So We Can Glow

by Leesa Cross-Smith

  Owen is standing at the top of his long driveway. Nick shifts in the passenger seat and your anxiety instantly melts upon seeing Owen. He raises his hand at you before you stop the car. Owen sits in the back, the car filling with the smell of his house and whatever his parents made for dinner. Probably a hearty, healthy vegetable soup and a full glass of water.

  “Hi,” he says.

  “Hi, Owen. Nick, this is my friend Owen,” you say and smile, turning to Owen, but avoiding Nick’s eyes.

  “Nice to meet you, Nick,” Owen says, touching Nick’s shoulder. Nick nods. You let off the brake, gently press the gas pedal and begin the eleven-minute drive to Nick’s place. Eleven minutes in the car with Nick and Owen. Eleven more minutes to be afraid of Nick in the passenger seat. Eleven minutes of conversation and music.

  Nick mentions a street you have to turn down is under construction, so you’ll have to go another way. Owen says he read about it on Twitter. You turn down the detour street, the sun gleaming off the street signs and the orange cones and the reflective vests of the construction workers. It’s so bright you have to shield your eyes.

  You flick to the oldies playlist and “Please Mr. Postman” comes on. The happiest song. So summery. Ice cream pop. You listen to the song at the ice cream shop. Owen mentions this.

  “I know, right? It always reminds me of work,” you say. Nick is looking out his window. “And ice cream.”

  “Ice cream tastes how ‘Please Mr. Postman’ sounds. It sounds pink,” Owen says.

  “It’s a perfect song,” you say.

  “Absolutely, but it’s too short. The really good songs like that are always shorter than three minutes and that’s too short,” Owen says. “It should be at least five minutes long.”

  Five more minutes, you think. You glance back at Owen and he smiles at you. Nick is still looking out the window and nothing about him feels pink. And when the minutes are finally up and Nick gets out of the car, he says to you call me later okay and you say okay even though you know you won’t. You especially know you won’t because Owen gets out of the backseat and opens the passenger door and sits in the seat and puts his foot down on the floor and steps on Nick’s phone as you drive away.

  “Oh. Nick accidentally left his phone,” Owen says, holding it up for you. He holds it like it’s his, a small intimacy. You feel a peach-soft tenderness toward Owen, even stronger than before because of it.

  “Sweet. Let’s go throw it in the river,” you say, the thought sparking inside of you like lightning. One Mississippi, two Mississippi. But you’ll throw it into the mighty Ohio.

  “Is that why you wanted me to ride with you? So we could go throw your boyfriend’s phone in the river together?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend. Not anymore. And yes. Maybe. Maybe that is why,” you say, giggling. The urge to cry has lifted and passed. The urge has gotten in the left lane and gunned past the same way you had gotten in the left lane and gunned past the two old women driving in front of you.

  And once you make it to the river, Owen is the one who throws Nick’s phone—skips it like a rock—across the wide, gray ribbon of water so you can’t call Nick. Owen says you and him need to make a fat donation to a clean water fund, now that you’ve polluted the river with a phone. You agree.

  “Are you worried Nick’ll come to your house? Or come up to work?” he asks as you sit there.

  “Kind of,” you say. Shrug.

  “Do you want to tell me exactly what he does to you?” Owen asks. And he sounds like a therapist, so you tell him that.

  “My mom’s a therapist,” Owen says, nodding.

  “Of course she is.” You nod too. It explains so much about his listening skills, his ability to know when you need to talk.

  “Do you want to tell me about it?” he asks.

  You do.

  Nick gets angry over the tiniest things like you not replying to a text within two minutes and he stays mad about these things for days. Nick’s emotional responses are disproportionate to the occasions. Once, Nick saw you say hello to a man you recognized from coming in the ice cream shop with his daughters and Nick was pissed all night about it. Kept asking who the guy was even though you kept telling him he was a guy from the ice cream shop who came in with his family. Everything makes Nick angry. Nick has issues. Nick comes from a crappy home and doesn’t know better. Nick has to figure out his own life. Nick isn’t awful all the time, you just didn’t know how to break up with him without making him mad. That scared you, so you called Owen.

  “Does he ever hurt you…physically?” Owen asks and looks right at you.

  “He grabs my arm sometimes…when I turn away from him or when he wants to make sure I’m listening,” you say.

  “Show me,” Owen says.

  You put your hand on Owen’s upper arm, squeeze and grab. Pull him closer to you.

  “Not fucking cool,” Owen says calmly like the weirdo he is, the weirdo who cares about the environment and baby animals and how we treat one another. You feel bad about the rancid phone battery that will soon be polluting the river and mouth the word sorry up and out to the river, knowing it hears you, forgives you. Jesus does too. You smooth Owen’s T-shirt back down, pat his warm skin. The sun ripple-winks on the river water like it should make a clink and it is raining in your heart. Pouring.

  “Are you hungry? My mom made chicken tortilla soup. Do you want some chicken tortilla soup?” he asks.

  “Yes,” you say. And you get in your car and go full circle to Owen’s place where Owen’s mom is in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher. Owen’s dad is out back, cutting the grass. You have never been inside Owen’s place and now you’re there, like leveling up in a video game. Owen has a friendly yellow dog that is tap-clicking around the kitchen floor like you are the greatest friend he’s ever known.

  “Mom, I was bragging to my friend from work about how good your chicken tortilla soup is and I figured it would be extraordinarily rude not to invite her over for a bowl, y’know…after all that bragging,” Owen says. He tells her your name and there it is, sparkler-written across the air for a split second before it disappears.

  “Absolutely! Nice to meet you. I’m Owen’s mom,” she says, offering her hand for you to shake. “And Malcolm’s mom,” she says as Owen’s big brother bounds up the stairs from the basement.

  Malcolm raises his hand in a wave and Owen tells you he’ll be right back. The boys disappear down the hallway together. You are alone in the kitchen with Owen’s mom who got one bowl down from the cabinet and is filling it with the soup on the stove.

  “This is awkward, but thanks for feeding me. I feel like a stray dog. It’s been a weird day,” you say. You are not an orphaned child. You have two parents at home, a little sister, plenty of food. But being at Owen’s feels like a kindness you didn’t even know you needed.

  “Pshh, it’s not awkward. We’re glad to have you. Do you have classes together too?” his mom asks, referring to the community college Owen goes to. You both graduated high school earlier that summer, but you aren’t going to college. You are waiting. You don’t know what you are waiting for.

  “No, I’m sitting the fall semester out. I’m planning on going in the spring though,” you say, not entirely sure if you’re lying or not. You have thought about going in the spring, but you’ve done nothing more than think about it.

  Owen’s mom hands you your bowl of soup and a spoon, instructs you to sit at the kitchen table. Owen’s dad’s lawn mower in the backyard is far away from the house now, providing a distant buzzy hum. You can smell the grass and the smell of it makes you want to live forever in a place where summer never ends. You sit at the table and dig into your soup as if it’s your kitchen, your mom at the coffeepot refilling before she sits across from you.

  “So, a weird day?” his mom says.

  “Yeah. Owen told me you were a therapist, so you’re used to hearing pretty much everything, right?” you ask, swallow more soup. “This is the best chicken t
ortilla soup I’ve ever had, by the way. Thank you,” you add. You especially like the lime because somehow, lime tastes like good luck.

  “Pretty much heard it all, yes. And extra cocoa powder in the soup. That’s my secret. I like your face, so I’ll tell you,” his mom says. You smile.

  “Thank you. I like your face too,” you say. Owen’s mom belongs in a laundry detergent ad in her flowery, fitted button-down and slim jeans. Her hair is pulled up in a stylish topknot and she is wearing a pair of reading glasses on a sparkly chain around her neck. She’s really pretty and you wonder what Owen’s dad looks like up close. You want to see which one Owen looks more like, because right now his mom is winning. Same nose and eyes. Same smile too.

  “O said you were taking him on a mystery ride?”

  You laugh a little and eat more soup, drink some of the water from the glass Owen’s mom put on the table for you. You hear Owen and his brother down the hallway, talking excitedly about something and wonder if Owen will fill you in later or if it’s a private thing, considering they are back there and not in the kitchen with you.

  “I had a bad boyfriend and Owen made me feel better about it,” you say.

  “How did he make you feel better?”

  “Just by being there, really,” you say.

  “Is everything okay now?” Owen’s mom asks, leans forward with her hands holding her mug.

  “Honestly, I don’t know. But Owen made me feel better about it,” you say again. You don’t want to sound needy, but you don’t mind letting Owen’s mom know she’s raised a good one. A gem.

  “He’s good at that,” his mom says and drinks her coffee.

  “And that guy’s not my boyfriend anymore…so,” you say.

  “Good. Owen talks about you. How well you two get along. You’re far too pretty and interesting to have a bad boyfriend. Who needs that? Easier said than done, I know…but. If you do want to ever talk about it, you can talk to me,” Owen’s mom says and nods.

  It makes you feel pathetic that Owen’s mom feels like she needs to offer to lend an ear. You wonder what Owen has told her about you. If Owen feels sorry for you. Is this pity? Does pity feel like someone putting a warm coat over your cold shoulders? But it feels like Owen’s mom is really seeing you. The summer afternoon light slants through the window, lighting his mom up like some kind of angel. Or superhero. You picture your thumpy heart, spilling out, not blood, but light, neverending beams of it.

  “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable. But, before I met Owen’s dad,” she says, motioning her head toward the backyard, “I dated my share of assholes and I know talking to another woman…helps. Men are extremely emotional, but they won’t admit it to themselves! They hold it in…then kill their entire families before killing themselves. It’s out of control. Why won’t they be honest with themselves instead of being such assholes? Men being honest with themselves and truly listening to women…it has the potential to change the world,” she says.

  “They only act like assholes so much because they can get away with it,” you say.

  “Well, men are gonna men. Fact. But it’s not a woman’s fault when a man behaves badly and it’s not her job to fix him. And if you catch one waving that asshole flag, trust yourself and run! Without feeling bad about it,” Owen’s mom says.

  “From here on out I will. I’ll run,” you agree, nodding. Owen’s mom nods too.

  And when you start to cry, Owen’s mom gets up from the table. You put your face in your hands and let go. You’ve been holding everything in and Owen’s mom makes you feel like you don’t have to. She starts rubbing the place where your neck ends, where your back begins, that place moms somehow know to rub when you’re crying or feeling sick. Her hand is warm and gentle. You take a shivery breath in. And out. In and out. In. And. Out.

  “Oh, honey,” Owen’s mom says.

  “I’m okay,” you say.

  “You’re more than okay. You are just fine,” Owen’s mom says with hilly country comfort.

  “Thank you for being so nice to me,” you say, looking at her as she steps away from you to sit back at the table. You’re embarrassed and hungry. You eat some more soup.

  “Oh, please. Look. You’re allowed to have a weird day. A weird week. A weird life!” she says, her laugh floating out of her mouth and popping like a bubble.

  The female spirit solidarity healing spell is broken as Owen and his brother come back into the kitchen bringing along the dog behind them and some more laughter—the pleasant laundry-and-shampoo scent of recently showered boys.

  “Nice to meet you,” Malcolm says to you before heading toward the door. Malcolm is hulking. A Paul Bunyan in this summer kitchen.

  “Where are you going?” his mom asks.

  “Rugby. Park,” he says, grabbing an apple from the fruit basket on the counter.

  “Love you,” his mom says.

  “Love you, too,” Malcolm says back.

  “Best chicken tortilla soup you’ve ever had in your life, right?” Owen asks you, sitting at the table.

  “Yes,” you say.

  You finish and thank Owen’s mom again before you and Owen leave to go get ice cream. Owen’s mom hugs you and you let her, although you’re not a big hugger. This is different. And you never get to see Owen’s dad up close, but you see him cutting the backyard grass in a blue ball cap. Owen’s fairytale backyard is edged with orange, yellow, and purple trumpet-flower bushes that attract butterflies. Seeing Owen’s dad up close is something you can look forward to. Coming over again, talking to his mom for some more free kitchen table therapy, maybe even more chicken tortilla soup. You don’t talk to your mom about your relationships and you rarely talk to your girlfriends about them because you are quiet and don’t like bothering people and you rarely even open your heart to those you feel most comfortable with. You wish you and your mom were closer. You wish your mom was more like Owen’s mom. You don’t even know Owen’s mom’s name, so you ask Owen before you get in your car. He tells you and you say it aloud so your mouth can remember it.

  On the way to the ice cream shop where you work, Owen tells you he sent Malcolm and Malcolm’s rugby buddies over to Nick’s place. To tell Nick not to bother you anymore. To leave you alone. Owen says they’re not going to like, hit him or anything, but just let him know it’s not cool and to stop it. You feel rescued although you hadn’t been brave enough to come out and ask for it. Malcolm texts Owen as you’re sitting with your ice creams outside of the shop. Owen shows you his phone, holds it straight out at you, proudly.

  Done. He wasn’t acting so tough with five dudes on his porch. Tell her to let us know if he ever bothers her again.

  You get tears in your eyes. You cry easily. Owen is your new favorite friend. Friend. You think about the word, how pure and sweet it is. How it means so much, even though you take it for granted. The mystery of it. A person who will fight for you, protect you, lend an ear without expecting anything in return. You know there are good guys out there because Owen is proof. You want to write a poem about him, one he can keep in his back pocket and pull out and read aloud the way he does sometimes. You can’t find the words to say thank you, but know Owen can feel them. Can probably taste that sweet-pink gratefulness in your ice cream as he takes a bite. You picture Nick with a purple-black eye, his wince-face, his tender arm in a sling. You like thinking Owen is keeping that violence from you, protecting you that way too. You think of how easily Owen threw Nick’s phone. You picture it sinking and sinking down into the river until it can’t sink any further. You picture yourself sinking and sinking down into the rushing, dirty-coin-colored river until you can’t sink any further. You picture yourself rocketing out of the water in a flash of white light, right out of this vacuum-valley. You reach over to take a quick bite of Owen’s ice cream and, like a mirror, you both put your hands on your foreheads and ow-laugh at your matching ice cream headaches. You’re eating too fast, but you can’t help it. You have to. You have to eat it all before it me
lts.

  Bright

  The summer I stopped brushing again, let the wind dread my hair; we camped in the desert. Peed on sage. I wanted to eat sage, grow a squat sage bush inside of me, watch the roots scream-sprout from my ears, my fingers, my feet. Same summer we were in the forest when there was a cougar loose in Discovery Park. Hunting, its paws pressing heavy. Cracking sticks. Clicking brambles. Smushing grass. We made our way out of the trees and stopped at King’s Hardware for Skee-Ball and tallboys of Vitamin R. Can you hear it—slick thump-rolling and bar chatter-hum lifting? Can you hear the back door chunking closed? Listen again. No. Those are the drunk white boys at the campsite listening to Eazy-E, N.W.A. They’re rapping, pretending to ride Jet Skis over the gravel. I made my girlfriends laugh when I called them chodes, but who were we to judge? If you dropped a record needle into the rock dust, Band of Horses would start playing. We ate salmon with lemons, drank beer for breakfast. Played Marry, Fuck, or Kill under the high noon sun. David Duchovny as Fox Mulder? Always yesyes. That evening it rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained and rained. Goose bumps of rain popping on tent-skin. Branch scratches of rain on tent-roof. Drunken rain slipping down half-empty wine bottles, wild rain ssss-ing out campfires. We packed up in the morning, slicked our fingers over metal poles and cold-dripping canvas. Talked to sweatshirted strangers about the double rainbow hooping us. Watched an ant line of young girls in hippie nightgowns walk down a hill. I got drunk on the plane—flew out of Seattle rain into Nashville rain with the high, bright smell of desert sage drying me out, burning and burning.