Unmistakable

by Lauren Abrams

  A thorn in his side?

  Of course. I am a selfish, preening, spoiled monster. I stand up, not caring that every inch of my flesh is on full display, and I jab my finger towards the door.

  “Get. Out. Now.”

  “Happy to oblige,” he murmurs.

  To my very great shame, I watch his every movement as he stalks through the living room. When he reaches the door, his shoulders shake, and I realize that all of my hope hasn’t been extinguished after all. I’m still waiting for him to explain why he’s done this, why he wants to hurt me so much.

  He fumbles with the doorknob. I’ve never seen him look anything but perfectly coordinated, and he can’t even work the goddamn door. After a breathless moment, he manages to wrench it open.

  He walks right out of my life, and he doesn’t look back.

  I love him. I’m not stupid enough to think, or really hope, that he will come back, but I love him all the same.

  I could crumble into a helpless, sobbing mess of tears. Three years ago, that’s what I would have done, and there would have been no certainty that I would ever be able to put all of the pieces back together again.

  But it’s not going to happen this time. I’m angry. I can use that. Anger is the most potent of emotions.

  I love him, but I hate him, too.

  I hate him. I hate his stupid, laughing eyes, and his stupid, magnificent body, and the stupid way he looks at me and takes away all of the not-completely-insane parts of myself. The few I have left.

  I hate everything about him, but I can’t ignore the truth lurking underneath the haze of my anger, beating its unmistakable rhythm: I want to stand in his fire. I want to be consumed.

  Chapter 12

  His scent is everywhere: in my bed, in the air, even hidden in the pores of my skin. I rip the sheets from my mattress and throw them into the trash chute. I take the world’s longest shower and let salty tears disappear into the steam. The feel of his fingers lingers in my hair, so I contemplate shaving my head. Ultimately, I only decide against it because it’s too much of a cliché.

  It’s all muddled together, like fragments of different dreams intruding on each other, and I can’t make sense of it. How could his touch be so gentle? How could the words be so cruel? What was he hiding? I was sure that I couldn’t be so completely wrong, but I must have been.

  My vow to remain angry lasts a grand total of about two minutes. Instead, I relive the feel of Luke Dixon’s lips under mine until the night melts into the morning. Our bodies entangled so effortlessly, like we were born to love each other.

  It was just sex. Something he’s done hundreds of times. Probably thousands of times. It meant nothing to him.

  I can’t pretend it meant nothing to me. I’ve wanted him for the past fifteen years.

  Well, maybe not the last fifteen years. I used to think that sex involved elbows. Still.

  I could kill him. It should be painful. Torture first. No sex, though, since I’d probably lose my resolve and then he would stomp all over my heart. Again.

  As I contemplate various ways of killing a man (asphyxiation is winning out, with burning coming in a close second), Izzy’s voice floats into my bedroom.

  “Stella?”

  I don’t respond.

  “Stella?”

  If I ignore her, she will go away. Maybe.

  “I know you’re in there. Your purse is out here, and unlike me, you never forget to bring it with you when you leave a room.”

  “Go away.” My voice is muffled by the pillow, but since the walls are literally made of construction paper, I know she can hear me.

  “Stella. Open the door.”

  Her fists pound against the wood frame, over and over and over again, but I have no intention of opening it for her. I have no intention of ever leaving this bed again. Maybe I can find all of the cracks in the ceiling. I’ve already discovered at least a hundred new ones. I bet I can get up to a thousand in no time flat.

  “Stella, if you don’t unlock this door in the next three seconds, I’ll…I’ll…”

  “You’ll break it down?”

  “I’ll call your mother,” she says finally, her voice deep and unyielding.

  Iz knows that is the only threat that could possibly cause me to open that door. I reach over my head and click the lock.

  She perches herself on the end of my bed as her eyes travel the length of the room, taking stock of the new sheets, my still-damp hair, and the smell of my desperation.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  About the fact that everything I’d worked so hard to build for the past three years came crashing down around me in Luke Dixon’s arms? No.

  I give her a long, hard look. She shrugs her shoulders, grabs the remote, and flicks on the TV.

  “You have three choices,” she announces. “Bachelor, Housewives, or Duck People.”

  I snort. “You really think TV can fix anything, don’t you?”

  “No, Stella,” she says firmly. “Bad TV can fix everything.”

  I try frowning on for size, but the absolute seriousness of her expression breaks me down. I can’t help but crack the tiniest of smiles.

  “See? It’s already working.” She curls up at the end of my twin bed and I shift my body to make room for her enormous feet. “You. Go get the ice cream in the freezer. I’m not going to let you become useless. You have a purpose in life and while I’m sure it involves unmasking the mysteries of the universe at some point in your bright future, the only thing that I’m looking for at this point in time is the right flavor of ice cream.”

  “Iz, this is ridiculous.”

  “What’s ridiculous is the fact that we have absolutely no classes for the next three days, and you’re wasting time bickering with me. You. Me. Marathon. Let me break it down for you: the Luke monster returns. You want to kill him, but you’re planning on sinking into a deep and ultimately stupid depression. I’m standing in your way. Blah blah blah. I say, bring on the binge eating.”

  She is a tiny, ruthless dictator, and refusal is not an option. It’s easier to get the ice cream than to argue, so I grab a pint of Cherry Garcia, although I do mumble a few curses under my breath. When I get back to my bed, she’s settled herself into my pillows, leaving me exactly two square feet of space at the very end at the bed.

  “If I have to put up with your grumpy face, I’m taking the best spot,” she says, grinning. “You fell for the fetching of the ice cream. Oldest trick in the book.”

  I consider dumping the carton into her hair, but I’m pretty sure it’s the only Cherry Garcia in the freezer, so I settle for shoving a spoonful into my mouth and sticking my tongue out. “Get your own ice cream,” I manage, between mouthfuls. “And give me my bed back.”

  “No way, smartass,” she mutters, eyeing the carton with longing. “You’re not getting your bed back until the Bachelor marathon is over.”

  We watch the Bachelor. A few tears slide down my cheeks during one of the rose ceremonies. Angry tears, I tell myself. Those women are fatally stupid. Love doesn’t exist, not really.

  Fatal stupidity. I just might know something about that.

  Thankfully, the catch-up episodes of Housewives produce only snickers. The Lifetime movie is so pathetically bad and I like it so much that I snuggle closer to Iz and manage to steal half the pillow while she isn’t looking. After we’ve run out of all of the good TV options, we start thumbing through the dregs. I vote for Masterpiece Theater, in the hopes of salvaging some modicum of class, but she just gives me an incredulous look and tries to click on some old episodes of Rock of Love. That’s too low even for me, so we eventually settle on some show about duck people or people who hunt ducks, or something like that, and it is so absolutely ridiculous that I feel an alien rumbling in my chest that feels an awful lot like laughter.

  Ice cream comes out of my nose. Tears stream from my eyes.

  And then the floodgates really open. I sink into an ugly cry that exposes all of the fra
gility that I’ve tried to hide in the steel toes of my combat boots.

  When I stop shaking and coil into my smallest self, Izzy wraps me into her arms. As the duck people drone on, I borrow her strength and pull myself together. I’m afraid that she’s going to ask me about what happened and why it happened and why I’m a sobbing, bitchy, quivering mess, but she knows already, like best friends ought to, and I’m so grateful that I finally let her have a bite from my third carton of ice cream.

  “Pawn shops or house hunting? Totally up to you. I mean, I’m inclined towards pawn shops myself, but I know that you have a secret weakness for HGTV. Tough choice, really. The toughest.”

  I throw a pillow at her, but she doesn’t even crack a smile.

  “There’s no chance you’re leaving?” I ask. I try to make my voice sound hopeful, but my need for human company overrides any other emotion.

  “Nope. My TV sucks. Your TV is some curved plasma monstrosity that has the best picture in the world. Now, if you were willing to make a trade, we might be able to talk. However, since I know you couldn’t possibly be that stupid, you’re going to have to put up with me.” Her eyes flicker. “For as long as it takes, Estella, I’ll be here.”

  * * *

  When I wake up on Monday morning, we’re camped out on the couch and the chair in the living room. Iz decided that in order to prevent muscle atrophy, we needed to switch locations. Her hair is disheveled, and her eyes are puffy and shadowed, even in sleep. I can only imagine that I look far worse. This can’t last forever, although I know that Izzy won’t let me leave this room until I am at least a shadow of my best self. She’d fail all of her classes if she thought it might somehow help me feel okay again.

  I can’t do that to her. It surprises me when I realize that I can’t do it to myself.

  Time to return to real life. Maybe I can take Luke’s advice and pretend that this weekend never happened.

  “You are infinitely beautiful.”

  Or maybe not.

  I need a distraction, so I check my inbox. 27 new messages. Most of them are junk, but there’s nasty one from Dr. Allen which I promptly delete, a couple of notices about the Fulbright that I archive, and a cute little card from my mother that sends a shiver of guilt right through me. I save the one from Holden Evans for last.

  Stella,

  I think I’ve sold my soul to the devil, but I managed to get you an independent study, if you agree to the following conditions:

  Put in at least five hours of work each week on a department research project.

  Keep a log of your experiences and findings.

  Contribute to at least one journal manuscript.

  And last but not least…You’ll have to report to me. Unfortunately, none of my colleagues with research projects were willing to take on a student without any previous psychology coursework. So, I’m your only hope.

  If you’re willing to comply with the above requirements, let me know. If you agree, I’d like to start as soon as possible. Would meeting on Monday at 1 pm work for you?

  Best,

  Holden

  I glance at the clock. 11:30. Crap.

  I type back a quick reply.

  Dr. Evans,

  I can meet those conditions. If this manages to reach you in time, I am available at 1 pm today. Just let me know if you would like to meet.

  Stella

  Within a few seconds, my computer beeps and I see the message.

  Great.

  I was expecting him to do a little bit better than that in the eloquence department. Still, he’s just saved my ass a boatload of trouble and maybe even rescued my job prospects, so I guess I’ll have to take what I can get.

  “Is that possibly a trace of a smile that I see on the face of my favorite doom and gloom roommate?” Izzy asks, rousing herself from sleep and eyeing me with interest.

  “Shut up.”

  Her grin only deepens. “So, bad TV really does fix everything?”

  “I need a shower,” I mutter.

  “You do,” she says, nodding her head. “But before you go, you have to admit that the duck show was a stroke of genius. Come on. How can you resist duck people?”

  “People hunting ducks,” I grumble.

  “Say it, Stella.”

  She crosses her arms in front of her chest and I give her my biggest, cheesiest smile.

  “Fine. You’re the smartest person ever. Bad, bad, bad TV fixes all problems. It’s a shame that third-world countries don’t have plasma screens. No more poverty. No more famine. No more war. No more child soldiers. If only they had the duck people show.”

  “You don’t have to spoil the moment.” Her eyes sparkle. “You might even look halfway human if you jump in the shower.”

  I throw a pillow at her. “Thanks, Iz.”

  I was going for sarcasm, but there’s an unvarnished truth behind my words. I’m thanking her for rescuing me, yet again. Evidently, white knights are everywhere, even in the form of curvy Puerto Rican bombshells who only splurge for the good ice cream when there’s a real emergency.

  “Anytime, Stella bella.”

  I stick my tongue out, but it does nothing to dampen her absolute glee over her victory.

  It’s an even bigger achievement than she realizes. She’s practically brought me back from the dead with her duck people.

  When I jump into the shower, I let the scalding water run over my skin until my skin wrinkles. Unfortunately, it can’t silence the thoughts running rampant through my head.

  Forget that ever happened.

  I try to count my blessings: first, thanks to Holden Evans, my life is no longer ruined. I still have a shot at the Rhodes. I don’t have to ask my parents for a handout or a job, at least not yet. I’m still down to five seconds, most of the time.

  Also, I’m not a contestant on the Bachelor. Major bonus points for that one.

  What else?

  I may be in constant need of rescue, but at least I’m woman enough to admit when I need help. My mother would say that’s the best kind of strength. I also have the greatest, and most aggravating, roommate in the world.

  A tiny voice flickers through all of the other unsaid blessings, until I get to the one thing that I haven’t yet examined, the one thing he said that I can’t forget, or let go, or linger on.

  You are infinitely beautiful.

  I run through all of the reasons why it shouldn’t matter.

  We were having sex.

  It was just a stupid, throwaway comment that he would have said to any girl to seal the deal.

  He didn’t mean it.

  But the sound of his voice when he said it stabs, hurts, and then warms me from the inside out.

  I still want to kill him. But maybe I’ll make him say it again before he draws his last breath.

  Chapter 13

  My fingertips and toes are hopelessly wrinkled by the time I make it out of the shower. I throw on some clothes, murmur a hasty goodbye to Iz, and run all the way to the psych building. Even if all I want to do is lose myself in the mind-numbing stupidity of TV, I refuse to be late.

  I’m breathless by the time I reach Holden’s office, but before I have time to collect my nerves, Dr. Delicious and that absurd smile of his beam down upon me.

  “I’m glad you made it,” he says brightly, ushering me inside and gesturing towards a chair.

  I take a deep breath before pulling out my computer. “I’m sorry about the e-mail mix-up. Normally, I respond right away. I mean, I check my e-mail all the time, but this weekend was a bit of a cluster, and so I didn’t see it until this morning and I just wanted to thank you for this opportunity. I didn’t want you to think that I was ignoring you. So, thank you.”

  I am so lame. I have to stop the babbling. No more babbling.

  He’s amused. Color me surprised. “You do realize that I’m going to make you work, right? This isn’t some charity project. I really do need help in the lab.”

  “Oh, of course. I mean, definitely
. I’m willing to do anything to help. I mean, I don’t have any formal training, but I tend to pick things up pretty quickly, so that really shouldn’t be a problem. And I really am willing to do anything. Anything,” I repeat.

  God, he probably thinks I’m flirting with him.

  “I didn’t mean anything,” I clarify. “I just meant…”

  Foot in mouth. I am making this so much worse.

  He lets out a long, low chuckle. “I’m pretty sure that we can figure something out. Something, not anything.”

  I am embarrassed beyond belief. I offer him a tentative smile. “So…”

  He blinks and leans back in his chair. “Do you want to hear about the project?”

  “Sure,” I mumble.

  “The goal of the project is to uncover new information about the changing nature of human interaction in the 21st century.”

  “Ambitious much?” I cover my mouth with my hand and glance up at him. “I am sorry.”

  “One thing, Stella. You’re going to need to stop all of this earnest contrition if we’re going to be spending three days a week with each other. I like to think that I’m a patient man, but this constant litany of apologies is starting to get on my nerves.”

  “I am so sorry,” I blurt out. Oh, crap.

  I glance at him, hoping for some indication that he might experience a human emotion besides amusement. Nope. At least I’m entertaining him with my stupidity and not my insults. “Never mind. I’m not sorry. No more apologies. Got it, boss.”

  With an unwavering smile, he pulls out a piece of paper from his desk. “We’re basing this particular project on psych experiments done in the 80s. My goal is to see what the intervening years have done to change the results. Our subjects are undergrads. They’re unpredictable, which makes them perfect for this kind of work.”

  I look down at the outline. “Forced interaction?”

  “Each mixer will be composed of ten students. The students will know that they’re participating in a psychological experiment, because they’re getting course credit for it, but they won’t know the ultimate goal, which is to understand how people interact when they’re placed with strangers in a situation without any form of stimulation. If you provide a movie, or some type of focal point, the interactions tend to center around that point of stimulation. However, when there’s no other choice but human contact, people tend to gravitate towards others like themselves in an effort to establish some sort of kinship. I want to see how technology disrupts those interactions, what happens when everyone has a mobile device to draw their attention from interpersonal communication.”