by Claire Cain
It was important to know, Ellie was not a hopeless romantic. If anything, she was a painfully pragmatic person who could be dispassionate in her professional life, but on the subject of me and Luke, she’d been theorizing we were meant to be together since I first told her about him my freshman year of college. We were roommates, a cosmic pairing thanks to the gods of housing, and we never separated. We grew close those years, kept in touch while I was in Boston, and reunited when I returned and she was still plugging away at her PhD. We saw each other weekly, if not every few days, while we were in New York, and the impending loss of her was something I’d chosen not to fully deal with.
“Ok, getting ahead of yourself much? We are not getting married or having babies. He kissed me once. He is in the Army. He is Luke.” And I maybe can’t fall in love. I sighed.
She could hear my unspoken concern.
“I hear that sigh. I know you’re sitting there starting to wallow. Starting to think of Marcus-with-the-goatee and wondering if you’re broken. You cannot think like that. It has been over three years since you broke up with Marcus, and it’s time to let yourself be interested in someone again.” Her voice was stern and I could just picture her face, her long brown hair piled on top of her head in a bird’s nest of a bun anchored by two Bic medium-point blue pens, her glasses framing her big brown eyes. I was now talking to Professor Kent, who was bent on me never giving up on my dreams.
“There was nothing wrong with Marcus. He wanted me. He committed to me. I committed to him. So why couldn’t I just go for it with him, and what makes me think I’d be any different with Luke?” I felt my anxiety rising in my throat, a kind of panic creeping up from the back of my knees all the way to my neck.
“Stop. Just stop! Marcus was so far from right for you, it’s not even funny. You two were a lovely couple on paper, sure. But he was no more interesting than one of my freshman students’ persuasive essays on lowering the drinking age. First, I don’t think you were ever in love with him—I think you liked him a lot and found him very agreeable, fairly attractive, and acceptably nice at a time when you were lonely and wanted to be with someone. But beyond that, I think you were too young, you weren’t ready to turn down a huge job opportunity and go follow him around for his job. And—”
“Exactly! And Luke is in the Army. He’s not going to be at Fort Campbell forever. I don’t know if he’ll even be there a whole year. So what am I going to do? Become some slumming girlfriend who follows her Army boyfriend around the country and gives up her own career and choices and life?” I spat the words at her before I realized how angry I sounded.
“Alex, calm down. First of all, as you pointed out, it was one kiss and one date. Second, you don’t know what’s going to happen. Don’t disqualify the possibility. And third, Luke is an entirely different person than Marcus, and you are a different person now too.” Her voice was soothing, understanding, and made me remember how amazing she was at talking me down. Thank God someone was because me and myself were experts at riling me up and opening the door to the spiral staircase of madness.
“Ok, ok. Thank you, voice of reason.” I took a deep breath and rolled my neck from side to side attempting to release the tension.
“Plus, Luke is insanely hot. Founding member of the white hat club hot. And that’s me talking based off of a photo from like a decade ago. I can only imagine what he looks like now,” she said, her voice a little far off and dreamy.
In junior high, a camp counselor had told me that all “hot guys” wore white hats. It wasn’t like the heroic white hat thing—it was like ball cap white hat. After that, I started noticing she was right—and it just so happened that my prime example was my dear friend Luke, who had, late in our eighth grade year, acquired a white baseball cap he wore even after his baseball season was over. It worked for him. So began my reference to the white hat club and anyone who might be a member.
“Oh El, it’s painful. He is too good-looking. I’m not even joking. When we walked into the restaurant, the first few tables that noticed us literally stopped talking. One woman paused with her fork halfway to her mouth to check him out. Her buffalo shrimp was just hanging there, abandoned midair in the face of Luke’s beauty.” I covered my eyes with my hand and sighed.
Great. Now I’d become some sighing woman swooning after her beau even in retrospect.
“I need a picture, stat. I require it. But I do have to ask you—do you think part of the attraction is the history? Knowing that you wanted him so much before, but have never had the opportunity? Or, you know what I mean—the timing wasn’t right?” I could still hear the spike of excitement in her voice, like she could tell we’d remember this conversation down the road, or when she was toasting at our wedding. I knew how her mind worked.
“I am positive our history plays into my attraction to him. But I’m also positive that someone with absolutely no knowledge of his existence would be dumbstruck at the sight of him if they weren’t on guard.” He didn’t go unnoticed, that was for sure.
“Damn. Ok, so Luke is a definite contender. What’s the plan now?”
“I guess I call him when I get to Nashville.”
“Have you two ever talked on the phone? For that matter, have you addressed why you didn’t really even speak for a decade?” Her questions were valid, but I didn’t want to deal with them. I felt tired, worn down by the adrenaline rushes of the evening and my twisted, fearful heart.
“We haven’t. I think we both know what happened. Or at least, I do. We saw each other before I left, and it was great, but then we went our separate ways, and I know for me, I couldn’t be the one to reach out to him first again. I wrote him like, twenty letters while he was in basic training. He thanked me for them, but I kind of felt like it was his move.”
“Ok, but you did email here and there…”
“Yeah, I heard he went to Iraq. I was home over the summer after my junior year and my dad mentioned it, just tossed it out there like I already knew. I was shocked, I’d had no idea. I knew he’d commissioned the year before, but I didn’t know. So I tracked down his mom and got his email address and emailed him. We emailed back and forth a few times, and then it dropped off again when I moved and met Marcus. After that, we ran into each other and it was awkward and quick—I was with Marcus and I think he had a girlfriend, so it seemed weird to reconnect then, you know? Felt like a betrayal of my relationship to Marcus to reach out to Luke because for me…”
“I know, my friend. I know.”
Luke: So good to see you last week. Tell me what day you get to TN.
He waited a cool seven days before texting me. We’d agreed I would call him when I got to Nashville so I wasn’t expecting to hear from him. When I saw his text I smiled despite the many conversations I’d had with myself where I’d convinced myself we would just be friends. It was better, it was safer, and it just made sense.
Me: The 10th. Two weeks from today.
He might as well know now. Then maybe I wouldn’t have to call him, which would save me the embarrassment of sounding incredibly nervous on the other end of the line.
Luke: Ok. So I’ll see you the 10th.
Me: What? I definitely won’t be settled by then.
Luke: Of course you won’t. I’m helping you move in.
Me: I’m not sure you’re man enough.
Luke: Hey now, questioning my manhood before you’ve even experienced it? I call foul play.
The double entendre there was a bit too much to handle. I chose to ignore it. Also, why had I said anything about his manhood? Good grief, woman.
Me: Fine then. Come and do your worst. Be prepared for the full force of my cat lady tendencies.
Luke: You have a cat?
Me: Of course. What single female of a certain age doesn’t?
Luke: So you really are a cat lady. How many? 4? 5?
Me: Just the one. But his attitude makes up for his singularity. You’ll have to win him over if we’re going to be friends.
/> Luke: We already are friends.
Me: If we’re going to be friends who see each other in person more than once a decade.
Luke: Noted.
I spent hours running back and forth between the moving truck and my apartment in the oppressive southern heat, and all that remained were a few larger pieces of furniture. Since Luke volunteered to help, I didn’t have to hire anyone to help me with those. Hopefully soon I’d have some local friends, but for now, it was me and Lemon, my angry cat.
I drove as far as I could the night before which had been about two hours farther than I thought I’d get, and then was awake by five and couldn’t talk myself into staying in bed, so I guzzled gas station coffee, choked down a Nutri-Grain bar, and made it the last four hours. I arrived at nine that morning and as I met the landlord Lewis, a middle-aged man with gray hair and pleated khakis belted neatly at his belly button with a yellow and purple plaid shirt tucked in, I felt excitement crawling up my throat. By the time he left me and closed the door behind me, I couldn’t stop myself from twirling around in the slanting morning sun and letting out a relieved chuckle. It was as nice as the photos. The walls were all bright white, but I didn’t mind that. I had plenty of art and photos to hang to distract and add color, and once I got some curtains up, it’d be perfect. The living room faced east so in that first morning moment, it was lit with summer sun. It was absolutely freezing inside as Lewis had made sure the AC was set to a chilly sixty-two degrees for my arrival. I knew I’d thaw out eventually, especially once I began loading in boxes, which I certainly did since Nashville in early July was a bit like sitting in a steam room.
Once we were alone, I let Lemon out, his golden and white tail curling open and beginning his familiarization tour of the place. I wandered through again and ran my hand along the back of the tan couch, smiled at the bright white and yellow chair, and felt the relief at having those few things already in place. Lewis had very kindly received the furniture delivery from the store the day before. I didn’t have much space in my studio apartment in New York, so the move necessitated some new items, and I was so glad I wasn’t facing moving in those giant pieces.
After I spent a few minutes admiring the space, I started the unloading. I piled boxes on the dolly and scurried back and forth between the van and my blessedly ground-floor apartment with its own little porch and just two steps and a front door threshold to negotiate. It was essentially a single story row house, and so far, I loved it. As I backed my way into the living room once more I eyed the kitchen and smiled at Lemon who was sniffing around the sink, his hind legs still on the light marble countertop, his front paws and face invisible to me since they were tucked down into the basin of the farmhouse sink.
It was the kitchen that made me go for the place, and then the more I looked at it, the more I loved it. There was space. It had white cabinets on one wall and a counter running underneath them, and then the fridge on one end. Across from this there was a large center kitchen island with the deep, dreamy farmhouse sink and more countertops. On the far side of the island, there were two tall stools for sitting at the bar now tucked under the countertop. From the sink, where I’d certainly spend plenty of time, I could see directly into the living room since it was all one big room. To the left was the dining area and doorway, and farther to the left was the hallway down to the bedroom and bathroom.
It was so much space, more than double, compared to my studio in New York. It felt like an embarrassment of riches, particularly since my rent, even in this reportedly hip area of Nashville, wasn’t even quite ¾ of what it was in New York.
I off-loaded as many boxes as I could stand to before I got too tired and then took a break. I found my boxes of kitchen items where I’d stacked them next to the counter and unpacked those, knowing that having the kitchen settled would ground me. I had white plates because eating on too much color made me feel restless. I wanted to look at and taste the food, not feel like I was eating a pile of flowers or kittens or geometric shapes—whatever nonsense pattern people put on them. All of my appliances that came in a color, including my beloved KitchenAid professional mixer, were bright yellow. I had started adding bright yellow and light blue splashes in my New York place because it was dark and dingy. Here I found that the whole place was bright and these accents fit in well.
Before I knew it, the doorbell rang and I pulled myself away from the small pantry cabinet I was studying and mentally stocking with my favorite pantry staples. I was ready to get everything in its place. My new bed, couch, and chair were in place thanks to Lewis and the delivery guys the day before, but I didn’t have my desk or the small dining table or my coffee table, all of which were in the truck. I took a deep breath to steady myself and opened the door.
To that point, I’d managed to be distracted, and I was running on adrenaline anyway, so Luke’s arrival was less of a specter than it might have been if I wasn’t already up to my elbows in things to deal with. I was wearing a loose, threadbare t-shirt and running shorts. My long hair was pulled into a ponytail and little wisps were falling out in all directions in the wake of the work I’d been doing. I felt grimy and a little sweaty, but I decided the night he told me he was helping me move that I was not going to dress up or wear make up on the day I moved just because he was helping. That felt like a weird betrayal of reality and would definitely be a sign I wanted more than just his help moving. Nope, I was make-up free in functional clothes, and although I will admit to shaving my legs (A girl’s got standards. Please.), I will also submit that my hair was in a ravaged ponytail that I was not going to check in the mirror before he arrived.
And of course, I swung the door open to find Luke, looking impossibly handsome. In the three weeks since I’d seen him, he’d become even more appealing. He wore olive green shorts and a black Star Wars t-shirt that fitted just like a person would want a fitted shirt to fit. And yeah, I was staring at his perfectly toned chest but jerked my eyes to meet his face when he spoke.
“Welcome to Nashville!” he said with a pleased grin, clearly noticing how I’d devoured the sight of him. He held out his arms and I stepped into them, giving him just a quick hug because being that close to him was dangerous. He smelled like clean laundry and mint and something vaguely spicy. I could feel the magnetic pull of him on my bones and cursed them.
“Thanks. Come in for a sec, and then I’m going to put you to work.” I smiled at him as he stepped into my apartment, and I thought my face might crack because my smile was so wide. Apparently, my unconscious was displaying some real zeal at his presence. I tried to talk myself down internally as the bare-naked feeling of having him in my unsettled house hovered over me.
I tried to cover the bolt of nerves that rattled through me by continuing. “I like your shirt. I’m glad to see the years haven’t put a damper on your abiding love of Star Wars,” I said, trying to distract myself from him by making room for the other furniture we’d be bringing in. He was a Star Wars superfan from the age of four, so seeing him all these years later wearing a t-shirt with a Millennium Falcon on it was delightful. Maybe it should have been a red flag he hadn’t grown up, but there was no mistaking that Luke was an adult.
I pushed a stack of book boxes to the side of the little eating nook where my table would go, grabbed one of Lemon’s play mice, and tossed it down the hall, out of the way.
“My desire to be Han Solo will never die,” he assured me. He stepped farther inside and surveyed the boxes and things lying around the living room, and I chose not to watch him as he wandered. “Looks like you’ve made some good progress. When did you get in?” He strolled around the living room looking at the boxes strategically piled in different corners of the room.
“About nine this morning,” I said as I pushed three stacked boxes of cookbooks to the side of the dining room area.
“What? Why didn’t you call me and tell me to come earlier? I would have come.” He seemed genuinely hurt I hadn’t asked him to be there earlier. It was nearin
g five o’clock.
I straightened the pile of boxes and then wiped my hands on my dusty shorts. “No no no, don’t feel bad. I ended up driving a lot farther yesterday, and I was able to get here earlier. My landlord let in the deliveries yesterday, so I mostly just got the boxes and stuff. I’m living on adrenaline and coffee at this point, but I’m just ready to power through and get settled. I definitely still need your help.”
“Ok then, let’s do it.”
Chapter Six
“I can totally see you in Italy,” he said as we sat on the couch gorging ourselves on the pizza that had just arrived.
“I loved it. I loved every second. I will definitely go back. Being surrounded by the language, let alone the food… just dreamy. It’s like it’s sewn into my DNA,” I said as I took another gigantic bite. I was so hungry I could hardly see straight when we finally stopped for the night. Or maybe that was the exhaustion talking. Either way the pizza was manna from heaven, and I couldn’t consume it fast enough, though it was finally starting to hit bottom.
“Well your mother is Italian, so it actually is. I bet the Italian men were tripping over themselves to be your uomo.” His eyebrow ticked up teasingly. I gave my pulse a talking to when it jumped at his using one Italian word. But coming from his mouth when unexpected?
Oh hey.
“Certo. But it’s simply because I’m a woman and not for any other reason. I’ve decided that Italian men are the least discerning of any general male population I’ve encountered in that they just enjoy that women exist.” I shook my head remembering the many times I’d been shouted at. It rarely felt lascivious though—it was almost always in a kind of cheery appreciation for womankind. It felt completely different than American cat calls.