Be My Reason

by Samantha Christy

  Ha! I think to myself as the lionesses stare at me in disbelief.

  ~ ~ ~

  After work, I’m getting ready for my run. I grab a bottle of water from the kitchen. As I’m putting the bottle to my lips, I see that he has unpacked the last of his boxes and his rather large movie collection spans the shelves of the entertainment center.

  I browse through his collection. I knew we shared an interest in movies; it is one of the things we talked about at the party all those years ago. I think he must have every slasher movie ever made. I’m not sure he will be able to get through all of these in a few months. I absentmindedly pick up my favorite, ‘Scream’—the first one—it never gets old.

  I hear his key in the door so I quickly put down the DVD and go to the kitchen to finish my water. He watches me without saying a word as I pass him by on my way out. Yes, I’m wearing my favorite red running shorts. The ones that make my butt look really nice. I think it is the extra spandex.

  Later, after my shower, I head to the kitchen and make a sandwich to take downstairs when I hear the beginning lines of my favorite movie. I stand in the doorway of the kitchen, eyes glued to the TV, getting lost in the show.

  “You know, I won’t bite if you come sit on the couch,” he says, patting the spot next to him. I turn away, finish making my dinner and then make my way out—to the other end of the couch. It is my favorite movie, after all.

  We both laugh at the same parts. The parts that make most people jump, scream and hide their eyes. But we laugh. And then we look at each other out of the corners of our eyes and smile, because we know we are idiots.

  I’ve never found another person who can watch a slasher movie like it is a comedy. Until now. Michael and I used to watch them, but he would squeeze my leg whenever he got scared, even though he would never admit he was spooked. He even asked me to leave the kitchen light on one night. God, it was funny.

  I giggle out loud. But not at the movie, so Nate asks, “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing. I was just remembering something.” And it dawns on me. I just had a happy memory of Michael. I think I smiled the whole rest of the movie.

  The following few nights we do more of the same. ‘Freddy vs. Jason’ and then ‘Halloween H20’. We have established a routine. We don’t talk about it, we just do it. I come in from my run, shower, fix myself something to eat and then we sit down to watch whatever movie he has picked out. Last night he even had something made for dinner before I came back. I think he did it on purpose, but he casually mentioned that he made too much for him to eat so I could finish it if I wanted to.

  Nate never goes out. He did go to his sister’s one night for dinner but other than that, it is only work or home for him. I, on the other hand, am trying to jump-start my social life sans Emma, so I went out tonight for a Girls’ Night with Kaitlyn and Derek. Technically, I can still call it that since we could all drool over cute guys, right?

  I arrive back home after midnight to find Nate asleep on the couch. I can’t draw my eyes away from him. He looks so peaceful, childlike even. His hair is even more messy than usual because his arm is tossed over his head.

  Oh, there is the tattoo, in full-blown glory for me to see. I shouldn’t look. He says it is nobody’s business. I tiptoe my way over to the backside of the couch, eyeing him the whole way. I look at his chest to make sure his breathing is still steady and deep. Why do I feel like a cat burglar?

  When I’m a few feet away, I can make out the tattoo clearly and my breath hitches. I’ve never seen anything like it. Well, not that I’m a tattoo connoisseur or anything, but this one is outright morbid. On the underside of his arm is the black outline of a heart with a knife sticking out of it. The only color on the entire tattoo is the drops of red blood coming from the knife. And when I say heart, I mean the anatomical representation of an actual heart—with valves and vessels. It’s awful. I mean, it is a great work of art, but it’s awful.

  There are words over it, the words that you can also see wrapping around the front of his arm. They go all the way around and over the heart. They are in script and of course, since they are in French, I have no idea what they say. ‘Mourir Pour’ is the part of the phrase that I etch into my memory so that I can Google it later.

  “Like what you see?” I look at his face and see that he is grinning at me.

  How long have I been standing here staring at his tattoo? I search my mind for an excuse to be so close to him. I grab the pillow off the chair to my right and say, “Um . . . you looked uncomfortable so I thought you might want this.” I throw it at him and then I walk out of the room. Only to hear his muffled laughter behind me.

  In my room, I open my laptop and Google the French to English translation of the few words I saw on his tattoo.

  ‘To die for.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  I jerk awake and it takes a minute to remember where I am. I’m hearing music from ‘The Shining’ play over and over as the DVD is stuck on the menu screen. I look at the clock and see it is after eleven. The events of the day flash through my mind and I remember how exhausted I was when I came up from my monthly inventory.

  Oh, we fell asleep on the couch. Together. My head is on his shoulder and my hand is on his leg. Crap. I jump over on the couch about two feet and that wakes Nate up. He has a smirk on his face.

  “Okay, so exactly how long was I sleeping like that?” I feel a blush creep up my face.

  “Not long,” he says. “I couldn’t bear to push you off me, you smell just like a cupcake.”

  “What?” I look at him like he is crazy. “I did shower after work you know.”

  “I know. I can smell your shampoo. Flowers?” he asks.

  “Mmmm,” I mumble.

  “Anyway, you always smell like cupcakes. Vanilla, I think. You spend so much time baking that it probably oozes from your pores.” He laughs.

  I hit him with a pillow. Then I smell my arm.

  “Brooklyn, it’s a compliment. It smells nice. I will never be able to eat sweets again without thinking of you.”

  “Oh. Well . . . thanks, I guess.” I decide to ask him what has been bugging me for weeks. “Nate, how come you never go out? I mean, it must be a bore hanging out and watching movies with me.”

  He puts his arm up on the back of the couch so that his hand is mere inches from me. “First, it is never a bore to hang out with you. Second, I don’t really want to go out and risk running into a lot of people from high school.” He shrugs and looks embarrassed and uncomfortable so I don’t press him on the issue. He gets up and walks to the kitchen. I can hear him open the refrigerator.

  When he returns, he places two beers on the table in front of us then proceeds to twist off the tops, handing me a bottle. Oh, I guess we’re talking.

  He tells me about his job and how exciting it is watching a building come up from nothing. He actually gets a gleam in his eyes when he talks about it. He is very passionate in his explanation of what it takes to design a new structure, and even though he has lost me with all of the technical terms, I’m in awe of how smart he is on the subject.

  I tell him about starting up the bakery four years ago and he seems genuinely interested. He asks about any plans to expand the bakery or maybe franchise it out.

  “No way.” I take a drink then shake my head vehemently. “I would never disclose my secrets to virtual strangers. Besides, it was always my dream as a little girl to run a mom-and-pop bakery that was all my own.” I look over and see his confusion. “I know, I know . . . I brought in a partner. But that’s mainly so I could branch out into catering.” I pick at a fuzz ball on the couch. “I suppose I would consider a second location, but I would have to have a hand in everything. It’s practically written in my mission statement.”

  He laughs and puts his arm up on the back of the couch so that his sleeve is riding up his bicep showing off his tattoo. I stare at it. I wonder what the words say. To die for. What does that mean? Claudia is the one he would die
for? Why the knife and the blood?

  “It’s just a tattoo, Brooklyn,” he says. I can only imagine what an idiot I must look like staring at it.

  “What does it say?” I bite my lip. “I mean, if you don’t mind me asking. Did you get it for her? Your wife?”

  “Ex-wife,” he says the words harshly. “And no, I didn’t get it for her. I’m not even sure I got it because of her.” He doesn’t explain further. “It is a Moroccan proverb. It says ‘He who has nothing to die for has nothing to live for’.”

  I’m stunned. That is deep. Really deep. I’m not sure what to say. Am I ready to have this kind of conversation with him?

  “Don’t read too much into it, Brooklyn.” He sighs. “I was in a bad way when I got it. I’m fine now.”

  He’s fine now. Did he think he had nothing to live for? A knife in the heart. She must have really broken him. The way I am broken. Only I don’t wear it on my sleeve.

  He gets up and goes to his movie collection. “In keeping with the Steven King theme, how about ‘Children of the Corn’?”

  I look at the clock. Eleven-thirty. It’s late and I should go to bed.

  “Okay.” I grab the blanket next to me and pull it over my legs.

  ~ ~ ~

  I scrunch my eyes tight to try and keep the light out. I’m not ready to get up yet. My neck hurts so I move it around a bit on my very lumpy pillow. As I start to wake up more, I reach up to fluff my pillow and find myself poking around on Nate’s lap.

  Oh my God.

  In horror, I realize that I’ve been touching the erection that is pressing against the fly of his jeans. I roll over and fall off the couch, hitting my head on the side of the coffee table. “Ouch!” I say, waking Nate in the process of scrambling off his lap. Then I hit my shin on the side of the couch and I can’t limp away fast enough. I’m rubbing my head and holding my shin when I turn back to see Nate laughing hysterically on the couch. I think I must turn beet red. I can’t put two thoughts together. I can’t even keep myself upright so I fall back on the couch and cover my face with my hands.

  He comes over and brings my leg up onto the couch and rubs the red bump that is forming. “Are you okay?” he asks in all seriousness, now that he sees I am injured.

  “I’m fine,” I say without looking at him. I look anywhere but at him. I know if I look over, my eyes will go directly to his lap and that will mortify me even further.

  I pull my leg away and he says, “Brooklyn, it’s okay. There is nothing to be embarrassed about. We fell asleep watching the movie. It happens.” He laughs and looks at his lap. “Um . . . I’m sorry about that. That just happens, too.” He shrugs.

  I look over at him now, begging my eyes to keep above his neck.

  “If you want to be embarrassed about something, be embarrassed about the dream you had last night,” he says.

  “What?”

  “The dream. You know, the one where you moaned and called out my name?” He chuckles.

  “I did not have any such dream,” I pout.

  He gets up off the couch and heads to his room. “Okay, whatever you say.” He walks away. “So I guess I’ll try not to take offense that I smell like—what was it—fresh laundry?” He shuts his door.

  Shit.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  What did I say in my sleep? Michael used to tell me that I would sometimes talk in my sleep but he could never understand what I said. I rack my brain trying to remember any dreams I had last night.

  I make sure I don’t run into Nate again before work. I’m so embarrassed. I can’t imagine what he must think of me. The last thing I need is him knowing that I dream of him.

  ~ ~ ~

  Today turns out to be one of those days you wish you would have stayed in bed all day. I lost a big catering bid. They said I didn’t have enough experience with major events. It’s true, I know. But how can we get experience with big events if nobody ever hires us for big events? I was really counting on this to put my name out there. Ryan will be upset. Before he left for Costa Rica, he thought we all but had this in the bag.

  I run an extra few miles tonight to help me calm down. Nothing clears my head more than pounding the pavement while listening to music.

  I almost trip on the sidewalk when a song comes on my iPod. A song that’s not on my playlist. A song I haven’t heard in over two years. ‘Be My Reason’. It was the last text he sent to me after Raleigh. Nate! He put this on my playlist—the sneaky bastard. Yet, I don’t turn it off. I listen to every word.

  Something inside me

  Can’t rest until I find

  The way to make it up to you

  The way to make you mine

  I know I messed up good

  And that you should walk away

  I have no right to ask

  But I’m begging you to stay

  Was he trying to say he was sorry for leaving me in high school? That he wanted to change his philandering ways after Claudia broke him? What I don’t understand is why he would go through all this trouble for me. Why me?

  As I listen to the chorus, I think about what a friend he has been to me lately. He has done so much to ease the pain of Emma not being around. He comforts me repeatedly all while living in a city that he hates. Everything he has done has been for me.

  Be my reason . . .

  My cause, my light

  Be my reason . . .

  My purpose, my life

  ‘Cause baby it was always you

  You’re my reason

  You’ve pulled me through

  And because I’m a glutton for punishment, I put it on repeat.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Nate must have noticed my bad mood when I came home. “You need to go out for a drink,” he says, when I emerge from my bedroom after my shower.

  “Yeah, I do. It was a crappy day. But I don’t think anyone is available.”

  He looks down at himself and shakes his head. “What am I, chopped liver?”

  “I thought you didn’t go out.”

  “Well, for you I would make an exception.” He smiles.

  “Oh, no.” I hold up my hand for him to stay where he is. “I’m not falling into that trap. We agreed, no pressure, no dating.” I think back on the conversation we had after the first night of movie watching. I laid down the ground rules. He accepted my boundaries. This would push the barriers.

  “No, not a date. Just a drink. With a friend.” He blows a breath out of his mouth. “It looks like you could really use one of those right now.”

  Yes. Yes I could. I miss Emma.

  I think of how he has been these few weeks. He has stayed true to his word. He hasn’t asked me out. He hasn’t so much as touched me. Well, if you don’t count the times I’ve fallen asleep on him. But, technically, you could argue that was my fault. He has been nothing but a friend. A good friend. So I say yes. Of course I say yes.

  We pick a nice little bar a few blocks down from the shop. I like to walk when I can in case I drink too much. But that won’t be a problem tonight. I don’t trust myself around Nate when I’ve had a few drinks. I will limit myself to two Cosmos.

  Nate really is fun to hang out with. We even start to talk about high school, but only the early years, not about my junior year or what happened with us or his mom.

  He is great at people-watching, just like I am, and we sit around and make up stories about people in the bar. We see a couple fighting and Nate says that she has informed the man that she is pregnant; only she is not his wife . . . his wife is the lady sitting at the next table eyeing them with spitfire.

  We laugh and get along like we’ve been friends forever. It is an easy, comfortable night and my work worries eventually fade away.

  He excuses himself to go to the bathroom and not a minute after he is gone, a large man who smells like a greasy hamburger sits down on Nate’s barstool. He motions to the bartender to bring me another drink. “Name’s Ben and yer about the prettiest thing here,” he slurs.

/>   The bartender puts another Cosmopolitan next to my unfinished one and I turn to the man and say, “Thanks, but I’m here with a friend.”

  “Don’t mean ya can’t talk to me, does it?” He leans a little too close and his breath reeks of whiskey and cigarettes. When he pulls back, Nate is standing behind him. His face is red and he is staring at the back of the man’s head.

  Oh, gods of drunken barflies, please let the man get up and leave us alone.

  “What’s going on here?” He eyes the man. “Brooklyn, are you okay?”

  “I wuz jus buyin’ the pretty lady a drink.” He doesn’t even turn around to look at Nate.

  Nate reaches into his pocket, pulls out a twenty and throws it at the guy. “Thanks, man, but I’ve got it covered.”

  “The lady here—Brooke wuz it?” He motions to me. “She says she ain’t got no boyfriend. Says she’s just here with a friend. So why don’t you piss off.”

  Oh, no. “Please mister, just leave,” I plead with him.

  “You heard her,” Nate growls, “get the fuck out of here!”

  The guy turns to me and says, “Now’s that any way to treat a nice guy who got ya a drink?”

  Nate reaches in and grabs the guy’s arm and pulls him off the bar stool. “Leave,” he says as he nudges him away from us.

  The next thing I see is the guy taking a swing at Nate and then I hear crack! and the guy goes down. Nate drops to the floor holding his hand. “Son of a bitch!” he yells. He kicks the barstool several times until it falls over and hits the floor, drawing even more attention to the situation.

  The bartender comes around the bar with a golf club and directs all of us to the door. “Sorry, man,” he says to Nate. “I know it wasn’t your fault, but you gotta leave or my boss will have it in for me. Rules of the bar.”