Are You Mine?

by N. K. Smith

  “You know, he’s not even going to college.”

  She quits blowing on her nails. “So?”

  “So why should I?”

  Myka groans. “God, not the California thing again.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s not a plan, it’s a wish.”

  “I could go to college in California, that’s a plan.”

  “Nope, that’s a lie because you haven’t done any work to make it happen.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Okay, what school would you go to?”

  I clear my throat as the rising discomfort threatens to choke me. “Any number of schools.”

  “You haven’t even done an internet search, have you? There’s this little thing called applying as well. You can’t just show up.”

  “I know that, but maybe I take a year off.”

  “And do what?” When I’m silent, she continues. “Hang out in Pechimu? In your apartment? Growing ever older with your pessimistic att—”

  “I’m not pessimistic. Just because nothing good ever happens, doesn’t mean I’m—”

  “See?” she says and claps her hands together once. “Nothing good ever happens? Seriously, Saige, take a step back and examine that statement. Everything good happens.”

  “Name one thing.”

  “Fox Harrington.”

  She has me, so I turn to look out the window.

  “He’s been good for you, and you know it. And don’t forget this little fact while you fail to plan your future: While you’re here wasting away, I’ll be in New York, going to school, making new friends, starting my life. I won’t be here to lie about in your apartment with you.”

  I’m not sure if she means it this way, but her words sting deep into me. She’s saying that she’s going to get a whole new group of people to hang out with because she’s not satisfied with me as a friend. She’s also implying that I’m boring and never do anything.

  I close the laptop and stand. “I’ve got stuff to do, so I’ll see you later.”

  Myka falters a bit. “Um, okay. What are you—”

  “I’ll go to NYU with you, but quit with the peer pressure bullshit, okay?”

  My friend stands and starts collecting her things while I pretend to be busy stacking up books and pages from the graphic novel.

  “How’s that going?”

  I know she’s talking about “Myka’s Metal Valentine,” but I’m not in the mood to discuss it, so I just say, “Fine.”

  “Don’t be mad at me, Saige, I’m not trying to pressure you into doing something you don’t want to do, but, I mean, making a decision would be . . .”

  She continues, but I don’t listen. This whole conversation rankles me enough that I just shut down until she leaves. Once I’m alone, I feel a little better, but the restlessness inside me doesn’t dissipate. I text Fox to see if that helps.

  I keep it simple. What are you up to?

  After a bit of waiting, my phone buzzes. Workin

  Til when? I text back.

  430. Bugr Jnt @530 til close.

  I’m not sure why the walls are closing in on me or why I’m on the verge of panic, but the fact that I won’t be able to see him until tomorrow has to be a factor. When is close?

  130. 2 late 2 c u?

  I glance at the clock. It’s after three. Can I meet you at BJ’s b4 ur shift? I usually don’t type text-speak like b4 and ur, but I figure it might help him read the message.

  Yes plaese

  I ignore the obvious mistake in the word please and type Cool. C u soon.

  I’m at the Burger Joint at 4:30 even though I know he’s just getting off work at the warehouse. I wait in my car, listening to The Avett Brothers music I downloaded the night before for the next fifteen minutes. I get out as soon as I see his blue clown car.

  A little rush surges through my body when he walks towards me. He’s so sexy.

  “Hi,” he says.

  “Hi,” I say back, before launching myself impulsively into his arms. We spend the next forty minutes kissing in my car.

  “I’m going to be late,” he says after pulling back a bit. I glance at the clock on the dash and see it’s nearly 5:30. “I still have to change and inhale some food before . . .” He lets the sentence hang unfinished for a few seconds before he kisses me again.

  After another minute or two, he releases me, licks his lips, looks at the building, and says, “For real now, I’m going to be late.”

  “Do you think I lack direction? Or that I’m boring or uncommitted to anything?”

  He thinks for a moment as he presses his lips together before answering. “I don’t know. I don’t think you’re boring. Why are you asking?”

  “Because Myka’s trying to bully me into committing to NYU, and I’m just not ready to pick a major and get all crazy with planning.”

  “I guess it all depends on what you want to do with your life. You want to be a writer, so do you need a degree for that?”

  “Depends on what kind of writing I’m going to do. To be a novelist, I don’t need a degree, but it wouldn’t hurt.”

  “So is it NYU you’re unsure of or what you want to study or what you want to do?”

  “All of it, but I mean, like I told her, I could go to California and live on the beach and go to school out there.”

  “So why did you apply to NYU?”

  “Because my parents went there.”

  He takes my hand and rubs circles on my palm. “So are you trying to make your parents proud of your decision?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe your parents would’ve just wanted you to be happy, regardless if it’s at NYU or at any college. Maybe if living on the beach is what’s going to get you to smile more, they’d want you to follow that.”

  “How am I supposed to decide?”

  He shrugs. “You just do.”

  “How do you know what to do?”

  “I go with my gut.”

  This doesn’t help. “My gut never tells me anything.”

  “Maybe that’s because you don’t listen. You analyze too much until the question you ask is too overwhelming to deal with.”

  “Maybe you could come to NYU with me. That would make the decision easier.”

  He glances at his watch, but doesn’t seem perturbed that he is now officially late. “No, that would take the decision out of your hands and into mine.”

  “But college would be good for you. You could—”

  “College isn’t for everyone, Saige. It’s not for me.”

  “But you have so much talent. You could go to art school.”

  “What would it teach me? How to appreciate art? I appreciate it just fine right now.”

  “Maybe it will strengthen your talent and stretch your—”

  “I’m not going to college, Saige. I’ve planned my trip for the end of August. I’ve saved enough money to visit the U.K. for at least a month, if not more. I’m not going to change it to go to a school I don’t want to go to, and I’m certainly not going to go into debt for some piece of paper that says I went there. I’m sorry.”

  I sigh, but it’s not like I expected him to agree to it. “Myka, Val, and I are going to visit NYU this weekend. We’re getting a hotel room and everything. Will you at least come with me to keep me from being the third wheel of the new aged hippie steampunk motorized bicycle that is Myka and Valentine?”

  He doesn’t hesitate. “Absolutely.”

  “Do you already have the weekend off?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then how—”

  “Someone will take my shifts, and if not, I’ll call in.”

  “You might get in trouble.”

  Fox flashes that charming smile. “I’ll get in trouble a hundred times over if it means I get to spend more time with you.”

  ***

  It amazes me how easy decisions are for Fox, and even more so, how he can make things happen. I bet he didn’t even have to break a s
weat to get someone to take all of his shifts for Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.

  Myka doesn’t drive, Valentine doesn’t have a car, and I doubt Fox’s would get us far. We have too much stuff to go on the bus and train, so on Friday afternoon, we pile in my car and head into the city.

  The drive is filled with nothing but steampunk. Fox is good enough to indulge Myka, but I’m tired of even thinking about it. The whole world doesn’t revolve around the subgenre. I don’t say anything though, and as soon as Fox’s hand wraps around mine, my thoughts are on other things anyway.

  I count at least eight graffiti foxes on the drive, not including the one with the green leaf behind it. He was right; it’s definitely a thrill to see a semi-permanent representation of us.

  Since I’m the one with a ton of disposable cash, I picked the hotel when Myka and I planned this trip. The Plaza isn’t anywhere close to a regular hotel, in my estimation, so to say we feel out of place walking into it is an understatement. I would be fine if not followed in by Myka in her corset with her blazing orange hair and a long-haired hippie with beaded bracelets and necklaces. And then there’s Fox, who is not quite a freak show, but can’t stop staring at the grandeur of this place. He nearly trips on a very obvious piece of furniture.

  I check in, using a voice I’ve heard my grandmother use on the phone. Fox leans his elbow on the wooden concierge desk. He’s recovered from his almost-spill and has replaced the look of lost wonder with a charming, Mr. Perfect expression. Out of nowhere, he strikes up a conversation about the age of the hotel with a snooty looking man, and before I have the room keys, Fox has the guy laughing.

  I swear, there’s nothing Fox can’t do. People like his easygoing attitude, and his confidence allows him to play himself up. If I could do that, my life would be much easier.

  Once inside the hotel room, he turns to me, grabs my shoulders and says, “What the hell, Saigarina? I thought we were just staying at the Econo Lodge or something. This has to cost so much money.”

  “It does, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve got tons of it.”

  “But you should save it for something that. . .”

  His voice fades away as I shake my head. “I’ve got money sitting in an account that makes more money. Every time I look at it, I’ve made a ton more money. Believe me, Fox, this hotel doesn’t even make a dent in what I have.”

  For a moment, he looks like he might get sick, like somehow the money I have, or the way I’ve spoken about it, disgusts him, but then he swallows hard and says, “This is going to spoil me for my trip.”

  I know his England trip is important to him, and I don’t want this luxury experience to take away any satisfaction he has about planning his stay over there. “I doubt you could be spoiled.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, my God!” Myka’s voice interrupts us so loudly we can’t ignore. “You have got to see this terrace view!”

  By the time we make it out there, Myka and Val have already made themselves at home on the loveseat. They’re making out. No, they’re more like having a dress rehearsal for sex because they’re so close I can’t tell where Myka ends and Val begins.

  All of the sudden, I’m very aware of Fox standing next to me. I want to believe he’s looking at the view, but since I can’t pull my eyes off my friends who are almost doing it in front of us, I imagine he’s getting an eyeful too.

  This is the first time I actually think about this weekend in terms of having a boyfriend. We’re in New York. In a five-star hotel. In a suite that only sleeps four people in two beds. I don’t know why I just assumed I’d be sharing a king-sized bed with Myka, but now that seems childish.

  “Let’s go out,” I say loudly, then turn around to go back inside. Fox’s very solid body stops me as I run into it. His hands are at my shoulders, and as much as he tries to get me to look straight at him, I can’t do it.

  My original plan was to hang out in the hotel tonight because Fox made plans for all of us to go out with some of his friends tomorrow night, but the pressure I feel is too great to keep me inside. After letting the others explore the rest of the suite, I manage to herd them back out onto the New York street. We walk through Central Park, then walk many blocks to Times Square where I feel my claustrophobia kick in a bit with all the people bumping around me. Then we walk to a little pizza place to eat, and then walk all the way back to the hotel.

  Lucky for me, Val and Myka don’t hop right back into kissing and groping. The exercise of hoofing it around New York did what I wanted it to do: wear us all out. Myka opens the champagne that comes with the room and all of us start drinking except Fox. We get high out on the terrace with the weed Valentine brought, and after my second glass of bubbly, all my anxiety about what this weekend might mean falls away.

  I let myself snuggle back into Fox’s warm body as we sit together outside. I don’t let my mind start freaking me out that something sexual might happen this weekend, because if it does, it does. He may not even be thinking about it. I mean, we are a new couple, and he’s a respectful guy, so maybe he doesn’t have any intentions of trying anything.

  Even if we do share a bed.

  “God, you’re funny when you’re drunk.”

  “What?”

  Fox smiles back at me. “I want to cut you off from drinking more, but I don’t want to seem like I’m being parental.”

  The words he says go to mush in my mind, and somehow I get something different from them. “You want a drink?”

  He looks away, and I follow the line of his gaze over to our friends who have occupied themselves by sleepily naming all the objects in the room the way they’d appear in a steampunk novel. Just as I think I should be writing them all down, Fox’s low voice startles me back into awareness. “Yes. I do want a drink.” He plucks the champagne flute from my hand. “I’ll take this one.”

  “Hey,” I say in weak protest, but go silent when he takes my hand and pulls me up. The fact that he set down the glass even though I thought he wanted to drink doesn’t even hit me until we’re in the bedroom.

  As nervous as I was thinking about the implications of sex just a few hours before, I find that there’s nothing else I want more. I squeeze his hand and tug him down. When his face is close enough, I kiss him. His lips are soft and the stubble on his chin scrapes my face. With my hands on his waist, I try to press closer to him, but Fox pulls away.

  He moves his tongue out quickly to lick his lips, capturing the flavor of mine, but then he presses them together. He cups my face in his big hands and gives me that smile I think I love. “You’re so pretty, Saige,” he says in a whisper as he lets his hands slide down my neck to my shoulders and down my arms to my hands.

  Fox guides me to the bathroom and drops my hands as he reaches for the toothpaste and our toothbrushes. While I’m looking at the gold trim everywhere, my mind races as fast as a drunken mind can race, but then it hits me. Of course, we should brush our teeth because I probably taste like pizza, pot, and sweet alcohol. Not a pleasant mix.

  I make sure I brush carefully so the foam doesn’t drip down my chin and hand because that would be disgusting, and I want Fox to be attracted to me, not find me repulsive. He finishes before I do and leaves the bathroom. Before I rinse my brush, he’s back, placing my pajamas on the vanity.

  I’m all sorts of confused as he retreats, closing the door behind him, but I do my normal bathroom stuff and change into my nighttime clothes. When I’m out in the room, he pulls the drapes closed. He’s in a pair of dark gray sweat pants and a tight, white t-shirt.

  Emboldened by the alcohol still cycling through my system, I walk directly to him and put my hands on the sides of his waist again. He kisses me on the forehead, and when he’s finished, I push my hands up under his shirt, feeling the taut sculpted muscles of his abdomen.

  He encircles my wrists with his hands, and when I look up at him, I see his jaw is so tight and his eyes are closed.

  “What’s that?” I ask in refer
ence to his jaw.

  Fox opens his eyes, locks them with mine and gives me a smile I can’t figure out. With his hands still on my wrists, he leads me to the bed. He lets go, lifts the blankets and sheets up, and waits for me to slide in. I’m facing him as he gets in. There’s a flutter in my stomach because I want this to happen, but when he turns out the light and lays his head down, he doesn’t make a move to touch me again.

  I inch closer to him, placing one hand on his stomach and using the other to prop up my head. Fox rolls onto his side, facing me, then runs a hand down my hair. The light pressure of his hand urges me to lie down, and when my head hits the pillow, he leans in and kisses me lightly on the lips.

  He nudges me to turn away from him. I do, and he drapes a heavy arm over my waist, keeping the fingers of his hand entangled with mine. “Sleep sweet,” he says, whispering.

  ***

  I don’t know what to say to him in the morning, so I slip out of his arms and into the bathroom before he wakes. When I come out, he’s blinking into consciousness, but I tiptoe out of the room before he can see me.

  I have coffee in my hands when he comes into the kitchen. I wait until his back is turned before I head out into the living area, but then he sits down next to me on the gray-green sofa.

  “Morning.”

  “Morning,” I say in return, then take a hasty sip of coffee.

  “Sleep okay?

  “Uh-huh.”

  I don’t have to look at him to tell he’s smiling at me. It’s like I can feel his happiness radiate out of his body and splash onto mine. But my skin is like a duck’s feathers, it’s not meant to absorb things like positivity and happiness, so I can feel that good mood of his slide right off me.

  “Not hung-over?”

  I hadn’t thought about it, but beyond a slight headache, I feel fine. “Nothing a little coffee and silence won’t cure,” I say as I stand and make my way through the suite to the terrace. I know what I’ve done is rude, but I just don’t think I can be next to him right now.

  Gratitude fills me when he doesn’t follow and I’m alone on the terrace. It doesn’t take me long to finish the small cup of coffee, but I’m not interested in going back in to awkwardly stand next to Fox, the sun god. How ridiculous is it that he’s so damned cheery in the morning?