All of You

by Christina Lee

  I dragged myself back to my seat, my stomach bunched into a hard ball.

  “Shit, was that Virgin Boy?” Rachel squealed. “Did he hear our conversation?”

  Ella looked at me with a mixture of sadness and frustration in her eyes.

  “Was he standing behind me for long?” I groaned and slumped forward.

  “Probably long enough to hear everything,” she said. “He looked . . . hurt, Avery.”

  “Who the fuck cares?” Rachel said. “You got what you wanted from him, right?”

  “Wrong, Rachel. I’ve been . . . lying to you. And to myself.” I felt the prickle of tears behind my

  eyes. “I really like him, Rachel. Like him, like him.”

  She remained silent, probably shocked by my revelation. Stunned, because for as long as I’d known

  her, I’d never uttered anything remotely close to those words.

  I pulled out my phone and typed a message with shaky fingers.

  It’s not how it sounded.

  No response.

  Please, let me explain.

  Again, no response.

  My shoulders sagged.

  Ella was studying me, words I probably didn’t want to hear hanging from her lips.

  “Just say it already.” I pushed away the plate of my half-eaten bagel a little too roughly. “I know I

  fucked up, okay?”

  “Maybe it’s time you told Bennett how you really feel about him.”

  “What if I don’t know yet?”

  “You know, dill weed,” she said, slapping her hand on the table. “You’re just afraid to admit it out loud. Is it worth losing him over?”

  “Wait, what?” Rachel said, clueing in to the seriousness of our conversation. “Was the sex that

  good?”

  “There hasn’t even been any sex yet.” I stood up and gathered my stuff to leave. “Just lots of build

  up.”

  “Maybe that’s it, then,” Rachel said. “Maybe the sexual frustration is messing with your head.”

  I rolled my eyes and walked out the door. I got what Rachel was saying. There was some seriously

  strong sexual frustration between us. But that wasn’t all I craved from Bennett.

  Sure, I wanted him. I wanted all of him.

  His love of poetry. His integrity. His quiet grace.

  “Avery, wait.” I stopped at the corner of the street and turned to face Rachel.

  “What’s up?” I kept my voice steady, but I was in no mood for her jokes or sarcasm.

  “Listen, I’m sorry,” she said, her cheeks a bit flushed. “Ella told me I was being a dickwad.”

  “It’s cool.” I wasn’t sure if Rachel was actually capable of having a heart-to-heart, so I figured if

  she was big enough to apologize, I’d leave it at that.

  “I know what that’s like, you know,” she said, gripping my arm. “To feel that way about

  somebody.”

  “I know you do, but you never talk about it.”

  “That’s because it hurts too much.” She bit her lip. I’d never seen her look that vulnerable before.

  “And I made a lot of mistakes.”

  “Got it,” I said. “We all have, Rach. So if you ever want to talk . . .”

  “Okay, enough of this touchy-feely shit,” she said, making a wrap-it-up signal with her finger. She

  backed away from me to cross the street to her car. “If you want that nice piece of ass, then go after

  him.”

  All I could do was shake my head and laugh. I texted Bennett one last time on my way to work.

  I hope you’re willing to talk to me after my shift. Can I come by?

  Still no response. I almost threw my phone at the ground, smashing it into a thousand pieces.

  I arrived at work fifteen minutes before shift change. Passing the security desk in the lobby, I

  showed my badge and gave a small wave to Robert, our security guard on duty.

  Comment [MC1]: ED/AU: Maybe just “the security guard,” since that would show that he’s a regular employee?

  Lillian was behind the nurses’ station jotting down notes.

  She looked up. “Morning, Avery.”

  “It’s almost lunchtime, actually.” I took a deep breath and tried to remove the snotty attitude from

  my voice. It wasn’t her fault I was a major fuckup. “What’s been happening around here?”

  “Mr. Meyers in 121 passed away last night. A new resident will fill his bed tomorrow.” She paused

  to write something down and to let that news sink in. Mr. Meyers had been a very ill and immobile

  patient. We’d had to change his position regularly to keep ahead of his bed sores. I knew it was only a

  matter of time, but it was sad nonetheless. “And Mrs. Jackson had another TIA last night. She’s weak

  and exhausted today.”

  My chest tightened. “Has her family been in to see her this morning?”

  “Not yet.”

  I locked my grief away in a dark corner of my heart. It was the only way to get through this day. It

  was a useful skill I’d developed and had always been good at it—especially at my job.

  I prepped a catheter for Mrs. Alvinia, found a bedpan for Ms. Wilson, who’d just buzzed the desk,

  and opened new sponges for Mr. Lewis’s bath.

  When I finally made it to Mrs. Jackson’s room, her back was turned, but her eyes were open. Her

  gaze was fixed on the giant maple tree outside her window, which had lost most of its leaves.

  Her skin looked dry and scaly, and I figured she could use a gentle massage to help her loosen her

  limbs. One of her hands was curled into a rigid ball from the stroke, and that was the one I worked on

  regularly. Grabbing some therapeutic lotion from the cart, I squirted it into my hand.

  I smoothed my fingers over her course black hair, and her eyes found mine. “Okay if I massage you

  for a bit?”

  Her head moved slightly, and I took that as affirmation. I tried to dislodge the ache from my gut

  upon seeing her vacant eyes. I knew she was in some pain, but there was little to do except give her

  meds and bring some comfort.

  I rubbed her hand using a circular motion, and her fingers unclenched. She closed her eyes, relief

  crossing her face. I was thankful I could provide her some form of respite. A stroke was debilitating on

  the body, especially when muscle and motor activity were affected.

  “Thank you.” Her voice sounded weak and broken. It was tough to see her that way. This, added to

  hurting Bennett’s feelings that morning, made me feel lost and weepy. But I needed to hold it together.

  “You’re very welcome.”

  Without any prompting, she began talking about her life, much like she’d done in the past. But this

  time felt different.

  Patients sometimes reminisced like that at the end stage of their lives, so hearing her ramble on

  made my throat close up.

  “Marrying Mr. Jackson was the best decision I’ve ever made. He brought children into my life and

  taught me about love. I’m so grateful for that man. Despite all our hardships, it was magic to share my

  life with him.”

  “Well, aren’t you talkative this afternoon?” I kept my voice light and normal, trying to engage her

  in our regular banter. “What brought all of that on?”

  “I’m not dense, you know. I know my time is coming, maybe sooner than later.” Her voice was

  ragged from the effort. But I knew better than to tell her to save her breath. She’d only put me in my

  place. “I want to make sure the people I deeply care for know exactly how I feel. I’ve already laid down

  my roots; now I’m just cultivating them. Hoping the seeds carry into the wind and spread.” I kept my tears a
t bay. Mrs. Jackson’s message was one for me as well. And there was talk of those

  damn roots again.

  Before I left her room, I made sure to whisper in her ear how much she meant to me and had

  influenced my life. Just in case.

  After my shift, I went straight up the elevator in my building to the fifth floor, sick with worry that

  I had ruined something special. I knocked on Bennett’s door, but he didn’t answer, and the apartment

  sounded empty.

  So I went home, showered, and changed into pajamas. I drank a glass of white wine and then went

  to bed.

  I pulled out my phone one last time.

  Please talk to me, Bennett. I’m sick about this.

  Finally there was a response, and I wondered where exactly he was, if he wasn’t at home. I held my

  breath as I read it. Bennett: I just . . . need time.

  That hurt. But I replied right away.

  Me: We promised to be honest with each other when we wanted to run

  away, remember? I just need to know what you’re thinking.

  Bennett: Fine. I’m thinking that maybe this was all some conquest

  for you. Some joke. Bag the virgin. Laugh it up with your friends.

  Me: Damn it, that’s NOT TRUE. My friend Rachel is a piece of work.

  She’s crude and a huge player. Sometimes it’s not worth it to have

  a real conversation with her. So instead, I just agreed with her

  and let it go.

  Bennett: See, that’s just the thing. I wasn’t worth the effort for

  you to set her straight. You didn’t protect my principles, my reputation, my heart, Avery.

  Me: No, Bennett. I’m sorry, that’s not at all how it was meant.

  And his last message nearly broke me. Bennett: I believe you’re sorry. I do. And I accept your apology.

  But I still need time. To think it all through. To figure out what

  I really want.

  ***

  It had been two days since that text conversation and I was miserable. I didn’t know what to do. Bennett

  obviously meant something to me, and I missed him terribly.

  I was the one always running from him. Never would I have thought he’d run from me. And I had

  been an idiot that day with Rachel. I was too afraid to say what I really felt. That I was falling for this

  amazing guy. I was immature and stupid. And I guess losing him would be a lesson learned.

  All along I was protecting my own heart, never considering that I needed to defend his as well.

  I changed into my sports bra and shorts for kickboxing class, despite wanting to just lie on my

  couch all day and sulk.

  I shut my door behind me, listening for the latch to catch. When I turned, I nearly plunged right

  into Rebecca and Bennett, who were coming in the front entrance.

  My stomach was in my throat.

  “Hi, Avery,” Rebecca said in a way-too-cheery voice. I couldn’t get the words to form on my lips,

  so I just nodded.

  Bennett worried his lip between his teeth. I knew he saw the pain and sadness in my eyes . . . which

  is probably what prompted him to actually speak to me. “Rebecca has an appointment with the guidance

  department. So I agreed to get her there and show her around.”

  “Before I make any decision to come here,” she said, “I need to see how many of my credits will actually transfer.”

  “Good plan,” I said, wanting to get the hell away from her as soon as possible. “I need to get to the

  gym. Good luck, Rebecca.”

  Rebecca started walking to the bank of elevators, but Bennett turned and gripped my forearm. The

  air was so thick between us I almost choked on the fumes.

  My heart flapped and fluttered and strained against my chest.

  Would Rebecca try to move in on him? Would he let her today?

  “No,” he said, meeting my eyes. “Never.”

  Had I said that out loud?

  Or was he just reading my mind?

  “I . . . I . . . what?”

  “I know what you’re thinking.” He released his grip, and my muscle quivered from the contact.

  I still couldn’t get any damn words out. “I wasn’t . . .”

  “I wouldn’t do that, Avery. Even if I’m still ticked and unsure about things.” He jammed his hands

  in his pockets and then clenched his jaw. “Because all day, every day, you’re still stuck in my head—in

  my every damn thought.”

  He stormed away, and my breath whooshed right out of me.

  He met Rebecca at the opening elevator door and then stepped inside with her.

  And still I stood there, his words washing over me like a salve.

  I received a text from him the next day. Bennett: Everything’s gone to shit with my family. Mom and Henry

  got in a fight and he walked out. I’m going home for the weekend.

  Just wanted you to know where I’d be.

  Me: L I’m sorry. I’m here if you need me. But he must not have needed me. Because I didn’t hear from him again.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  By the end of the weekend I’d decided on a plan. I wasn’t sure what was happening with Bennett’s

  family and whether it meant he’d have to be spending a lot of time there, or even move back home.

  But I knew that I wanted to be there for him and fight for him.

  What punctuated this truth more than anything was the phone call I received from my mother

  asking me to go to the hearing with her. She was going to follow through with the restraining order and

  wanted my support.

  If she could start getting her act together, so could I.

  I called Raw Ink and scheduled back-to-back consult and tattoo appointments with Bennett. Under

  a different name. I’d decided on exactly the kind of tattoo I wanted on my hip, and only he could ink it.

  And maybe while I was there, he’d actually talk to me.

  I fidgeted nervously in the lobby until I heard the deep timbre of his voice in the hallway. When

  Bennett saw me, he stopped dead in his tracks. He looked around for his scheduled appointment, but I

  was the only one sitting there.

  “So, um, you’re Michael?”

  “Yep, Avery Michaels. Pleased to meet you.” I worked to keep my lips in a neat, straight line.

  “Your, um, receptionist might have gotten my name wrong.”

  A ghost of a lopsided grin splayed across his cheeks, and he looked back at Holly, who was on the

  phone behind the front desk. “Avery, what are you doing here?”

  “I came to get a tattoo, of course.”

  We walked to his room in silence, and he closed the door behind us. He sat down at the same table

  we’d used last month with Ella. He pulled out his sketch pad and was acting the consummate

  professional, except for his knee jiggling a mile a minute. And I wasn’t much better. I had all but

  crumpled the rock band flyer I’d picked up in the lobby.

  “So.” He kept his eyes on the table. “Where do you want this tattoo?”

  “On my hip.”

  He inhaled sharply through his nose. “Seriously, Avery? It was only a suggestion that night.”

  “One that I liked. A lot.” I tried catching his eye, but he wasn’t going for it. “So will you do it?”

  He stole a glance at me. “What kind do you want?”

  “Like a lopsided heart that looks like it’s planted in roots. The kind of roots that grow beneath a

  tree. Thick and gnarly.”

  His fingers immediately traveled across the sketch pad. The heart he drew was irregularly shaped

  and crooked, kind of like all that stuff in the middle of his painting back home. When he starte
d on the

  roots, he said, “What does it mean?”

  “It means that my heart is ready . . . to lay down roots,” I said. “I suppose it’s always been ready. It

  just needed something . . . to finally believe in.”

  He arched an eyebrow at me.

  “See, it’s because of a certain beautiful boy who’s recently come into my life.” We shared a long

  unblinking look that lit all the dark corners of my heart. “He made me feel things. Incredible things. And

  now I know what I want—what I need—and no matter what happens, I’ll always have him to thank for

  that.”

  He didn’t say anything—just breathed in and out of his mouth, his eyes softening.

  So I kept talking. “That’s what Mrs. Jackson calls it, anyway. Laying down roots.” “Mrs. Jackson?” he asked. “You’ve talked to her about . . . that guy?”

  “Yeah, a whole bunch. She always knew from the beginning, way before I did, that this boy was

  changing my life,” I said. “And she’s always spouting off about love and roots and making sure people

  know how you feel before they leave you . . . for good.”

  I sprang from my seat, because my own words haunted me. I checked out the art on his wall to

  escape his probing eyes. “The tattoo also reminds me of this awesome poem.”

  “What poem?”

  “That same boy introduced me to modern poetry,” I said, still too chicken to meet his eyes.

  “Anyway, I’d been searching the internet the last couple of days and this one poem I found kind of

  knocked me over the head.”

  “How does it go?”

  “Well, it’s called ‘Forget Me Not.’” I fastened my eyes on him now, despite my shaking fingers.

  “Let’s see. ‘I tried to forget, but you grew roots around my ribcage, and sprouted flowers just below my

  collarbones.’”

  He seemed entranced by the words. So I continued. “‘All day I pluck their petals. But I have not yet

  ascertained whether you . . . love me or not.’”

  He squeezed his eyes closed and shifted in his seat.

  Taking a deep breath, he returned to the drawing, his jaw locked tight.

  He looked handsome as his fingers skated across the page, trying to capture the essence of what I

  wanted based on my confession and the words of the poem.

  When he finished, I leaned over his shoulder to get a better look. I heard him holding his breath. I