Checked

by Jamelli, Jennifer

Well, no one else touching me.

  I smile at the thought as I take another sip of my drink. Surprisingly, there isn’t much left to sip. He notices too, and before I know it, I have another drink in front of me.

  Probably ought to slow down, even though I don’t really feel any different. Just a tad calmer than usual, maybe.

  “Are you okay to drink this?” he asks quietly, even though he is the one who ordered it for me. “I don’t want you to feel any pressure if you don’t want—”

  I shake my head with a smile. “Nope—I’m fine for now.”

  “Thank you,” I add in a quieter voice.

  He squeezes my hand, which has been all entangled with his for quite some time now. For one entire drink anyway…

  I’m just starting my second drink when Mandy begins reading directly from Melanie’s script.

  “Why don’t you come with me to Pittsburgh tomorrow, Callie?”

  Before I can say a word, she continues.

  “Mom or Dad will pick you up on campus, and you can hang out with them and already be there for Mom’s dinner on Sunday.”

  Jeez. You’d think Melanie would have taken the time to change up the monologue a tiny bit. Didn’t she think that I might recognize it?

  “Well?” Mandy prompts, shrugging up her shoulders a little and raising her eyebrows.

  “Thanks, Mandy, but no. I have so much work to do…a paper due Monday and an entire poetry portfolio to do before Tuesday.” And a therapy session tomorrow night.

  “You could bring your work with you.”

  “Yeah, and get it done at Mom and Dad’s house?” I throw back with a smile.

  She doesn’t say anything because she knows I’m right. There will be neighbors Mom wants to visit and shopping to do and dinners out. And no time for paper writing. For sure.

  “Okay…I guess…but if you change your mind, I’m not leaving until after my classes tomorrow.”

  I can’t believe she gave in that quickly. Melanie would be pissed. Lucky for Mandy, I’m too grateful to tell on her.

  Mandy goes back to texting something on her phone (to Melanie?), and I try to lose myself in her friends’ garbled conversations again. All of a sudden, one of them (a pretty, toothy blonde—I don’t remember her name) jumps up and starts grabbing the hands of the girls sitting on either side of her. Apparently, some important song is playing. From what I can make out of their jumbled sentences, it is “badass” and “totally sick.” I don’t recognize the song. Nor do I fully understand their verbal description of it.

  Mandy, who seems to understand the significance of the song, starts to move with them toward the dance floor. She takes a few steps away from the table before turning back to me, making a motion for me to join them. She doesn’t have time to wait for my response though because the excited blonde is tugging at her arm and shouting something with her insanely white teeth.

  “What do you think?” he asks with a grin. “You wanna dance to this ‘sick’ song?”

  Smiling up at him, I give him my nod.

  We stand up and he leads me to the dance floor, definitely taking the path least traveled. We end up in the corner with Mandy’s group. She and her friends are dancing in a circle, which they immediately enlarge to let us in. We have plenty of room, really. No one is brushing up against me or touching me.

  Unfortunately, he isn’t even touching me right now. We sort of dropped hands as we joined the circle and started to dance. He does keep looking over at me, checking on me every two seconds. Even when he’s surrounded by all of these bouncy girls—girls who won’t stop staring at him. I can’t even blame them.

  He looks pretty natural here. Who knew he could dance? It looks like he’s even holding back a little. Probably so he can keep an eye on me. But I’m not going to pass out or throw up or anything anytime soon. I don’t think.

  I feel pretty good. A little buzzed from my one and a half margaritas and moving in a circle of people on a dance floor in a bar. Pretty unbelievable.

  The all-important song ends, but we stay in our dancing circle as, I guess, less exciting songs are played. In the middle of a song, he stops dancing suddenly and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a pager.

  I can’t believe doctors still use those. Do stores even sell them anymore?

  He glances down and then looks at me. All worked up. Completely distraught. {Cue Damien Rice. Cue Damien Rice. Cue Damien Rice.}

  “I have to make this call. Tell me what you want me to do. Do you want to come with me outside or would you rather stay here with Mandy?”

  I weigh my options. I’m here in this circle with people I know (or kind of know—Mandy knows them at least), not bumping into anyone. Walking outside means walking through the crowd, having to pass the sweaty bouncer again, standing on a dirty sidewalk in the dark where I’m sure people have dropped all kinds of trash and—

  “I’ll stay here.”

  He looks surprised. “Really?”

  Nod number 999,999.

  “Look at you,” he says with a smile. “I’ll be right back.”

  He will be right back. I know that. So I keep dancing.

  Mandy throws a smile my way as she spins around with her arms up. She looks proud. Like her big sister is so brave, dancing in a bar without her psychologist. I smile back and keep moving until the song ends and the first slow song of the night (or at least since I’ve arrived) begins to play.

  Shit.

  Mandy and her gang decide that it’s a good time to take a break and get another drink. That means I need to make my way back to our table.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  I feel a soft tug at my hand. Too soft to be him. I look up, and it’s Mandy. I mouth thank you over and over as she guides me off the dance floor. After several steps, I feel a tug at my other hand. Too harsh this time.

  Oh my God. I turn and try to free my hand, but I feel myself being pulled away from Mandy. The hand dragging me is rough. And sweaty. When I look up to see its owner, I again think rough and sweaty. No idea who he is.

  “No need to waste a slow song, beautiful,” the stranger slurs as he turns toward me, still pulling me further back onto the dance floor.

  I freeze as tension rips through my body. This man, this mass of germs is going to pull me nearer to him. Any second now.

  “Oh—you wanna dance here? Thought you’d want to be closer to the speakers.”

  This is it. He’s twisting my hand out, trying to force our bodies closer together.

  I can’t get away. I can’t convince my limbs to move. And our bodies are going to be smashed together in three, two, on—

  Other arms encircle me, smoothly pulling me back, back, back against a hard, tense body. His body.

  “What’s going on here?” he asks in a loud, angry voice that I’ve never heard from him before. He keeps his arms around me, one slung loosely around my neck and the other firmly around my waist.

  “Just trying to have a little dance,” Rough-and-sweaty drawls.

  “Well, it’s not your dance to have.” He pulls me back even further, our bodies completely molded together. My would-be dance partner holds his hands up in the air (Meaning he gives up? Or he’s sorry? I don’t know) and walks away.

  I don’t move. After a moment, he carefully turns me around to face him.

  “I’m so sorry, Callie. I’m so, so sorry.”

  I meet his eyes. He is that sorry. And miserable.

  He doesn’t move his eyes as he reaches into his pocket, saying, “Where did he touch you?”

  I look down at my rigid hands, which are still hanging awkwardly in the air in front of me, touching no other part of me.

  I watch him rip open a packet, one of those super germ-eliminating, disease-preventing wipes and remain still as he thoroughly cleans my right hand and then my left. I don’t move. A moment later, he rips open another package and repeats the process. And then he does it again with a third wipe.

  After he opens the fourth packet, he cleans
his own hands systematically. He then pulls out a plastic bag from his pocket and deposits all of the used wipes and empty packaging before tying it shut.

  When our eyes meet again, he is questioning me silently. Did he do enough? Should he—

  “What is going on?”

  Mandy.

  “Where did you go, Callie? What happened—”

  “I’ll take care of her—don’t worry,” he answers for me without moving his eyes.

  “Oh, great. I just—” Mandy begins.

  “Don’t worry,” he says again, hesitantly moving his eyes to her. “But hey, do you mind throwing this out for me?” He hands her the plastic bag, and she takes it immediately before turning to go.

  “Thanks,” he calls after her.

  And then he’s looking back at me, questions hanging in his eyes.

  “Thank you,” I somehow get out.

  “Is there anything else I need to do?”

  I shake my head. “No—you took care of it just like I would have. Even better. I don’t have easy access to those wipes.”

  He smiles as relief fills his eyes.

  “We’ll go soon,” he says. “I have to call that patient for an emergency phone session in an hour.”

  I nod.

  “We can go right now if you want,” he continues.

  I shrug my shoulders as I shake my head. “No, it’s fine. Whenever you are ready.” My voice is shockingly calm; somehow I must actually mean what I am saying.

  He smiles. “Then how about that dance with me?”

  A dull ache, his dull ache, begins surging through me. I manage to nod, and he’s moving closer to me, pulling my body into his. Arms touching. Hips touching. Everything touching. My head resting on his lower shoulder. His hand on my upper back.

  A song is playing, I’m sure, but I can only hear the sound of his breathing.

  It might be a slow song. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. We move back and forth, back and forth in our own rhythm.

  I feel his lips on the back of my head as his hand slides from my back up to my hair. Gradually, I turn my neck so I now face him when I place my head back on his shoulder. Inches from his neck. {A song is playing, I’m sure, but I can only hear the sound of his breathing.} He rubs his head against mine, and the throbbing in my stomach overwhelms me. Turning my face up to his, I have to wait no more than a blink and his lips move right to mine. An extravagantly slow, gentle kiss. I don’t know how long our lips move together or who pulls back first so we can each take a breath.

  He trails kisses across my cheek as he pulls me even closer in to him, mumbling, “Callie.” I put my head back on his shoulder and crush myself against him.

  And then his pager goes off again. Of course.

  As he pulls back a little to grab the device from his pocket, he looks up at me quickly, his hair disheveled, his eyes scorching.

  Another beep comes from his other pocket, and he soon has to steal his eyes away to read the text on his cell phone.

  “My emergency phone session is now an urgent hospital visit. We have to go.”

  I nod into his intense eyes. They haven’t yet lost all of their fire.

  Grabbing my hand, he carefully navigates us back to our table so we can pay our bill. Mandy is there shrugging on a sweater.

  “Oh, you guys are going?”

  I nod as he says, “Patient crisis.” He flings some cash into the bill holder and hands it to Mandy, asking if she minds taking care of it.

  “No problem,” she says. And then, “Why don’t you let me take Callie home? I was planning to go soon anyway so I can pack for tomorrow.”

  “ No, I want to—” he starts.

  Mandy breaks in. “Get to the office or wherever you are going. Really. I only had one drink tonight, and that was a couple of hours ago. I am fine to drive, and you really need to go.”

  He looks at me.

  “I’d really like to take you—” he whispers before his phone beeps again.

  He reads another text and looks up at me regretfully.

  I nod and say, “Go. I’ll be just fine.”

  “We’ll even walk out with you,” Mandy pipes in, adding some cash to the bill holder and turning it over to the other two girls at the table.

  I grab my purse off the back of my chair before he grabs my hand and leads me outside to Mandy’s car. Mandy jumps into the driver’s seat, and he opens my door.

  “I’ll text you when I get home,” he promises as he squeezes my hand. “It might be really late.”

  Nod. Smile.

  “Bye, Callie.”

  “Good night, Aiden.”

  Chapter 19

  day five

  MY FACE IS STILL SMILING when I wake up on Friday morning. Last night starts rushing through my mind before I even open my eyes. Our dance. His lips. Warm trembles throughout me. The heat in his eyes. {Damien Rice starts AGAIN.} Mandy’s teasing in the car. Her endless stream of questions. Her comments about his designer-smelling cologne. The fact that I could still smell it on my skin before my shower last night…

  His late night text. How sorry he was about having to leave so suddenly. Still having my ID. How he had a great night. That he’ll talk to me tomorrow.

  {He sings louder and louder. Over and over.}

  Now that it’s tomorrow, I should probably get moving. I do, unfortunately, have class with Dr. Gabriel in a few hours.

  Morning preparations. Let’s go.

  10:00 A.M. A TEXT COMES JUST as I am putting my steam mop away. I run right to my dresser to check the message.

  Good morning, Callie. Hope you slept well. Therapy today around 8:00 p.m. I can pick you up at your house. Sound okay?

  I write back.

  Sounds good. See you soon.

  Soon. Does that sound too eager? Desperate? 8:00 p.m. is ten hours away, after all. Not really soon.

  Erase text. Start again.

  Sounds good. See you then.

  Too informal? Like I’m not looking forward to seeing him? I did say that I had a good time when I replied to his text last night, but this is today. I don’t want to sound indifferent. Or cold.

  Erase text. Start again.

  Sounds good. See you then. :)

  Good, I think.

  One. Two. Three. Send.

  I head to the shower and then complete my morning and leaving preparations. Before I leave for class, I say goodbye to Mandy. Tell her to have a safe trip. To have fun. That I’ll see her on Sunday.

  She tries one more time to convince me to go with her and tells me to call or text her if I change my mind before she leaves when her class ends at 2:00 p.m.

  Smiles. Hugs.

  I leave for class, hoping that the murderers won’t be waiting for me when I return to the Mandy-less house. I am also hoping that by some miracle Dr. Gabriel has taken the week off and won’t be in class.

  I’m not that lucky. When I walk into the classroom, he’s in the front of the room talking to a girl with an extremely high ponytail and a shirt that says “Porn Star” on it.

  Classy. {And now for a rousing rendition of My Darkest Day’s “Porn Star Dancing.”}

  Their conversation ends. The girl bounces back to her seat, her ponytail swinging back and forth the whole way. Dr. Gabriel starts class. A lengthy monologue about the art of persuasive writing.

  Eventually, the persuasive presentations begin. Dr. Gabriel doesn’t ask for any help with comments today. He hasn’t even really looked at me.

  Not a problem.

  Following a presentation about the benefits of changing the drinking age to eighteen, Miss Ponytail Porn Star herself comes to the front to give her speech about saving sex until marriage.

  Unreal.

  The presentations continue on and on. I listen to the students, try to memorize some of their names and faces, and pick at my nails.

  Oh, and think about last night. And him. And tonight.

  When class ends, Dr. Gabriel calls me over to talk about topics I’ll be
teaching. He thinks we should meet for lunch at some point to discuss everything.

  Seriously?

  In an attempt to avoid any face-to-face meetings, I tell him that I have a rather full schedule over the next week and ask him to email some of the information for me to look over. He seems hesitant, but he does agree to email me.

  Excellent.

  I leave the classroom and head to my car, pulling out my phone to check for any messages. No text messages, but there is a little number two on my Words with Friends icon.

  I click on the icon. He took a turn. He’s still losing. I play and further extend my lead. I also have a new game request from Melanie. Of course. She found a way to check if I am surviving while she and Mandy are away. Guess if I’m taking turns it means I’m not in an institution or dead or something…

  I take a turn, but she is already beating me. Figures—she is always at least three steps ahead of me in everything.

  Okay, time to go home. Before I can even get my key in the ignition, he has played again. He is going to have to wait. Car on. Go home.

  WITH FRESHLY WASHED HANDS, I settle on my bed and get to work on my paper. {R. Kelly’s “Ignition (Remix)” ends and begins again for the three-hundredth time since I left campus.} Each time I complete another hand-written page, I allow myself a few minutes to take my turn in our Scrabble-not Scrabble game. He keeps playing only moments after I take my turn. Melanie hasn’t played another turn yet at all. Guess she’s slacking on checking up on me. Thank God.

  After a few hours, I have successfully written out all but a conclusion to my paper and, more impressively, beaten him by over one hundred points in our game. He, of course, has already started a new game with me.

  Does he ever work?

  7:30 p.m. I begin to get ready for the night ahead. I have no idea what to wear so I opt for jeans and a Pierce hoodie.