Mechanic with Benefits

by Mickey Miller

I let go of him and moved off to the side. A ball of anxiety started in my throat and worked its way down to my stomach. He’d found my Ambien, Xanax, and Prozac bottles, which I’d carelessly left out when I rearranged my luggage earlier that afternoon.

  “What is what?” I croaked, trying to make it seem like the pills were no big deal.

  He turned towards me. He held all three pill bottles in one big hand. “You didn’t mention to me that you were on antidepressants. It’s like a goddamn depression cocktail here.” He shook the bottles, then slammed them on the counter for emphasis. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  For as free as I felt sexually with Chandler, seeing him holding those pills in his hand made me feel suddenly shameful. Our conversation on depression came back to me in vivid 3D color.

  “I haven’t even been taking them,” I blurted out. It was the truth but not the answer to the question he’d asked.

  “Really?” His eyes seared through me. “Then why are they out?”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. Were we fighting? “I brought them along for the trip. Just in case. But I haven’t needed them while I’ve been here. Why are you so mad?”

  “So you’ve been taking them…for who knows how long…and you expect me to believe that you would just stop taking them all of the sudden?” He turned, hands on his hips, and stared at me. “Your mood was always extra fucked up when we were in Spain last time. Is that why? Because you have depression?”

  Your mood was always extra fucked up…

  I took a step back, like he’d screamed them at me. I knew at some point this was bound to happen, just not so early on. In other ways, I was glad that it wasn’t some dirty little secret anymore but I couldn’t get a read on Chandler and his anger. “Are you mad at me because I’m taking them, or because I’m not taking them? I don’t understand.”

  “If you need them,” he said, gritting his teeth, “you should take them. But hey, I’m not a psychiatrist.”

  “Yeah, well, truth be told, I haven’t needed to take them,” I repeated, still flustered. “I’ve felt great these last few days.” I shrugged. “Not sure why, exactly.”

  Chandler squinted back at me, jaw tight and still angry. “Right now, I’m not sure what to think, Amy. I’ve always felt like you’ve always been keeping something from me…and I find out about this. If you’ve kept your depression from me, what else is there?” He shook his head. “I hate surprises like this.”

  “I just don’t like talking about my depression,” I snapped, snatching the pills from out of his hand. I went to where my luggage was in Chandler’s room and put them back in my bag. He didn’t come after me and I heard the bathroom door shut a second later.

  Instead of waiting for Chandler, I grabbed my purse and left his place, needing some air.

  I didn’t look back. And I sure as hell didn’t expect him to follow.

  * * *

  The Joan Miró museum was a healthy thirty-minute walk from Chandler’s apartment. Inside, I meandered through the halls, looking at the different pieces from all of the epochs of Miró’s life. There were colorful, surreal paintings—which I could really relate to at the moment—to sculptures and ceramics.

  It felt oddly calming to look at the art of a man who, judging by his art, may have been insane. Or a genius. Probably a little of both. His pieces ranged from details, realistic landscapes to pictures that seemed stick-figureish, like he drew them in thirty minutes. Plenty of sculptures were mixed in with his canvas art and it put me in a contemplative rather anxious or even sad state. Of course I’d still be on a Chandler high even when we were fighting. How the hell was I going to make it after I left?

  My phone buzzed in my purse. Chandler and I had exchanged numbers at baggage claim but it was the first time he’d called it. However, I’d put it on silent after the seventh time.

  I fell into a trance in front of one particular piece, Self Portrait. It looked more like a cartoon than a classic piece of art. The piece was a big, round outline of a head with two eyes, and a few hairs on top. It seemed likely to me that Miró had intentionally drawn this one badly. One of the eyes had a red ring around it.

  Only when you examined the painting closely did you find the vast detail in the background, intricate patterns that were barely visible unless you dared to stare long and close.

  It was at the Self Portrait piece that I noticed Chandler in my peripheral. Trailing me but giving each other much needed space but he was also looking at the art intently.

  A minute later, Chandler sidled up next to me, crossing his arms and cocking his head at the work. “What do you think it means?” I asked him, testing the waters.

  He shrugged. “No idea. Looks like he made a cool pattern in the background and needed something to draw on top of it to give a theme, so he put a stick figure thing. What about you?”

  “This is one of his earlier pieces, so maybe he still couldn’t see how amazing he was—that’s the intricate designs behind him on the canvass. Instead, he sees himself as this scarred, cardboard cutout. An ugly stick figure.”

  Chandler nodded and put a hand on his chin. “You’re good. I don’t understand how you got all that, though.”

  He seemed to be looking hard at the painting, straining to see what I saw. “Hey,” I said softly, and put a hand on his back. “What happened back there, in the bathroom? You flipped out on me. I’m honestly at a loss as to why. It was a little scary, to be honest.”

  His body went rigid. I could feel the muscles in his back tightening; saw his fists clench. “That was a little of an over-the-top reaction. I just don’t like it when you keep things from me like that. Like you didn’t trust me…”

  I took my hand away from his back and crossed my arms to match him. “Really? That’s it? It’s not like when I stepped into your apartment this week we made some pact to tell each other all of our darkest secrets. Not that I wouldn’t have told you, at some point…I just—”

  “Let’s go into the courtyard,” he said, cutting me off. “I need some fresh air. And it’s gorgeous outside today.”

  I was a little peeved that he’d cut me off, but there seemed to be something on his mind, so I complied. And, I had to admit, I had some explaining to do as well.

  Chandler brought me a coconut smoothie and himself a coffee while we awkwardly sat on a bench, and surrounded by chatter in all sort of languages. Spanish, Catalan, French—the white noise was rather comforting.

  “You’re right,” he said, sipping his coffee from a rather comically small cup. “I did flip out a little. Sorry about that. But, I was taken by surprise.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, putting my arm on his forearm. Time for some real truth, I decided, because Chandler had given me some and I did trust him. Even after all this time and having just re-connected, I knew I could be real with him. “I could have handled that better myself.” He looked over at me, a little surprised. “I’ve just gotten burned, y’know? People knowing. Trusting too soon. Most react…not well.” I paused, shrugging. “It affected a couple of my past relationships, and it’s always been this thing that I don’t want to rule my life but I got afraid, that you’d reject me because of it, so…I don’t know.” I hesitated then forced myself to say the rest. “Do you remember our conversation, that one morning, about your major…”

  He swore under his breath. “I do remember—but that’s not fair to put my response on me like that, especially when you were being sneaky instead of honest with me,” he went on but sighing. “I would never judge you for having depression anymore then you’ve ever judged me for being, well, me. And accepting me for me, regardless.” He paused. “But it does explain a lot.”

  I met his gaze. “You mean my extra fucked up mood?” I asked, glumly.

  He winced. “I’m sorry, that was a dick move on my part and very poor choice of words. I was reacting because I…didn’t like that you kept that from me. Look, anytime I get caught off guard like that, it’s always been bad news. Like finding out my
dad was a loser, or my mom marrying Bob when I knew she might not love him.”

  “Okay, fair enough…” I mumbled but I looked down, fiddling nervously with my smoothie cup. “If we were to have that same conversation, but I told you I have depression—would your response be different?” I raised my eyes to meet his.

  He considered me for a long time, so long that I felt a heaviness in the pit of my stomach. He reached out and laced his fingers through mine, like he’d done when we were on the plane. I stared down at our hands, warmed by the gesture but also weary.

  “Yes and no,” he said and I tensed. He squeezed my hand, hard enough for me to look at him. “Not wanting to ‘deal’ with mental disorders on a professional level is far different from you, someone I care about, having depression, Amy. Huge difference.”

  I blinked at him, at the maturity in his words. I was wrong to say he wasn’t much of a thinker. I just didn’t know all the sides to him. “I…you’re right,” I admitted.

  “Mostly, I was just worried about your well-being,” he said, still serious. “From what I remember, it’s best that you take your meds regardless of whether or not you feel like it or not.” A ray of sunlight sneaked through a tree and landed across his face. There was nothing but warmth in his eyes but his expression was somber. “When I realized you left my apartment, without a word, that really shook me. But it also made me realize that you were running away—like you did the last month before I left. I don’t know where this is going but I like it, and I want you in my life. I know there are a lot of things we have to figure out to make that work but if you keep running away, or me, too, then we’ll end up the way we did five years ago.” He paused, searching my face. “Do you want that?”

  I don’t know what came over me in that moment. Whatever this was, this friends with benefits, this ambiguous amigovios or friends with benefits situation was, Chandler did care about me.

  “Hey,” I whispered softly. He turned and looked at me curiously. My heart beat like a drum. I’d never been a girl to make a move like this, but with him, I knew it’d be all right. I grabbed hold of Chandler’s neck, leaned across the table, and planted my lips on his. He didn’t see it coming at first, but soon he was reciprocating, driving his lips into mine and palming the back of my head.

  Finally, he released me and nodded. “Wow,” was all he said.

  “Yes, wow,” I echoed.

  Chandler flipping out on me was actually a fledgling attempt to show me how much he cared about me. He accepted me, depression and all. I wish I had told him back then, but sometimes, growing up and finding the right moment was what mattered. I was beyond ecstatic that we’d finally had this conversation, the one that had haunted me for years and wounded me too but Chandler understood. Yes, there were things to figure out but the fact that he’d made the first move meant a lot. It was a huge step for him and I had to meet him halfway.

  “You honestly haven’t been taking your pills since you got here. Not one?” he asked, raising a brow.

  I leaned in and nodded. “Not one.”

  “Okay,” he said, leaning back, but still had this worried look. “But you should still keep taking them if you’re supposed to, Amy. It’s not safe to stop cold-turkey.”

  Normally, I’d be irritated; but from Chandler, it was different somehow. I nodded. “You’re right but…” How could I tell him without sounding ridiculous that he, Chandler, had the same effect on my depression that my meds did? Like he had back in college? It’d been three days I’d been completely drug free, and no side effects like I got when I missed even a day. “Look, my doctor and I are trying different things so that I can safely quit all my meds. Eventually. And I’m back to taking low dosages of all three. Right now, I only take Prozac every day and use Xanax and Ambien when I need it. So not taking them is less of a shock…”

  He considered my words then nodded, a little less worried. He leaned forward and gave me a kiss on my forehead then peered down at my face. “So you’re sure you’re feeling good?”

  I laughed. “Yes. It’s good. Very good. Actually, I was just thinking this morning—I feel the most clear-headed in…years.”

  And it’s all because of you, Chandler Spiros, I wanted to say, but couldn’t. Because Casanovas didn’t like clingy girls.

  Twenty-Three

  Chandler

  After our talk, we left the museum. I lost track of time and I’m pretty sure Amy did too. After that, we meandered around the city, checking out some of our old haunts. I felt thankful I had a rare Saturday off-day so we could spend time together.

  As we walked along the marina, we held hands. Ironically, for all the girls I’d dated in my past, holding their hand was usually something I didn’t feel close enough with them to do. It was an intimate gesture, and one I didn’t hand out freely.

  And the one girl who I felt close enough to that I wanted to hold hands with was the same girl who would be leaving in under a week. I looked over at Amy, her serene expression, the easiness and familiarity. In the past, I would have dodged and ducked anything too deep but I found myself wanting to hold her closer to me then merely holding her hand.

  In a week, my life would be back to normal. Did I want that? Not really. Right now, things were still simple.

  I avoided thinking about her inevitable departure. It’s what I did well, avoid anything that really mattered to me or had the potential to be. I didn’t need a psych major to know why. I knew all too well. Ever since Amy came tumbling back into my life, a very simple albeit meaningless one, we’d discussed my biological father, my family, her depression, some concept of a relationship between us and had our first fight. For me, that was a whirlwind in all things serious that I hated dealing with.

  I never had serious conversations let alone serious moments with a woman I was with, period. But with Amy, we’d always talked about personal, intimate details about ourselves. Back then, it’d been refreshing, when it started out as me just trying to get her into bed. Over the course of our time together, I’d realized that Amy wasn’t going to go into the box that I put most women in. She kept defying my expectations and challenging me in ways that sometimes left me baffled, confused and uncertain about myself and everything about my life. Now, years later, same kind of conversations but now that we were a little bit older, maybe not any wiser, but we had history. And right now, I felt the weight of that history. The longest meaningful relationship I’d ever had was with this woman sitting next to me. That long gap between us didn’t matter. Some histories could never be forgotten or swept under a rug or put in a neat box to be left on the shelf to collect dust. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it, though.

  Hours later, we stopped at a late night corner restaurant and ordered some falafels. After we ate, we walked towards an open-air plaza while we people watched as the last rays of the sun disappeared behind the cityscape of Barcelona.

  Amy sat on the bench close to me, and she could not have looked more fuckable if she tried. Actually, the fact that she didn't have to try to look fuckable made her extra fuckable.

  "I like this," she said, smiling. Our legs touched while we sat.

  I looked around then back at her. We weren’t really doing anything, just sitting. “What do you mean by ‘this’?” I asked.

  "Let's see." She held out her hand and started to count out numbers on her fingers. "One, I love being in Barcelona again. Two, I love being with you. Three, I love falafels, and they are the best here of any city I’ve ever lived in. Four, I love that I know who I am going home with, and five..."

  She trailed off, and I could see a tear run down her cheek that she quickly rubbed off. I took advantage of the moment to lean across the table and catch her off guard for a strong kiss, which she reciprocated by bringing her mouth hard toward mine. I wrapped my hand around her head and pulled her closer to me, swirling my tongue in her mouth, wanting to taste every inch of her. Finally we pulled away to our respective sides of the table. Amy's chest was rising and falling deeply
when she pulled away. Her hand lingered on my wrist. She wiped another tear from her face.

  I smiled. "Squirt, why are you crying?"

  She sniffled and started laughing. "It's stupid."

  "It's not stupid."

  "How do you know? You don't even know what it is."

  "I know because whatever neuron connections made in that pretty little head of yours can't possibly be stupid."

  She began to speak, her tone serious. Her grip on my forearm tightened. "Being here with you, this week, I really am enjoying myself. Like when I went to get coffee for you this morning, and I was smiling, thinking about bringing it back to you."

  A heat radiated through my chest. Coffee this morning had been a small but appreciated gesture. I loved how much of a pleaser Amy was. It made me want to reciprocate however I could.

  "That's…what you feel stupid about? Enjoying yourself this week?" I asked. “With me?” I tried not to make her sound silly, but of course we were fucking enjoying ourselves. We were a fantastic duo.

  "That's only half of it. I guess, I feel so silly because I have a great life back in Chicago by anyone's standards. My parents paid for my college. I live in a great part of the city. My friend and I are starting our own company. My parents are so proud of me for being successful and independent and making it on my own. But I think if I'm being honest with myself, I've felt a sort of nagging emptiness over the last few years. A voice that told me I would never be totally happy."

  For as much shit as Amy and I gave each other, it was weird to hear her being so serious and thoughtful, which meant I needed to pay attention. "So…Barcelona cured your depression?" I concluded.

  She chuckled, glancing up at me. "Goddamn it, Chandler! No! How hard do I have to spell this out? You help my depression. I love being with you. I like doing things that make you happy for no reason. I've never felt like that before with a guy. I like cooking for you so when you come home from your games you don't have to have an empty house. I like being there for you after your good games and bad ones. I like…you. I like being with you.”