I get over it pretty fast though.
“Red. It’s red.” I pause for a beat, licking my suddenly dry lips. “And yours is brown. Really dark brown … but brown.”
And then he does something that feels like nothing less than a punch to the gut.
He smiles.
And there’s that stupid dimple I should have known would tie my stomach all in knots. I mean, I have honest to God goosebumps for crying out loud.
I smile back. I’m completely aware there is no way it has the same impact, but I do it just the same. I actually want to, and I think that’s the weirdest thing about it.
I crawl into bed later, the forever-stained skirt tucked underneath the covers with me, and go over it all in my head. I think about how stubborn he is, and talk myself out of labeling it as determination instead. I think of how getting him to talk, even now, will probably be more like pulling teeth. I think of how freaking cold it is in there and how I shouldn’t have to subject myself to sitting in such an icebox over and over without results.
But mostly? Mostly I think of that stupid smile.
Chapter Seven
“What color is that?”
I swear, I thought of nothing but that question all day Sunday. I woke up with it ringing in my ears again this morning. I ate breakfast to the beat of it. And, even though the day is over and I’m leaning against the hood of my car waiting for Beth, I’ve yet to break the pattern.
“What color is that?”
Think about it. How pitiful does the sentence sound when taken out of context? Hell, how pitiful does it sound in the correct context? It’s right in line with a trashy, grocery store romance novel where the main character is the new teacher on the prairie, and falls in love with the beautiful, but illiterate, male protagonist as she teaches him how to read.
And I know it’s not exactly the same, but it’s pretty much the only thing it calls to mind, and it is driving me insane. I don’t need this right now. I need to focus on getting him to actually talk to me, to actually answer my questions. Okay, and maybe to get up the nerve to actually ask my questions. I don’t need to spend my time inserting myself into some work of—loosely—historical fiction.
“So.” Beth stops in front of me, her brows drawn into a serious line. “I think this might have to be an in-the-car conversation.”
Crap.
“After you,” I offer, sticking my key into the manual lock on the passenger side door.
My boots reiterate my thoughts onto the asphalt as I round the front of the car.
Crap. Crap. Crap.
I barely have the door closed when Beth lets it fly.
“I slept with Ryan.”
Wait… What?
“You… Wait, you slept with Ryan? When? I didn’t even know you guys were seeing each other, officially or whatever.”
Because I didn’t. Oh, God. Have I been so swept up in all of my stuff I missed my best friend getting a boyfriend? My commitment-phobe best friend who’s always said even if she meets her Soulmate tomorrow, and they look like a Greek God, she’ll probably only keep them around for the fringe benefits? Maybe this thing with Ryan is for the fringe benefits! I repeat, I’m a terrible friend.
“Yeah. I did.” She twists a stack of silver rings around her finger and gets this funny furrow between her brows. “I know I didn’t tell you we were seeing each other, but I guess… I mean, I don’t even know if we are seeing each other. At least not like, boyfriend-girlfriend seeing each other. And I felt horrible keeping it from you, but Libs … I really like him.”
So that’s why she’s been acting weird? Because she felt bad about keeping something from me? I really am an awful friend. I’m the worst friend.
I turn to face her, pulling my feet up as best I can into the seat with me, and smile.
“So tell me about him.”
And she does. She tells me about how he admitted to her how running into her at Frenchie’s that first Saturday wasn’t exactly an accident. For a second, I think he’s spilled the beans about me letting him in on the fact she’s liked him for a while now. But he pretty much provided her with the same story he told me. How he works across the street at Tech Stop and saw us there every weekend, and then realized it was every Saturday, and then noticed it was usually between 1:00 and 2:00.
“He actually blushed when he told me, Libby. He was so scared it made him seem like some kind of stalker.”
“Well…” I trail off and only break into a grin when she shoves my shoulder.
I try to keep up with her story, but there’s a lot of ‘he thought I’ and ‘but I thought he’. She looks happy, though, so that’s what I try to concentrate on. Ryan isn’t the first person Beth has slept with. However, he is the first I think she hasn’t regretted. I don’t know much about him, but as long as he keeps my best friend happy for as long as he can, or until she decides they’ve run their course, he gets my seal of approval.
“So yeah… And I swear to God, Libs. I almost saw … something. Or maybe I did. Like, a flicker or whatever.”
“It doesn’t work like that,” I blurt out and wish I could take it back as soon as I do.
I can’t look at her face. It’ll be one of two things, suspicion or discouragement, and I’m not sure which would be worse. I don’t want to see either of them.
“I mean…” I flounder for a second. “I just mean… You know that’s not how it works.”
“No. I don’t know how it works.” Her voice is tight and she won’t look at me.
I stare out the windshield with her for a few minutes and wonder how colossally I’ve screwed up. Right as I open my mouth to say how sorry I am, she takes a deep breath and turns to face me.
“Listen, I’m sorry. I just… I’m happy right now, and don’t really need Tough Love Libby to come and rain all over my parade.”
Tough Love Libby is what Beth refers to as my overly practical side that sometimes has to sit her down and point out the obvious. Honestly, most of the time Tough Love Libby is really regular ‘ole Libby who’s decided not to hold her tongue. And yes, I realize practicality can be somewhat of a downer.
“I’m sorry.” I pause, getting ready to tell her who cares if Ryan isn’t her actual Soulmate. Everyone knows we can fall in love with whoever we want. That we don’t even have to fall in love with our Soulmates—a lot of people don’t. She won’t look at me though, and I know it means she’s uncomfortable. Which means she’s going to change the subject any second now.
“It’s cool,” she says, and then bounces a little in her seat. “Oh! I also forgot to tell you—I got a job!”
“Wait. Something’s wrong. You sound excited. Are you sure it’s a real job? With real responsibilities?”
“Yes, jerkface. My mom’s friend hooked me up with a part-time position at the library.”
“Ah. Now I get it.”
Beth, for all of her leather wearing and ‘too cool for you’ bravado is really a huge nerd. Well, I guess it’s what some people would call her. She reads somewhere around three books a week, has a huge comic book collection, and can school just about anyone with her knowledge of obscure sci-fi shows. Nerd, generally passionate individual—to-may-to, to-mah-to, right?
She tells me a little more about her interview that wasn’t really an interview, and how she’ll only be able to work around sixteen hours a week, but can’t wait to start. I promise to come by and visit her. And to be quiet when I do. She tells me to stop being such a smartass, and then jumps back onto the topic of Ryan and his allegedly amazing abs.
For a brief moment, I’m back in that cold visitation room, staring at Andrew’s arms. Shaking the image out of my head as quickly as possible, I do my best to pay attention to the rest of our conversation. Thankfully, it seems like I only missed more of her singing the praises of Ryan’s ‘impressive’ physique.
We’re still sitting in the car talking when Taryn comes out of nowhere, as she is wont to do, and taps on the window behind my head. I start
to roll it down, and realize the car isn’t even on and we’ve been relying on the afternoon sun beaming through the windshield to keep us warm. It takes a few seconds to fumble for my keys in the cupholder.
“Hey, Taryn. What’s up?”
I try to be as subtle as possible punching Beth in the stomach when she snorts at my unusually cheery tone.
“Hey, Libby.” She leans down and waves. “Hey, Beth. Libby, I wanted to let you know this week’s meeting has been moved to Thursday. Sorry for the late notice, but Mr. Ring had something come up and had to reschedule.”
“No problem at all.”
Within the hour, I’ve managed to schedule another visitation for Wednesday, picked out my outfit, and slipped my mom’s bracelet out of her room.
And, I swear, it has nothing to do with my fascination with a certain set of forearms.
****
I don’t know where this renewed sense of confidence comes from, but as soon as he’s seated across from me, I push up the sleeve of my dove-gray cardigan and plunk my arm down on the counter. The laminate top is as cold as the rest of this Godforsaken place, but the only evidence of it I allow is the slight tense of my muscles.
He looks confused, little lines popping up on his forehead, and I let my face remain impassive as I pick up the phone on my left. I look at him, then nod to the phone, and wait. He finally decides to humor me.
“First things first, and before I forget, I’m the youth leader from your church. If anyone asks.”
He starts to open his mouth, but I go on.
“And yeah, I know you don’t go to church, but just go with it. It is literally the only thing I could think of that would get me on the list to see you.”
My voice is matter of fact and straight to the point, and I straighten in my seat, squaring my shoulders, to match its tone. His eyebrows are raised, but he almost looks a little … impressed. This should not make me happy. But it does. Shut up.
“You don’t dress like a youth leader.”
He doesn’t look at me when he says this. Instead he glances to the side and rubs the back of his neck with one hand. It feels like teasing, but I can’t get a good enough read on him to be sure.
What does that even mean, anyway? I don’t dress like a youth leader? I’m wearing a freaking cardigan for crying out loud.
“On the grounds I have no idea what you mean, I’m going to choose to ignore that.”
Great. Now I’m pretty sure he’s trying his best not to laugh at me. Whatever. I’ll live.
I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me before, meaning before he asked what color my hair was, but since then it’s seemed pretty obvious. I may not be able to openly discuss the fact that yeah, I’ve met my Soulmate, and yeah, I can totally see in color now, but I do have the entire Internet at my fingers. And if I have ready access to it and still have as many questions as I do, I can’t even imagine how it must feel for Andrew. There’s no doubt in my mind he hasn’t told anyone about it either. At least we have one thing in common.
I place my palm down on the counter and cradle the receiver between my ear and shoulder. Using my now free hand, I point to the bead closest to my thumb. Inexplicably embarrassed, I rattle off my words without looking at him once.
“This one is blue. Which seems weird, I know, because we’ve always been told the sky is blue, but this doesn’t look anything like that. Or like water. There are a lot of different blues obviously, but when you look it up, this is the closest thing you’re going to find to just plain blue.”
I stop for a second, inhaling deeply and blowing out most of my nerves on the exhale, before continuing.
“This one’s green. Like … like grass, I guess? Unless the grass is dead or there’s not enough rain, or … I don’t know. Maybe grass is a bad example. But anyway, the one beside it—this one’s yellow. And it’s another one where they tell you like, okay—the sun is yellow. And it is, but it’s not. It’s more golden, but sometimes orange or red when it sets or rises. God, I am really bad at this.”
I look up, actually near tears because I’m so overwhelmed and frustrated. I wish I didn’t feel like such a failure, and so overheated, and like I might actually throw up. I swallow so loudly there’s no way he doesn’t hear it.
“I’m so sorry,” I offer with my eyes locked onto his. I blow out another breath that catches on one of my curls and I watch as it flutters around in the space near my temple. “I’m a terrible teacher.”
“You…” He clears his throat and I’m mesmerized by the way his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “You’re doing great. I, uh, I really appreciate it.”
The weight of this moment is too much for me to take in. It’s not a ‘thank you’ exactly, but so, so close.
“Yeah, well. Let me know if I start to sound not great.”
I stumble my way through the rest of our ‘lesson’. We veer into the maybe-just-a-little-awkward territory when I use the grape soda spill as an example for the color purple. We’re both quiet for a beat, and I move on to the last bead on the bracelet as quickly as possible.
“Brown,” I say, with a close-lipped smile. “Like your hair.”
He laughs then. It’s a small thing. A tiny sound that rides a puff of air as it leaves his lips. And, without even realizing it, I cling to it like it’s a winning lottery ticket. I wonder what an actual laugh from him sounds like. I wonder what it would feel like to make him really laugh.
“I already knew my hair was brown. Probably the same way you already knew what color your hair was before ever being able to see it for yourself. Moms are good for that sort of thing.”
I latch onto how he mentions moms specifically and file it away for later. I have something a lot more pressing to ask him right now though.
“What color are your eyes?”
Because I’m tired of trying to figure it on my own, damn it. I’m not above asking for something I want. At least not something as small as this.
And, if I’m not mistaken, he actually looks embarrassed. I could very well be wrong, but I’m pretty sure what I’m seeing is a very faint blush starting to tint his cheeks.
“Sorry.” Screw it. It’s pretty obvious I’ve been thinking about him. Might as well go for broke and let it all hang out. “It’s just… I haven’t been able to figure it out on my own.”
“My mom says they’re like the color of whiskey.” He says this with a shrug, feigning indifference. “I guess that’s kind of an amber color? Whatever amber is. It’s how she describes them at least.”
I look over at the people starting to make their way out of the room and realize I didn’t even hear the guard on duty tell everyone time was up. I didn’t even catch the one-minute warning. I lean forward in my chair, readying myself to stand and smile.
“I’ll have to look it up when I get home and let you know next time.”
And not only does he smile at me, but he also says thank you.
****
I decide that if I’m going to do this, I might as well go all in.
On Saturday, I’m back again.
Though from the stormy look on his face before he even sits down, maybe I should have stayed home. He snatches the receiver from its cradle and, this time, I’m the one who’s hesitant to pick up.
It’s easy to see he’s had a rough day. Not that I imagine any of the days here can be particularly pleasant, but I barely have the phone to my ear before Andrew practically growls into it.
“Why are you here?”
“It’s visitation day,” I offer with a weak smile.
A moment passes between the two of us, and the silence is just as thick as ever.
“Why do you keep coming back?”
He sounds tired, his deep, rumbly voice matching the look in his eyes. He sounds like he’s close to broken.
“You know why.”
I want to ask what’s wrong, but I know how stupid it will sound. I want to know if he’s having a hard time. A harder time than one usually has in a
place like this, I guess. I want to ask if he’s sleeping, even though the bags underneath his eyes give that answer away without permission.
He probably wouldn’t offer an explanation anyway. It’s a combination of knowing he wouldn’t, and wondering why I feel like I need to know these things at all, that keeps me from asking.
It’s a good thing I’m excellent at rambling because I don’t think either of us can take the whole sitting in silence thing today. I know I can’t.
“I’ve been doing a lot of research,” I start, not sure where I’m taking this, or why I’m bothering, or if he’s the kind of person who would rather have everyone around them keep their mouths quiet when he’s in a mood like he is today. “I think everyone’s heard the whole sixty/forty statistic. But I didn’t realize within the sixty percent, there’s only like, a ten percent chance I could meet my Soulmate before the age of twenty-five. I didn’t even know that was a thing. I guess because it’s not something I ever thought I would have to think about at all. But yeah, a ten percent chance. Well, less than ten really, I think it was around nine point six? I’m not sure.”
That’s a lie. It is exactly nine point six percent. I know this for a fact. I stared at the number on my computer screen for a full minute last night, trying to fathom how I now lie within it.
I wave my hand casually out in front of me, as if dismissing the importance of this tidbit, and babble on.
“I don’t think I actually know anybody who’s met their Soulmate so young before. Well, aside from this one girl who goes to my school … but her story doesn’t really have a happy ending. Not that—not that I am banking on a happy ending of my own, or anything. Just so you know. I understand it doesn’t always work out that way.”
I glance away for a second. I’m a little embarrassed, I guess, but there are some things that can’t be said without awkwardness—no matter who I say them to. Talking about happy endings like some kind of Disney princess is one of those things apparently.
What's a Soulmate? Page 7