Check Me Out

by Becca Wilhite

  She nodded, hitched a smile onto her face, and walked over to say good-bye.

  Will came to stand beside me. “You are an absolute professional. You were perfect tonight.” He looked at his hands like he wasn’t sure what to do with them.

  I shook my head. “I’m sad.”

  “I know. Me too.” His arm hovered an inch above my shoulder, but he looked around and lowered it back to his side.

  I could feel my shoulders, tight and tense, under my dress. My body felt like I hadn’t taken a normal breath in hours. And it didn’t have anything to do with worry over my patched zipper situation. “Thanks for being here. And thanks for helping set up.”

  He put his fingers on the back of my dress. “You know it. I want to stay, but I’m having trouble with gravity. The earth and sky keep trading places.”

  I shook my head. “No, of course.” I reached up and patted his face. It was burning hot. “Oh, Will. You’re so sick. Go home. Medicate. Rest. And really, really thank you.” I turned him toward the parking lot and pushed him a little.

  A few seconds later, I found Mac sitting under a tree. He shoved a frosted pastry into his mouth and stood up.

  “Enjoy your fifteen-dollar cookie?”

  He brushed crumbs from his face. “You handled that great, Greta.”

  I tried to smile, but my facial muscles rebelled in exhaustion. He could tell because his arm went around my back like he wanted to lift me out of this night, out of this lot, out of my life for a while.

  He stood with me for several minutes, letting me breathe. He’d opened the buttons of his jacket, and I could see his pickup T-shirt flashing its message to the straggling crowd. I let my head rest on his shoulder for a minute, breathing in the bitter coffee smell of his horrible shirt. (“If I told you that you have a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?”)

  When I was ready to face reality, I squeezed around his waist and smiled up at him. “Thanks for being here tonight.”

  “I wouldn’t have missed it.”

  My breath came out half a laugh, half a huff. “Eleanor Richtenberg would—did. She totally missed it.”

  He pulled me close again. “True. She missed. She lost. But you didn’t. You were here. And look—all these people were here for your thing, your place.” He gestured in a vague manner at the napkins littering the lawn, the folding chairs that no longer had any resemblance to the ordered rows of a few hours before, the crumby trays that had once held really good cookies.

  “I never want anyone to tell me how much money we had to give back to these people. If you ever find out a dollar amount of refunds, promise me you’ll never tell.”

  He crossed his heart. “I’ll write it down on a piece of paper. Then I’ll scribble the numbers out. Then I’ll burn the paper. Then I’ll scrape up the ashes and eat them.”

  “Gross.”

  “Maybe, but I’m willing to do anything for you.”

  “Really? Like what?”

  He took a breath. “I’d take you to see that movie. The one all the girls in the coffee shop talk about. With the guy? And the dog? And the thing by the lake?”

  “Wow. That is . . . sacrificial. What else?”

  When he rubbed his hand along the side of his face, I could hear the stubble scritching under his fingers. “I would write you love poetry.”

  My heart stopped. For a long, long time. I couldn’t breathe. He said love. Out loud. I heard it. Love. I forced my eyebrows up and asked for a sample. Then I went back to totally freaking out while he chewed on the edge of his thumb and pondered poetry.

  “Now?” I said.

  “When I get home.”

  I smiled up into his perfect face and said, “Then you better hurry home.”

  He tucked a piece of my hair behind my ear. “What if you don’t like it?”

  “Do you think I’d laugh?” I thought about the weird things he’d said before and about how I’d decided to forget things were weird. “I wouldn’t laugh. If I didn’t like it, I’d hold in all my criticism. Because criticism breaks the spirit, you know.”

  He leaned close to my ear. I felt his voice more than heard it. “Please don’t break my spirit.”

  He leaned in to kiss me, but I dodged and hid my face in his chest. I was so not up for making out at the scene of my latest failure. I hugged him and took a deep breath and tried not to think about anything.

  “Good night,” I said, and watched him walk away.

  I moved through the motions of folding up the chairs and stacking them on racks. I hardly felt the times I banged my shins and scratched my arms. When my phone chimed, I saw this:

  When I got home, I got on the computer before I even attempted to unstitch myself from my dress. I opened the window that held my virtual shopping cart, doubled my order, and clicked Buy Now.

  Chapter 26

  Un-sewing myself from the black dress was inelegant and permanent. The dress would still look good on a hanger—as long as nobody turned it around.

  Mac texted.

  He didn’t reply right away. I didn’t want him to feel pressured.

  While he composed, I stared at myself in the mirror. Things weren’t looking so great in the reflection. My face seemed to have aged during the course of the evening. I’d thought the black circles under my eyes came from mascara, but when I’d washed it off, the dark smudges remained. That’d be awesome, I thought, if the bruised-looking marks stayed there forever. I pressed my fingers into my face, hoping to squeeze away the pressure.

  No luck.

  I checked my phone. Nothing yet. The muse must have had the night off. It certainly wasn’t working for me during the Richtenberg Fiasco, when I was inventing a monologue on the spot. Stupid muse. I could really have used it earlier.

  I poked at a scratch on my shin, watching it turn from red to white and back to red. A surrounding bruise, red and blue now, would be dark purple by tomorrow. That was a relief. I needed something visible, obvious, to mark the stupid day. Nothing was worse than when you got hurt and nobody could see it to feel sorry for you.

  I checked the phone again. Nothing.

  Picking up the black dress, I pinched the broken threads from around the zipper, dropping each tiny, wrinkled string into a pile. The zipper went from the lower back to the middle of my shoulders. The string pile grew to golf-ball size. Still nothing from Mac.

  At this rate I would have to go clean the bathroom or something.

  I needed someone to tell me something good.

  No answer.

  I put on my shoes and went outside. The streets were dark, but I was only going a few blocks. I’d take my chances. Besides, the odds of anything menacing happening were low. This was Franklin, Ohio. I pulled the sleeves of my hoodie over my knuckles and turned the corner. Franklin was sleeping.

  When I got to his apartment, I could see his bedroom light was off, but I didn’t care. I needed my Will.

  I threw a pebble against his window. It made a thump that seemed to me like a sonic boom, but nothing happened inside. I walked closer, picked up another pebble, and threw it. This time I heard a crash inside, like Will had knocked over a table full of dishes or something.

  I walked over so I could see in the window better.

  He clicked on his lamp and opened the window. His hair stood up in seventeen directions, none of them intentional. He shoved his glasses on and squinted into the dark.

  “Greta?”

  “Who else would it be?”

  He coughed for a whole minute.

  “Are you still sick?”

  He tried to laugh, but the cough overtook it.

  When he caught his breath, he said, “What makes you ask me that?”

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Sorry. Go back to bed. Good night.”

  “No, I’m up now. What�
�s up? What do you need?”

  I shook my head. “It’s nothing. I had a crappy night, as you know, and I wanted to talk to you.”

  “You wanted to talk to me?” He sounded surprised. And maybe a little doubtful.

  “Well, yeah.” I left it at that. Because that part was true. The fact that he wasn’t my first choice could be left unstated, obviously.

  He turned around and picked up something off the floor. “You texted me.” He waved his phone at the window.

  “Yeah, but I guess you were pretty tired.”

  He whispered a mild curse and looked at me with surprise, which he tried to hide.

  “What was that for?” I asked.

  “I really, really hate missing texts.”

  “It’s one text. No big deal.”

  “Right.”

  He coughed again and bent down so I couldn’t see him. The cough kept him doubled over for a minute, but it took longer for him to resurface. When he did, he said, “I’m sure you don’t want to talk about it, but I wanted to say that you handled today like a complete champion.”

  I shook my head. “I was a mess.”

  “Nobody’s saying you weren’t disappointed in how things happened—didn’t happen—whatever.” He stopped talking to cough again. “But nobody could have handled it better. You were graceful and eloquent and funny and generous and bouncy. You did a really good job.”

  “Bouncy?”

  He shook his head. “Not like cheerleader-bouncy. Like you bounced back. Give me a break—I was asleep two minutes ago. I’m trying to tell you you’re good.”

  I breathed those words in like they were clean air. “Thank you for telling me I’m good. I need to hear it. Regularly.”

  My phone buzzed. Mac. “Speaking of things I love to hear,” I said, shaking my phone at him. “Thanks for keeping me company.”

  He smiled. “I hope he says all the right things. Good night, Greta.”

  Turning, I waved over my shoulder. “Night.”

  I didn’t wait to get back to the sidewalk. I looked at Mac’s message with my back to Will’s window.

  I smiled at the phone. I might have laughed, and I might have sighed.

  After I sent it, I started walking back toward my place.

  Long pause.

  I almost sent back a follow up, but after walking another minute or two, I got this:

  I stood still on the sidewalk in the middle of a block. Partly because I didn’t care who saw me. Partly because I couldn’t text and walk at the same time. I texted Will.

  Mac again.

  Melodic? Mac had never said a word like that out loud; I’d bet on it.

  I knew he’d take some time to answer that one, so I shot another text to Will.

  Will answered first.

  I stopped again to key in my answer.

  I decided to go as far as the next block before I stopped to type again. Will beat me to it.

  That took the wind out of me.

  Mac came back.

  A minute later:

  Obviously. How did I answer that?

  Yes. Definitely. About a thousand times.

  Where did that come from?

  The answer came fast.

  Again.

  I stopped on the sidewalk again to key in all the words.

  I walked an entire block before his reply came in.

  What was I supposed to do with that?

  I put my phone in my pocket and it vibrated again almost immediately.

  Will.

  I walked back toward Will’s place. In a block and a half, we met. He wrapped me up in a fleece that smelled like microwave popcorn. He shoved his hands into his hoodie pouch.

  I walked up right beside him and put my head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry I say the wrong thing sometimes.” I hated to even bring it up, but I hated more thinking he was hurt.

  He took a deep breath before answering. “You didn’t. You’re perfect. I just don’t like to share. I believe we have discussed this before.” His little boy smile looked like it always had. He nodded to a tree, and we sat down on the grass beneath it.

  I positioned myself right up next to him. “Is that what we’re doing? Sharing?”

  He wrinkled up his nose. “Sounds creepy when you say it that way, doesn’t it?” His laugh turned into a cough. “So, how’s Mac?”

  I was going to say fine. I was going to say perfect. I was going to say great. “Weird.”

  “What kind of weird?” he asked. “Wait. Do I want to know?”

  I shifted on the damp grass. “I don’t know. Eloquent one minute, and the next, just weird.”

  “Weird like quoting movies you’ve never heard of?”

  “Weird like shifting from poet to caveman.”

  Will sat with his back against the chain-link fence. His heel tapped against the grass. “Maybe he has a multiple personality disorder.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Maybe you make him nervous.”

  I shook my head.

  “Maybe he’s sustained a traumatic head injury.” He didn’t even sound sorry at the possibility.

  I was finished brooding now. “Good thing whatever hit him didn’t ruin his face.” We both laughed.

  “Right. Or his hair.”

  “I know, right? That would be a real tragedy. I mean, it’s a shame that his personality shifts in the middle of a conversation. But if his hair was hurt? That would be bad.”

  “So what kind of personality shift are we talking about?”

  “Minor.” I stretched my legs out in front of me. “One minute it’s all poetry and the next it’s really defensive.”

  “Defensive beats offensive, I believe.”

  I nodded. “You’re totally right. And because you thought I was being shallow, I’ve been paying attention to the things I like about him.” He started to interrupt, but I didn’t want to hear an excuse or an apology. I shook my head and kept talking. “He’s a good guy. He’s nice. And he’s generous. And he’s complimentary. And so what if I might sometimes wonder if he’s looking up compliments on the internet before he gives them? He still says them beautifully. Tonight was weird. I told him I was falling for the text version of him, and he seemed like he wanted me to promise he was still hot. He is, by the way. Totally still hot.”

  Will leaned his head down. I couldn’t see his face.

  “Sorry. That was probably gross on every level.” I pulled myself off the wet grass. “I should go to sleep. You should go to sleep. Your doctor would not love me if she knew I had you out here in the wee smalls sitting on wet grass.”

  Grunting, he hauled himself to his feet. Holding on to the trunk of the tree, he said, “Greta? Is it really the text version you love?”

  “Did I say love?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I did know what he meant. Exactly. “I don’t know.” He deserved a better answer than that, but I didn’t know how to put it.

  He started to turn away, and I held on to his hand. “Wait.”

  He turned back and put his other hand on top of mine, sandwiching my hand between his.

  I looked up at him. “I think it’s all the versions. Except maybe the defensive part. He’s the real deal, Willie-boy.”

  Will leaned over, my hand still between his. He kissed my forehead and whispered in my ear, “I’m happy for you. You deserve the best, you know.”

  “Thanks. Good night.”

  “Night.”

  Chapter 27

  I knew the next day would be an awful one at the library. I also knew that Eleanor Richtenberg’s no-show was not my fault. One of those facts outweighed the other. Not so much in my favor. I spent the day organizing and
preparing all the rented furniture for loading. Once it was carted away, I cleared out several more boxes from the basement and scanned documents and pictures for hours. It was two before I realized I hadn’t eaten anything all day.

  At four o’clock, Will walked in to the library with a huge tray in his hands. He headed for the circulation desk. Kevin sat at the computer in the corner answering emails with a polite form message: “We appreciate hearing from you. As soon as we can work out all the formalities, we will refund your ticket purchases, minus a small processing fee.” Instead of doing a copy-and-paste, he was typing each message word by word, almost singing the words as he went. It was aggressively cheerful and, frankly, getting scary after a few times.

  Julie was in her office, maybe hiding, maybe not. Will came over to the desk and stood in front of me. He pointed with his eyes at the giant plate of brownies balancing in front of him. Because of course he thought to bring the library staff a huge plate of brownies the day after the failed fund-raiser. This was Will, after all. I reached over and lifted the brownies off what I thought was a tray. It wasn’t. It was a huge wooden picture frame.

  “Is Ms. Julie here?” Will asked in his most polite, cultivated library voice.

  “She is busy in her office. Can I help you?” I smiled back at him.

  “Actually, she might want to see this.”

  I waved toward her window to get her attention, but she didn’t look up. I went over and knocked on her door. “A patron has something for you,” I said.

  “Is it a box of rotten fruit?” I was pretty sure she was joking, but I shook my head no, just in case she meant it. I could tell by her posture as she walked to the desk that maybe she meant it.