by Anne Eliot
As cool as the college dorm thing is, if you need to bawl your head off and you’ve got a roommate, it’s not that easy to wallow in sadness privately. Even I’ve felt the privacy crunch living with Laura. Though I love her, she’s the world’s biggest extrovert, and I could possibly be the world’s biggest introvert. Whenever I want to recharge or think, or need alone time, I sneak off to my little garden, or to the pool behind her back to swim extra laps.
As I’m crutching down the hall, I’ve been staring at this very official-looking envelope taped to Harrison’s door marked with a giant red stamp on the front. NOTICE TO RESIDENT. IMMEDIATE ACTION REQUIRED. It makes me wonder if Harrison’s in trouble, or if they found mice under the floor and they’ve had to notify him about the exterminator or something. Since he’s the only one who’s got such an envelope taped to his door, I figure whatever it might be, Harrison should know about it sooner rather than later, so I pull it off the door and shove it in my bag so I can give it to him when we’re out at the pond.
I unlock his room and step inside. I can’t locate his light switch, so I let the light from the hallway spill in to the room so I can locate the side table he mentioned as the last spot where he saw his camera. I locate it on the spare bed Harrison’s turned into a couch. I crutch over and pick up the camera and lean on the side of the couch-bed to rest.
At this point, both of my legs are shaking from exertion, excitement, and overall exhaustion. I think between doing more than my Nash-assigned physical therapy assignment, and spending so long getting ready for the party with Laura, and now all this emotional worry about how and when I’m supposed to kiss Harrison Shaw, my body is telling me I’ve overdone it.
Actually, my left side is telling me it’s done. Literally.
I slide my phone out of my back pocket and text Harrison: Hey. I know this sounds like a line or something, but…
He texts back quickly: Oh I hope it’s a line. ;)
Me: I’m in your room and would you mind meeting me back here for the ice cream?
Him: Yes. Oh yes. Please let this be a line.
Me, grinning: LOL. You’re ridiculous. I don’t think I can do the firefly photos tonight. My legs are refusing to cooperate. I’d leave retreat to room, but I actually can’t walk at all right now. It happens to me sometimes and I hope this is not awkward for you. I’m sorry.
Him: Of course. No problem. I’m sorry I left you, had no idea. I’ll be there soon. I’m at the register. Do you need me to bring ice packs or ibuprofen or…something?
Me: No. I only need time, unless you stumble across a different body that comes without CP. Days like this make me really jealous of how hermit crabs get to swap shells, you know?
In a couple of seconds, he replies: I really kind of like your body, as is. It’s gorgeous. And I’m super turned on by the idea you can’t leave my bed right now. Just saying.
Me: Flirt. I’m not on your bed. I’m on the extra side-bed thing you made.
Him: Even better. That’s my make out couch! :) :) :)
Me: You should know, I use my crutches like weapons.
Him: Sexy. Way hotter than that bow Katniss Everdeen uses. Does that mean you’re hitting on me first? Ha! Get it? Hitting. On me. Hahhh.
A whole bunch of nervous giggles settle at the back of my throat, only to sneak out involuntarily as I place my crutches to the side. Now that I have permission, I flop all of my weight onto the couch, and I’m overtaken with that yummy Harrison Shaw smell. I realize the pine trees and flannel scent—the smell I associate with Harrison Shaw’s sexy—is actually coming off this oval glass candle he’s got on a side table. I’ve never seen a candle that looks like this. It’s got a wide wick made of what appears to be a thin slice of wood. It also looks expensive, as if it belongs in a fancy hotel or burning on a shelf in a fancy catalogue, not in a guy’s dorm room.
Me: Can I light your cool candle?
Him: Does that text read extra suggestive to you, or is it just me? Light up…anything you want.
Me: SHUT UP.
Him: Right. Right. Of course light the candle. It’s cool because the wick crackles and snaps like it’s a tiny fireplace. Ice cream by candlelight. Our official remade first date. Aww. My heart’s all pitter-pat.
I find the lighter and light the candle. Me: Okay. You can stop being a dork. But…
Then me again: My heart is pitter-pat too. We have to remember not to miss the 10PM curfew though. ;)
Him: Is that a suggestive winky-face or just a ha-ha winky-face? Like do you want to miss the curfew. ;) ;) ;)!
Shaking my head, I refuse to answer. He knows we won’t miss the curfew because missing curfew would mean we’d be out of the WOA scholarship running. The candle warms up, filling the room with Harrison’s own pine-tree smell. My stomach flips up, then down, and my thoughts scatter in a million directions, each one attached to pine trees and the butterflies surging through my chest right now.
Do I want to—do I really want to kiss this guy tonight?
My phone lights up with another text from him: You have no idea what you, lounging around and lighting candles in my empty dorm room, is doing to my head. I’m actually trying not to sprint across the quad right now. You okay?
I text back: Yeah. Of course. And resist the urge to scoop up all of my stuff and limp-crutch-RUN the heck out of this room. Instead, I vow to handle this. For once I will be cool. This is a college dorm. I’m a newly minted high school senior. Practically an adult, here. I need to act like I can handle this. Harrison obviously can, because he’s flirting with me even over. I stare at my phone, racking my brain for something to type that would equalize our flirty banter. But I’ve got nothing.
*Tries not to be worried about bad breath! Hopes crazy things like maybe he’s bought us mint-chocolate ice cream at the very least.*
My nervousness ignites my classic spastic response, so when I stand I bump into the table and the candle threatens to go over. I save it but knock his entire side table sideways, and a huge pile of papers spills to the floor out of the little storage cubby under the table. Worse, the candle goes out.
*Groans: So much for setting the romantic scene and so much for checking the mirror one last time before he arrives.*
Sighing, I grab one of my crutches and use it like an awkward cane so I can go after the papers without winding up flat on my face. Forget flirty texts. Nothing says sexy to a new boyfriend than his girl flat on her face on top of his papers.
I’m trying to be all quick and efficient, which for me never really works out. Just as I’m gathering everything into a pile, I go for one huge heroic reach so I can get the last few into my stack. That move twists my bad leg into a very wrong position, and the pain of it has me gasping and seeing spots.
It’s all I can do to crawl back onto the couch-bed thing, groaning and clutching the papers for dear life. The light from my cell phone shows me I’ve crumpled Harrison’s papers possibly beyond repair, but now I need more light to see if—or what—I can possibly fix. Sadly, the space between me and the light switch near the door seems to measure about million miles, and there’s no way I can get there right now after what I just did.
Not even one or two steps.
Grimacing, I get myself into a half-normal position on the bed next to the little side table. I wedge my back against the wall, and support my upper body, especially my spazzed-out left side, which is only half responsive right now thanks to the pain surging all over. My calf has balled into an angry blob, which is also not the best look when you’re trying to show off your sexy, because it looks like how snakes look when they swallow whole rabbits. I have to position myself in a way that makes it look as though I’m sitting comfortably, even though I’m not. I tuck my turned-in left arm and twisted hand against a pillow, smoothing out my fingers as much as I can. Then I use the edge of the paisley tapestry bedspread to cover the ugly calf. If I can just sit tight here, all of this—and all of me—hopefully will relax while he and I are eating the ice
cream. Maybe he won’t notice.
I sigh in frustration as the pain surges even higher.
So much for a first date. Poor Harrison. I want to kiss him and tell him now he’s my really helped my heart by making me laugh, feel alive, beautiful—wanted. I want to give him something back, and I don’t want CP to be a part of any of it—and it’s taking over the entire night.
I straighten my legs and turn both my ankles around and around. Tears spring into my eyes as my calf threatens to cramp up even tighter.
*Shouts: Stop! Stop! Stop! I will rescue this date. I will!*
On my fifth ankle turn, I feel the calf begin to release. I can pull enough air through the pain that I manage to reach for the candle and the lighter and get it to light again.
The wooden wick crackles and flickers into a double-wide flame and illuminates the room more. My eyes go to the crumpled papers strewn all over my lap. Most of them seem to be blank. I’m overcome with guilt and stack them into a pile. When I stack the last three, I realize they’re printouts containing thumbnails of the twenty Frozen Trees shots Patrick, Cam, Laura, and I took to win the contest.
On closer inspection, I realize it’s just a printout of what the Western Ontario Arts School had put on their website to feature our first-place win. He’s penciled our names in on the top of the pages: Ellen Foster, Camden Campbell, Patrick Gable, and Laura London. Only…my name…my name’s been circled around with the shape of a heart and he’s added the words: This girl. This girl. Amazing eyes. Shy. Very, very, very pretty. Fingers crossed…crush.
I think, Awww…
“Are you decent?” Harrison’s voice echoes jokingly in from the hallway.
Akkk! My heart races, and I feel suddenly really guilty, like I’ve been caught rifling through his underwear drawer or something.
“Oh…um…yeah.” I shove the printouts of our project to the bottom of the stack and then get all of it under the side table just as Harrison kicks the door open the rest of the way. He enters the room holding two blue, foil-wrapped, straight-out-of-the-freezer Chocolate Swirl GiantCones on the flats of his hand, like he’s some sort of fancy waiter.
“Dessert is served, my lady.”
“Oh. I love those things!”
He kicks the door closed behind him with his un-booted leg and drops the butler act, hopping toward me, grinning.
I grin back, my crush on him doubling, tripling, because the image of him circling my name with a heart won’t leave my mind. “You’re so cute when you hop around with that boot in the air like you do.”
“Please let the record show I’m not returning your direct compliment by commenting on how gorgeous, warm, and cozy-cuddly hot you look in my bed with your blushing cheeks.”
“I’m not blushing.” I blush harder. “And it’s not your bed!”
“Okay. Okay.” Without even a shred of hesitation, he hops up right next to me on the couch and copies how I’m sitting with my legs dangling off the edge of the couch. “I’ve been thinking about switching my bed to this side of the room. So…it’s almost my bed. And after tonight, well.” He glances with a sad look over to his neatly made bed on the other side of the room. “How can I ever go back there when this part of the room has just become extremely memorable?” He unwraps my ice cream cone, adding, “I got the kind with no peanuts, because you know…”
I take it from him and wait while he unwraps his. “Oh, I do know. Those little peanut bits would be…going just everywhere and in every direction right now…” I’m staring at the warm flickers of teasing fun inside his golden brown eyes.
“And all over my bed? And down my shirt!” He winks. “We’d have to get them all out.”
“Do you ever stop?” I laugh.
He raises an eyebrow, and his eyes shift so they are blatantly, boldly staring at my lips. Most of the air seeps out of my lungs.
“I stop when I get what I want.” He takes a huge bite of his cone, eyes not once leaving my lips.
*Holy…mother…of…help…me but this guy is so…*
I shake my head, and because I’m suddenly tongue-tied and dying, I take a bite of my cone as if he’s not just melted every inch of my spine into goose bumps. As if he needs to tear his gaze off me, he turns some to the side and relaxes back next to me against the wall.
I stare at his boot and he’s staring at mine.
Finally, after a few more bites of our ice cream, he says, “You will probably bust on me forever about this, and you will say I’m using one of my lines, but if we’re going to be sitting for a long time…should we…can we…remove our…black metal boots?”
I glance over and see that it’s his turn to blush, and suddenly I’m smiling. “Oh, God. Please. Yes!”
“Here.” He laughs and hands me the lower half of his ice cream cone to hold. Within two seconds he’s leaned forward and undone the huge Velcro straps off his boot. He lets it fall to the floor and moves his legs up to crisscross next to me. I try hand him the two ice cream cones so I can undo mine, but before I can blink, he’s taken my leg onto his lap and he’s undoing my Velcro straps like this is totally a normal thing to be doing!
“Oh. Um.” I swallow, trying to pull away. “You might not want to get such a close view. The scars are way worse on this side, plus it’s all skinny and weak because of the break. It’s so—I’m so—messed up. Maybe I should leave it on.”
His hands freeze on the third and final strap, and he traps my gaze in his for a second before he puts my booted leg aside and slowly uncovers the leg I’ve been hiding from him in the blankets. He runs a strong, tanned finger down the leg that’s not in the boot. I gasp as he gently traces over each and every scar that’s on my CP-side ankle. “More scars than this tiny ankle?”
I nod, shivering and blushing because of how he’s touching me. I meet his gaze dead-on, keeping my uncaring expression in place. I can only hope this guy has no idea that this moment has crumbled every bit of wall I’d built up to keep people away from my heart. “Yes. More. And…you’ll have to know that…like…hanging out with me is sort of a commitment. In addition to having the stamina of a flea and crap balance, I’m sort of covered in all of these ugly scars. Inside and out.”
“Ellen, do you really think I’m the kind of person who cares about any of that?” He picks up my booted leg again. “Trust me.”
I nod, but turn my eyes away from his because I don’t have the courage to watch his eyes going over what he’s going to see underneath that boot. Thankfully my spastic calf isn’t hurting anymore. I feel the boot on my leg come all the way off and hear it clump onto the floor. My chest flips then grips with fear as I hear him let out a low whistle. “Holy sweet Jesus. I’m such an asshole for making you walk down any stairs ever. I’m an asshole for making you walk anywhere at all. How do you get around with all this going on?”
“Crutches?” I shrug. “I have really strong shoulders and I don’t weigh that much.”
I want to go on and tell him how lucky I am. To be able to walk at all when you have CP is the luckiest thing of all…but I can’t speak or move or breathe. That’s because I feel his fingers tracing the scars along this ankle, just like he did the other, only he’s so very gentle, like he’s afraid he’s going to hurt me. Eventually, that hand works its way back up and over my knee, and then with both hands, he shifts my other leg gently to match up with the one he’s let out of the boot, so both of my knees are bent over his crossed legs.
I’m so close to him now, and thoroughly embarrassed. I’m also well past nervous, to the point where I’ve definitely crumbled to bits. I move to hand him his ice cream back, but suddenly he’s got his hands on both of my cheeks. He’s pulling me toward him, and I’m letting him.
His lips are soft and warm, and when I return his kiss I feel him smile against my lips. I relax, that urge to giggle returning as I breathe in, deepening the kiss and recognizing the pine smell that’s all over him. Aside from me holding back the question as to how he manages to smell exactly l
ike his candle, and aside from the fact that I should get some sort of a medal for kissing him for this long, all while making sure the ice cream melting out of the cones doesn’t get out of control, I realize this kiss is really nice. It’s sweet, and the way he’s so gentle is super romantic. Totally different than…
*Shoves back thoughts about the past. Tries not to think that this might be missing some sort of magic. Kisses him harder. Better. Longer.*
We stay kissing like that, my lips against his, our breath mingling, me trying to learn some of him, and him trying to learn some of me until I pull back and hand him his ice cream cone.
“My, but hot girls with sexy scars are also really good kissers. Who knew?” He winks, taking a huge bite out of the cone just before a huge glop hits his lap.
I laugh, also trying to eat my ice cream cone quickly before it gets all over his…bed. “It’s a secret,” I say, with my mouth full. “As the only girl here with CP, please don’t out me or I’ll be swarmed with stalkers. It happens all the time.”
He leans back, acting as if he’s pleased with himself. “I’m the happiest guy in this entire school. Does this make us official…like…?”
“Like…officially good kissers, because you seem to have passed that test, Harrison Shaw.”
He grins at the compliment. “Do we have to put a label on it? Us?”
“No. Of course not.”
I’m watching his reactions through my lashes. His shoulders slump a little, but he covers with a dry laugh. “Just…want to be sure I’m front of the line should any of those stalkers start knocking down your door because…to me…that kiss was the best kiss I’ve ever had.”
“Aww…”
He picks up my hand and turns it over on his lap. “Didn’t you feel…something?” He levels me with this sad, worried look. For the first time, those teasing light eyes aren’t quite so sparkling. Maybe I’ve just crushed him completely simply because I don’t have any self-confidence about what it is I’m feeling about him. I feel so guilty, so I lean over and plant another quick, soft kiss on top of his very cute frown, racking my brain for sentences that will ring true for him and for the confusion in my heart.