Limits

by Steph Campbell

  Fantastic.

  I put that plan into immediate effect. Luckily, I don’t wind up having to devote a ton of time to passing out kosher treats. The main course is buffet, and I was just an extra hand for hor d’oeuvres. If I leave now, the remaining servers will get to split tips, so they’re cool with me ditching out. The boss hands me a couple twenties and cuts me loose. I can pick up some beer, watch shitty sci-fi, and fall asleep knowing that my yeast trays, my job, my social life, and my family have all contrived to screw me over in every possible way.

  I make a final pass through the dining room to pick up any remaining trays and trash and then head out through the kitchen and down the back employee hallway, but a sound stops me.

  It’s a combination of hiccups, the clank of glass, and what sounds like sobs.

  I follow the noise to a small broom closet. I push the door open and the light reflects off something sparkly. And damn if I know that sparkle all too well.

  “Genevieve, what the hell are you doing here?” I ask, squinting into the dim light. She’s sitting on a stool, a nearly-empty bottle of champagne clutched in her fist, her sparkly heels sitting next to her.

  “S-s-sulking!” she cries, wiping tears off her cheeks with the back of her hand. “What of it?”

  A red veil of fury makes my vision blur. “What did that dickhead do to you? Is he even still at the party? Did he leave you here?”

  Genevieve gives me a long, confused look, blinks her pretty gray eyes, and takes another swig from the dregs of her bottle. “What? Who are you talking about?”

  “The goy,” I say, waving my hands around like a madman. “The one who looks like a skateboarder with the hair that was all messy.” My tongue ties when I try to explain it any more clearly. “That asshole you were talking to before,” I finally manage to spit out.

  “Deo?” She says his name half like a moan, half like a bad joke only she knows the punch line to.

  “I guess. What the hell kind of name is Deo anyway?” I grumble, hating everything about the guy on premise. Some people would argue that a scientist should be more controlled, but the chemicals running through my brain are one hundred percent natural and completely savage. Sometimes science is like that, and that’s when I love it most.

  “Not everyone can be named after the first man ever.” She smiles, and it’s this beautiful juxtaposition, her bright, sweet smile and those wet, sad eyes.

  “Do you need a ride?” I ask, thinking, stupidly, that I’m going to wind up her tool after all. I don’t really care, though. If popular consensus is that Deo is the winner in this setup because he left a girl like Genevieve alone and crying, I’ll happily be the tool who cleans up his mess and gives her a ride home.

  “Um…I hate to inconvenience you, but my brother and his date looked pretty cozy, and he was going to bring me back home.” She tries to put the champagne bottle on a shelf full of cleaning chemicals three times, but it won’t fit. The look of total confusion on her face is pretty damn priceless.

  I take the bottle from her and offer my arm. “C’mon. You need some water and aspirin and your bed.”

  “Mmm,” she murmurs as she slips her feet into those stupid heels and leans hard on my arm. “You’re being so nice to me, Adam. Why are you so mean when you’re tutoring me?”

  For every two steps we attempt to go forward, we need to go one back because Genevieve’s sparkly shoes keep sliding off of her feet. “I’m not mean when I tutor you. I’m just getting paid to do a job, so I need to take it seriously.”

  “Ah.” She stops a few feet short of my car and totters back and forth. I’m primed to catch her, but she doesn’t fall over. “So I’m just a job?”

  Even drunk, she’s reading too much into what I said. “No. I mean, yes, it’s a job, so I take it seriously. But you? I care about you doing well. So I do my best to make sure you learn what you need to. If I come off as mean, it’s only because I know you’re a hell of a lot smarter than you give yourself credit for, and I think you need someone who pushes you.”

  We’re finally at the car. I open the passenger side to help her in, and she puts her hands on my chest. A simple touch like that shouldn’t ignite the feeling that her hand on me does. “You really think that?”

  “I do.” I put my hands over hers, so small and soft. She’s drunk, so it’s stopping right here, but I wish like hell I could tell her that it’s not just that she gets overlooked as a student: if she’s wasting her time with guys like this jerkoff, Deo, she’s selling herself short in her romantic life. Sure, she’s got her annoying quirks. But she’s funny and real and sweet as hell. She deserves a guy who gets that. Not some two-bit freeloading beach rat.

  “Thank you.” She says the words clearly, like she’s coming out of her champagne haze. Which is good, because I have no clue where she lives, and I still don’t know the area outside of campus all that well.

  I nod at her. “You’re welcome.”

  She slides into the seat and I get in the driver’s side, suddenly aware of how damn small the interior of my car is. She smells like icing, champagne, and sea salt. I usually drive with the windows down, but I’m not about to sacrifice the smell of her skin for a second.

  “Where’s home?” I ask.

  She tilts her head back and gives a groan I don’t think is based on her alcoholic state. “I’m being a total pain in the ass, but would it be a huge problem to…just drive for a little? I’ll pay for gas, I promise. I just can’t go back. My parents will be there, and they’ll want to talk, and—”

  “No problem,” I interrupt. “Anywhere you want to go. You have somewhere in mind?”

  “You know what? There’s someone I need to talk to. Someone who…gets me. Could you take me to her place?” she asks, sitting up straighter, her eyes bright at the thought. “It’s a little bit of a drive from where we are. Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  “Should I map it, or do you know how to get there?” I ask, trying not to be obvious about the way I’m taking her in. Her outfit doesn’t leave much to the imagination if that’s the kind of thing you go for. And I do appreciate every curve on her body: I’m not blind. But the thing that really interests me is deeper than the way she looks.

  And I’m feeling a rush of excitement when I realize I might get to pry into that a little tonight. That I might get to see beyond the flirting and eye rolls she tosses my way during tutoring sessions and actually talk to the version of herself she keeps hidden in plain sight. The person I’ve caught glimpses of for split seconds here and there. The one who leaves me wanting to know more.

  “I can take you there,” she says.

  She has no idea how right I hope she is.

  “I didn’t get a chance to ask you how your calculus test went.” I focus on the headlights shining from the opposite side of the road.

  “Oh. Yeah. It went okay. The grades posted online a few hours after class. I got a C.” She looks over sheepishly, and I can’t keep the look of shock off my face. “A C is good,” she insists, her chin jutting out stubbornly.

  “A C is perfectly fine,” I say, my grip on the steering wheel tightening because her grade aggravates me. She isn’t a C student. So why the low grade? “But you nailed every homework assignment.”

  “Well, I’m not as good at testing. I get nervous,” she explains. “Left up here and just stay on this road for about ten miles.” She points and seems to hope I’ll drop the conversation.

  I don’t.

  “We can do some simulated tests if you think it would help. I can get some of the students from my classes together and we can actually go to the room where you test. I can do things exactly the way your professor does them, and it might wind up that you actually—”

  “Adam, I was half an hour late!” she interrupts, her voice a snap.

  The silence surrounds us for a few agonizing seconds and she’s the one who breaks it with a rushed, biting explosion of words.

  “So, I was late. I am. Late. A lot. I do
n’t know why. One minute I was on time, the next minute, I was about to get my cappuccino, and, all of a sudden, I’m almost late. I had to pay. I had to get out of there. I didn’t even drink it! I just ran, and I missed the bus. I took the next one and got my ass there, but the professor was pissed. She almost told me I couldn’t come in, but I begged her. I cried, right in front of her, like a huge baby, in front of my whole class. I worked as fast as I could, I swear to you, I did my best, Adam. I’d never take the work you did with me for granted like that, but it wasn’t—”

  “Hey, hey,” I say, putting my hand over to her side. I don’t know why, don’t know what I was thinking I’d do, but it lands on her knee. We both go quiet, and I attempt to pull back in a panic. She grabs my hand and holds it, squeezing so tight, I think my fingers are going to fall asleep. “I’m not pissed about you wasting my time. Helping you is never a waste of my time,” I explain.

  “But you’re pissed at me,” she says, her nails biting into my palm. “You’re pissed because I messed up again.”

  “I’m pissed because you could have done that test in your sleep. I’m pissed you didn’t take it more seriously, Genevieve. You didn’t give yourself a fair shot.” Her fingers loosen on my hand, but she never lets go.

  “I tried.” Her voice is brittle, like it will crack and break at any second.

  But she didn’t, really. And I know I should just shut the hell up and reassure her. Tell her a C is fine. Tell her it doesn’t matter.

  But I don’t need her to like me. I need her to realize that she’s damn amazing. I need her to stop selling herself short.

  “You need to try harder when it comes to yourself.” I look over at her, her face stark and sad when the flash of oncoming headlights illuminates it for a second. “You went out of your way to bake me cupcakes to say thank you. You should have put that much effort into getting to your class on time.”

  “I know, I’m a screw up—”

  “Stop saying that.” I can feel her looking over at me, her gaze hard on my face. “You screwed up. That doesn’t make you a screw up. Look, who do you have Calc with? Eidelberg? At what? Two? Two thirty? Tuesday and Thursday?”

  “Two. Yes, Tuesday and Thursday.” Her fingers are making little circles on the top of my hand. I don’t know if she even notices she’s doing it.

  “Alright. I usually take lunch at one thirty, then have a class at two in Lingman Hall, right next to Eidelberg’s. Meet me at In-N-Out on Reverend at one thirty. We’ll eat, and I’ll personally deliver you to Calc on time. Every Tuesday and Thursday. And we can do Calc flashcards. For fun.” I look over at her, not sure how she’ll take my offer. I remember the way she looked at that stupid beach bum boyfriend of hers and hope they don’t have some weird thing about not hanging out with people of the opposite sex.

  “You’d do that for me?” Her voice is sandpaper rough.

  “You’d be doing me a favor, too. It looks pretty bad for me if my tutoring students don’t ace everything. You’re going to ruin my rep as the college’s most amazing tutor. Ever.” I pitch the joke and she takes a huge swing. Her laugh fills up the entire car.

  “Your ego is out of control, you know that?” she asks.

  “Take notes,” I advise, dropping the joke for a second. “You could be tutoring me if you put your mind to it. So stop selling yourself short and put your mind to it, and I’ll be asking you to run flashcards with me next semester.”

  I firmly ignore the regret that swamps me when I realize I won’t be around next semester.

  “I think that’s pushing it,” she chuckles and rolls her eyes.

  “Not at all. Give yourself some credit, Genevieve. I swear, you could work circles around me if you just had some confidence in yourself.” I expect her to let go of my hand now, but she’s kind of holding it in her lap and running her fingers over it absently. I’m not complaining. Not at all.

  We don’t talk about her or school or work anymore. She only gives me verbal directions now and then. When she finally leads me to a small, cozy-looking house on the beach covered in hundreds of plants and surrounded by trees, I cut the engine and she pulls my hand up to her lips.

  She kisses my knuckles and looks at me though those tangled, inky lashes. “Thank you, Adam. So much. I honestly could not have imagined I’d feel this good after the day I’ve had and then this crazy, weird night…but I feel full of—” She shrugs and bites her lips. “Hope. I feel full of hope. And it’s all because of you. Thank you.”

  I stutter, grasping around for words, but I don’t come up with anything other than a return ‘good-night’ for the one she offers me. Then she’s darting out of the car, running up to the little house with her hair waving like a black flag behind her. A woman opens the door and her arms, and I pull away when they turn and wave at me.

  I acknowledge that it’s ridiculous to feel so amped up over her lips on my knuckle and the promise of some burgers and Calc review of all things, but I don’t beat myself up too much. The way I’m feeling is all pure science, and I’ve learned to enjoy the endorphins when they surge without questioning them too much.

  4 GENEVIEVE

  Marigold is still wearing the flowy, deep purple dress she wore to Cohen and Maren’s engagement party, but her feet are bare and her hair is down from its French twist and in a loose braid coiled at her shoulder. I saw her say her goodbyes to Mom and Dad, and it occurs to me suddenly that she probably had a good reason to duck out early.

  Then I remember that Cohen mentioned the fact that she and Rocko were in France for some workshop on lavender pressing. I notice that her bright eyes have bluish shadows underneath them, and I feel terrible for just showing up at her doorstep like some sad little orphan with nowhere to go when she’s clearly looking for peace and quiet.

  “Look at you,” she says, her voice rasping with sympathy. “What happened, beautiful? Why are you so sad?”

  I have this plan to talk to her like a normal person, not a blubbering mass of emotional craziness. But something about Marigold is so sweet and open. Her eyes look at me like she can see the real me, and she isn’t judging. So I open my mouth and sob, feeling extra terrible, because I know how much she just needs to rest and not deal with my drama.

  But, typical Marigold, she doesn’t even mention how tired she is or that it’s so late. Her strong hand rubs my back, right between my shoulder blades. She doesn’t shush me or panic. She just makes these comforting noises in the back of her throat while I cry until my eyes burn, my makeup runs, and, finally, I’m completely loose and empty. I sink back onto her couch like my bones are rubber while she goes to the kitchen and comes back with mugs of spicy, fragrant tea.

  “I’m so sorry to dump on you like this,” I gasp, trying to pull myself together. “I know you just got back from France, and this is the last thing you need to be dealing with—”

  “Now you hush that pretty mouth,” she scolds, shaking her head. “You know good and well I never have a damn thing to do that’s more important than seeing you, sweetheart.”

  “Thank you, Marigold.” I rub my fingers under my eyes and try to explain. “It’s just…like I’m stuck under a waterfall, and it’s gorgeous and strong, but it’s just pouring on me. And I’m afraid I might drown under it.”

  “I understand, sweetheart.” She holds my face in her hands and uses her thumbs to wipe the last stray tears away. “You’re at this beautiful, exciting age, but your brain is rewiring and your heart is tender. Life is flying by around you and you feel like there’s too much to grab onto. But if you don’t, you’ll be left behind.”

  “Yes!” I gasp, holding a hand to my thudding heart. It’s always shocking how Marigold has been able to do this since I was young: like she’s just cracking my head open and peering inside, knowing everything better than I even know it myself. “How did you—”

  “Genevieve, I was you!” She lets her wavy hair loose from its braid and tosses it over her shoulder, looking into the fire that’s crackling i
n her hearth. “I was just floating along, floating through this time in my life when things were so wild and wonderful. I was a little obsessed with Deo’s father. We’d met when we were…what, thirteen?” Her laugh is soft when she talks about him. I’m happy for that. There used to be so much bitterness when Marigold talked about her feelings for Deo’s dad. “I would have followed him anywhere, never making an investment in myself, tagging along on his adventures. Then I found out I was pregnant, and he showed that he wasn’t man enough for the job of being Deo’s dad.”

  “That must have been awful,” I whisper, cupping my hands around the mug of pale green tea, still so hot it burns the tip of my tongue every time I take a sip.

  “No.” She looks up at me, her eyes bright, and points. “I’ll tell you why. I got the gift of myself back. I got to live life the way I wanted, not by his rules or anyone else’s. I got the gift of my sweet, lovable boy, Deo. And, down the road, I’d get the gift of loving Rocko, who opened my heart in ways I couldn’t imagine possible.”

  “So…” I stall my words, but her quiet patience makes my tongue flap. I think of Deo, his smiling eyes, his gentle words, when he held me close tonight and told me that I’m the sister he never had. It was like a fresh knife wound to my heart, and it’s what started me on my champagne binge in the closet. It was stupid of me to ever imagine anything happening: whether I like it or not, Deo is a married man. A happily married man. But I can’t help feel sad for the ‘us’ that will never be, and it’s a crushing kind of loneliness. “It’s probably a dumb idea to think you need to find the right person for it all to make sense.”

  “Not at all.” She curls an arm around my shoulder and lets me rest my weary head on her body. I breathe in the cinnamon smell of her, listen to the steady thud of her heartbeat, and feel surrounded by love. “If I’d met Rocko when I was young, I would have scooped him up. Because he cares about investing in me. If you find that one person who believes in you, helps you combat your doubts, lifts you up when you’re ready to lie down and say ‘screw it’? If you find that person, grab tight. So tight. Never let go.”