Sparrows For Free

by Lila Felix

  “Now push whatever button so we can get this crap over with.”

  He chuckles, “Even crap sounds weird coming from you.”

  Eventually, we reach the floor where my office was. I cringe and decide that nothing I had in my stupid desk was worth facing those people again.

  “Let’s just,” I begin.

  “Let’s just go in there, get your stuff and leave. You made me face one of my demons. I’m returning the favor.”

  As I approach the desk, I find it’s already occupied by someone else. My things are haphazardly thrown into a box near the desk.

  “Well, that was easy.” But as soon as I mutter the words, Harvey eyes me through his glass office door and makes a path straight for me.

  “Hello, Aysa. Let me introduce you to Meredith, my new assistant. She knows her place and understands the wrong and right way to run an office.”

  Poor Meredith. She hasn’t a clue.

  “Nice to meet you, Meredith.”

  I do have manners, after all—and it’s not her fault. She waves me off without even a glance. Ezra has my box in his arms now and we both turn back toward the elevator.

  “Maybe at your next job you’ll learn some manners.”

  Ezra stops in his tracks, turns and hands me the box slowly. The air around us turns aggressive, filled with fury. His eyes darken and request permission from mine. “Don’t, Ezra,” slips from my lips.

  Before I can stop whatever was about to happen, Ezra has Harvey pinned to his fingerprint laden glass door. His words aren’t loud enough for everyone to hear, but there is no doubt the agenda behind them. Harvey is shaking like a leaf as he nods now and then at Ezra’s commands. Huge drops of sweat begin to bubble at the edges of his comb-over. Then as soon as it begins, it’s over. Harvey ducks quickly into his office and cowers behind his desk.

  I stand dumbstruck and have a hard time moving when Ezra returns to me and retrieves the box.

  “What did you say to him,” I beg.

  “Come on, let’s leave before I get a second wave.”

  He grabs my hand, and next thing I know we’re at my car. The elevator ride down wasn’t half as exciting as it was going up.

  “Are you hungry? Let me take you to breakfast.”

  “Don’t change the subject. What did you say to him?”

  He shrugs, “I just gave him some things to think about. Like how brilliant and dedicated you are. And how you could easily press sexual harassment charges against him—because you’re beautiful and he resembles a toad. No one would question you.”

  I scoff, “You did not.”

  “I did. I also threatened him that if he gave anything but glowing recommendations for you, for your next job, that I would hunt him down and tie him up by the balls using his very ugly tie.”

  What begins as a giggle soon turns into a full-on, doubled over, belly laugh. Tears run down my face, and I have to hold onto Ezra’s arm for balance. He joins me soon after, and we spend a while just coming down from the laughter high.

  “That’s the best laugh I’ve had in forever,” he says.

  “Me too. We should do more of that.”

  “We really should;” He sobers.

  “Let’s do more normal things today,” he suggests. “Let’s go to breakfast, catch a movie and then go to a real park where you can swing.”

  “You don’t have to work today,” I ask.

  “I took the day off. I also haven’t done that in years. I’m trying to turn over a new leaf here, Aysa. Cut me a break.”

  We stand there, outside my car, for a few minutes of calm until my stomach rumbled.

  “I have to tell you something really important,” I whisper, giving him my best resting serious face.

  “Tell me,” he murmurs back, mimicking my attitude change.

  “I’m in dire need of banana pancakes.”

  “Only if you let me drive,” he snatches my keys away and makes a break for the driver’s side.

  We get in, and he throws my stuff in the back seat. I take the opportunity to really observe him while he’s driving. In my car, he looks like a giant. His shoulders are huge, taking up most of his seat, extending past the edge of the driver’s side seat. I giggle a little to myself at his reading Harvey the riot act.

  I cover my overthinking of everything by turning on the radio. It’s set to the classic rock station. He surprises me by singing along with Chicago. I wish I could say the lyrics he so wholeheartedly sings are directed at me, but they are just sung without a care. I think that’s more important. I decide that seeing Ezra laughing and singing like he didn’t carry the whole world on his shoulders is more important than anything he feels for me. Because even the little things he’s done, caring for my wounds from gravity, letting me hide with him, and just generally giving me something to live for other than my job and my cabinet—have made me fall for him in a way I never thought possible.

  You see, I thought I was incapable of any emotional attachment other than my father. Yet here I am, finding myself growing tentacles of attachment to Ezra—this guy who bears the guilt of thousands, yet belts out Chicago in my miniscule car.

  I’ve seen in the movies and on TV where people obsess over whether or not the other person loves them back. Watching him happy for the first time makes me know, down deep in my heart where only solitude and solemnity have made their home for so long, his joy trumps anything else I could wish for him—or me—or us.

  We arrive at the restaurant, and he holds me back from exiting the car while he finishes the song, now by Boston.

  The song finally ends, and he turns to me; “I love Classic Rock,” he says as if it’s a new revelation.

  “Apparently you do. Did you forget?”

  “I did. How stupid. I’ve been listening to heavy metal and death metal, but I don’t think I really like it. Knox was right.”

  “Knox, your brother?”

  He motions for us to exit the car; “Yeah, I saw him last night. He said I don’t even know who I am without Mara. And he’s right. I don’t.”

  “Well, let’s find out.”

  He beams down at me as he takes my hand for the second time; “You’ll help me? The look on his face is in earnest. He has no idea that I’d help him do anything to help him from drowning.

  “I will.”

  “Thank you.”

  The rest of the day is spent doing everyday things. We pick the romantic comedy instead of the action film since he usually avoids them. He blasts the Classic Rock station in between every place we go.

  That afternoon we ended up at the park, but it is crowded with the after school kids needing to spend all their pent up energy.

  “What else do you like to do?”

  He slips into a thought process while we watch boys chase girls while they play—and girls pretend not to care.

  “I used to play the drums,” he says out of the blue.

  “Really? When.”

  “In high school. I was even in a band called the Rotten Apples.”

  I laugh at that, “And what happened?”

  “I don’t know.” He seems concerned like a person who got to work in the morning but didn’t remember stopping at any stoplights or even making the turns. He’s here with me, but he has no idea how he got to this place in his life. He looks so confused that it brings me to the brink of tears. No one should live this way.

  “Do you have drums?”

  He lights up at that; “I do. They’re at my parents’ house.”

  “Let’s go get them;” I jumped up and pretended, for his sake, to be excited about the beating of beats.

  He seems hesitant, and I wonder if this was another thing that calls for the presence of Gray. My gut tells me it is.

  “Yeah, let’s go,” he says, surprising me.

  His parents’ house is your run of the mill place. I don’t expect that. What I expect is a standard neighborhood association worthy home with two perfect golden retrievers and one Chihuahua, just for k
icks. It’s a brick home with a well-manicured lawn and two plain white mid-size sedans in the driveway.

  “My parents both work from home,” he answers before I asked the question.

  “I’ll just stay in the car,” I preempt, not wanting to hear him tell me that he didn’t want me to go in with him.

  “No, come in. I want you to meet them.”

  “Okay,” I get out and follow him at a distance.

  Ezra

  This is scary. My parents have pretty much stayed out of my social life since the fallout with Kylie. My mom dances around it sometimes but never asks straight up.

  I have to admit, it’s gonna be funny to see their faces when I bring Aysa in.

  Not bothering to knock, I walk in with Aysa in tow. I round the corner carefully. My parents are very loving, and I don’t want Aysa to see that much of my parents yet.

  I peek around, clearing my throat, the universal sign for ‘quit making out’. Both surprised, they turn around in their leather swivel chairs and smile like I’m their favorite child.

  “Ezra, what a great…” my mom’s voice dies off when she sees Aysa. “And who might this be?”

  “Mom, Dad, this is Aysa. We’ve been dating.” I look to Aysa for approval on my introduction to which she nods.

  “So nice to meet you, Aysa,” Mom and Dad stand both grabbing her in hugs instead of the more formal handshake.

  “I came to get my drums, if that’s okay.” I tell both of them. They say sure and try to be cool, but I see the glimmer of emotion at my request for them.

  Aysa follows me to my room, my room that has remained the same since high school. I am embarrassed to bring her here, but thrilled at the same time. Mara never wanted to hang out here. She always wanted to go to a party or a pep rally.

  She was all about the excitement.

  As Aysa inspects my room, I feel like she was inspecting me. As I take down the drum set, I realize it wasn’t me at all anymore. I hate the comforter. I hated the movies whose posters hung on the walls. Hell, I even hate the color of the walls. She sits on my bed while I finish getting my stuff together.

  “This isn’t that big of a town. Why didn’t I see you in high school?”

  “Because I went to private school,” she shrugs.

  “If you were in my school, I would’ve killed to have a girl like you on my bed.”

  “Trust me, Ezra. If I went to your school, you wouldn’t have known I was alive. It was my goal in life in high school to be one with the wall.”

  I want to kiss the hell out of her when she says stuff like that, but I’m determined to give her a proper date before kissing her again—per her wish.

  I take several trips getting back and forth to her car, loading it all in the trunk. We decide to drop the drums off at my apartment before going back to hers. Gray is home. I can see her car in the parking lot.

  Walking across the threshold, Gray is in her sweats, rocking out to Guitar Hero.

  “What have we here,” she asks, referring to my drums.

  “Do you remember when I used to play drums? I miss that. I’m gonna start up again.”

  “Oh, that’s great,” she says a little too enthusiastically.

  I take the time to set up the drums while Gray and Aysa chat in the other room. They use hushed tones, so I try not to listen. I don’t need to hear any of their girl talk. With the drums all set up, I go back into the living room, but Gray is already gone.

  “Where’d she go?”

  “Um—she went to her room—I’m gonna go.”

  Her face is flushed, and her eyes are darting again. I haven’t seen her do that in a week or so.

  “What’s wrong?” I kneel on the floor in front of her while she fidgets on the couch.

  “I just want to go home.”

  “Okay,” I agree, not wanting to push her anymore. “Can we still hang out? I don’t have to go to work tomorrow. I took the rest of the week off.”

  She nods, “Can you stay with me tonight?” Her voice falters with the question.

  “I’d love to. Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  I run into my room and pack a backpack with clothes for the next day. Laughing at myself, I pack pajama pants and actually looked forward to sleeping on her couch. The circumstances were so different with Aysa. Maybe it was just a different maturity level, but sleeping with her was on the back burner.

  Aysa was different. She makes me want to be better—to do this all right.

  I go back into the living room, and she’s pacing in front of the door, keys in hand. I take them from her and guide her to the car. She’s worrying me a bit by being so quiet, but I chalk it up to asking me to stay with her.

  “Hey,” I reach over and grab her hand, “You’re not talking.”

  “I’m sorry. I was just thinking about some things.”

  “Anything you want to talk about?”

  She shakes her head, ‘no’.

  She stays quiet most of the night. Once we eat dinner, she finally begins to get back to her normal self. The whole thing seems off. But I’m grateful to have her back again.

  I find out another thing about Aysa that night. She doesn’t eat olives, claiming they taste like licorice. They all get piled from her slice to mine. I keep the conversation focused on her and by doing so learn so many tiny bits about her that I’m sure will one day come in handy.

  Like she doesn’t drink milk, unless it’s chocolate milk.

  She hates her own couch.

  She is frightened of nail salons.

  And then there’s the things she doesn’t say that I soak up even more than the things she does. It’s these little pieces of her that I’m slowly, but surely adding to the ever growing feelings I have for her. The way she folds her pizza in half and eats it like a New Yorker even though she’s never been north of South Carolina. She dances on her tip toes while waiting for things like a video to cue up or the pizza guy to get our pizza out of his carrying case.

  She’s like a walking, talking miracle to me.

  It’s in the middle of my observation when she stop talking and grabs my hand. It doesn’t slip past me that this is the first time she’s initiated holding my hand. It brings me back to junior high when a girl, I don’t even remember her name, held my hand at a dance.

  “Saturday night, we should go to the theater after hours. The have a ghost hunting tour.”

  I laugh, “What is it with you and ghosts?”

  She rose to pick up our dinner mess; “I should ask you the same thing.”

  Well, that stings.

  We clean up after ourselves and then she flips channels on the TV, deciding on one of those cheesy science fiction channels where all of the costumes are fake and so are the actors.

  What she does next shocks the hell out of me. She turns off all the lights and grabs a blanket from the hall closet—and then she curls in next to me with no hesitation.

  And I melt.

  After weird combinations of sharks, Yetis, and aliens, my eyelids begin to close. I look down to see that Aysa is already asleep. Moving as stealthily as I can, I bring her to her bed and tuck her in after taking off her shoes. There are some hairs stuck to her face, and as I move them away, I realize they are stuck to dried streams of tears. She was crying while we watched the movies, and I didn’t even notice. What kind of an asshole doesn’t notice a girl crying right next to him?

  Me.

  This asshole right here.

  I turn to head for the living room when her cold hand encircles my wrist; “Stay,” she whispers.

  Not even bothering to answer, I shuck my shoes and my shirt, climbing in the other side of the bed, jean-clad. I lay there for the longest time just letting the day pass through my head. My arms are crossed behind my head. I feel the weight shift on the other side of the bed and witness Aysa doing some kind of hermit crab imitation.

  “Are you cold,” I whisper, pulling the covers higher onto her shoulders.

  She no
ds. There are already four blankets on her, so I scoot in her direction and begin rubbing her back just to get her warmer.

  An unrecognizable sensation covers me, tingles through my body and shoves everything else out of the way. This, right here, showing someone compassion and taking care of someone else—that’s what I want to be doing. And I think that as beautiful and loving as Aysa is, she could have her choice of anyone in the world to share this time with—share her bed with. Yet despite all the shit I’ve put her through in a short amount of time—she’s chosen me. Why in the eff she would ever choose me is beyond all reason. This is what I want. I want to spend my time, my energy, my money, making sure that this woman is taken care of.

  I’ve never felt like this about anyone.

  If she wants to spend the rest of her life lying here—I’d stay with her.

  If chasing ghosts and hiding in cabinets is what it takes to make her happy—I’ll do it.

  If changing my life, not who I am, but the life I lead, makes her want to stay with me—consider it done.

  Well, consider it in progress.

  Lost in my thoughts, I don’t realize that, for a few seconds, she’s been awake, watching me.

  “What are you thinking about,” she asks, pulling my hand from her back and moving it to her face.

  “Just thinking about things I need to do.”

  “Like?”

  “Like visiting Mara’s parents and trying to finally close that gap. It’s time to move on. I didn’t realize that until you came along. You’ve changed everything.”

  With a jerk, she pulls the covers over her head. Hiding again. Pulling back the comforter, I open my arms and am scared to death of her rejection.

  “Come hide here,” I say low enough that it doesn’t spook her.

  She hesitates, and it crushes me. She makes me work for everything. That’s what is really different about her. She doesn’t give me the benefit of the doubt—she doubts it all first. I have to prove my worth to her—if I even have any.

  Aysa makes me feel like there just might be some worth in there after all.

  “You’re safe with me.”

  “Am I?” She searches for the answer in my eyes.

  “Yes.”

  She moves toward me and nestles her face in the crook between my neck and my collar bone. The rest of her falls in line flush with me. Like this, I can breathe her in as she lulls back to sleep. I tuck the covers around us and fall asleep out of contentedness—instead of physical exhaustion.