by A. J. Pine
He is a part of that tension. But the smallest part and, quite frankly, the best part. More than that, though, he is familiarity in a sea of strangeness, and more than wanting to know what this is between us, I simply want to be around him.
I shake my head. “I want you here too,” I say, watching as he dips his napkin in his icy water and then presses it to my palm where my clenched fist drew blood. “With me and for me, huh?” I ask, able to smile again.
He nods at my hand before bringing his eyes to mine again. “Apparently you need some looking after . . . or your nails trimmed. One of the two. I’m going to go with the former since it gives me an excuse to stay.”
I need to get used to this version of Spock and the version of me around him. Our time together last fall was short-lived—a weekend here or there between friends—enough that all we ever worried about was whose basketball team was better and who’d fall asleep first, him while writing songs or me while drawing comic strips. Now there’s this idea of us, one that suddenly needs a definition and discussion.
“You don’t need an excuse,” I say.
“No,” he says, his eyes locked on mine. “I don’t.”
I feel Delores’s shadow before I register her presence.
“Either of you gonna finish that?” She nods toward my half-eaten blueberry scone, and I slide the plate toward her spot at the table.
“It’s all yours,” I say, and watch her finish it off, wondering where this mini pinup girl finds room for the extra treat.
“Quick walk, hang in the square, and then you two can get back to unpacking?”
“Sounds like a plan,” I say, not taking her bait because the truth of it is, yes. I want to get back to whatever it is Spock and I were in the middle of. He can be here with me. But to let him be there for me, I’d have to let him in on the guilt, and that’s not a fair burden to ask him to bear.
* * *
Despite the early June heat, the breeze cools as Delores leads the walking tour of my summer neighborhood. I pay the most attention to the location of Dark Tower Comics, where tomorrow’s signing will be. Spock holds my hand as we walk, another new addition to our reality, yet it feels like we’ve always done this. I’m not prepared, though, for his sudden stop, and end up jerking backward and plowing into his shoulder.
“Dude!” I say, half laughing and half irritated. But when I see the window he’s stopped in front of, I get it, and I’m a little embarrassed I didn’t notice it myself.
“Delores, hold up!” I yell, since she’s now a few paces ahead of us.
She spins on her heel and strides back to meet us.
“Ah, so you’re both the artsy, folksy types, huh?” she asks. “Guess I wouldn’t have pegged you.”
I’ve read some of Spock’s songs before they get morphed into the band’s style. I’ve heard him play acoustically without the rest of the guys. So I understand why the sudden stop in front of the Old Town School of Folk.
“We played here once,” he says. “Early on when we were still finding our sound. I love this place.” He runs a hand through his hair. “The band is supposed to come through Chicago again in early August to play an acoustic set here. I mean, they are coming. Just without me.” He pauses, and in that space I overflow with the realization of how lost inside myself I’ve been since seeing Spock again. He left the tour. That much I knew. But it was more than just to see me when I needed him, and I never asked why.
“You miss it,” I say, hearing the wistfulness in his voice. “And I’m an asshole for not asking what happened . . . why you left.”
He shakes his head, and Delores huffs out a breath.
“I’m going to let you two have your moment,” she says, with a surprising lack of irritation. “Here,” she says as she pulls out her phone. “I’m texting you directions to the square. It’s only a few minutes away. Meet me there, and I’ll help you get your bearings for the rest of the area, okay?”
I give her an appreciative nod as she sends the text and walks away without another word. Maybe this new roommate thing is going to work out all right.
When she’s gone, I turn to Spock and snake my arms around his waist, and he sighs into my hold. I exhale, relieved at his reaction to my girlfriend-like gesture.
“Tell me what happened?”
He shrugs, then rests his chin lightly on my head as he starts to rub my back.
“It’s not that anything actually happened,” he starts. “It’s just that nothing ever changed.”
He pauses, and I wonder if that’s it, if that’s all I’ll get, but when he breathes in, I know he’s gearing up to speak again.
“I guess this is part of what I wanted to tell you.” He releases his hold on me, and I pull back to see him, to watch him as he speaks. “We were buddies, all of us. And the band life was fine on campus. When they got out of hand, and they did—a shit ton, I didn’t have to be a part of it. But the road . . . let’s just say it was tough.”
As much as I know I want to be with him, to see where this goes, this small bit of information tells me that I don’t know him. Not yet. Spock has known about my self-imposed sobriety since we met. He’s not a partier, and for the daughter of an addict who quit drinking at the first sign of trouble, this bodes well for me.
“I’ve always liked that about you, you know. Your atypical band member attributes.”
He grabs hold of my wrist, then my hand, until his fingers are threaded with mine again.
“And here I thought you just found me dead sexy. Good to know there’s nothing physical going on here,” he says.
“Right,” I say, through nervous laughter. “Mr. Nolan, have you seen yourself lately? A musician who doesn’t party with guitar-playing toned biceps? I’d say there’s a whole lot of physical going on.”
It’s like my words direct my hands, both finding their way to his upper arms, and he chuckles . . . then flexes both biceps under my grip.
“You mean these?” he asks, brows raised, and I bite my bottom lip.
“Uh . . . yeah. Okay. I need a little distraction here before I forget we’re on a sidewalk.” I regretfully pull one hand away from his upper arm and grab the door that leads inside the Old Town School of Folk.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
I grin. “Showing you where I work.”
We step through the doorway, his hand back in mine, and are greeted by wall-to-wall string instruments, which I imagine is Spock’s version of porn. Behind the counter sits a guy probably not much older than me. He wears a Bluetooth headset over a short, sandy fauxhawk, and when he says, “Come over here, then,” I’m not sure if he’s talking to someone on a cell phone or to us. He’s either looking at me and Spock or just looking straight ahead. Other than the door, we’re the only things in front of him, so maybe it’s us?
Spock looks at me and shrugs. We’re on the same page, so we listen and wait.
“Listen, you little bitch. If you don’t get your sweet ass over here yesterday, Bree is going to put you at the bottom of her to-do list.”
Fuck. This guy’s going to be fun. We approach the counter, but my adrenaline wanes, and I clear my throat. This is when he holds up a finger as if telling me to wait while he looks down at an iPad and writes a quick note with a stylus. Then he makes a kissing sound. Twice.
“Thanks, gorgeous. I’ll let her know. See you at eleven.”
He looks up. Uh, yeah. He so wasn’t talking to us.
“What can I do for you, dollface?” he asks. Then he gives Spock the once-over, tapping his stylus against his chin. “Or you, delicious. I can think of something . . .”
“I start here on Monday,” I interrupt. “The summer showcase program? I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop in and introduce myself. I’m Zoe.”
I extend my hand over the top of the counter, and Fauxhawk gives me a long, drawn-out shake.
“Wait,” Spock says, crossing his arms. “This is where you’re working this summer? How did this neve
r come up?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I told you I was working at an art school.”
He laughs. “Yeah, but you didn’t say it was Old Town.”
“Hmmmm,” Fauxhawk chimes in. “I can tell you two are close.”
“Cool it, Patrick. She’s mine.” The response comes from my right. A woman, not much older than me, stands with her bare arms crossed over her fitted Rolling Stones tank, replete with sequined lips and tongue. Her inky black pixie is the same color as her skinny jeans, which stop atop a pair of studded lace-up boots.
She looks me up and down, and a smile starts to form on her face. I take it she approves, though my plain white tank, floral peasant skirt, and Doc Martens aren’t quite on par with the badassery she’s got going on.
“Zoe,” she says, and I’m relieved at the recognition in her voice. “I’m Bree, the art director. I really liked the samples you sent with your application.” Her eyes move to Spock. “I know you,” she said. “How do I know you?”
“Zach Nolan,” he says, shaking her hand. “I used to play for Pleasantville.”
Her brows rise. “Used to?”
“Yeah,” he says through what I can tell is a forced smile. “I’m taking a little break. Figuring things out on my own, I guess.”
Bree grabs the tablet from Patrick and swipes the screen a few times.
“How are you with kids?” she asks him.
“I don’t . . . what?” he asks.
Bree groans. “That was my boyfriend on the phone, the one Patrick was so lovingly reminding not to be late for our appointment. I’m short a music teacher for the summer program thanks to one of our brilliant applicants thinking he can still pull off a half-pipe after a six-pack. Long story short, broken collarbone means no guitar teacher for the summer and me having to beg Teddy to do it on top of his summer gig schedule.” She pauses for a breath. “Anyway, the pay is shit, but the kids are great, and as long as you make it to the end of the program, you can prepare a demo for the showcase, where I know there will be producers who will want to meet you. I’m guessing that would be pretty useful to a former band member figuring out what’s next.”
Spock looks at me, and I can feel the silent conversation happening between us. If he says yes, he’s here for the summer.
“You can crash on the couch!” I blurt out, even though I have no authority to make this offer. “I mean, I’ll ask Delores. But the rent would be cheap, and . . .”
So many words want to tumble out of my mouth. We’d finally be in the same place. We could see where this goes. You can help me put the past month behind me. But what if I’m more eager than he is?
Bree hands him a business card. “My cell’s on there. I know this doesn’t give you a lot of time to think, but if you can let me know by tomorrow if I can let Teddy off the hook, you would be a lifesaver.”
Spock takes the card, his eyes resting on it as he says, “I’ll call you tomorrow, then.”
“Great. I look forward to it.” Bree turns to me. “And I look forward to working with you on Monday, Zoe.”
I nod. As excited as I was to be here minutes ago, all I want now is to get back to my apartment so Spock can tell me what he really thinks. All I know is that my body thrums with the possibility—with what it would mean if he said yes.
* * *
We’re on the sidewalk again, where we were only several minutes ago. But everything is different.
“That was—unexpected,” he says, and I bite my lip and nod. “I mean, the gig sounds great. I used to give private lessons on campus for some extra cash, so it’s not like the teaching part freaks me out.”
I let out a long breath. “But the other part does,” I say. “The whole I’m not sure what we are but move in with me part.”
He laughs. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess that’s the part that does.”
“Forget it,” I say and start walking just so I can avoid his gaze. “It was a ridiculous suggestion. I’m sure you can stay with a friend or find your own place or—”
He catches up to me and grabs my hand, so I stop.
“Zoe.” He cups my cheeks in his hands. “It freaks me out because I wanted to say yes. It freaks me out because after not seeing you for over six months, the thought of seeing you every day? It’s kind of the best thing I can imagine right now.”
And because hearing him say that is the best thing I can imagine right now, I rise onto my toes and kiss him, right there on the sidewalk. He follows my lead without question. His hands hold firm on my cheeks as his lips answer any lingering questions I have about how he feels. My eyes widen before they close, and my arms find their way back to his hips, up his back, the two of us a most definite public display of affection, but for the several seconds it takes him to ease my worries with his mouth on mine, I let the rest fall away. Miles from home, from the memories, the guilt, and reminders, I can be someone else with him. Me, only better. My mouth opens, inviting him in, and when I taste him, I know. He is the way out from the hole I’ve fallen into. With him all the other bullshit melts away, enough to give myself the cliché pep talk: Hey, you. Everything’s going to be okay.
His lips part from mine but only enough to take a breath, for him to speak. His hands stay on my cheeks, his forehead resting on mine.
“So, Blue. What does this mean? We’re kinda doing things backward here, huh? I mean, if Delores says yes, we’re risking all sorts of shit starting out as roommates, right?”
I roll my eyes. “Seriously? You’re going to jump in on her nickname for me? Delores whose name is Delores? Seriously, when do I get to have a go at that? All those years of watching Seinfeld reruns with my dad, and I don’t get to call her Mulva? Or Gipple? And what happens when I change my hair to fuchsia? Or green? What about rainbow? I could go all clown crazy on these tresses. Then what will you call me?”
He kisses me again, silencing my nervous babbling. When he pulls away, he shrugs. “I’ll call you whatever you want.”
I swallow hard, pushing back the fear of finally asking for what I want even when I’m not sure I deserve it. Risky? Hell yes. Well, then. I’ll see your risk and raise you something I didn’t know I still had. Hope.
“Call me yours,” I say, the words out there with no possibility of taking them back.
He kisses me again, soft and quick, then whispers in my ear.
“Mine.”
And just like that, a decision has been made, that one word sealing the deal.
“People are watching us,” he says, his smile audible in his words.
I nod, keeping my eyes on him, because right now I don’t give a shit who sees us, especially when the grin I’m wearing cancels out any shred of embarrassment I might feel about our intimate display.
“We did just maul each other in broad daylight,” I say.
His grin widens, and he raises a brow.
“What does that mean for when the sun goes down?” he asks.
I hook a finger through the belt loop of his shorts.
“I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”
And with that I tug him forward, but he hesitates, his gaze finding the window of the school again.
“I needed this,” he says, and he squeezes my hand. “Guess that makes you my lucky charm, huh?”
He doesn’t wait for me to respond as we start walking again. Wrong, I think. You’re mine. And I smile the whole way to the square—and most likely for the rest of the day.
Chapter Eight
Blood pools in tiny pinpricks up and down my inner forearm. Though my teeth clench against the pain, something inside me wakes up.
The past month at home included me helping out at the diner, making sure Dad was really okay before I left. It was me making sure Mom spent less time each day in Wyatt’s room, curled up on his bed. Her sponsor, Val, came every day the first week after Wyatt was gone. Mom hasn’t been to a meeting since I was a toddler, but Val’s become a good friend, and I don’t think I could have left if she wasn’t ther
e. And Zach, my other half—my better half. I haven’t seen him high or seen him shed another tear since the day of the memorial. He’s the only one to rival me in public stoicism. Sometimes I wonder which one of us fooled the other one better. I just hope he meant it when he told me staying home was what he needed for now.
And what I realize I need is this. Physical pain instead of the other kind.
“You hangin’ in there, Blue?” Delores asks, filling in the final portion of the design, the red and orange dye mingling with the red bubbles dotting on my skin.
I nod an appreciative smile at her, and one tear escapes. Not from pain or sadness. No, this tear is for me—okay, a little bit for Wyatt but mostly for me. Because what I’m feeling now is something, but it’s not my guilt. Nor is it the numbness that’s been seeping in since Wyatt’s memorial. The sensation is sharp and strong, and it wakes me up while pushing all of my other shit out of sight . . . out of mind . . . out of my grasp. I grin.
I could get used to this.
“Done,” she says, wiping me clean long enough for me to unclench my death grip from Spock’s poor hand, for me to get a good look at the gift on my arm.
First one’s on the house, Delores told me when I explained what I wanted—a phoenix feather for the boy who wanted to fly. Then she watched me draw it on the transfer paper, nodding her approval.
I laugh and wipe away the tear as she coats the design with Aquaphor. Only Wyatt would get the irony. You don’t believe in any of that spiritual crap, he’d say.
I know, I think now. Irony indeed. But Wyatt believed, maybe not in any organized religion, but he believed that life was bigger than the corporeal. Maybe that’s why he lived so hard. Maybe what everyone else saw as reckless was him testing the boundaries of his spirit.
I laugh again and realize Spock and Delores are staring at me.
“Sorry,” I say.
“You kinda take off into that blue-haired head of yours, don’t ya?” Delores asks.