by K B Jensen
He walked toward me through the crowd. A pretty, blond girl shouted his name and gave him a hug on his way over. His eyes never left mine. He just kept walking through the well-wishers as they patted him on the back and told him congratulations.
“Hey,” he said, coming to a standstill next to me. “Did you like my song?”
“Of course,” I said.
“Then why were you frowning the whole time?”
“Was I?” I said. “It was a great performance.” Maybe that’s why I was frowning because it was a performance, because he didn’t mean those sweet words, and even if he did, it wasn’t about me.
We’d been friends for just over six months now, but there was always something strange about our friendship, a hesitation. I never hugged him hello like I did my other friends. I never hugged him goodbye. We needed a certain amount of distance between us. I know your type, I thought. Best not to get too close. And yet, it was a friendship I enjoyed, and I didn’t want to mess it up.
He had offered to teach me guitar. That fall, I had seen him playing outside on campus, softly strumming as he sat on the grass outside with the open case sprawled next to him. A handful of bills and coins sat nestled inside it.
“I wish I could play like that,” I had said.
“Let me show you,” he had said.
His fingers had pressed mine against the strings, sliding them down the guitar’s long neck. I remembered the way he had offered to teach me more, if I came to his apartment. He had more than one guitar at home. Something about the conversation had made me blush. “Maybe another time,” I had said. I was always afraid to go. I’m not sure why, maybe I had been hurt too badly by my previous love. Something about him set off my internal alarms. He’s going to hurt you. He’s going to hurt you badly, I thought. It never occurred to me I might hurt him.
“Do you need another drink?” he asked, and I snapped back to the present.
I held up an empty bottle. “I guess so,” I said in a shaky voice. Something about him made me nervous. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach, more than butterflies, more like a sledgehammer to the gut, like I could barely breathe.
He took the bottle from my hand and walked across the room, gently pushing past the crowd, to get me another beer out of the cooler. There were people from wall to wall. He sauntered back with a beer in each hand, and when I took the bottle from him, my fingers brushed against his. A strange, little ripple of electricity shot through them.
With one hand, he reached up and ran his fingers through his wild hair. Something about the gesture got under my skin, maybe because I wanted to run my fingers through it. But no, it wasn’t a good idea. He was a dangerous man. He’d love me and leave me, just like all the others before him. I had a track record of getting hurt. And musicians, well, how can you trust a musician? There is something manipulative about someone singing a love song.
“It’s kind of crowded in here,” he said. “Wanna step outside?”
“Sure,” I said. “I could use some fresh air.” It felt hard to breathe inside. There were too many people. There was too much warmth.
We escaped onto the porch and sat on a swing hanging there. It was deserted outside. We rocked back and forth slowly in a steady rhythm, our shoes brushing against the wooden floorboards. I held onto one of the chains. I felt warm from my beer. Sleepy even. A part of me wanted to rest my head on his shoulder and tell him all my secrets. A part of me didn’t because I had told those secrets before.
“You know, I have a confession,” he stammered slightly. “That song, it’s about you.”
“Is it?” I asked. I blinked my eyes nervously. “You’re full of shit.” I laughed awkwardly.
“I can’t help myself,” he said simply. His eyes flitted to my lips, just for a split second.
I stood up and the porch swing swung back. He reached for my hand and pulled me back down gently. I landed a bit closer to him. I could feel the warmth of his leg against my leg.
“What are you so afraid of?” he asked.
“You,” I said. “I’m afraid of you. You’re going to be a big rock star one day. You’re leaving this town and you’re going to forget my name.”
“Hey,” he said, taking my hand. “I’m never going to forget you.”
“How do you know that?” I said.
“You never forget your first love,” he said simply.
“You can’t do this to me,” I said. “It’s not fair. You leave for New York on Monday. You’ve known about this for months. What’s the point of telling this to me now?”
“The point is I love you,” he said. “And you love me too.”
“Do I?” I said. I felt myself turning beet red. He was right. I did love him, didn’t I? I certainly had all the symptoms. Was love some kind of disease? I wondered. Could you catch it so easily?
“Trust me,” he said.
“How can I trust you,” I said. “You’re a musician, for Christ’s sake.”
“I’m a human being, for Christ’s sake,” he said, gritting his teeth.
I looked into his beautiful brown eyes and a small part of me realized I was being ridiculous, childishly fearful.
“Please,” he pleaded. “You’ve got to trust me.”
“How?” I said.
He kissed me then. Soft lips against my mouth, warm breath, a tingling warmth, rough stubble. I pulled back and looked into his wild, blinking eyes.
“Okay,” I said, realizing I couldn’t fight this. “Okay. What about New York?”
“Fuck New York,” he said.
“You don’t mean that,” I said. “You can’t mean that. I won’t let you give that up.”
“Well, come with me then,” he said.
That was five years ago. We’ve been together ever since.
* * *
“Is there any truth to that story?” Peter said quietly.
“Maybe a little,” Julie said. “I did have a thing for a musician once.”
“How did it end?” he asked.
“Badly,” she said, with a smile. “But it was fun while it lasted.”
“Well, that’s good, I guess,” he said. “So, why the fairy tale ending then? And they lived happily ever after…”
“You said you wanted a happier story, and maybe I wish it had turned out like that,” she said softly. “Maybe I should have gone to New York. I wanted to finish school, but maybe I should have followed him to the ends of the earth. I did love him. We tried for a while. Maybe we didn’t try hard enough. I’ve got regrets.”
“It’s better to love too much than too little,” he murmured more to himself than to her. “You shouldn’t have been so afraid.”
What if we die here, she wondered. She felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. “There’s so much I would have done differently,” she said, “if I could do it all over again.”
“I’ve got my share of regrets too,” Peter said, leaning his head back against the headrest and then wincing. “The things I’d do differently if I could just get out of this damn car.”
“How are you holding up?” Julie asked.
“I can feel the pain in the back of my head, this throbbing,” he said. “Can I have some more of that old water? I’m so thirsty, Julie.”
They were both shaking. It was so cold in the car. She was still curled up in his lap like a child. Peter could feel her shivering on top of him, as well. He pulled the sleeping bag up higher. He could see his breath faintly in the darkness. Julie handed him the water bottle, took off her gloves to remove the cap and poured it on his lips. It tasted like plastic against his cottony mouth. A chunk of ice floated round in the bottle. He wished it would melt so he could get more of the precious liquid. But there wasn’t enough heat in the car to melt anything.
“We’re gonna die in here, aren’t we?” he asked, touching his head. He could feel the blood soaking through her makeshift bandage. There was only so much cotton could do. Julie noticed the blood too, touched it with her finge
rs, oddly wet and warm against the numbness.
“No, we’re not,” she said.
“Yes, we are,” he said. “It’s just a fact. No cars have come down this road for hours. The snow around the car is getting higher and higher. It shows no sign of letting up. I can barely feel my hands. We have to leave before we die of hypothermia. We have to go get help.”
He pushed her to the side. Suddenly, the car felt too claustrophobic, like the sides were moving closer and closer. It was like the air was growing thinner and thinner. The snow had blanketed all the windows. There was nothing but darkness. His joints were aching.
He swung open the door and stood up. His legs were stiff. It felt good to stand. The cold air and snow pelted his face, pelted his eyes. He felt tears forming at the edges of his vision from the cold. Opening his mouth, he tasted wet snow. He was still so thirsty. The snow was almost welcome.
Julie slammed the car door shut after she got out. She was standing next to him, her hair billowing in the wind, streaking across her face, a blur of snow and blond hair. She raised her hands up against her face, trying to shield her eyes.
“Peter, just a few hours ago, you were dead set against leaving the car, remember? Where are you going to get help from?”
“God, I’ll get help from God.”
“But you said you don’t believe in God.”
“Maybe I changed my mind,” he said.
“You aren’t making any sense. You’ve taken a bad blow to the head. Peter, you know we have to stay with the car. It’s our best shot. All there is out there is fields and fields. It’s not like there’s a gas station down the road or a house. You’ll die out there.”
“Maybe I don’t care,” he said. “If I die.”
“I care,” Julie said. “I care if you die.” She was surprised to find she meant those words. She wasn’t just saying that to get him back in the car. Julie pulled his arm. She pulled him hard and pushed him back toward the car.
“Don’t touch me.” He pulled away from her and kept walking away into the whiteout.
“You’re not in any shape to walk out there with your head still bleeding,” she said, her voice trembling. “And I’d go but there’s nowhere to walk to. Besides, look at my shoes. These are not the kind of shoes you walk through snow in. I’d last five minutes out there. You want to actually die of hypothermia, keep going. In the car, we’ve got a shot.”
He looked down at her feet, her work shoes with the heels, already covered in snow. The leather barely covered her socks. Why were women’s shoes always so ridiculously impractical? Elizabeth used to complain about hers hurting her feet all the time.
“Peter, please,” she said. “We can’t do this.”
The wind howled in his ears and he kept walking. The snow circled in front of him, blurring everything to white.
“Stop, Peter. What do I have to do to stop you?” she said. She put her arms around him and hugged him close to her, gently pulling him back again.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay, we’ll die in the car. I’d rather die in that car with you then die wandering through snowdrifts alone.”
“We’re not going to die, Peter,” she said in a shaky voice. “I promise you.”
They turned back toward the car but couldn’t even see it in the whiteout. Their feet shuffled through the thick snow. Julie cursed under her breath. It was so cold. She blinked the snow out of her eyes. It was a relief when her hands found the door handle in the white-streaked darkness.
He crawled back into the car. Peter clicked on his seatbelt. It was more of a habit than anything. She crawled in after him. He put his arms around her and held her fiercely tight. The two of them were shaking from the chill. They shook out their legs, brushed off the snow and crawled back under the sleeping bag. But the dampness had done its damage. It was worse than before.
“My dad gave me the ugliest pair of wool socks for Christmas,” Julie said. “I never wear them. I wish I was wearing them now. Why didn’t I wear boots? Why didn’t I pay attention to the forecast? I could lose my fucking toes.” Her voice quivered.
Peter was oddly quiet. He was wondering what he had to lose.
“Are you ever going to tell me what you were doing out there?” she said. “Walking in the fields? You must have come from somewhere. Did your car break down?”
“I told you. I broke down,” Peter said. “I broke down, and I just started walking and walking, day and night into the country, into the wilderness. Elizabeth left me. I had nothing to live for. And the snow, well the snow seemed to mirror my thoughts. It filled me with a strange, I don’t know, ecstasy. I felt like wandering far from home. I felt at home wandering.”
“Peter, you need help. Promise me you’ll get some help when this is all over. I don’t think you are just concussed anymore.”
“You think I’m crazy,” Peter said.
“No, I don’t,” Julie said. “I don’t mean it like that. I just think you need help. I think you need a therapist or something. Promise me, you’ll get some help.”
“I promise you, Julie,” he said. “I promise you I’ll get some help. When this is all over, if we live through it, I’ll get some help.”
Elizabeth had always wanted him to see a therapist. What good was talking going to do, he wondered. The snow continued to creep up the sides of the car, along the edges of the windows. He could hear the whistling of the wind outside the white Mazda. It was so strong the whole frame of the car seemed to shake now and then. Julie pressed herself closer to him for warmth.
He didn’t mind making the promise. There was such a slim chance he’d have to keep it. But when it came down to it, he didn’t trust therapists with his secrets. He didn’t like telling other people his problems. They never seemed to understand. But the strange thing was Julie seemed to understand.
The two of them drifted off into an uneasy sleep. Peter dreamt of things that were warm. He dreamt he was walking down the beach holding her hand. A few hours later he woke up. She felt cold and stiff in his arms.
“Julie,” he said. “Julie, wake up.” It occurred to him that her coat wasn’t as warm as his and that she wasn’t wearing boots.
“Peter,” she groaned. “I’m not dead yet.”
He exhaled deeply.
“God, I’m so hungry,” she said. “I wish I had something to eat.” There was this gnawing sensation of emptiness churning within her.
“What I wouldn’t give for a warm cup of coffee,” Peter said.
“Ahh, a coffee shop,” Julie said. It was like they were two old friends in a coffee shop, she thought. The tension between them had melted away. She could almost taste the hot coffee, almost smell it, almost feel the steam rising up and brushing her lips with its warm caress. “I’ve got a story that starts off in a coffee shop. Two people on a first date. These two have a lot in common, so much so it’s kind of scary.”
She laughed. Peter liked the sound of it. He smiled in the dark.
Fatal Flaw
She was by no means a perfect woman. There was a reason she was still single.
One of her worst flaws started when she was about three years old, the first time she saw her father hit her mother. Every time he hit her, she bit her nails down to the quick. She even bit her cuticles, spitting out the skin and nails. The fighting and the nail biting continued throughout the bulk of her childhood. Her nails were ragged, jagged and flimsy. They got caught on things, tore and bled. She didn’t want to be like her mother, begging a bad man to change. When she grew up, she was going to find the perfect man.
She quit biting her nails in seventh grade, coincidentally, when her father disappeared. She decided she was too old for nail biting, and she just stopped. The decision probably had something to do with a growing attraction to boys. But she still had this habit of putting her fingers in her mouth, an oral fixation. It gave the white tips a thin, washed out look, almost clear and the ridges never went away no matter how much buffing she did. She painted them for years to
keep them out of her mouth. She used a hundred different colors, but it never worked.
So it had been about seventeen years since she bit them and yet she found herself sucking on the tips waiting, waiting in the coffee shop for “the man of her dreams.” She liked his profile online. There was something funny about it. He liked all the same authors, read the right books, listened to the same kind of music. They even shared the same alma mater, although they’d never met at Yale. They emailed back and forth and she asked him about his GPA. It was the same as hers, 3.89, what a coincidence. She had answered all the right questions in all the right ways on the questionnaire and the computer algorithms had paired them. It made her wonder, if you put all the right criteria in a website, can it manufacture the man of your dreams? Like one of those new 3D printers that spew out children’s toys and realistic sculptures?
She had gone through her own manufacturing process, had gone through the usual rituals to prepare. She spent the night before their first date reading about how to catch the perfect man. She had hoisted herself into a pushup bra, wiggled into a tight dress, lotioned every inch of her skin, painted her face to perfection and spent half an hour and a half bottle of mousse fighting off a bad hair day with her industrial strength hair dryer and curling iron. She had even issued a little prayer while she was doing her hair.
“Dear God, please let my hair be good today,” she had shouted. She was excited and nervous.
One of her friends had called her that morning.
“You never know what a person is really like when you meet them online,” her friend had said. “Be careful, Minnie.”
“I’m meeting him at a coffee shop. It’s perfectly safe,” Minnie said.
“Still, you don’t know what his intentions are. Be careful.”
“He should be careful. He doesn’t know what my intentions are, either,” Minnie said, laughing.