of worn out.”
“Oh. Okay. That sounds good.”
His apartment wasn’t very much farther, and I slid easily into a parking space reserved for him. “You don’t have a car?”
“Nope. Like Zee said, my driving does leave a lot to be desired since I can’t really control my ankles that well. Plus, I can either hop a bus or ride with Zee for most anything.”
We got out, plumes of white smoke drifting from our noses and mouths as we breathed. The black asphalt of the lot glittered with ice under the streetlights.
“Pretty,” I said.
Drew laughed, looking around the parking lot. It was hemmed in on all sides by condos, ugly cream-colored budget things. “If you say so.”
His apartment was only a few steps from the parking space, with narrow windows that looked out onto the sidewalk. He had a doormat shaped like a guitar. I wondered if he’d picked it out himself, browsing specialty stores online patiently until he found just the right one.
“First floor. I lucked out. I started renting this place before my diagnosis.” He slid his key into the lock and cocked his head at me. “Do you do that yet? Divide your time before diagnosis and after?”
I didn’t really remember a time before I was sick, so I shook my head.
“You will. It happens without a conscious decision. Weird how stuff works out that way. It usually annoys me when people make stupid assumptions about sick people. You know, that we all, like, have this innate sense of wonder at life now and stuff like that. But some things really do happen across the board.”
We walked in then, and I was struck by how nice it smelled. I’d never been to a guy’s apartment before. All the boys—all three of them—I’d been with in high school had lived at home with their moms and dads. We’d groped around in dank basements or on floral couches after their parents were asleep.
This was a much more pleasant experience than I’d expected. I always imagined that a guy’s place would smell like socks and old food, but Drew’s place smelled like clean laundry and cookies. It wasn’t dirty, but it wasn’t OCD-clean either. It looked homey and lived-in, and that was it.
“I like it,” I pronounced, and then immediately felt like an ass. That wasn’t presumptuous at all.
But Drew just laughed. “I’m glad. Sit.” He gestured at a puffy black leather couch. “Would you like something to drink or eat?”
“Do you have Dr Pepper?”
He did that nose-crinkly thing I was starting to really like. “No. I didn’t know people actually drank that stuff before you ordered one tonight.”
“Water would be great, then.”
He disappeared into the kitchen. I slipped off my jacket before looking around his living room. There was the requisite thirty-inch flat screen TV and Xbox controller. He had a weight machine in the corner, the kind you sit on to build up your upper body. That explained the biceps I’d noted that first day in TIDD group. An image came to me, of him sitting there sweaty and shirtless, working out. I flushed and looked away, at the rest of the room. His walls were bare except for where they were obscured by bookcases. When I looked closely, I realized only one shelf actually held books. The others were filled with CDs.
“I enjoy music.”
I turned and took the glass of water from him. “Thanks. And yeah, I noticed.”
“Most of these were gifts from friends or CDs from other bands I’ve met playing around the East Coast. What kind of music do you like?”
We were standing close, our arms almost touching as we examined the contents of his bookcases. I could feel my skin tingle in anticipation, as if it wanted to reach out and bridge the gap. My eyes lingered again on the sheer height difference between us. I was five foot six. Even though Drew was slightly stooped and leaning on his cane, I barely came to his shoulder.
“Any kind,” I said. The truth was I hadn’t listened to music in a long time. I liked to read instead, medical books. And I couldn’t read when there was noise.
“Come on. You have to have a preference.” He turned to face me, his hoodie unzipped and hanging off of him like loose skin. I tried not to drop my gaze to the sweater clinging to his taut chest and stomach.
I shrugged, my face heating up. I hated being put on the spot. “Um, Carly Rae Jepsen?”
I realized the moment after I said it that the only reason I’d named her was because we’d just heard her song play in the bar. Also, it occurred to me that that wasn’t the coolest music I could’ve picked.
Drew’s face sort of sagged, his mouth falling open. “Seriously? That’s not music.”
“Hmm. That sounds a little judgey,” I replied, taking a sip of water.
He raised his free hand, surrendering. “Okay, fair enough. But you’ve got to listen to what I consider music. Then you can judge for yourself.” He reached past me, his arm brushing my shoulder, and slid a CD out of a shelf at eye level with me. “Carousel Mayhem,” he said, a sort of grand flourish in his voice. “Arguably one of the best young musicians of our time.”
“All right.” I walked over to his stereo and sat cross-legged in front of it. “Lay it on me.”
He pushed play and sat next to me on the floor. It was a little weird, a little too intimate, sitting there with him, listening to something that apparently gave him so much pleasure. Especially since he hadn’t so much as acknowledged the one other time we’d spent time together.
I watched him out of the corner of my eye while pretending not to watch him, and also while concentrating on the music so I’d have something more intelligent to say at the end than “cool.” It was exhausting. But after a few minutes and into the second song, I felt myself relax a little bit. The music was nice, more upbeat than I’d expected, and much more melodious than I would’ve thought from the name.
Drew paused it after the second song ended. “So?”
“It was pretty good,” I said, nodding my head. “Not as ‘whiny white boy’ as I expected.”
Drew laughed. “Well, that’s a relief.”
I gestured to the guitar leaning against his wall. It was one of those sweet wooden affairs, sleek and glossy. “How long have you played?”
“Since I was ten or so. It was sort of my escape from the world.”
“So your childhood wasn’t idyllic.” I didn’t look at him when I said it, because I wanted it to seem like a nonchalant statement. The truth was I wanted to know all about him with an intensity that could be described as voracious, or if you were feeling uncharitable, stalkerish. I don’t know why�
��if it was the FA, or the fact that someone with this degenerative, life-wrecking disease still had a whole other life outside of it. When it came to me, my disease and I were one. I had no hobbies, really, no memories, outside of it. But this man, apparently, did.
“You could say that.” He went and got the guitar, then came and sat beside me again. I watched as his fingers caressed the strings, coaxing out sounds that, in turn, caressed me. “My parents were junkies. They stayed together only because they wanted to get high together, and they were too stupid to use birth control.”
I watched his bent neck, the soft skin on the back of it like velvet. There was no indication of anger in his voice, in his posture. How could that be? “Wow. That’s awful.”
“Yep.” He kept strumming as he talked, the soft, tinkling music at complete odds with what he was telling me. “There were three of us, all boys. My brothers loved it. As far back as I can remember, they hung around the same people my parents were, for lack of a better term, ‘friends’ with.”
“So you escaped.”
“ ‘Escaped’ makes me sound braver than I really am. I ran away. Had enough.”
I put my hand on his without even thinking, temporarily stopping the strumming. Sometimes people did things completely at odds with their personalities. This was one of those moments for me; definitely one of my better ones. “I’m glad you ran away.”
We stared at each other, and I felt the air around us tense up. It was a kiss-or-not moment. Drew took a deep breath, his shoulders and chest expanding until I felt utterly dwarfed. He touched my cheek with the tips of his fingers, setting my skin ablaze. “There’s something about you, Grayson,” he said.
When he didn’t finish his sentence, I pulled back a little. Laughed to show I wasn’t nervous or anything, just curious. “What about me?”
But he just shook his head, a smile in his eyes. “Want to listen to some more music?”
He turned to pick another CD, but I grabbed his hand. Again, totally out of character. When I had his attention again, I said, “Why haven’t you mentioned China Garden? It’s like… you don’t want to even remember it or something.” As soon as the last word was out there, I knew it was inarguably one of the most awkward, cringe-making things I could’ve said. And still, I was glad I’d said it. The thought had been like a pebble in my shoe, demanding all of my attention.
Drew hung his head a moment, soft curls begging to be touched. But I restrained myself. When he looked back at me, he was smiling a little. “Those few hours on Tuesday? That’s the best time I’ve had in… as far back as I can remember. The only other thing that comes close is when I’m making music. I didn’t tell anyone about it because—well, I was respecting your need to not label it a date, for one. I figured you probably didn’t want everyone else to know.” I nodded; he was right. “But it was also just something I wanted for myself. I mean, I don’t even know if that makes sense. But it’s one of those things that you dilute when you talk about, you know? It makes it…”
When he trailed off, I finished for him. “Less special than it really was.” I knew exactly what he was talking about. I’d held it in my head, in my hands, examining each conversation we’d had like a kid with a secret treasure.
“Yeah.” His voice was soft, his eyes softer. My gaze drifted down to his mouth, that perfect pink bow. He shifted a little closer, and I got a waft of his cologne; something smoky, like a driftwood fire on the beach. I put my hands on his arms, felt the bulge of muscles there. I wondered if building up his strength was his attempt at fighting back against the FA, a sort of silent raging at the inevitable marching on of time. The thought made me unspeakably sad.
When he put his hands on the sides of my face, my skin engulfed in his, I wondered at the fact that we hadn’t been doing this all along. It felt natural. When his lips found mine, moving softly at first and then with more urgency as my mouth parted, I was convinced this was not our first kiss. And I convinced myself that this familiar, beautiful, perfect, not-first kiss wasn’t wrong. I convinced myself I was deserving.
Finally, Drew pulled back a little, his pupils dilated, breathing hard. Rubbing his thumb along my bottom lip, he whispered, “Like I said. There’s something about you.”
I smiled, pushing the guilt that was starting to gain on me deep down into the blackened depths of my soul.
* * *
We listened to a lot more music. After about an hour, I got to my feet, a little unsteady from having been sitting for so long. Drew stood, too, and when he saw me wobbling, reached out for me. But he didn’t have his cane. My lack of balance caused him to lose his balance, and we almost toppled to the floor. His cheeks flashed a deep crimson. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
“It’s okay.” And then, just to change the topic, I grasped verbally on to the first thing I could think of. “Hey, if you need any help with that petition for the dude who wants euthanasia, I’m free. No homework.” I smiled to show I was poking fun at myself. As if that would alleviate his embarrassment at losing control of his own body.
But he seemed to be grateful for it. Or maybe he honestly did need my help. “Really?”
“Totally.”
“That’d actually be great,” he said, handing me my jacket from the sofa. “I was going to hit some of the stores downtown Saturday afternoon.”
“Okay.” I shrugged my jacket on and pulled Zee’s car keys from my pocket. Saturday was less than two days away, and Zee hadn’t seemed to be in any position to go jetting off anywhere between now and then. “If Zee doesn’t mind us hanging on to her car, I can pick you up. If you want.”
He smiled, blue eyes lighting up as he stepped toward me. He brushed a lock of my hair off my cheek, and said softly, “I want. How about two o’clock?”
I grinned without meaning to. It was so easy to be happy around him. So easy to be normal. “Two o’clock it is.”
Though I wouldn’t have thought it possible, our second kiss was even better.
Chapter Sixteen
I insisted he didn’t have to walk me to the car. Once I was back on the road, I reached my hand across my chest, palpating for the forming abscess. It was smaller than I remembered. I reached into my hoodie pocket and felt for the syringe. Still there. I’d have to remember to do it tonight before I went to bed. Inject early, inject often—that was my current slogan.
The guilt I’d been burying for the past couple of hours began to surge back, bitter and strong. Had I really just kissed a boy I’d conned into believing I was sick? Had I really let him believe I was normal, that a relationship with me would be a healthy, happy thing? And had I really begun to believe that myself? I gripped the steering wheel tight, panic bubbling under the surface of my skin, ready to erupt. Because I really, truly had no idea how to undo what I’d set in motion. And more than that—I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
The streets were icy, and I didn’t so much drive as slide home. When I got inside the gates at The Mills, a quick look at Zee’s dashboard clock told me it was a little past midnight. Mum was asleep, the house plunged into darkness.
Leaving the yellow car in our driveway, I let myself in the front door and crept into the kitchen in the darkness. I flipped on the lights over the sink and got myself a drink of water. I’d left puddles of water behind me from the melted snow. I wondered if Mum would ask me about them in the morning, if I’d tell her where I’d been and with whom. I couldn’t picture us having a normal mother-daughter conversation like that, though. Even my daydreams couldn’t conjure up something so farfetched.
My eyes roved over her crafting nook, and I saw that the minuscule planks of wood were gone. She must’ve finished the flooring. The roof was glazed; the window trim had been painted a bright yellow. Everything was perfect, just so, idyllic.
I set my glass down in the sink and walked over to the dollhouse, slipping the syringe out of my hoodie pocket as I went. There was a tiny queen-sized bed in the master bedroom, made with precise hospital corners in a blue-and
-gold duvet and matching shams. I moved it to the side so the new wooden flooring underneath was exposed. Using the sharp point of my syringe, I scored my initials into the floor. Then, very carefully, I replaced the bed exactly as it had been.
Once the lights were out, I made my way through the shadows and up the stairs to my own life-sized bedroom.
* * *
When I woke up Saturday, my first thought was—as it had been yesterday—about Drew, about how we’d kissed Thursday night. Which was an absurd first thought to have, because there were more important things going on.
For one, my abscess site felt swollen and hot. And two, I was definitely running a fever. I sat up and opened the top button of my pajamas, peering down at my chest.
Yep, definitely getting to abscess status.
I pushed my knuckles into the tight, puffy skin for good measure, biting down on my lip so I wouldn’t cry out. I put a hand to my forehead—101 at least. I shivered as I made my way from the bed to the bathroom mirror, where I gleefully took note of my reddened cheeks and cracked, dry lips. After a quick toothbrushing and hair-combing, I threw on some jeans and a pink sweater (it brought out the redness in my skin) and went downstairs to find Mum.
She was in the den, sipping tea and watching a show about antiques shopping on TV. I sat next to her, laid my head on her shoulder. I felt her stiffen.
“I don’t feel so good, Mum.” The heat from my cheeks had to be blazing through to her skin.
“You’re running a fever. I can feel it through my clothes.”
“I can believe it. I feel like shit.” I coughed to underscore my point.
There was silence. Finally, she said my name in a tone that screamed, Why are you such a fucking miserable piece of shit?
“What?” I asked finally.
Here it comes: the accusation.
“What did you do?”
I lifted my head and looked at her, but she wouldn’t look at me, staring steadfastly instead at the TV. “I didn’t do anything.”