by Claire Adams
“I don’t care about winning races.”
“Yeah, everyone knows that.”
And when we got to where the race was being held, I was again reminded of the fact that most people here thought of me as an outsider. I knew that a lot of the guys I raced against didn’t consider me on their level—despite the fact that I’d beaten a good many of them—since I wasn’t affiliated with a club and I didn’t wear Spandex or eat that energy gel shit. Most of them didn’t have the balls to say anything to my face, though, which was fine—I didn’t care what they thought, I wasn’t here for them. The one person who didn’t seem to mind giving me a hard time, though, was this kid Parker. I had never beaten him before, which was a fact that he reveled in. Maybe today would be the day.
“You been training, Graham?” he yelled to me as he rode by on his carbon fiber bike that probably cost almost as much as my truck.
“That’s a nice color pink,” I said, nodding at the thick pink stripe going across the front of his Spandex jersey. “Really good color for you.”
It was, in a way, the sort of good-natured banter that happened when people competed against each other, yet there was this undercurrent of something else, like it could quickly deteriorate if either of us took it there. There was something about Parker that made me simultaneously want to be his friend and also deck him. It was an odd juxtaposition of feelings to have toward someone I didn’t really know at all.
The race was three 10-mile laps through mostly singletrack, a lot of rock gardens, some pretty big roots. As usual, I started toward the back of the group, but midway through the second lap, I started overtaking guys.
“Fucking bitch,” Todd growled at me as I zipped around him. I was not, however, able to catch up with Parker in time, though maybe if the race had been a little longer, I would have. He was definitely tiring toward the end, but was able to sprint the last 10th of a mile and make it to the finish line before I did.
Chapter Twelve
Chloe
I recognized Riley right away, standing out front of the restaurant in another polo shirt—dark gray this time—and beige Bermuda shorts. He had his hands in his pockets and he looked nervous, which, for some reason, put me at ease a bit. I knew he was about a year or two older than I was, but he looked so young, with his clean-shaven face and naïve expression. I realized as I walked up, before we’d even exchanged one word, that I was comparing him to Graham.
Stop it, I told myself. I arranged my face into a smile. “Riley?” I said.
He snapped to attention, as though I’d startled him. “Chloe? Um, hi.” He held his hand out. “Yeah, it’s me, Riley.” His palm was clammy, but he smiled, showing off those perfect, white teeth, most likely the result of expensive orthodontia. No one’s teeth were naturally that straight and uniform.
We went inside, only to follow the hostess back out to the outside seating area.
“Have you ... have you been here before?” he asked, and immediately started blushing as though he’d just blurted out something terribly embarrassing. It was an odd turning of the tables; usually it was me who was blushing and feeling foolish. I felt a strange, almost maternal feeling come over me. I wanted to make him feel comfortable, not because I was trying to impress him or wanted him to like me, but because he appeared to be so painfully out of his element. I’d only been on a few dates—which had all either ended disastrously or unremarkably—but I’d always been the one feeling nervous or shy.
“I haven’t, but my mother talks about it so much that I feel like I may as well have!”
He laughed. “Yeah, same here. My mother treats shopping and going out to restaurants like it’s her job. And matchmaking. She’s been trying to set me up on dates since I was about 12 years old.” He leaned toward me, looking around first as though he were afraid that someone nearby might be eavesdropping. “I’m sure it’s pretty obvious and everything, but I’m gay.”
“Oh,” I said, genuinely a bit surprised. Well, that explained why I was feeling so at ease! I knew plenty of gay guys from art school, though they were all a good deal more flamboyant about their sexuality than Riley was.
He waved me off. “You don’t have to pretend to be surprised. I’ve only been trying to tell my mother for about ... oh, the past eight years or so ... that I’m gay, but she refuses to believe it. She just thinks I haven’t met the right girl, despite her claiming not to be homophobic in the least.”
I had to fight back my own laughter. “My own mother actually thought it might be possible for me to fall in love with you and follow you back out to California. Because she and my father think that I’m wasting my time in art school and that I should, how did they put it? Explore my options.”
“Yes!” Riley clapped his hands together. “Exactly! Except my mother keeps referring to the option exploring in terms of how many dates she can set me up on. It’s so tedious. So, you’re in art school? Tell me everything about it! My parents forced me to go to Stanford, my dad’s alma mater. But I’d always wanted to go to art school! I admire you for going against what your parents wanted. It’s not always the easiest thing, is it?”
“No, it’s not.” It was nice to talk to someone who had a similar family situation.
“What?” he said. He was looking past me, over my shoulder. “Sorry, I just saw a hella hot guy go by on a bike.”
“Oh yeah?” I turned, but didn’t see anyone.
Riley shook his head. “You just missed him.”
“Figures; I always miss the hot ones.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I find that hard to believe. Someone with your looks—I bet the guys are just lining up to meet you. If only I had such problems.”
“Yeah right. That’s a nice thought. When it comes to guys, I have had pathetically little experience.” I thought about Graham and the mixed messages I was getting from him. “In fact, it seems that I actually sort of repel guys.”
“Oh my God, you are so full of it. Stop fishing for compliments!” Riley shook his head, giving me a quizzical look.
I laughed. “I’m not, I swear! I actually was hanging out with this guy that I might kind of like—even though we don’t really know each other—and at first I thought he might feel the same way, but then ... I don’t know. There was this perfect moment for him to kiss me and he didn’t.”
“Maybe you intimidate him.”
“No way,” I said. “If you saw him, you’d understand. It was like, everything was going great until the very end, and then it suddenly felt like he couldn’t be away from me fast enough. And then the next day we ended up going to the beach with a friend of mine, and we all had a great time, but it was more like we were just this group of friends. I guess I’m just not good at this dating thing. I mean, it’s not even dating, it’s ... I don’t know what it is.”
“It’s all one big mind-fuck,” Riley said. “Every single bit of it. Like our parents trying to set us up like this. But I am so glad to have met you! The last girl my mother made me go on a date with took it all personally when I told her I was gay, like it was some sort of reflection of herself! I’m so glad you’re not like that. And where the hell is our waiter? We’ve been here forever! We should just go get ice cream somewhere. Want to do that?”
“That sounds great,” I said. “My mom will be so thrilled to hear how much fun we had going out together!”
Chapter Thirteen
Graham
I knew it was Chloe before it registered that she was at a notoriously romantic restaurant with some guy I’d never seen before. They were sitting at one of the outside tables and she was actually facing my direction as I approached, but I was on the other side of the street and she was clearly very caught up in whatever it was she was saying to that guy.
I slowed a bit as I went by, and the guy actually turned to stretch and caught my eye. It might’ve been a good opportunity for a stare down, except in this part of town, you actually had to have your eyes in front all of the time, or you’d end up gettin
g doored or, at best, running over some hapless tourist.
So, she had a boyfriend. Big fucking deal. It’s not like I was expecting to be her boyfriend. I even thought about going over and just saying what’s up, which, if anything, would show that I was completely unbothered by the fact that she was out to dinner with whoever that guy was. But, I decided not to, and I kept riding. My plan had been to just ride the mile and a half back home, but I took a detour and went for another six miles. I pushed myself hard, even though I’d already been pushing it—the last thing I wanted was to have to think about Chloe out with another guy.
Chapter Fourteen
Chloe
At breakfast that morning, my father drank his coffee and cleared his throat several times before asking me what sort of person I hoped to come across as.
“Huh?” I said. My brain still felt clouded with sleep and it seemed way too early to have this sort of conversation. Plus, it had turned incredibly humid overnight and everything had a heavy, sticky feel to it. The sort of weather you just wanted to sleep right through.
He put his coffee mug down. “There is something to be said for not caring what people think about you. Or caring too much, rather. But I’d like you to tell me how it is you hope to come across to people. Do you want people to take you seriously? Do you want to be a respectable person?” He looked pointedly at my tattoo. “The choices you make now are going to have ramifications later in life. You do know that, don’t you?”
“Of course I do, Dad.”
“And you might decide that you don’t want to be this artistic, free-spirited person. You might realize that you’d actually like to have a career, and I would hate to see you do anything to jeopardize that.”
“I’m not trying to jeopardize anything,” I said.
“I’m glad to hear that. Though I’d have to say, your actions are suggesting otherwise.”
He gave me a stern look. In the past, such a look would have made me start to quake in my boots a little, but now it just made me angry. “You and Mom are acting like I’ve done something awful!” I said, my voice rising with each word. Part of me felt as shocked as my father looked; I could count on one hand the amount of times I’d talked back to my parents. But now that I had started, I didn’t want to stop. “I got one tattoo. A tiny tattoo. That I can easily hide. So if I were to go get that job in finance that you so clearly want me to have, all I’d need to do is wear long sleeves. Problem solved. Except I’m not getting a job in finance.”
My father took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. He looked at me much in the same way I imagined he looked at the underlings who worked in his office when they’d done something they shouldn’t have.
“What’s going on with you, Chloe?” he said. “Your mother and I both can’t help but feel as though you’re treating us with an attitude that’s ... not like you.”
“I’m not trying to give you an attitude.”
“We’d beg to differ. You may not be trying, but that’s certainly how you’re coming across.”
His disapproval of this so-called attitude I was giving was apparent. That old, childhood fear that I was doing something wrong started to overtake the anger I felt.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I said. “I’m really not trying to give either of you any attitude. And of course I want to make a good impression on people.” I looked down at my forearm, at the delicately drawn flower. If I saw someone with a tattoo like that, my first reaction would probably be to tell them I liked it, not run away screaming.
“Obviously, you can’t take the tattoo back,” he said. “You’ve got it and it’s here to stay. But I’d suggest you think long and hard before you get anything else. It’s going to be there forever. You don’t know how you’re going to feel about something 10 years from now, 15 years from now—you get what I’m saying. Just because you like something today doesn’t mean you’re going to feel that way always.”
“That is true.” I hoped that by agreeing with this last sentiment of his, the conversation would be over.
And thankfully, it was. My father finished his coffee and then left to go meet up with his friends for their daily round of golf, followed by lunch and drinks at the clubhouse. He raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips at me as he walked out, to which I could just offer a wan smile. Once I heard his car start and pull away, I breathed a sigh of relief. I looked at my phone to see if I had any new notifications. A few emails I’d check later. A new message from Tara. No new messages from Graham.
Which I thought was kind of weird, because I’d texted him twice on Tuesday evening, and now it was Thursday morning. Not that I wanted to be one of those insecure people that freaked out if someone didn’t respond to a text within the first five minutes, but ... it seemed a little odd. Should I text him again? I didn’t want to be annoying.
But I was starting to annoy myself because I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
I picked up my phone and scrolled back through our messages. I started to type a new one out to him, but then stopped. I’d sent two messages now with no reply—was it completely pathetic to send a third?
I thought about calling Tara and asking her what she’d do, but I already knew exactly what she’d say: she’d either text him again, or, better yet, go down to the tattoo shop and talk to him in person. So, I decided that’s exactly what I would do.
*****
The problem with impulsiveness is not thinking through to the next step. I knew if I started to think about going down to see Graham, and what I would say, I would probably end up chickening out, so I didn’t allow myself to consider any of that, not even for a second. As I drove down to the shop, I blasted my angriest playlist (mostly pop punk songs by bands that one of my friends freshman year of art school got me into) and sang as loudly as I could. When I didn’t know the lyrics, I just kept going with nonsense words.
I managed to find a parking spot right out in front of the shop, and I parallel parked perfectly, which I couldn’t help but feel a little proud of. Maybe Graham had happened to glance out the big plate glass window when I was doing so and saw me do it, though he seemed like the sort of person who probably didn’t give a second thought about parallel parking.
I walked right into the shop. A woman was behind the counter.
“Oh,” I said. She looked up from the book she was reading and smiled at me.
“Hey,” she said. “How can I help you?”
“I was looking for ... is Graham here?”
“He just stepped out to get coffee—oh, here he is.” I turned right as I heard the door open, and there was Graham, pushing the door open with his shoulder, two cups of coffee in hand.
“Chloe,” he said. “Hey.” He walked past me and handed one of the cups to the woman and then set his down on the counter.
“Hey,” I said. He turned to face me but he didn’t say anything. This was when I realized that perhaps coming down here without a clue as to what I was going to say maybe wasn’t the best idea. “I’ve been texting you,” I said after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence had passed. “And I hadn’t heard anything back.”
“You know, I forgot I have a couple quick errands I need to run,” the woman said. She slid out from behind the counter. “I’ll be back in a little bit.”
And then it was just Graham and me, standing there. He still didn’t say anything.
“I was just wondering why you hadn’t gotten back to me,” I said. “I didn’t want to keep texting you, though, so I thought I’d just stop by.”
His brow furrowed, and he stood there as though very deep in thought, like he was trying to decide whether or not he should tell me something. Was he debating whether or not to tell me that it was totally insecure of me to be freaking out just because he hadn’t texted back? I didn’t want to come across like that; I really didn’t.
“Look,” I said, when he still didn’t say anything. “If it’s that you don’t want to hang out, that’s fine—you can just tell me. That would be be
tter than you just not returning my texts and hoping I’d get the message. Because I can be a little dense sometimes. Obviously.”
The expression on his face softened. He walked closer to me and put a hand on my upper forearm and gave it a squeeze, which seemed far more a friendly gesture than a romantic one. “You’re not dense. And of course I want to hang out,” he said. “I’ve just been pretty busy. I was meaning to get back to you. I’m not one of those people that has their phone attached to him all the time. So I don’t always see when texts get sent right away, and then sometimes something will come through and I’ll read it but not get back right away and then just ... forget.”
“It’s okay,” I said, feeling bad now that he felt like he had to explain himself. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made such a big deal out of it. I shouldn’t have just run down here like this.”
“Sure, you should have,” he said, smiling. “I’m glad to see you. I’d love to bail on work today and come hang out, but we’re booked through the early evening and I can’t leave it all up to Helena.”
He’d let go of me, but was still standing awfully close. The air seemed charged around us, but maybe I was just imagining that? We were close enough to kiss.
I was never good at figuring out whether or not a kiss was going to happen. My first “boyfriend,” in fact, I’d never actually kissed because neither of us had been able to work up the courage to initiate it. For me, it was because I kept thinking about what was going to happen after the kiss, like, what would I say? Or was I just supposed to look lovingly into his eyes? I also couldn’t stop thinking about how it was kind of strange to see someone’s face that close, and I worried about how mine would look. All these worries culminated in that first boyfriend and I never actually kissing, so I didn’t even count him as my first boyfriend.