by Kim Bailey
“Hang out?” He laughs.
“Yes, I believe the cool kids call it hangin’—it’s what friends do. Now, go home... to Chante’s place... you know what I mean. I need a shower and another twelve hours of sleep.”
And a mental health check.
Friends? It’s not a mistake to be friends, it’s the right choice. The only choice. But how the hell am I going to hang out with him on a regular basis and not sexually frustrate myself in the process? I don’t know if it’ll be possible, but I need to try. It’s not like I can put this baby on hold while I focus on a boyfriend.
I’m not my mother.
“Alright, I’m going.” He pauses at the doorway on his way out, turning back to look at me. “You sure you’re okay? I was kinda worried about you.”
“I’ll be fine,” I tell him. “But thank you, you’re already a good friend.”
“Anytime.” He smiles.
I try to smile back but it’s impossible—I’m too sweaty, too turned on, and too disappointed by the bitter irony of life.
The let-down feeling makes me realize, I need to dig a deeper hole for that bitch hope. She keeps clawing her way back out of her grave.
***
Caleb
STANDING AT CHANTAL’S KITCHEN counter, I stare down at the sandwich I’ve made. It’s a fabulous looking roast beef on rye with provolone and tangy dijon, topped with a leafy green mix. It’s the kind of sandwich that makes your mouth water.
Too bad I’m not hungry—I couldn’t stomach it, even if I tried. I just didn’t know what else to do with myself.
It’s been five days since I moved to Montreal, and I’m still trying to adjust. I already miss my meddling family, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to go broke by the end of this month, but I’m dwelling on Zadie. Why the hell did I think asking her out was a good idea?
She’s stuck me in the friend zone. It’s the kiss of death and it’s killed all my stupid fairy tale fantasies about romancing her off her feet.
Instead of pursuing her like a lovesick fool, I’ve backed off entirely. Two days is a long damn time to hide out in a room—especially for me—but it seemed wise to avoid temptation. So, I barricaded myself in there, pretending to unpack my meager belongings.
“Prince Charming! You’re still here!” Chante bursts into the kitchen, where I’m still staring at my too-good-to-eat sandwich.
It’s the first time I’ve seen her in days. She’s been working non-stop, and we’ve barely talked since my failed attempt to date her best friend.
“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” I grumble.
“Well, good morning to you too, sunshine.”
“It’s almost noon.”
“Not in my world.” She stretches and yawns, as if to prove her point. “What’s wrong with you? You haven’t even been here a full week, are you sick of me already?”
“Not yet. I’m sure, if you keep your bedroom door closed this time, things will be fine.” She might not have a problem with her exhibitionism, but I do. Seeing my cousin’s naked ass was not the highlight of my last trip here. “Seriously Chante, are you sure you don’t mind me crashing with you? I don’t want to get in your way.”
“Nah, I like having you as my indebted slave. You can be my servant—keep the place clean and sparkly for me. Oh! You can be my bouncer too. I need someone to keep all the riff-raff out.”
Living with Chante obviously won’t be dull. Still, I don’t like the idea of her needing a bodyguard. Even if she is just joking around. “Are you expecting some sort of trouble?”
“Oh, you know me...” I don’t really, but I wonder at times if Chante knows herself. “I see you’ve made yourself at home.” She motions toward my food. “Aren’t you going to eat that?”
“I’m not really hungry —” And before I can offer it to her, she sweeps in, stealing my sandwich off the plate.
“Do you think I’ve made a mistake moving here?” I ask, catching us both off guard.
“That’s a dumb question,” She scoffs, with her mouth full of sandwich. “You made the decision for a reason. You wanted to be here, right?”
“Yeah, I did. I still do. But I’m starting to wonder if flying by the seat of my pants and living in the moment is good. Maybe I’m setting myself up for a disappointing future.”
“Please tell me this isn’t about Zadie.”
I don’t reply, because really, what the hell am I going to say?
“Ah, Charming, don’t worry about it. Timing’s just bad, that’s all. I probably should have told her you were coming.”
“You didn’t tell her?” I thought Zadie’s reaction had been odd. Now I know why.
“I didn’t figure it was that big a deal.” She shrugs. “Of course, I didn’t know you were going to go all stalker-boy and ask her out the second you got into town. What were you thinking anyway?”
What was I thinking? “I don’t know... I didn’t see any point to waiting. I guess I didn’t expect her to say no.”
“Would it help if I reiterate that it’s just bad timing?”
Nope, doesn’t help a bit. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to cry on your shoulder or anything. I’m good with being friends. Besides, there’s a lot I want to do. Which reminds me—I wanted to ask if you’d set me up with the volunteer coordinator at your hospital.”
“Hello?” Zadie calls from the foyer.
I need to have a talk with these two about locking doors. Neither of them seems to understand the function of the deadbolt. They come and go as they please, leaving their doors unlocked, even when they’re not home. I’m all for empowerment and equality, but Montreal doesn’t exactly have the lowest crime rate.
“Hey, babe!” Chante calls back. “What are you doing here?”
Zadie peeks her head into the kitchen, her eyes falling quickly from mine when she sees me there. “I thought you were giving me a ride,” she replies. “You offered. Yesterday.”
“I did?” Chante asks. “Sorry, hon, I must have messed up my schedule. Not sure what I was thinking, but I’m not ready to go anywhere, I haven’t even showered.”
“Fine.” Zadie huffs.
“You need a ride?” I offer, feeling the need to make her happy.
“No, thank you, I’ll take the Metro.” Even when speaking to me, she still refuses to look at me. With her hands planted on her hips, giving Chante the evil eye, she seems ready to take on the world.
Fuck, she’s gorgeous.
Her ponytail’s messy, she’s wearing baggy sweats, and dark circles rim her eyes, hinting at a lack of sleep. That doesn’t stop her from being spectacularly stubborn and feisty. Even the scowl on her face is a thing of beauty.
“Take the ride, Zadie!” Chante sternly commands, dusting sandwich crumbs from her shirt.
Zadie reluctantly gives in, throwing Chante one final dirty look as we head out the door.
As soon as we leave the apartment, we fall into silence. Our short walk down the hallway, our slow ride in the elevator, our trek through the parking garage—all of it—silent.
I hate it. It’s not tranquil, and it’s not relaxing. The quiet is edged with anxiety and unease. Silence bothers me on the best of days, but this... well, it doesn’t feel very friendly.
“So, where are we going?” I ask once in the driver’s seat.
“McGill,” she replies softly. She stares at her hands. Folding and unfolding. Wringing around each other in a nervous gesture. I wish I could talk to her about her anxiety—is it being around me that has her so uptight?
This is going to be the longest ten-minute drive of my life. I search my mind for a way to make things less awkward, while Zadie seems to go out of her way to avoid looking at me. What little ego I do have left is being slowly destroyed with each passing minute of being ignored.
“The hospital? Do you work there too?” I hate feeling like I’m forcing her to talk to me, but dammit, I can’t stand the uneasy silence.
“No,” she answers boldly.
“Not the hospital, the university. I’m a student. The club is my only job, and it’s only until I graduate. I hope.”
“Oh, I didn’t know you were in school.”
“Yes. Shocker, I know,” she replies. “I do realize that I’m too old to be in university, and no, I don’t care what anyone thinks about it.”
“Why would your age matter?” And how, I wonder, can I convince her it makes no difference to me. “I think learning’s a fundamental right everyone should have. I don’t think it should be restricted by age, economics or any other factor. If you want to go to school when you’re one hundred, I think you should.”
With a small smile tugging her lips she nods. “I agree with you. I just wish everyone else did. People look at me funny when I tell them I’m in university, but I just couldn’t afford it when I was younger.”
Her mention of money has me cringing. It’s embarrassing to admit how much of my parent’s money I wasted on my failed attempt at college. Knowing how easy it was to walk away from my own education, without concern for the expense, makes me feel like an ass. It also reminds me that I need to find a job and start acting like the responsible adult I’ve claimed to be.
“Well, I’ve seen a lot of younger people wasting money on an education they aren’t sure of. So, maybe it’s better that you waited. I mean, look at me...” I wish I really could get her to look my way, but her eyes don’t shift from the horizon. Redirecting, I ask, “What are you studying?”
“Kinesiology. I’m in second year.” She pauses, her hands still nervously fidgeting. When she continues, she sounds choked. “It’s a three-year program.”
“Sports medicine. I get it. You want to work with all the athletes,” I try to keep the conversation going, as I wonder about the expression on her face, the pained waiver of her voice, and what it is I’m missing.
“No, definitely not.” Her tone shifts, turning hard and determined. “Sean—my ex—he tried to talk me into that, but I want to focus on using sports and play as therapy. There’s a ton of research showing the benefits for kids with autism. Dementia and Alzheimer’s patients too. Not that there’s anything wrong with helping athletes with their performance. It just doesn’t seem as important to me as helping someone gain function in their day to day life.”
Ah, hell. She’s smart and compassionate too. Hearing her conviction and her desire to help others, sparks an odd feeling in my chest. The fantastic way her lips move and the enchanting tone of her voice, spark a very different feeling. A very familiar feeling. One below my belt.
The idea I’ve been toying with these past few days—the idea of staying away from her—seems silly and arbitrary. Why wouldn’t I pursue this girl with everything I’ve got?
Her return to pensive silence reminds me—she’s not interested in anything more than friendship. Even that feels like a stretch right now.
Pulling into the crammed student parking lot, I’m suddenly anxious about being away from her. I hate leaving things uncomfortable and unsure between us. I hate the thought that if I don’t fix things somehow, I’ll never get to kiss her again.
“Zadie, listen...”
“I know,” she says with a sad looking smile. “I suck at this friend thing, don’t I? My life’s kind of mixed up right now. I promise we can hang out, and I’ll tell you all about it. I just need some time, okay?”
Not sure exactly how to respond, I find myself nodding in agreement. How can I argue with her logic? Time’s always good—isn’t it?
Fuck, no. What’s time going to do? Make things more awkward, more difficult to approach. I’ve given her two days—two days feels like it’s already been too long. I’m not programed to wait and see.
“Let me walk you to class,” I suggest. “I’ll fend off anyone who looks at you funny, and maybe I’ll check out the library while I’m here.”
Without giving her an option, I park the car and quickly get out, running around to open the door for her.
“Thanks.” She smiles. Her lips curl softly upward, but she still looks unhappy. “The library is on the other side of campus, but this is really sweet of you.”
Sweet. Maybe that’s the sober-girl version of masculine and sexy?
“Don’t tell anyone,” she confides. “I do feel a little lonely walking around here on my own sometimes. It’s nice to have you with me.”
The weird feeling in my chest spreads. One tiny compliment from her and I’m ready to throw away reason. One sad smile, and my resolve to back away crumbles. If she wasn’t so beautiful and vulnerable, would I still have this crazy reaction?
I don’t know. And in this moment, I don’t care.
I’m tempted to reach out and touch her—to hold her hand or throw my arm around her slender shoulders—but I resist the urge. Walking by her side is enough.
This time, as we walk without words, the sound of our footfalls seems to speak for us. They remind me of a heartbeat. There’s a cadence, a rhythm, a strong and steady pulse. It’s not loud, it’s not dramatic, but it’s the kind of sound that holds promise.
***
Zadie
IT’S THE FIRST DAY of October. I discovered, after my first visit to my doctor, it’s also about my sixth week of pregnancy.
Who knew you’re supposed to start counting the week before you get pregnant? Not me, I find it super confusing. But, whatever. I’m not a doctor, and since I’ve not spent a ton of time with my best friend who is, I haven’t had the chance to ask these types of questions.
Today we’re supposed to be going shopping. All I really want to do is eat. When I’m not busy throwing up, I’m ravenous. I’ve been told this is normal and that the sickness should die down in the next couple of weeks. Of course, this information is coming from my mother—she’s not exactly the most reliable source.
Chante meets me at her door, still wearing her nightgown. It seems reliability may be in short supply these days.
“Hey babe, is it time to go already?” she greets.
“Yeah, did you wake up late?”
“No, I was just busy. Come on in, I’ll only take a minute.”
I wish I knew what was going on with her. She’s been flaking out on me more and more—like when she offered me the ride and then made Caleb do it instead. She didn’t even tell me he was moving in.
The fact that a man has moved in with my best friend shouldn’t be an issue. It’s really not a big deal. The fact that she knew about it for days and didn’t tell me, also shouldn’t bother me. It’s her apartment, he’s her cousin. She has a right to let whoever she wants to move in with her.
Except, Caleb isn’t just any man.
He’s a man, eight years my junior, who I’ve developed a very unhealthy obsession with. He may be Chante’s cousin, and I may hardly know him, but that hasn’t stopped me from forming a serious infatuation. From the moment he kissed me—or maybe it was the moment I drunkenly decided to kiss him—he’s been on my mind.
Chante’s incessant teasing hasn’t helped, either. My infamous ‘morning after’ call has given her far more ammunition than needed. It may only be playful teasing, but the truth is, I was crushing.
Okay, so I still am.
Hard.
“Okay, I’m ready,” she says, sauntering back into the living room wearing blue jeans and a t-shirt.
Now I know something’s wrong. Chante does not wear jeans. It’s not like she’s stuck up or anything, but when she’s not wearing her scrubs she’s always in a dress or a skirt. Occasionally, she might put on a fancy pair of pants but never—and I mean literally never—have I seen her in jeans. I didn’t even know she owned a pair.
“You’re going like that?” I challenge.
“Well, I thought maybe we’d skip the shopping. You don’t really need all that stuff yet anyways. Do you?”
“No, I guess not. Although, I don’t think it’ll hurt to start getting prepared. You know... for stuff.” I look past her into the living room, not wanting to say too much, in case Cale
b can overhear us.
“Relax, he’s not here.” She rolls her eyes at me. “I think we should go for a walk. The weather’s still nice and I’m not getting nearly enough exercise. Want to go to the park?”
“I guess so,” I hesitantly agree, still curious what’s gotten into her.
Once outside, I feel better, my unease over Chante’s behavior easily forgotten. The sun’s shining brilliantly, it’s warm, and the fall colors are starting to show.
“Wow, what a gorgeous day,” I sigh. “Thanks for dragging me out.”
“Sure, babe. Anything for you.”
“Good. I’m starved, let’s hit up the street vendor on the corner. I want one of those giant pretzels.”
She readily agrees. Which should concern me, since I’ve heard her opinion on street carts. It involves hygiene, temperatures, bacteria, and a bunch of other stuff. Honestly, I can’t always understand her half-French ranting, but I know she’s not a fan.
I ignore the warning bells. Instead, I happily inhale my junk food. I promise myself and the bean growing inside me that I’ll start eating healthier, tomorrow. Taking the opportunity to enjoy the sunshine, I stretch my legs and I crack stupid jokes with my best friend as we stroll down the walkway of our local park.
Until we make our way to the skate ramps.
I see him, even before Chante grabs my arm, bringing our steps to a slow stop. He’s impossible to miss.
His lean muscles ripple, his strong jaw’s set with confidence, and his wild hair flows freely around him. Caleb maneuvers himself on a skateboard. He flies down a ramp at breakneck speed, flips the board under his feet when he hits the top, and then sails back down the other side.
His movements are agile and fluid, making the board look like an extension of his body. Each trick, effortless. Each push, powerful.
He’s magnificent.
I’m not the only one who thinks so, either. He’s built a tiny fan club. Kids of various ages have gathered around. Some stand motionless watching. Some jump around imitating the movements they see. Others try in vain to keep up. All are in awe—you can see it on their faces. Even the teenager. He’s a good challenger, but he still shakes his head in amazement when Caleb lands an impossible looking trick. The little kids clap their appreciation.