Forfeiting Decency

by Rachel Schneider

  He keeps trying to kick the heels of his shoes as I untie them, and I smack his leg for him to be still as I slip his feet free. I place a knee on the side of the bed, leaning over him to lift his head and situate a pillow beneath it.

  “I think you’re confused. I don’t have any freckles.”

  “Six,” he says, holding up five fingers. “You have six.”

  “Five?”

  He nods and peels his eyes open, barely enough for them to go in-and-out of focus. “Plus one.” We stare into each other’s eyes for a few moments before he says, “My baby sister is getting married.” His voice is a mixture of melancholy and amazement.

  “I know,” I say.

  “He’s a good guy.”

  “Supposedly.”

  He smiles, but it quickly wanes. “Do you ever feel worthless?”

  The words slur as they escape his lips, almost like he didn’t want to say them but they fell out of their own accord. He’s so drunk that I doubt he’ll remember this conversation in the morning, and it’s to no surprise when his breaths fall into rhythm almost immediately.

  I wait a few breaths before whispering, “All the time.”

  Standing, careful not to jostle him as I step back, I assess him. His dress shirt is unbuttoned down to his navel, stretched at the collar like he struggled to release himself from the wrinkled garment. He’s a mess. A cute mess.

  But never worthless.

  I WAKE UP TO the sound of someone opening and closing cabinets in the kitchen. The flood of morning light is harsh as I slowly peel my eyes open, and dust motes swirl in the air as I sit up on the living room couch. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve crashed on Lilly’s couch. Different couch, different house, but same feeling. Almost a lifetime ago and yesterday all at the same time.

  I find Kip in the kitchen fumbling around the cupboards and cooking utensils, a piece of bread clamped between his front teeth, an unrecognizable car part in his free hand. Black smudges of grease are streaked across every surface he’s touched, not limited to his own face.

  “Are you looking for your sanity? Because it disappeared sometime last night.”

  He jerks his head in my direction and bites off a piece of the bread. “Can you hold this, just like this, while I look for some vinegar?” He gestures to the part in his hand.

  “Eh.” I hesitate, noticing the atrocious amount of gunk covering it. “I’m not touching that.”

  Annoyed, he grasps my wrist and dumps the part into my hand, forcing me to catch it with my other. “Don’t let it tip too far over or you’ll only get more rust in the—you know what? Just don’t move.” He pauses, looking me over. “Are you wearing my clothes?”

  I look down at the solid covered boxer-briefs and grey t-shirt. “It looks as though I am.” I swear, his gaze lingers a second too long before he looks away. “How the hell are you up this early and not hung over?”

  “My body is used to getting up early, and working out helps to release the toxins.”

  He’s not lying. He’s saturated in sweat. The bandana tied around his forehead catches my attention. Before prison, every memory I have of him includes a bandana tied like he has it now, folded to keep sweat from dripping into his eyes. I used to make fun of him for it, but now it’s kind of comforting to know he’s kept some of his idiosyncrasies. Prison might not have been as hard on him as Lilly feared it would be.

  He slams a cabinet, cusses, and then angrily places his hands on his hips. “I have to go to the store.”

  “Okay,” I say, unsure of what he needs from me.

  “I’ll be right back.” And then he starts for the front door.

  “Wait. What am I supposed to do with this?” I say, holding up the part.

  He gives me a dumb look. “Hold it.”

  “Hold it until you get back?”

  More dumb staring.

  “You’ve lost your mind. I’m not holding this until you get back from whatever mission you’re on.”

  He shrugs. “It’s your car, do what you want. But if you let any more moisture get into that valve, you’re going to have bigger problems than your car just making noise.”

  It hadn’t occurred to me that he’d be working on my car. “Oh.”

  “Yeah, oh.” Only he can say that with equal parts sarcasm and seriousness.

  “Let me change and I’ll come with you. I can pay for whatever you need.”

  I hand him back the part before he can protest and climb the stairs to Lilly’s room. She’s shorter and a little curvier than I am, but I find an appropriate pair of matching sweats to wear in public. When I finally meet Kip outside, I find my car is jacked up on bricks, and it looks entirely too hazardous for Kip to be working under. I say as much, but it’s like the easygoing Kip from last night was nothing but a hazy dream. He’s reverted back to the formidable, serious version of Kip, and I’m more disappointed by it than I should be. Capable, yet intimidating. Fun, but only secretly. All hell would break loose if anyone found out he actually smiles.

  He hands me the part once I’m inside the cab of his truck. It’s such a small part of a much larger machine. I’ll never understand cars.

  Or country music.

  “We’re not listening to this,” I say.

  He doesn’t look at me. “Yes we are.”

  “You actually like this shit?”

  “I actually like this shit,” he confirms without a single drop of remorse.

  It’s shameful.

  He turns up the volume.

  Sitting in silence is one of my biggest pet peeves. Lulls in conversation irk me to the point I’ll literally blabber about anything to avoid it, but I think this music might take the cake. Radio silence is better than country music any day.

  “What do you need vinegar for?”

  “Removes rust.”

  “Don’t go into too much detail or anything,” I say with as much sarcasm as I can muster.

  He barely looks at me out of the corner of his eye, but I catch it, along with the effort he takes to conceal it—a hint of a smile. My arms get tired so I end up balancing the part between the crevice of my thighs, giving up trying to avoid the oil. It’s like grease spreads. Every few minutes, I’ll find a new spot it migrated to and no recollection of how it got there.

  “We’ll buy some Gojo.”

  “Some what?”

  “For the oil,” he says, nodding to my lap and all the surrounding areas of my thighs. “It’s soap designed to remove grease from skin.”

  “That’ll be great because I have work tonight.”

  This piques his interest. “Work?”

  “Yeah,” I draw out.

  “You?” he says like he can’t believe it. “You work?”

  “Yes. I work.”

  “Where?”

  “A sports bar on the East Bank.”

  He cocks his head in thought. “The place where the girls where underwear as shorts?”

  “Hey, those shorts make me a killing in tips.”

  “Bet they do.”

  We arrive at a convenience and hardware store mixed into one, and I follow him up and down aisles as he fills the basket in his hands. Scrub pads, vinegar, beer, Gojo, rags, rubber O-rings, and other car related things that I’ve never seen before. We’re in aisle nine before I can’t handle another second of silent torture.

  “So, you can fix my car?”

  He turns a bottle over in his hands, inspecting the backside. “I’ll do what I can from Lilly’s, but it’s not much. All of my tools were at the shop.”

  Toby’s. The auto shop Kip helped run with his childhood best friend, Taylor, which doubled as an underground chop-shop. Last I heard the building and all of its contents were seized by the state and later put up for auction. It’s also where everyone’s lives changed because of the actions of my father. Effectively killing my small effort of conversation, we don’t speak as we finish and checkout. It’s when I’m climbing back into the cab of the truck, my reflection catches
my attention in the side mirror.

  “My face is covered in grease!”

  Black smudges cover most of my nose and my forehead. Only my chin and right cheek is spared.

  “People touch their face about three and a half times an hour,” Kip’s smile finally makes an appearance, tipping to one side. “I’d say you’re slightly above average.”

  “You let me walk around a store looking like this?” I point to my face just in case he’s confused.

  He walks around the truck to get in and turns on the radio. “You shouldn’t talk bad about my music.”

  I’m pretty sure I growl. We ride back to Lilly’s in more insufferable silence with only banjos as a buffer. Every time he glances at me, his smile makes its appearance, and it’s infuriatingly cute.

  Once we’re in the kitchen, he instructs me to wait, taking the stairs two at a time. “Try not to touch anything.”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  Returning with a pillow, he sets it against the counter. “Here,” he instructs. “Set it down, right in the middle.”

  “On a pillow?” I ask dubiously.

  “Or hold it for the next few days. Your call.”

  I hold back an eye roll as he helps me situate the part in the best position. Both of us exhale a sigh of relief when it doesn’t waver.

  “Why didn’t we do this before we went to the store?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. Why didn’t you?”

  I suck in my lip, shaking my head in annoyance. “You’re a special kind of mean, you know that?”

  He gives a half nod, not refuting it. “Let’s get cleaned up and I’ll drive you back to your apartment.”

  “So you can torture me with more music?”

  He rolls his eyes, smiling down at his hands as he open up a tub of Gojo. “It’s not that bad and you know it. In fact, I think you might actually like it.”

  “Sure. As much as I like bikini waxes.”

  He leans against the sink and positions me in front of him. “Stay still.”

  We’re close. I can smell him and the hint of motor oil lingering between us. He dips his fingers in the tub of soap, rubbing them together as he brings his hand toward my face.

  “Close your eyes.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “This stuff burns like hell if you get it in your eyes. I know it’s hard for you to do what you’re told, but try.”

  My heart trips.

  Obeying, I let them fall shut. It’s when I don’t feel the touch of his hand that I open my eyes. “What?”

  He doesn’t answer. His eyes falter, but he tentatively brushes his thumb across the bridge of my nose. The touch is soft, barely there, gentle. He moves on to my forehead and then my right temple. His eyes follow the movement of his hand, but mine never leave his. He wanted me to close my eyes so I wouldn’t see it.

  To see the way his sole focus is on touching me.

  It’s wholly intimate in a way that makes me hold my breath. I don’t dare inhale, afraid of taking in too much. He has to realize what he’s doing, and he’s doing a damn good job appearing innocent. I’ve spent the better half of my life perfecting seduction. Body language goes a long way, followed by verbal cues, laughter. But there’s not a single drop of insincerity in the push of his fingers, or the steady rise and fall of his chest.

  His eyes connect with mine momentarily as he turns toward the sink, allowing me a reprieve to breathe. Thoughts scatter through my mind as I watch him wet a cloth rag and wash his hands underneath the running water of the faucet. This is…this is strange. We’re strange. What’s happening is strange. It doesn’t feel…fair.

  I need to make a joke, right now before he turns back around.

  “You’re good with your hands,” I say, internally cringing at the sexual innuendo.

  He wrings out the cloth and turns back toward me, suppressing an eye roll at my attempt to lighten the mood. Swiping the cloth along the same path he’d taken before, he doesn’t take the bait.

  And the silence grows.

  And so does the need to break it.

  “Does this feel a little outré to you?”

  This catches him off guard. “Oo-what?”

  “Oo-trae,” I sound out for him.

  “If the meaning is as strange as it sounds, then yes, probably.”

  I smile and he smiles in return, meeting my eyes for a split second.

  Living is so much easier when I can breathe.

  After he finishes washing my face, he drives me home in record time, probably in a hurry to get away from my failed attempts to annoy him as much as country music annoys me. It’s as we’re pulling into the parking lot I’m reminded I’m going to have to walk to work.

  I groan.

  “What?”

  “I forgot that I have to walk to work.”

  “Oh, the lack of car issue,” he says. “It’s…what? Forty blocks?”

  “Thirty-five.”

  “Why don’t you ride the bus?” He looks at my scowl and a smile forms. “Right. So no bus. What about a bike?”

  “It hadn’t occurred to me, but it wouldn’t be a viable option considering I don’t know how to ride one.”

  He blinks. “You don’t know how to ride a bike?”

  I shake my head, used to the surprised look I’ve gotten over the years when someone finds out. “I had a bike but no one ever taught me.”

  Try as I may have, I could never balance myself on my own. I lived with constant bruising on my shins as a preteen from where my feet would slip and the pedals would bang against my legs. Don’t even get me started on the road rash.

  “Okay, well, I guess I could hang out for a little while and give you a ride.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I say out of politeness.

  He already has his door open when he replies, “Stop pretending to be courteous. I owe you anyway.”

  “For what?”

  “Taking care of me when I was sloppy drunk last night.” He stretches and then lifts the hem of his shirt and sniffs it. “Can I take a shower?”

  I laugh. “Yeah,” I say, leading him up the stairs.

  Mrs. Cecile’s door opens a smidge, and I wave at her through the crack. “Hi, Mrs. Cecile. How are you today?”

  She slams the door in answer. Kip gives me an amused look, and I shrug, not interested in explaining the effects of getting old. He has enough to worry about as it is. Kip steps into my tiny apartment and immediately his presence seems to dwarf everything in it. He takes two strides into the living room and perches on the arm of the couch.

  “You don’t make a habit of picking up after yourself, do you?”

  There are dishes left on the counter and an empty bowl of cereal on the coffee table. A few clothes are strewn down the hallway from where I got home the night before, and the trashcan in the kitchen is starting to reach a dangerous height, near toppling.

  “I’m sorry my cleaning habits aren’t up to your par. I don’t usually have people over.” In fact, Kip is the first person who has stepped into my apartment except for Lance. Well, and Peter, but he owns the building.

  “No, it’s not that,” he says, looking around, arms folded. “It’s exactly how I imagined it’d be.”

  I start picking up the empty glasses and rearrange them in the sink to fit. “What the hell does that mean?”

  He smiles. “You’re a mess.”

  I stop, pivot, and glare in his direction. “I prefer the term organized chaos.”

  He right out laughs at my choice of description. I know I’m a tad delusional, but fuck him for thinking he has the right to classify me anyway.

  “I didn’t mean it in a bad way.” He unfolds his arms, letting them rest between his legs. “It’s who you are. You spit whatever pops into your mind out of your mouth, but you know when to shut up, too. You purposefully come up with ways to make people as uncomfortable as you are—”

  “I am never uncomfortable.”

  “Just because you�
�re not easily embarrassed doesn’t mean you’re not uncomfortable. It means you’re shameless.”

  I can feel a twitch under my eye as he continues to talk.

  “At the same time, you’re not hateful; you just want to even the playing field.”

  I’m pretty sure I’m absolutely in reaching distance of a knife. “All I heard was you confessing that I get under your skin way more than you let on.”

  His lips barely hold place, showing his amusement. “Deflection.”

  I skirt past him, letting my fingers skim up his forearm. “The same could be said for you.”

  He looks down at where I’ve touched him, but doesn’t counter. Feeling victorious, I pull a towel—one of the three I own that stays in constant rotation—out of the dryer, and lay it over the bathroom sink. Quickly, I do a double take to make sure my box of tampons is put away and I don’t have any underwear draped over the shower rod. Kip’s analytical side is out full force and the last thing I need is for him to psychoanalyze my personal hygiene.

  “Shower’s ready,” I announce as I exit the hallway. “I’m probably going to make a sandwich for lunch. Want one?”

  He doesn’t move, and the smile that was on his face thirty seconds ago has disappeared. The awkwardness starts to feel like tiny pin pricks across my body, begging me to fill it. But I refuse, maintaining our eye contact, attempting to appear unfazed.

  “I’d really appreciate that,” he says, finally breaking the tension. “No mustard.”

  “Tons of mustard. Got it.”

  “You must really enjoy walking to work.”

  “Kidding,” I say. “No mustard.”

  I CUSS, JAMMING MY key to the left a little to disengage it from its position in the lock. The sound of Mrs. Cecile’s door creaking open adds to my agitation and I can’t stop my eye roll.

  “Are you ever going to call Tanya in the office to get that fixed?”

  “I’ll do it tomorrow,” I reply, giving her the same excuse for the millionth time in the last four years.

  She smacks her lips, making good use of them without her dentures. “I’m sure you won’t, and I’ll have to continue to endure listening to you bang away on that god forsaken lock until I die or lose the rest of my hearing.”