“I don’t know. It’s a dream. I haven’t figured out how to realize it yet. For now I’ll make do with imagining it,” I confess. “Why haven’t you unpacked yet? Jane says you’ve been living here for a few months.” Jared stares at me for a moment. I have the impression he knows I am not going to give up on getting to really know him, no matter how much he wants to hide.
“I’m not here to stay. It’s just a parenthesis in my life,” he finally gives in.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“It’s complicated,” he replies.
“Like almost everything about you,” I reply crankily, and he notices.
“I told you, this doesn’t end well,” he repeats, as if it were enough to say it a million times to convince me of the fact.
“You’re just playing it safe,” I point out.
“And you’re just naïve.”
“Better naïve than a coward.”
“And why do you say I’m a coward?”
“Because you’re afraid of exposing yourself, of letting people know you, as if you were afraid to discover life isn’t that bad after all. I mean, take a look around: you live in an apartment that looks like it’s uninhabited, you don’t have a water glass in your cupboard, you sleep on the couch and do nothing but work on who knows what. What are you afraid of? It looks like you’re hiding.”
“I’m not hiding!” he attacks me furiously. Anger flashes in his eyes.
“I don’t know why you obstinately insist on being unhappy,” I sweetly observe. I don’t want him to get mad, I just want him to understand.
“Not everyone deserves happiness, Gil,” he replies with a dejected sigh, his shoulders bent. “I’ve made some mistakes and now I have to fix them. Until I have done so, I cannot afford the distraction of being happy.”
“Is this about your job?”
“It’s about people, not just my job. I told you, it’s complicated. Can we talk about something else now, please?” He looks exhausted and… sad.
“Will you tell me about it one day?” Jared looks up at me, as if he didn’t expect my obstinacy.
“Believe me, you don’t want to know,” he finally says.
“Ok, we’ll come back to this. It’s your turn,” I choose to relieve the tension. I didn’t come here to irritate him, and I don’t think I’ll get any more out of him now if I insist. What matters is that he knows I’m here. Jared sighs, uncertain whether to continue the game or not. For a moment I fear he will kick me out of the apartment, until he speaks again.
“You said you love certainties, so why did you decide to open your own business? Is it one of those leaps in the dark you take without thinking?”
“No, this isn’t,” I admit with a smile. “Opening a shop of hats I craft myself is a dream I have cultivated for many years now, and finally I have the proper opportunity. The truth is that if something goes wrong, I don’t want to be able to say it was someone else’s fault. I don’t want my happiness and my personal and professional satisfaction to depend on someone other than me. It happened to my father, when he lost a job that was important to him and to which he had dedicated himself with passion for his entire life. It won’t happen to me, too,” I state with conviction. He listens to me and a bitter smile blossoms on his face.
“Beer?” I suggest with the sole intent of making him relax his frowning forehead. He picks up his glass, holds it out for me to fill, gulps it down in one breath, and with a nod beckons for me to fill it again.
“Anyhow, you may not deserve happiness, but you do deserve a comfortable bed,” I think out loud almost without noticing. Because it’s ok not to have a social life and spend the whole day locked in a dark apartment in front of a computer, but no one should deny themselves a bed to sleep on.
“Gil,” Jared is reproachful, an odd frown on his face and his full glass held in mid air.
“What’s the matter? I was just thinking.”
“It’s not funny,” he tries to preserve his serious expression without much success.
“Oh yes, it is,” I laugh, incapable of curbing my mirth.
“You’re the only one laughing,” he scolds with a fake scowl.
“Just because you don’t have enough practice,” I tease him with a smile.
“I have the feeling you will see to it that I bridge the gap.”
“It may well be,” I agree. “It all depends on how willing you are to learn.”
“Usually they say that learning depends more on the teacher’s skills than on the student’s.”
“Then you’re sitting pretty,” I reassure him. “First lesson: Saturday at the park. No playing hookie and no lazy bones, so you’d better be there. Eleven thirty sharp.”
“You’re not listening to me.”
“Oh, I’m listening to you. I just don’t care.” Clarity first and foremost.
“I have to work,” he reminds me in a singsong tone.
“I know. You’ve gotta learn to laugh a bit more. It’ll be a hard job, I won’t deny it, but with some time and serious commitment, I’m sure you can do it,” I quickly clear the issue. I drink down the last sip of beer, get up, and glance at my watch. “Oh, it’s already five. I’d better go. Are you going to wash the dishes?” Jared looks at me, then at the two strawberry decorated glasses on the table, and then at me again.
“Are you kidding me?”
“Ok, let me rephrase that: are you going to wash the glasses?” I snigger, amused.
“Get out of here before I change my mind and decide to kill you with an axe and hide the body under the bed.”
“You’re not using it anyway,” I remind him as I head for the door. I barely manage to open it when a balled up paper napkin grazes my arm and hits the wall.
“See you Saturday,” I ignore his attack. He replies with a grunt, but I know I’ve won this round.
9
“Good morning, Gil. Beautiful color, you’ve brought life back to this place!” Margherita exclaims enthusiastically popping her head through the door. I hadn’t even noticed someone had opened it. I drop the pencil with which I was taking down the last measurements to calculate the space for the furniture and get up off the floor.
“Margherita, what a pleasure to see you again!” I stride happily over to her. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her outside her apartment or Jane’s.
“Jane does nothing but praise this place since you began working on it and I couldn’t curb my curiosity any longer. I have to admit that she hadn’t done you justice,” she continues in admiration, her eyes sparkling as she casts her gaze around.
“Jane tends to exaggerate, but I see she’s not the only one,” I remark, since all she’s looking at is a nearly empty room, if you don’t count the ladder and the left-over paint buckets in a corner.
“I had never noticed how bright it was,” she ignores me, stepping over to the windows, which look very different now.
“It’s all the yellow’s doing.”
Margherita chuckles. “I’d say that you’re perfectly on schedule. At this rate I’ll be able to get my hat much sooner than I expected.”
“Yes, Sunday, Father is going to bring the wooden boards and we can begin to build the shelves and displays.”
“Build?” she asks, perplexed.
“Well, yes. We decided it was better to build them than to buy them ready made. We’ll save money and we can make them to our liking,” I explain with a smile.
“Is there anything you can’t do, Gillian?”
“Ride a bike,” and we both burst out laughing.
“About this weekend,” she resumes, wiping a tear from her eyes, “the day after tomorrow is Saturday, and Jane and I were thinking of organizing a barbecue on the terrace. Ernest will cook the meat. Would you care to join us?”
“Actually, Saturday I have a date with Jared. I have to teach him to have fun. We’re going to Interchange Park.”
“Hmm,” she comments thoughtfully. “I don’t know if you’ll
be able to keep that date.”
“Why?” I ask in alarm, while my mind races to images of Jared escaping far away just to avoid going out with me.
“Before coming down here, I was supposed to stop by and invite him to the barbecue too, but Jane informed me that it appears he has come down with the flu, so…” she leaves the sentence hanging.
“The flu? But I saw him Monday and he was fine,” I object.
“I don’t know, maybe he caught cold yesterday. Ernest says the temperature went down quite a bit and the wind was relentless.” It’s true, it was cold yesterday. Around noon it even poured, but nothing catastrophic – routine weather around here. I don’t see how this could have affected the health of a man who doesn’t even open the windows.
“But he never leaves the apartment,” I object without thinking.
“Actually, yesterday he did. Jane told me she saw him in a suit and tie,” she reveals in a whisper.
“A tie?” it’s very hard for me to imagine Jared in a tie, even if I have no doubt it would suit him wonderfully.
“Yeah, a business meeting.”
“With whom?”
“I have no idea and Jane didn’t ask.”
“Maybe I should go and see if he needs anything,” I ponder out loud.
“You care about him a lot, don’t you?”
“We’re friends,” I instantly protest without thinking.
“Oh, I know,” she says with who knows what innuendo.
“We’re really just friends,” I explain in embarrassment.
“And the fact that you continue to repeat it means that…” she looks at me victoriously. Why do I feel like I’ve been caught red-handed?
“It means it’s true,” I insist, quickly stepping out of the shop and mounting the stairs before Margherita can say anything else dangerous. She spends most of her time in the house too, but somehow she always manages to know everything about everyone.
Once I reach the door, I ring the bell and wait. Every second seems to last an eternity, until I hear the sound of the bolt and Jared appears before me. Saying his face is deathly pale doesn’t convey an adequate image, but somehow I still find him tremendously alluring. I mean: he’s wearing the same old stupid short sleeved t-shirt and faded jeans. What’s attractive about that?
“What do you want?” he asks in a nasal voice.
“Flu?”
“Can’t you tell?”
“Even the flu can’t dispel your chivalry.”
“Nothing can,” he retorts. Ok, he’s not feeling that bad after all.
“Do you need anything?”
“Peace and quiet?”
“Are you trying to send me away?”
“Intuitive,” he replies mockingly.
“I am taking note of your request, however badly put, and rejecting it. Now let me in,” I order peremptorily. He pouts but stands aside enough to let me through. Once I’m inside, I notice the computer is on.
“Don’t tell me you’re working!” I instantly scold him.
“Ok, I’m not working,” he tiredly replies.
“You should rest.”
“And you should be taking care of your shop,” he reminds me, falling back against the couch, exhausted.
“I will, after I’ve taken care of you.” My statement alarms him, so much so that he struggles to a sitting position and looks at me, deadly serious.
“I’m fine. I don’t need anything. I just caught a cold, nothing I can’t get rid of in a couple of days.”
“A couple of days are too many. Saturday, you have plans, remember?”
“Actually, I didn’t make any plans, rather, you forced me into them,” the know-it-all points out.
“Always splitting hairs,” I play it down. “Have you taken an aspirin?”
“I’m telling you it’s just a cold, I’m fine,” he insists, enlivened. “I don’t need a nurse. Besides, I have to work, otherwise I won’t be able to take part in your so-called plans, whether I’m healthy or not.” He seems determined to get rid of me in a hurry, so much so that he bends over the computer and begins tapping on the keyboard as if I weren’t there.
I stand watching him for a while, uncertain whether to stay or be on my way. On the one hand, I really don’t think Jared is capable of taking care of himself, on the other, it doesn’t look like his illness is something to worry about. Aside from the nasal voice and the all too evident black circles under his eyes (which I am beginning to consider an integral part of him), nothing makes me think the situation will get any more serious. Maybe I should let him work.
“Give me your cell phone number,” I say before I leave, pulling mine out of the pocket of my jeans to take down his.
“What?”
“Your number, so I can call you,” I repeat.
“Why should you be calling me?” he asks again with that surprised and alarmed expression.
“To find out how you’re doing. You ask the stupidest questions sometimes…” I scold him. “Your number and the promise that this evening you’ll eat something warm and more suitable for someone with the flu.”
“You want me to have broth?”
“Soup, broth, call it as you please. Something containing vegetables for the vitamins and meat for the proteins.”
“I’m not going to ingest anything of the sort,” he comments with a look of pure disgust that on his face is almost comical, then turning his attention back to whatever he was working on at the computer a moment earlier.
“It’s the only way to get me to leave,” I state calmly.
“You’re insistent,” he remarks, as if it were necessary to point it out.
“Always,” I smile, happy to have got my way. He rips a corner from one of the papers strewn on the table and writes his number on it; then he holds it out to me with a smart aleck smile on his lips. Ok, Gil, breathe.
“Give me a ring when you save it, and you aren’t allowed to use it more than three times a day, particularly if your aim is to inquire about the soup.”
“I have no intention of using it more than is strictly necessary,” I protest, trying to conceal my embarrassment. What is he thinking? I’m not a stalker!
“Are you saying you don’t like talking to me?” he presses with a strange light in his eyes as he stands and approaches me.
“Ok, it looks like you’re feeling better… maybe I should… yes, I should go,” I stammer without managing to look away from his emerald eyes. Yup, I really had better go if I don’t want to have an instant stroke. What’s the matter with me? I grab the piece of paper hanging from his fingers while I try with all my might to ignore the weird temptation to touch him that is making its way into my head, and I hurry towards the door.
“I’ll talk to you soon, take care,” I utter all in one breath, quickly leaving the apartment.
“Aye aye, captain,” I hear him laugh. At least I improved his mood, I want that on the record, please.
I had better go up to Jane’s before I go back to the shop. I’m sure she won’t refuse me the favor I want to ask of her.
I try to wait ‘till the evening, lying on my bed, before giving in to the insane desire to call him, but as soon as I begin typing in the number, I feel my heartbeat accelerate and I have to stop. What is the matter with me? I wait for my breathing to return normal and I type Lillian’s number instead.
A few rings and she answers.
“Gil, is everything ok?” she asks, almost worried.
“I need an opinion.”
“At ten thirty?” She’s herself again.
“Yes, and it’s very urgent,” I explain, overcome by an odd anxiety.
“Shoot,” she orders, and I can picture her arranging herself comfortably with her red heart-shaped pillow behind her and with the experienced air she dons every time someone asks for advice.
“Well…” where do I begin? How can I explain it to her if I don’t understand it myself? “It’s about Jared.” At least I’ve made a good start.
“Ah,” she says, as if she were expecting it. “I see.”
“What do you see? I haven’t said anything yet,” I protest with conviction.
“You said all that was necessary. You’re falling in love,” she concludes, as if it were the natural epilogue of things. How come I didn’t think of it?
“What are you talking about? That’s not possible!” I exclaim in alarm. I mean: I would have noticed if that were the case, right?
“Why not? Jared’s an attractive guy, well built, intriguing eyes, and he’s nice to you, right?” Difficult question. Is he nice to me? At first, he wasn’t at all, but then, as time went by, actually…
“Yes, I think he is,” I admit, though I’m not convinced that’s all it takes to fall in love with someone.
“I told you: you’re falling in love with him.”
“We’re friends, Lillian,” I observe. “Friends are nice to each other too, it’s normal.”
“Sure, but you wouldn’t call your sister at ten thirty at night to ask for an opinion if Jared were just a friend.” Ok, I’m afraid she’s right about that.
“The trouble is, I’m confused,” I confess with a sigh.
“I can imagine, love is confusing sometimes, there’s nothing wrong about it.”
“If you say so,” I answer dispiritedly. I don’t know why, but this phone call isn’t as heartening as I thought it would be.
“What’s the matter?” Lillian perceives my dejection.
“Nothing. It’s just that I’m not at all sure you’re right. I don’t see why we couldn’t just be good friends. We have a good time together, we chat, but nothing more.”
“Sure, why not? If that’s ok with you…” she replies, almost casually.
“You’re not helping me,” I scold her.
“Oh, Gil. I can’t be the one to tell you what you should or shouldn’t feel. The only thing I can do for you is tell you the truth. You’ve had lots of friends, some you still have, and the only time you asked for my advice was when you didn’t know how to answer Chris’s invitation the day before you started dating him in high school. Now, I don’t know what kind of relationship you and Jared have, but I know my sister, and I know for certain that this isn’t a mere friendship to you. How do I know if your relationship can be something more? It depends on you, on your feelings.”
What a Girl Wants Page 12