by Claire Adams
That’s when it hits me: I should probably be talking about this with her.
I get up from the bed and take a moment to find my balance. I may be a little more inebriated than I thought.
At least I’m nowhere near as drunk as I was last night.
I set the bottle, which up until this point had been welded to my hand, on my dresser, and I open the door to my room.
Guess who’s sitting on the couch, talking to Leila as she wipes tears from her eyes.
I’ll give you one hint: it’s not me.
“Hey, Mike,” I say. “Leila, are you all right?”
“Maybe I should give you two a few minutes to talk,” Mike says, and gets up from the couch.
“Thanks, Mike,” I tell him. “I appreciate that.”
He nods and walks to the kitchen. He’s hardly giving us privacy, but now really isn’t the time for me to say anything about it.
“I know what we’re both doing,” I tell her. “We’re finding reasons to be mad because we’re afraid of losing each other.”
“It doesn’t seem like either one of us have had to look very hard,” she says, wiping her nose on her shirtsleeve.
I smile at her.
“I guess you’re right,” I say. “A lot is happening with both of us right now. Maybe this wasn’t the right time to start a relationship, but I don’t regret that we did.”
Her eyes are so wide as she looks up at me.
“I don’t regret it either,” she says. “But how are we supposed to keep going when we both know it’s all going to be over in a week?”
We keep going because we care about each other.
We’ll find a way to make it work.
We keep going because we make each other feel things we’ve never really felt.
“I don’t know.”
Of all the possible combinations of words that could have come out of my mouth, that was one of the worst.
“So what are we doing?” she asks, the tears again forming in her eyes.
“We’re getting to know each other,” I tell her. “That sort of thing takes time.”
“Yeah,” she says. “But that doesn’t solve anything. We don’t have time.”
“We have a little,” I tell her. “If you’re not sick of me by the time you move, we can have more—I know I would like that.”
“Why don’t you move with me?” she asks.
And there’s the possibility I didn’t want her to realize.
“Things are only just starting to turn around at l’Iris. Wilks is still finding himself as a chef. I can’t just up and leave Jim without anyone to help,” I tell her. “He gave me a chance and kept me on when anyone else would have just fired me on the spot. I can’t walk out on him.”
“Then you’ll commute,” she says. “I found the place I want to move to. It’s got two bedrooms, one-and-a-half baths. It’s in a really good neighborhood and the rent is a fraction of what it is here.”
“I don’t have a car,” I tell her.
“I don’t have a car either,” she says. “How else are we going to do it, though?”
“I have a car,” Mike says from the kitchen.
“I’m sorry, Mike, but do you mind?” I ask.
He scoffs and shrugs and I would very much like to put my fist through that tissue paper skull of his.
It may sound really odd, given that Leila and I have been roommates for months now, but I don’t know if we’re really in the place, relationship-wise, where we should be living together.
“Let’s take every day, one day at a time,” I tell Leila. “Let’s make the most of every moment while you’re here, and when you have to go—”
“That’s it?” she asks. “And when I have to go, that’s it?”
“That’s not what I said,” I tell her. “I don’t want there to ever be a ‘that’s it’ with us.”
“What then?” she asks. “If things go well you’ll move, if they don’t, you won’t?”
“I don’t know!”
The words come out before I give them any thought. Leila just sits there, startled by the outburst, hurt by the words.
“Okay,” she says. “Okay.”
“I don’t know what to say,” I tell her. “I don’t want you to go.”
“This is a once in a lifetime opportunity for me,” she says.
“So is this,” I respond. “It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity for both of us.”
“Let’s take it day by day then,” she says. “We’ll see how things are going when it comes time for me to move.”
Contrary to all appearances, this is not what I want.
More than anything, I want to just pick up and follow her wherever she wants to go.
Maybe it’s ridiculous that I feel this strongly about a woman with whom I’ve only been in a relationship for a few days, but since I met her, we’ve gotten to know more about each other, and I sure as hell don’t want to miss out on learning everything there is.
That’s what I want, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to happen.
I’m used to the city.
I’m not used to being in a relationship like this—one that lasts longer than just a few good lays.
No matter how much I want to pick up, let Wilks stand on his own two feet—something he’s going to have to learn to do anyway—and stay with Leila, the truth is that I’m scared.
I’m scared and I think she knows it.
Chapter Twenty-One
Stars
Leila
The move is in three days.
I got the apartment I wanted and it’s ready for me to move in and make it my own.
Dane hasn’t said it yet, but I know he’s not going with me.
Rather than spend this last parcel of time together feeling hurt or awkward, though, I’ve decided to make the most out of what time we have left.
There is so much that we haven’t experienced together. We’ve never been on a real date.
I’ve come to realize that we simply don’t have enough to build a solid relationship. But hey, we may as well enjoy it while it lasts.
It’s just after dark. If there are any stars in the sky, the city lights have swallowed them whole. The night is cool, but not cold. Traffic crowds the streets below, but I got used to that constant rush of combustion a long time ago.
I’m sitting on the roof, staring up at the sky, trying my hardest to find any stars at all. After a few false alarms (airplanes,) I finally spot one standing there all alone, its light just barely piercing the city’s brightness.
Isn’t that the way it goes?
My phone rings and I answer it, my eyes still intent on the sky.
“Hello?”
“Come downstairs.”
It’s Dane.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Just come downstairs,” he says. “I’ve got a car waiting for you.”
“I’m not really dressed to go out,” I tell him, but he just chuckles.
“Don’t worry about that. It’s just going to be you and me.”
“All right.”
I’ve been waiting for a moment like this, but I’m not sure if what I’m feeling is excitement or anxiety. It’s probably a little bit of both.
I make my way downstairs, but not before stopping by the apartment to check my hair and makeup. For someone who’s given up on an actual love life, I look pretty darn good.
“Oh stop it,” I tell myself aloud. “Quit being a baby and just enjoy the night.”
When I come out of the building, I look for Dane, but don’t see him. There are cars parked out front, as always, but they’re all empty.
My phone rings again.
“Hello?”
“I’m just down the block,” Dane says. “Look to your right. Do you see me?”
It takes a few seconds, but I finally spot him about a hundred yards down the way, waving his hands.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “I got ya.”
I hang up the pho
ne and start walking.
When I come close enough to see the car, I’m a little disappointed. He said he had a car waiting for me. I had just assumed that meant he’d gone all out and gotten a town car or something with a driver.
It’s not the car itself that bothers me, it’s the fact that we won’t be able to focus on each other during the drive, not completely.
After everything that’s gone right over the past few weeks, I know how ungrateful I’m being right now. That said, the foreknowledge of this relationship’s end is more than enough to spoil just about anything.
I really had high hopes for me and Dane.
“Hey there, beautiful,” he says as I approach.
“Hey yourself,” I answer, and give him a peck on the lips. “So, what’s the plan for tonight?”
“Well,” he says, “I wanted to do something special for you, but I was having the hardest time figuring out exactly what.”
“And?” I ask, unable to hold back a smile any longer.
“I came up with absolutely nothing,” he says with a laugh. “So, I figured, why not rent a car? That way we can let the evening take us where it will.”
“All right,” I say skeptically. “You do know how to drive, don’t you?”
“Of course I know how to drive,” he says, opening the passenger’s door. “Just fucking get in the car, will you?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I smile.
A minute later and we’re on the road; well, kind of. I don’t know if there’s a game or something, but traffic seems to be extra heavy tonight.
Eventually, we transcend major gridlock and arrive in minor gridlock.
“What kind of music do you like?” he asks.
“I like a little bit of everything,” I tell him.
“Oh, bullshit,” he says. “Everyone says that, but it’s never true.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” I ask, poking him in the ribs.
“No,” he says, “but I am saying you’re full of shit.”
“Pick a station,” he says. “From what I understand, this vehicle is fully equipped with satellite radio, and if you can figure out how to work it, we can listen to whatever you want.”
“I have a feeling you’re going to regret that,” I tell him.
“You know,” he says, “so do I, but I’m pretty sure I’ll survive.”
I’ve never used satellite radio, but it’s not rocket science. I roll through the stations until I land on a death metal song.
I smile and turn up the volume.
“You’re kidding, right?” he asks.
“What?” I tease. “I can’t hear you. I’m too busy rocking out.”
He laughs. “If you can deal with it, I can deal with it,” he says.
He thinks I’m joking.
That misapprehension starts to fade as we go into the second and then third song.
“Do you actually like this stuff?” he asks.
“My brother liked it,” I tell him. “Growing up, he’d always have this stuff blasting from his room. It’s how he and I really became close.”
“I didn’t know you have a brother,” Dane says.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “Whenever one of his favorite bands would come to the state, I was the only 12-year-old girl in the crowd. I never really loved it the way he did, but it helps me feel close to him again.”
“Where does he live?” Dane asks.
“He doesn’t,” I answer.
Maybe that was a bit blunt.
“He died in a car accident when I was 17. Some jackass on a cell phone crossed the middle lane.”
“I’m sorry,” Dane says.
I shrug. “It is what it is. Anyway, I think I’ve had about all I can handle for now. What do you like?”
“You mean music?” he asks.
“No,” I mock, “what do you like in general? For instance, bees: natural wonder or an abomination that the Bible forgot to denounce?”
He laughs.
“I usually just listen to whatever’s on top 40.”
I gag.
“What?” he asks. “Those songs are on the top 40 because that’s what most of the people in the country listen to. Are you saying everyone’s wrong?”
“Absolutely,” I tell him. “Top 40 is the same crap that’s been rehashed and rehashed since the 70s. The only difference is that most of the quote unquote artists on the top 40 now don’t play their own instruments or enter a studio without making sure the autotune is cranked up to 11.”
“I like it,” he says.
“You know what’s happening here?” I ask.
“What?”
“We’re sitting here and out of nowhere, you’ve become the scared little girl. That’s what’s happening.”
He laughs. “What? Just because I don’t like music with someone grunting over the top of it I’m a scared little girl?”
“Well, yeah,” I answer. “Next, you’re going to tell me that fights during a hockey game distract from the integrity of the sport.”
He mumbles something and I turn the radio down.
“What was that?” I ask.
“I don’t like hockey,” he says.
“Oh my God,” I gasp. “We’re in a relationship and I’m the man.”
“Whatever,” he says with a chortle.
“So, where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise,” he says.
“You do know where we’re going, right? I mean, you’re not going to pull over and ask some old lady for directions like a girl, are you?”
All in all, he takes the teasing in stride.
That said, as we leave the city behind, I really am starting to wonder exactly where we’re headed.
“I have a confession to make,” I tell him.
“Yeah?” he asks. “What’s that?”
“I, uh,” I stammer.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know where you’re from,” I tell him. “Where did you grow up?”
“No thanks,” he said.
“No thanks?” I ask. “Were the winters cold in No Thanks, or was it soothingly temperate?”
“Where are you from?” he asks.
“Nuh uh,” I say. “Not only did you dodge my question, but you asked yours without a single ounce of shame for not knowing where your longtime roommate and new girlfriend came from. Try again.”
“Come on,” he says, “it’s embarrassing.”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” I tell him. “You don’t get to choose where you grow up, why would you be emb—oh my God.”
“What?” he asks. He’s visibly nervous.
“There’s only one place I can think that you would actually make you embarrassed.”
“Let’s talk about something else,” he says.
“You’re from New Jersey, aren’t you?”
He scoffs. “New Jersey? Are you kidding me? You know how I feel about—okay, yeah, I’m from New Jersey.”
I couldn’t stop laughing if I tried.
“It’s not that big a deal,” he says. “Like you just said, you can’t choose where you’re from.”
“It’s not that,” I cackle. “I’m just trying to understand why you talk so much crap on the state you’re from? Is it supposed to be Manhattan camouflage or something?”
“Well, yeah,” he says. “When I first moved to the city, I made the mistake of telling a few people that I’m from Jersey—”
“You even call it Jersey!” I howl.
He waits very patiently for my mirth to die down before continuing.
“Yeah, that’s about the response I got. I don’t get why it matters so much, New Jersey’s not that bad,” he says. “Yeah, New York City is awesome, but so is Trenton.”
“You know I don’t care that you’re from New Jersey, right?” I ask. “I’m willingly moving there.”
“Yeah,” he says, “I know. I guess it’s just easier to talk shit on Jersey. But where are my manners?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Where are you from?”
“Oh, that’s really not important,” I tell him.
“Come on,” he prods, “you had a good laugh at the expense of my home state. It’s only fair to share in the misery.”
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not from any of the states.”
I can feel the car slow as he turns to look at me.
“Where are you from?”
I sigh.
“It’s not that I’m ashamed of it. Really, it’s not. I’ve just had about the same experience telling people where I’m from that you’ve had telling people you’re from Jersey.”
I think my renewed laughter is killing any sympathy I might receive.
“Go on,” he says.
“You see, the difference here is that I don’t talk crap about where I come from, I just don’t bring it up.”
“Oh, will you just tell me.”
“Fine,” I say. “I’m from Waterloo.”
“Iowa?” he asks.
“Ontario.”
He’s unusually quiet.
“Canada?”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “It’s actually a really nice place to live.”
“People listen to death metal in Canada?”
And so the hilarity begins.
“People listen to all kinds of music in Canada,” I tell him.
“Wait, wait,” he says, trying to regain his composure. “Say ‘about.’”
“About.”
He’s disappointed and it’s lovely.
“I’m sorry, were you expecting something else?”
“I thought you were going to say a boat or a boot. I thought you people had a real problem with that word.”
“What do you mean, ‘you people?’” I ask, feigning offense.
He flips on his turn signal.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“We’re in New Jersey,” he says defiantly.
“Yeah, I got that from the road signs. I mean, where are we going?”
He seems rather proud of himself. “We are going camping,” he announces.
“Camping?” I ask. “I really don’t think I’m prepared for that sort of thing.”
“Not to worry,” he says, “I have everything we’re going to need in the trunk.”
“You’ve been planning this for a while, haven’t you?” I ask.
“A few days, yeah,” he says.