by OL Ramos
Chapter 3
After a while, you start to let things that really irk you or gnaw at you slide off your back. At least... that's what I wanted to believe. I just kept telling myself that, and somehow I was going to make it real.
But it never felt real. I was lying to myself.
I guess what bothered me the most was that I finally had my guard penetrated only to be ignored and left alone again. I don't know how, or why, I felt the way I did about Michael... But I did. There was no denying that. It was only one day really, but it felt like so much more.
I could lose myself in the memories of that day. It felt nice to be an ordinary girl for once. It felt, well, normal, I guess. But it wasn't just that. He had managed to make me forget about my pain, my haunted past. Was I being selfish or was I truly attracted to the man? Can you be attracted so strongly to someone you just met? I don't know, I never bothered to actually meet anyone. And having to deal with the consequences of not knowing why Michael left me alone had made me feel even emptier than before.
But... maybe it was my baggage. Who am I fooling, anyway? Only myself and maybe poor Jack. Jack tries on a daily basis to tend to me and my broken feelings. I smile and lie, "I'm all right, really.” Yet every day I get the same look, the same offers and questions...I am transparent.
Eventually I resume my life as if nothing had ever happened and I never met the guy. Better off for everyone I tell myself. And then I bump in to him at the library.
"Michael?" I shudder noticeably as I feel my purse strap fall to my wrist. "What, why...? You never came back. You just left me wondering. Why would you do that? Did the Baker boys really rattle you that badly?"
I observe him carefully as I start with my inquisition. I want him to know I’m mad as calmly as I can, but I'm not going to take being ditched easy either. He looks at me with his jade-colored eyes and inhales deeply before motioning to a nearby reading table. He has a book piled on top of his laptop in his hand; impressive he could balance that. The book's title is a little creepy, "Slavic Folklore.” Never seen that piece here, and I'm always here...
After a short walk we sit down at the table and I cross my arms. I want an explanation and it had better be a good one.
"It's not the Bakers or anything like that," Michael whispers softly as he conspicuously maneuvers the book away from my prying eyes. "I've been busy with work and school. And if you remember, I don't exactly have your phone number either. I had to go away for a while.”
"What do you consider a while?" I reply in relative outrage. "It's been weeks, you could’ve mailed me a card or something to Jack's. You're always with that laptop of yours; I know you could have searched for the address if you didn't have it handy. You're not giving me much to go on. I thought we had a good time, a connection. I trusted in you, and then...you just left.”
Michael's face is pained. I feel the hurt he is showing with his expression. All of a sudden, my feelings of confusion, doubt, and loneliness pour all over me as they burst through the gates of my denial. I’m uncharacteristically pouring my heart out to this guy, whom I barely knew, and he looks to be sincerely apologetic.
"I feel a kinship with you, Liz," he responds with a sigh. "I understand what you must think of me. I don't—I didn't mean to hurt you. It wasn't my intention to be away for so long; my business just had me carried away for longer than I expected. I know you don't open up easily. I know it took a lot to get you to go out with me and then I ruined your gesture. But I swear to you, if it wouldn't have been for my work, I would have returned immediately. Besides, I'm actually staying here longer than I anticipated. Something’s come up.”
"What?" I try my best to mind my tone and volume, but I'm really about to lose it here. "You haven't even told me what you do for a living or what you're studying. I looked around for you at school, I couldn't find you. No one knew who you were. It's like you didn't even exist.”
"I wasn't lying when I said I went to the same school," he answers calmly as he sits back at ease in his chair. His carefree attitude annoys me. "Did you ask any of the teachers about me? I don't attend classes with students. I'm sort of a special case, like you are.”
"What do you mean, a ‘special case’ like me? Most people up there think I'm a freak or crazy. This is a small town, Mike, everyone knows what happens here. Everyone has heard of my 'delusions' or my 'irrationally paranoid theories.' Is that what you mean?"
"You're extremely quick to judge me, Ms. McBeth," Michael says as he leans forward and places his elbows on the table. "I meant ‘special case’ as in a special interest to the school. You're known among all of the teaching staff because of your genius. I'm known because I have made special arrangements with the school to only have classes with teachers and professors on a one-on-one basis, when their time permits, of course.”
"What?!" I shout in disbelief. I hear someone shushing me from behind me, but I don't care at this point. "You expect me to believe that one of the biggest, most prominent universities is letting you get one-on-one classes? What do you take me for, some sort of idiot? This isn't ancient Greece!"
"Please, lower your voice," he pleads softly as his eyes dart around the building. He obviously is desperately trying to avoid this scene. I know I'm being dramatic, but he's being outrageous. "It's all true. You never asked me what I took at the campus, or who my teachers were. I have contributed a sizeable amount to the institution to allow me these privileges. And even then, it's more like a hobby of mine, to constantly be learning. My business keeps me very occupied, and I don't need a fancy degree to do what I do. But you never asked anything about what I did for a living or about my classes. So how can you possibly be upset with me? If these things concerned you so, you should have asked instead of accusing me of deception.”
"Deception?" I whisper sharply as I start to mellow out. "Why are you talking like that? I didn't outright call you a liar.”
"No, you merely implied I was one. Your eyes also accused me of betraying you, and I didn't like the look of them. I didn't want you to call me a traitor with just a look. I told you before; I have a real issue with honesty. Being called a liar is like gouging my eyes; it's a cheap shot.”
After looking at him coldly for a short moment, I finally concede. He’s right and I am acting like the typical whiny teenager I’m always complaining about. I never did ask him about his business or even his major. Am I really that self-centered?
"I'm sorry," I relent. "I just thought you were trying to slink your way out of owning up to me. I thought about you, I was worried. I thought the Bakers might have gotten to you somehow, or that I scared you off. I'm not usually like this, I promise. It's you. It's you that make me this way and I'm a little resentful of it.”
He nods his head almost knowingly. He blinks his eyes and then cups his face with his hands.
"We spent a lot of time together," he said, his face still dug in his hands. "Especially for a first date. I can understand the way you feel. I suppose I would feel the same if our roles were to be reversed. Without question, I do hold some blame. I should have written you at least. For that I also apologize.”
We share another awkward period of silence before I slide my hands on the table and try to pry his hands away from his face. His hands and cheeks are on fire. He is running a terrible fever, yet he seems perfectly comfortable.
"You're ill," I point out in concern. "You must be at a hundred and five at least! We have to get you to the hospital. You've been working yourself to death.”
Michael chuckles softly before placing my hand over his chest. His chest is even warmer than his face and hands. He smiles at me mysteriously.
"I was born this way," he says calmly. "Maybe you didn't notice it on our first date as we barely touched, and it was particularly cold. This is my normal temperature ever since I was an infant. I drive my doctors insane. One doctor described it as a persistent hyper metabolism.”
"But that's impossible," I answer incredulously. "Your body would neve
r last this long if it was always running like that. Hyper metabolism usually occurs after a bad trauma to the body. We're talking life threatening car wreck damage. How can your body always be this way?"
"No doctor can explain the cause," he answers nonchalantly. "I can tell you, though, I'm very impressed with your knowledge on the subject. You could pass for pre-med.”
"I'm trying to be serious," I argue in frustration. "What happens to you when you get sick? Do you get even warmer? That has to be causing some sort of brain and liver damage.”
"Listen to me," he says as he moves my hand to the left side of his chest. I feel his powerful heart thundering inside him. "I'm fine. I might be relatively rare with my condition, but I can tell whether I feel ill or not. Don't worry, okay?"
I sigh reluctantly and give up on the issue. He must know his body better than I do. And if every doctor he's been to has cleared him, I mean, what can I do or say? He's not going to take me doubting him again very well.
"What do you do for a living, anyway?" I ask to change the topic before I dwell on it longer. "You have to be making serious bucks to have the university owing you favors.”
"I work for the environment," he explains as he releases my hand and removes a pad and pen from his jacket's inner pocket. "It's mostly pro bono work, but when I do get paid, it's very rewarding. I also inherited a considerable fortune from my father when he passed..."
I’ve never even asked him about his parents. The shock leaves me with a sour taste in my mouth. As I replay our first date's events in my mind, I come to the dreadful conclusion that all I did was mostly talk about myself. Michael had just listened and chimed in with a sarcastic quip or a joke or two.
"So, you're rich too, huh?" I ask wryly. Great. And he's a charity worker. And I just told him off. I'll have to remember to pry my foot out of my mouth later. "This business, is it your own? Or do you work for a company I might know about?"
"It's a family owned business. My father left it in my hands completely when he died and I've been struggling to find my way ever since. It's been in my family for a very long time. You could say it's our life’s blood.”
"And you're staying in town longer now? Because of business?"
"That's right," Michael says as he writes down something on the pad and rips out the paper, handing it to me. "And there's all my info, in case you ever need it again. Two cell phones and an email, just in case you'd rather write me.”
I take the paper and hold back a smile as I examine it. He's got some seriously nice handwriting for a guy.
"Did anyone ever tell you that you write like a girl?" I say with a soft laugh. Michael blushes as he looks down and laughs to himself. "So you're only staying because of business?"
"Not quite," he answers as he looks back up at me. I notice those jade orbs focusing on my lips. He turns away as if to avoid temptation. Well, at least I wasn't the only one fighting it back. "I’d like to get to know you more. Spend more time with you, if you're available.”
"That depends," I say aloofly. "I guess we'll see how everything works out. Maybe you can meet me at work later. We'll have to see if I'm not too busy. Things have been piling up on my plate during your absence, Mr. Clarke.”
He smiles, seeming slightly annoyed. He still appears playful, though. But I’m not going to push my luck.
"It's good to know you remembered my last name," he states jovially. "And to think, the only mention of it was way back when you read it on my ID. Interesting.”
"What's really interesting is your reading material," I point out as I stand up and reach for it. Michael attempts to hide it, but ultimately gives it up. "I thought you said you were too busy with work? This here would suggest otherwise. And I really doubt you got this thing from this library, I've been through most of the books here...especially on this subject."
"The book, in a way, is related to my environmental work. My resources have informed me that there's a corporation intent on leveling a large part of the forestry here. They're planning on cutting down tons of trees to build several strip malls and other places like that. They're going to kill this little town. It'll go from being a charming little hamlet to being a typical run-of-the-mill city you can find at thousands of other places in the country. Not to mention the animals; they'll get run off their land. Can you imagine how much of a problem that'll cause for you and your neighbors?"
"That sounds really boring," I admit with a giggle. "It also sounds scary. But where does Slavic folklore fit in?"
"The man mainly responsible for this move is Russian," he answers in a very matter-of-fact tone. "He's also extremely superstitious. The project will require his extended presence in the area for a while. I figured I'd make it seem like the woods were haunted; then maybe he'd be too scared to pick this town. There are other places he has his eyes on, after all.”
I laugh at the absurdity of it all. Michael merely furrows his brow at me. "This sounds like one of those adventures with the teens in the van and that talking dog," I say in between my laughter. "This is the best you could come up with?"
"You don't understand; we don't win much. It's not as if I can punch the guy in the face and force him to relocate. I have to be civil about this; it's the only way. And this man is extremely superstitious. He won't come if he's convinced the place houses some ghosts from his homeland. Besides, you mentioned this is a hobby of yours? The subject, I mean.”
"You're bound to find out sooner or later," I say aloud, silently hating myself for the confession that is about to follow. "I believe in these things too. The paranormal, I mean, so I guess you could call me superstitious like the Russian.”
He cracks his neck and adjusts his gaze on me after scanning around the library once more. "Why don't you tell me about it?" Michael suggests kindly. "I'd love to hear it. I'm a believer as well; I just didn't want to be the first to admit it. People tend to steer clear when you talk about all the things that go bump in the night.” Michael smiles at me warmly. I can't help myself.
I tell him everything. And it feels great to get it off my chest and open up to him for some reason. As usual, he merely listens and speaks sparingly, content merely to hear me rant. This guy...