by Paul Hina
himself for a fall.
As she stood there, he caught her scent. The smell of her perfume—or lotion, or soap, or whatever—breathed on him, and it opened an aperture to new sensory delights. He tried to capture the entirety of the moment in an attempt to keep one more memory of her, fill another sensory pocket to carry with him when she's away.
Everyone else has already started eating their salad. And outside of the sound of forks on plates, and some scattered whispers between Amy and Wendy and Tim and Holly, there is a strange, nervous quiet hovering over the table.
It's obvious that Annie is somewhere else, or if she's here, she's trying to keep herself tight to one spot so that she doesn't float away.
Eric is moving from staring at Max one moment to staring at Annie the next. He can't help but think he's done something very stupid by bringing them together again. He really hoped that after ten years, all of those old feelings would just dissolve once they saw each other again, saw how much the other had changed. But, now, he realizes how naive he has been. If anything, their reactions were worse than he feared. Neither of them were prepared to be in the same room with one another, and yet here they are. They look mortified by the moment, and he wonders how he's going to pull them from wherever they've gone and rescue an already sinking dinner party.
Michael turns to Amy and quietly asks, "What's going on? Am I missing something?"
"What do you mean?" Amy whispers, leaning toward him.
"Don't you think Annie is acting strange?"
"Yeah, I suppose she is."
"Is it something to do with Max?"
Amy leans in even closer, to the point where Michael has an incredible urge to pull away from her. She's violating a very clear line he has drawn for personal space.
"I think Annie and Max were an item in high school, but I'm not sure. I guess there's still some tension there."
"I guess so," Michael says, a little above a whisper.
"What's that?" Eric asks Michael.
"Oh, Amy was just telling me that Max and Annie went to high school together."
"Michael," Holly says from across the table, clearly frustrated with him.
"What? What'd I say?" he says, but can't help having a little smile on his face, not because he feels as though he's said something wrong, but because Holly, for the first time tonight, is really looking at him, paying him some attention.
"Yeah, we did. We were in the same class, graduated the same year," Annie says. She's broken out of her dead stare, and has started seeing the room again. She still hasn't looked toward Max though. Right now, she's looking straight at Michael. It's not as if her level of mortification wasn't high enough before he said something, but for him to mention high school, to propel her and Max's past onto the room was just… Well, thoughtless. Still, she knows, deep down, that it's been hovering over the table already. There's no way that the rest of the guests haven't sensed the tension since Max arrived. Still, she wished Michael hadn't said anything, or, though she's resigned to the fact that they can't ignore the inevitable all evening, at least she could've had more time to gain her composure before anything was said. Honestly, she doesn't know who's she's more upset with right now: Eric for inviting Max, Max for showing up, Amy for telling Michael about their past, or Michael for telling the rest of the table.
At least he didn't say that they were in a relationship.
"So, Max, do you live nearby?" Amy asks, trying to find a way to break the tension of Annie's long, uncomfortable stare in Michael's direction.
"No. I just travelled back east to visit for the holidays," Max says. He's looking at Annie as he speaks, and this can't have escaped the notice of the rest of the table, but he doesn't seem concerned by them. He's hardly looked at anything but Annie since she's sat down. He can't help it. And how could he? She's every bit as beautiful as he remembers. Better than he remembers, actually.
Still, she won't return his look.
"Max teaches at an art school in Oregon," Eric says.
"Oregon's a beautiful state," Wendy says.
"It is," Max says.
"What do you teach there?" Amy asks, trying desperately to stave off any silence.
"Film."
"Really?" Amy asks. "Do you teach production?"
"No. Film studies. Film history," Max says to Amy, finally looking at someone other than Annie.
"So you've never been involved in a production?" Amy asks.
"No, not… Well, in college I did some work behind the camera as a requirement, but I never wanted to work behind the camera as a career. I just love watching movies."
"If everyone's done with their salads, you can pass around the turkey," Annie says, motioning to the dish of sliced turkey, and picking it up, passing it to Eric.
"Everything looks great, Annie," Wendy says.
"Well, you can thank the university's catering service for that," Annie says.
"Neither Annie or I have ever been much worth in the kitchen," Eric says, passing the turkey to Wendy on his left.
Amy leans into Michael, "I can't believe you said that."
"I didn't know it was such a big deal to say that they went to high school together. There's nothing particularly provocative about that," Michael says, taking the turkey from Amy, putting some on his plate before passing it to Max.
"I beg to differ. And I would've never told you if I thought you would—"
"But Eric asked."
"So, that doesn't mean you had to tell him."
"I"m sorry. I really didn't think what I said would be such a big deal. I could've said they dated. But I didn't."
"I suppose," Amy says. "Don't, by the way."
"Don't what?"
"Don't say that they dated?"
"I won't," he says, and he looks up at Holly, who is spooning some mashed potatoes onto her plate. She's looking straight at him, and mouths the words 'I can't believe you.' He just shrugs his shoulders. He genuinely didn't think that what he was saying was that big a deal, but he could tell as soon as he said it, and felt the tension immediately rise in the room, that he'd made a mistake. His mistake, he now realizes, was not necessarily what he said, but the fact that he had called attention to a connection between Annie and Max.
"Oh, sorry. Let me clear the salad dishes," Annie says, standing.
"Annie, no. Just sit and finish your dinner first," Eric says.
"No, they're in the way. Plus, I want to take dessert out of the fridge anyway," she says, grabbing her and Eric's plate. She grabs Tim's plate and Holly's plate.
And as she makes her way to Max, he finds himself clutching the sides of his seat again. Unlike last time she was this close to him, he's not afraid to make eye contact. He's looking right at her and he knows that she knows he's looking.
He breathes deep, catching the air of her perfume again, wants to be sure he won't forget it long after she's walked away.
Annie's trying hard not to catch his eyes. She can feel his stare, has been feeling it since she first sat at the table. She desperately wants to look at him, see if that old connection is still there. But she's terrified. She's scared that the connection will still be there, and she'll fall right into him, lose herself. But she's also terrified that it won't be there, that their old connection—a thing she's kept alive inside her all these years—will be gone and her heart will grow cold, and her hold on the hope of her youth will disappear.
"I'll help," Holly says, seeing that Annie is stuck at Max. She reaches across the table for Amy and Michael's plates. He softly places his plate in her hand, making sure their fingers touch. He smiles at her, and she's afraid that she might be blushing as she looks away from him. She feels silly blushing over something so insignificant, but Michael has a tendency to add significance to small things, and he's passed this bad, completely wonderful habit to her.
Holly grabs Wendy's plate and then takes Annie by the arm, guiding her toward the kitchen.
But before they enter the kitchen, Annie turns, and, for
the first time since the first moment she entered the dining room earlier, she catches his eyes, and it makes her catch her breath, then steals it away from her again.
But Holly is there to pull her away from him.
"Annie," Holly says once they're safely away from the dining room. "What are you doing?" she asks as she grabs the plates from Annie, sets them in the sink.
"I'm sorry."
"You've got to pull yourself together out there."
"Right, I know. I don't know what's happened to me."
"Max happened."
"He certainly did."
"What are you going to do?"
"What can I do?" Annie says, pulling two pies from the refrigerator.
"I don't know. But what you're doing now isn't working."
"Is it that obvious?"
"It is to me."
"Okay. I've got to… You're right. I've got to pull myself together. I just… Wow. I really wasn't ready for this."
"Clearly."
Annie leans against the island in the middle of the kitchen. "Just give me a second."
"Besides, you should be the one rescuing me, not the other way around."
"Rescuing you?"
"You had to sit me across from Michael?"
"Well, until you showed up with Tim, you were going to be sitting next to him."
"That would've been better. He can't keep his eyes off of me. It's very discomforting."
"Oh, you like it."
"I do not."
"Then tell him to back off. Tell him to leave you alone. For once, just come out and tell him that you're not interested."
"But I don't want to be mean."
"Oh, no, you don't want to be mean, like, say, bringing a date to a dinner where there was already a man waiting for you."
"But it was never supposed to be a date."
"Come on, Holly," Annie says, moving back toward the dining room.
"It wasn't supposed to be a date," Holly whispers again, trying to get the last word before they reach the dining room.
Michael happily watches Holly move back to the table. She's truly astonishing in that dress tonight. The way she moves excites him in an entirely new way. He's never seen her outside Eric's office, and, even then, he's rarely seen her out from behind her desk. Also, for the first time since he's been pining after her, she seems to be exuding some awareness of her sexuality, seems to acknowledge that it's there, and is expressing it with a certain amount of confidence.
As she sits back down at the table, it's clear that she's trying not to acknowledge his gaze. She's being coy, or she's just being respectful to this Tim guy she's brought with her tonight. Or, perhaps, Michael's just being too pushy. He's certainly been told he has a tendency to be a bit too intense. It's just that he hasn't been able to shake what Annie said to him before dinner, that he shouldn't worry about Holly and Tim, that it wasn't what it looked like. Obviously Annie knows something, and he's gaining confidence in the theory that there's nothing going on between Holly and Tim. She's only using Tim as an excuse to hold Michael at arm's length a little longer. He may be obtuse in many ways, but Michael feels certain that she feels something, if only a little something, for him.
Michael's known for a while now that Holly lost her husband a couple years ago. Eric and Annie warned him that Holly was not the best person for him to focus his affection on. They told him that she was reluctant, if downright unwilling, to make herself available socially, and that she had been emotionally unavailable since her husband's death.
But the warnings never made a difference to him. He was attracted to her the minute he saw her, and not just in the traditional ways.
He remembers the first time he went to visit Eric in his new office. Eric had just accepted the position as the university ombudsman, and Holly was his new assistant. When he first saw her, she was at her desk, looking up at him, and he remembers that the room went silent. The office was probably a silent space before he entered it, but seeing her sucked all the air from the room, and he could feel the silence. Then he was stuck in the airless silence, staring at her. She seemed suddenly startled by his presence, at least as much as he was startled by her, and they shared something. A truth passed between them—something about her resonated in him. It was something he couldn't quite articulate, but could feel with more emotional palpability than he had ever experienced. That's how he remembers it anyway, and he doesn't tend to artificially romanticize the details of his memory. At least, in the past he was never prone to these kind of romantic remembrances. But, then again, Holly's changed him.
And it wasn't just the fact that she was physically attractive that pulled him to her. There's no doubt that she's a beautiful woman, young and fit and just plain pretty. But the intelligence behind her eyes suggested someone whose gears were always turning. In other words, she was a kindred spirit. But he could also sense the emotional damage. He could feel her sadness, see her vulnerability, and something in him knew he'd never be as happy as he could be if he didn't figure out a way to fix her hurt.
It is true that Michael has never been someone who women naturally gravitate toward. His impression has always been that their reticence was rarely due to his level of attractiveness. He feels confident that he's a reasonably attractive man—tall and handsome. It's more that he never really made himself emotionally available. He's never really sent out the signals of someone who was single. And, again, he's an intense man, deeply passionate about the things he believes in, which some women, particularly his students, have been drawn to, but his intensity has never made him easy to approach.
Not that he hasn't had his fair share of relationships. Most of his relationships, though, have been short and unsuccessful, and not particularly deep emotional endeavors. But he did have a serious relationship throughout graduate school. She was also a graduate student, also a world religions major. They lived together, and played house for nearly two years. But they were both too ambitious, too competitive to ever make things work in the long term. It was clear that they were both vying for the best jobs post-graduation, and there was never any real discussion, or outward concern, about what would happen once they got jobs at different schools, which was pretty much inevitable. And when they were offered jobs in different time zones, it was over. They didn't even toy with the idea of a long distance relationship, or with attempting to find jobs geographically closer. Maybe, privately, they assumed that the other would do the work to keep the relationship alive, but when it came down to it, neither was interested in doing that work. And he was fine with that. Sure, he was fond of her, and had grown somewhat attached to having her around. But love? He's not quite sure if he even knew what that meant at the time.
That's changed now. He still may not know exactly what love is, but Holly has shown him that it's much more expansive than what he felt back then.
The conversation at the table is sparse. Eric has taken charge of the room, picking up the social slack left by Annie. He and Wendy have been talking about her job with the city. She works in the parking enforcement division of the police department, and parking is a hot topic in their small university town. But it doesn't seem to be a conversation that anyone else at the table is very interested in sharing with them. Other than Amy, who steps in with a word or two here or there, everyone else seems to be somewhere else.
Annie, at least, looks semi-engaged, though not without effort.
Holly feels Michael's gaze leave her, and she takes the opportunity to allow herself to gaze at him. She believes she's come to see Michael as a softer man than other people see when they look at him. She thinks of what Annie said, about how Holly likes his attention. And she does like it, has grown to like it more over time, but recently she seems to crave it. But she doesn't like that she craves it. And she hates that other people seem to be noticing that she likes liking his attention. But she can't deny the fact that she's come to look forward to seeing him, playfully fending off his flirtations. She's come to a point wher
e she loves to feel his eyes on her, feels the absence of his attention when he's gone, owns the void of his missing affection in a way that doesn't make her particularly comfortable.
She noticed him watching her as she walked back to the table with Annie a few minutes ago, and she can't deny that her hips swayed a little bit more for him. She tries to assure herself that it was an unconscious choice, though she's not sure how that makes it better.
When she first met Michael she wasn't ready to even think about someone in romantic terms. It's not as if she didn't notice him. She did notice him, and certainly noticed him noticing her. But she'd spent the past several years hung up on losing John. It wasn't so much that she missed John, though she did, but the missing him had gotten infinitely better than it was in those first months. After awhile all that was left of him was a dull ache, the perpetual hurt of his willing exit. The fact that he would just up and leave her like that was unthinkable. She couldn't escape the thought that it meant something was wrong with their relationship, that maybe he didn't love her, and that she never looked deeply enough to notice it. No matter how many people told her it wasn't her fault, she couldn't help thinking that if he really loved her, if he really longed for the life that they had promised to build together, then he wouldn't have shot himself. This left her with a gnawing insecurity that became a perpetual disease of suspicion. And the disease had spread over the past four years, became a source of massive social vulnerability. She honestly began to wonder if she would ever surrender herself to someone again, particularly since she couldn't trust herself to know if she was ever truly loved.
But over the past few months, Michael's persistence, and his inability to take a hint, has made its mark on her. She's gotten to the point where she's come to look forward to his visits. Since she keeps Eric's calendar, she can see when he's scheduled a lunch with Michael. And the night before those visits, she spends sleepless hours unwinding fictional conversations they might share while he waits for Eric. He comes reliably ten, fifteen, even twenty minutes early for these lunches. And it's obvious that he comes early to spend some extra time with her. And his visits have given her something to look forward to now. She'd forgotten what it was like to be able to carry that kind of hope, to feel the excited promise of someone's company.
Still, she hasn't figured out a way to seamlessly shift her standard mode of intention toward him. She's still standoffish, feigning indifference, even. She doesn't quite know how to change this, or even if she's ready to change it. After all, he doesn't seem to mind how she treats him. It's not as if she's cold or unresponsive. Probably, her indifference is something that she only imagines to make her more comfortable about their growing closeness. She's probably, unconsciously, warmed to him in a way that she can't quite detect. But this is the way she's most comfortable with him right now. Maybe it's just self-preservation, but she's not ready to be