by Kim Bailey
“I don’t think so. I think it’s beautiful. Romantic, even—it’s the ultimate sacrifice for love. That’s why they’re my favorite.”
But when does the sacrifice end? And how do you know when it’s worth it?
“Well, if I ever need a good recommendation, I’ll keep you in mind.”
With a sly smile, he walks toward the door. “I’ll keep you in mind too, Zadie.”
***
Caleb
Kick. Push. Glide.
With my board under my feet and an empty road ahead of me, I focus on the momentary freedom I’ve found. Autumn wind rushes my ears, catches my hair, and cools my skin. Trees of brilliant orange, red, and yellow line the street. Dried, dead leaves are casualties to the slow approach of winter. They fall to the ground, snagged by the wind, swirling along the gutters as I pass. The sound of traffic is a distant hum, the rumble of my wheels over the uneven asphalt the only sound that matters.
I love this feeling.
I need this feeling.
It reminds me who I am and keeps me from falling apart into a crazed emotional mess. I thought I could handle it—volunteering to help kids with cancer. I thought it was a way to deal with the torment of my past and to view myself as the strong survivor everyone else sees.
I was wrong.
When I visited those kids today, for a moment all I saw was pain and suffering. The unfairness of it all. An incredibly un-fucking-fair shit storm of illness and despair.
I felt helpless—weak and afraid.
“Don’t rush it,” the volunteer coordinator, Renee advised me. “It takes everyone time to find their footing. Even me.”
She was right. By the end of my orientation I knew I’d made the right choice. It’s the right place, the right people. Even if it was initially for the wrong reasons. Volunteering isn’t about me. I don’t need to revisit my past, my struggles, my pains. I already know I’m not defined solely by the things I’ve overcome. I’m not a victim. I’m more than the conqueror of a disease.
Cancer doesn’t own me.
I need to show these kids they can be more too. Volunteering is for them.
Live despite the fear.
“How’d it go?” Chante asks when I walk through our unlocked door. She looks cozy, curled up in her armchair—blanket in lap, book in one hand, and a glass of wine in the other.
“Good,” I tell her, shrugging out of my jacket. “There wasn’t much to it—just paperwork, and a basic tour, but I think it’s going to be perfect. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she says, opening her book, before quickly slamming it shut again. “I have to say this—and don’t fucking laugh at me—I’m just so proud of you.”
“It’s volunteer work, Chante. I’m not nearly as important as the staff. People like you, you literally save lives—”
“That’s not what I meant,” she interrupts. “You’re not just volunteering; it’s children’s oncology, Caleb. I’d say that’s a pretty dark rabbit hole for you, but you’re doing it anyway. You’re here, despite your parent’s objections. You quit school when it wasn’t working for you. You’re taking control of your life, living the way you want, and I think that’s goddamn admirable. So, shut up and take the compliment.”
I laugh, despite her warning. “You might not find me so admirable if I don’t find a paying job and my own place to live soon,” I say, lightening the mood.
“Whatever. I want you to stay—you keep replacing my empty wine bottles with full ones, it makes me happy.”
“That’s all it takes to make you happy?” I tease.
“No. What I really need is for you to somehow convince Zadie... actually, never mind. The wine is great, let’s leave it at that.”
Chante goes back to her book, intentionally ignoring my reaction to hearing Zadie’s name. My curiosity is peaked. I know the two of them are going through a bumpy patch, but neither seem willing to acknowledge it. I don’t want to be nosy or get in the middle, but I can’t help feeling like I somehow already am.
Over the past two weeks, Chante’s repeatedly done this not-so-subtle hint dropping. She does it when we’re alone and when Zadie’s around, she doesn’t discriminate. I’m not sure what she thinks she’ll accomplish, nothing’s changed so far.
Zadie and I are still playing friends.
I say playing because it feels like an act. She keeps pretending she’s not interested, and I keep pretending that’s okay.
“We should go out tonight,” I suggest, a small surge of adrenaline pumping through my system. “I feel like celebrating.”
Casting a glance over her novel she raises an eyebrow. It’s odd to see some dude’s bare, bulking abs, with Chante’s eyes hovering right above. “I just got off a twelve-hour rotation. If you think I’m going to spend this night doing anything, other than nothing, you’re crazy.”
“But —”
“No!” She shakes her head. “Not going to happen. Call Zadie. Make her go out with you.”
Can I do that? Just call her up and ask her to go out? “Do you think she will?”
“Merde, Caleb! What do I look like—your pimp? Please, just call the girl and ask her out, the worst she’ll say is no.”
Maybe Chante’s onto something. Or maybe I’m just high off her ‘I’m proud of you’ pep talk. I feel empowered. I feel like taking chances. Besides, Zadie’s only turned me down twice—or maybe it’s been three times—isn’t three times the charm?
Me: Want to go out tonight?
I text her, because if she’s going to shoot me down again I’d rather not hear the lilt of her voice while she does it.
Zadie: I’m studying
Her reply zaps me of all my excited energy. Just as I’m resigning myself to an evening of romance reading on the couch with Chante, my phone vibrates.
Zadie: But I could use a break. I’m hungry.
Me: Food is always good. Let’s go out to eat.
Zadie: Is Chante coming?
I type out my response in a rush, hitting send before I can second-guess myself.
Me: Nope. You + me + dinner = Friend date :)
And then I wait, and wait some more, praying that her answer doesn’t crush me completely.
Zadie: You mean hangin’ out.
I sigh with relief, even as my body zings with anticipation.
Me: Call it what you want - I expect you to be on your best behavior & keep your hands to yourself
Zadie: Seriously?
Me: I know, it’s a lot to expect with all my long hair tempting you ;)
“What are you laughing at?” Chante asks, her eyes still glued to her novel.
Zadie: Ha Ha - just for that, I’m picking the restaurant and you’re buying dinner. Pick me up at sex.
“Nothing,” I tell Chante, my ridiculous happy grin spreading. “Just having fun with Zadie.”
Zadie: OMG! SIX. Pick me up at SIX. Stupid autocorrect!
“Good,” Chante mumbles as I continue laughing to myself. “Go have fun with her in person and don’t come back until tomorrow morning if you can help it.”
***
It’s not even ten to six—I’m twelve full minutes early—and I’m already outside Zadie’s apartment door.
I’m standing here like an overeager idiot, too hesitant to knock. I don’t want to rush things, but I’m anxious to see her. I’m anxious to be alone with her again.
Wavering between knocking or waiting longer I’m caught off guard when the door opens.
“How long are you going to stand out here?” A smile plays on her lips. Her hand, perched on her cocked hip, emphasizes her narrow waist and the flair of her curves.
“Honestly? I was probably going to wait another fifteen minutes. Are you ready to go?”
“Yeah, just let me grab my purse. Do you want to come in for a minute?”
Her question is innocent but my dirty mind is stuck on the sway of her bottom as she turns and walks away. The temptation to grab her by her hips, to pull her bod
y next to mine, to feel her curves press into me—it’s overwhelming. I’ve never met a woman that I’ve so urgently wanted underneath me, the way I do Zadie Fisher.
“I’ll wait here,” I tell her retreating form.
Needing to keep my shit together, I find myself walking the length of the hallway. I practice my pain management breathing as I pace. The pain I’m feeling right now is all centered around controlling my erection. It won’t be much of a friend date if I’m walking around with a hard-on all night.
“Hey, there you are.” She startles me, coming up from behind me on my second lap of the hallway. “Were you leaving? Did you change your mind?”
“Nope, mind’s solid. I just need to stretch my legs. Can we walk to the restaurant?”
“Well, I haven’t really picked a place,” she shyly admits. “I didn’t know what you wanted, and I really don’t go out all that often. I was kind of hoping we could find a place together.”
“Sounds like an adventure!”
The evening twilight is a soft orange and purple glow, the day losing warmth as the cool of night takes over.
“Which way?” I ask.
“Let’s go right,” she answers. “I never go that way.”
Walking side-by-side, I shorten my stride so Zadie can keep up with me. I’m the shortest man in my family, but my five-eleven frame still towers over her. I like that she’s short. I like that, if I were to pull her close, I’d be able to rest my chin on her head. I like that I’d be able to completely envelope her in my arms.
I like a lot of things about her—maybe everything.
Silently we make our way down the street, with no particular destination in mind. The great thing about this neighborhood is how many cool things are nearby. Sure, it’s not quite as trendy as Mile End-Ex, or even Mile End, but it’s not far off. If we really wanted to experience those hipster neighborhoods we wouldn’t have far to go. The lack of trend-setter attention makes our current location even more appealing to me. I like that we might be the first to discover something new—we could be the trendsetters.
“I can keep up. You don’t have to slow your pace for me,” Zadie assures.
“It’s alright, I’m all about distance, not speed.”
“Really? I figured a guy who likes skateboarding would be a fan of speed. Isn’t that part of it? You don’t seem like the slow and steady kind.”
“I guess it depends what you’re talking about. I’m not much for sitting still—I don’t like wasting time and I don’t want to miss out on stuff, but certain things need time. Certain things I don’t mind taking slow.”
Is that a blush heating her cheeks? And did I just promise to take things extra slow with her, even though I’m dying to speed them up?
“Well, I’ve never been too good at slow and steady either. I’ve always been the type to dive in, head first. It’s never done me much good, though.” Her voice trails off, and we’re back to pensive silence.
“How about a light round of twenty questions?” I suggest. “We can get to know each other better, one innocuous fact at a time.”
“How about five questions? And, I get to go first.”
At least she’s willing to negotiate.
“Okay, ask your question.”
“Why did you decide to move here? I thought you were in school?”
“Whoa. Those aren’t exactly light questions. I was thinking more along the lines of what’s your favorite color.” I smile and tell her, “I’ll answer, but this counts as two of your questions.”
Laughing at herself she admits, “I was never good at this type of game. Probably one of the reasons I’ve never dated.”
l don’t tell her that I think her lack of dating life says more about the losers she’s been with than it does about her. And I definitely don’t reminder that, according to her, this is not a date.
“I dropped out of school. Decided I was on the wrong path, or maybe it was the right path, but for the wrong reasons, I don’t know. Anyway, doesn’t matter because I was failing, so there wasn’t much of a choice—it was more about saving face. Moving here?” I want to tell her I came here for her. But that’s not the whole truth, and it’s probably too much to admit to someone who want us to be just friends. “It was time to do something for myself. So, I figured, why not?”
“That’s brave of you,” she says.
“Brave? More like impulsive and irrational,” I laugh off the compliment. It reminds me too much of all the other times in life I’ve been called brave. “My turn.”
“Okay, shoot.”
“What’s your favorite color?”
Laughing, she tells me that she’s obsessed with red. “It holds so much meaning. Passion, rage, ambition, suffering—all rolled into one color? I love it.”
Her answer, just like her, is stunning. I make a mental note to wear more red.
“Why do you think you’re so impulsive?” She asks, forgetting it was my turn to ask another question.
“Too easy,” I tell her. “Because you never know what will happen tomorrow. No sense in wasting opportunity today.” As if to prove my point, I jump straight into the deep end and ask, “Why don’t you believe in love?”
She looks a little shocked by the question and her step falters slightly. “Is that really first date material?” she asks.
“So, this is a date now?” I challenge.
“A friend date,” she corrects, but it’s too late—my imagination’s set on fire.
“Are you going to answer the question, Zadie?”
With her chin high, and her voice firm, she tells me, “Kindness, compassion, devotion—that’s love. I believe in that. Romantic love? The idea of soul mates? I think a lot of people believe in it, but they settle for what’s in front of them and call it love because it’s convenient. It’s not love just because it’s the closest thing you can find.”
“Skeptic much?”
“That’s what I’ve seen, it’s what I’ve experienced. People fall in and out of love so easily. If you can’t love and be loved equally, forever, then what’s the point?”
She doesn’t sound like a skeptic. She sounds like she’s scared. Maybe she’s afraid love will disappoint her. Afraid to find it and then lose it.
Our suddenly deep conversational game of questions gets halted as we decide to stop and eat. La Banquise is a laid back little eatery with fantastic poutine and micro-brew. I’ve eaten here once before; the food’s delicious and the atmosphere’s friendly. Perfect for a first date—even if it’s not a really a date.
We find a quiet table in the corner. Zadie orders a turkey sandwich and salad, while I go all out with a behemoth order of poutine and a burger. The micro-brew here is fabulous, so I make sure to order one of those as well. Zadie sticks to water, insisting she doesn’t need alcohol for at least another year.
When she digs into her food with lustful flair, I’m set at ease. She’s relaxing, dropping her shield. Even if she’s unwilling to acknowledge the attraction between us, at the very least, it feels like we’ve arrived at being good friends.
“So, what do you normally do for fun—other than traumatize Chante with horror flicks?” I ask.
She laughs, and it sounds so much better than the last time I heard it. A sweet-sounding symphony. “I work and go to school. That’s it. I’m not much fun.”
“Oh, I don’t know... we’re having fun now. Watching a movie with you was fun. You’re a really fun drunk.”
With a groan, she buries her face in her hands, her wild, untamed hair falling around her. “Can we please not talk about the most embarrassing night of my life?”
“Embarrassing? You’re a rock star, what’s there to be embarrassed about?”
“Cal...”
My heart leaps at the magical sound of that name. Cal. It’s like a secret identity. Or maybe it’s my true identity. It makes me feel like a new person. Still me, but with no illness or limitations. A new man, ready to live a new life. A real life.
&
nbsp; “Can we talk about you instead,” she pleads.
“No. I think I need to hear what it is that’s got you turning pink and hiding behind your hair.”
Dropping her hands, she stares me down. Bold. Determined. “Most men aren’t like you, you know.”
“What does that mean?” And is it good or bad. “What am I like?”
“You’re a good guy. A nice guy.”
“Nice? Such a ringing endorsement,” I tease.
“Don’t mock me, Caleb.” With her big doe eyes pinned to mine she smiles softly and says, “I haven’t met many nice guys in my lifetime. At least, none who’ve kissed me the way you did.”
Her eyes drop to my mouth, her tongue sneaking out to wet her lips, and my heart skips another beat. My own mouth waters at the thought of tasting those lips.
Boldly, I lean forward, my arms propped on the table, only inches away from her. “Did you like the way I kissed you, Zadie?”
She sighs and her whole body seems to sway toward me. Suddenly, the idea of not touching her feels like the worst idea ever. My promise to keep things platonic feels impossible. I’m tempted to lean over the table, to grab her and kiss her, just to test my theory on how much she really does want it.
Instead, I reach across and take her slim hand in mine. Holding hands isn’t too bad. Friends can hold hands. It’s perfect for a first date.
“You asked way more than five questions,” she says through a heated smile. “It’s my turn.”
Yes. Perfect.
***
Zadie
THE CRESCENT MOON GRINS down at us like an invisible Cheshire Cat in the sky. We saunter through the park. Distant music, faint but uplifting, floats through the air. This whole night has been like a trip into Wonderland—very strange and peculiar, indeed.
We gorged ourselves on poutine—well, I did. After polishing off my own meal, I helped Caleb devour his. That stuff should come with a warning label. It’s disgustingly addictive, but oh-so-freaking-good.
So, after eating my bodyweight in fries, gravy, and cheese, I’m thankful for the walk. I know my middle is going to start expanding soon, but it doesn’t need me helping it along. Besides, the evening air feels cleansing and I’ve got someone fun to keep me company.