by Kim Holden
I fumble with the books in my locker, trying to distract myself. “Can’t resist? What do you mean?”
“Helping people,” he says thoughtfully. “You’re a sucker, altruistically-speaking. You can’t resist.” The words he chose, spoken in a different tone, could’ve been insulting, but he says them so matter-of-factly that I can’t take offense.
I shut my locker door and turn to face him. “Everyone likes to help people, Dimitri. I’m no different than anyone else.”
“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. I don’t.” He shrugs. “Sure, there are certain people I’d do anything for; others, not so much.” He has that small, curious, knowing smile on his face and pokes a finger at my chest. “But you, you are quite unlike anyone I’ve ever known. You love to help people and make them happy—for their sake, not your own. Your friends, your family …” He raises his eyebrows and laughs to himself as if pondering on something private.
I interrupt, “I wouldn’t help Chloe Murphy.”
He nods. “No respectable person would. Bad example. Don’t steer this conversation away from the real subject at hand. Aside from Chloe, you would help anyone. Am I wrong?” Again with a question posed as a statement. He does this a lot and it gives me the strangest feeling every time it happens. Not uncomfortable, but as if there’s something right there in front of me that I can’t see. Like a challenge or a puzzle I can’t figure out.
“You’ve only known me for three days, Dimitri,” I say with a sigh. “You’re quite observant, I’ll give you that, but you’re wrong. I do love to help people, but you make me out to be some sort of a saint or something. I’m quite normal actually. Stick around awhile and you’ll find out.”
“I intend to. Now shall we eat lunch or would you like to spend the entire period debating your sainthood? I’m okay with either.” His smile fills his eyes.
“I’m kind of bored with all the sainthood talk, so let’s eat.” I can’t help but smile at him. “Did you bring something? Do you want to go out to the courtyard?”
He points to the window down the hall. I can see drops splattering against the glass.
“Rain? But it’s not supposed to rain today,” I say, as disappointment fills my voice. I love my time in the courtyard and the rain has just stolen it away from me.
“Well, apparently mother nature had different plans today. What’s plan B?”
“Plan B?” I pause for a moment. “I guess plan B would be going home for lunch. I didn’t bring any money with me today.” I’m still focused on the window and the rain falling more heavily now.
“If you don’t mind driving, I’d be happy to buy your lunch, Miss Smith.”
The rain demands my focus. “No … thank you, but I’d rather just go home.” My voice is distant.
“Okay … I guess I’ll see you in study hall then?”
I hear the dejection in his voice, even though he’s doing a good job trying to hide it. I shake my head to pull myself out of my momentary misery. “I’m so sorry, that was rude of me. You’re welcome to come with me. I’m not offering up anything gourmet, but I won’t force mayonnaise on you either.” I smirk, remembering his disgust at my tuna salad sandwich on the first day of school.
He laughs loudly. “Well, if I have your word on the mayonnaise, then I would love to join you.”
He puts his books in his locker quickly and grabs his jacket, which he promptly wraps around my shoulders. “Let’s go.”
It’s now officially pouring. The rain’s coming down in sheets and of course I’m the brilliant one who’s parked Jezebel clear across the parking lot. He pulls the jacket up over my head. “You ready to run for it? I’d race you, but you’d probably win,” he says knowingly.
I nod. “You’re right, I probably would. Ready, set …” and I’m out the door running before I have a chance to say “go.”
By the time I reach my car, I’m soaked except for my head and back thanks to Dimitri’s jacket. I unlock the doors with the remote as I approach and jump right in. A few seconds later he’s sitting in the seat next to me, laughing as we appraise each other’s appearance. He looks like he’s just stepped out of the shower fully clothed.
“You’re soaked.” I’m laughing so hard it’s difficult to speak. I reach over without hesitation and carefully remove his water-spotted glasses, wipe them off with a tissue from my glove box, and hand them back to him.
“Thanks, Mom,” he says jokingly.
“Like I haven’t heard that one before. How did you know about it?”
“What?” He’s laughing, but confused.
“Mom. That’s what half of my friends call me. Wait, I bet Piper said it, didn’t she? I don’t even notice anymore.”
“Maybe she did, don’t remember, she was a little hard to follow at first. I only seem to recall the ‘sex personified’ comment. Impeccable taste. Nice girl.” The smirk spreads across his face. “Seriously, they call you Mom? I was only kidding, though I completely understand. You. Can’t. Resist.” Each word stressed deliberately.
“Okay, okay, you’ve made your point. I just like to help.” I concede as I turn the key and start the engine.
“You’re much more mature than other girls your age, Ronnie. You’re kind, considerate, intuitive, and you’ve got an excellent bullshit filter. It’s no secret why you naturally attract others in need or looking for guidance.” His voice is almost tense, like he’s trying convince me.
I back out and drive slowly through the parking lot. The wipers are whipping back and forth across the windshield full blast and it’s still hard to see. Good thing we don’t have far to go.
“How did this conversation turn so serious? It sounds like you’re talking about my mother,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.
“Yes, I suppose that’s a fair description,” he says quietly to himself.
I ignore what I assume is an innocent jab. I’m only half- listening, concentrating intently on the road as I turn onto my street. The rain is coming so fast and hard that I’m thankful there’s no one else on the road. The asphalt is merely an elusive blur beneath the rushing water. I can’t tell which lane I’m driving in.
I turn slowly into the driveway. As we pass the house and pull in front of the garage, Dimitri’s eyes widen and he says something under his breath. I swear I hear my dad’s name, but I let it go. It couldn’t be. How would he know my dad’s name?
“Yeah, people are always kind of shocked when they see the garage. The house is so small; you’d never expect something this huge was hiding back behind it.” The excesses my parents can afford sometimes embarrass me. I never know how people will take it, since our neighbors generally don’t have a lot of money. My parents have always worked very hard for what they have, but I still feel self-conscious at times.
“This is unbelievable! How many cars can he get in there?” Childlike excitement lights up his face.
“Four, along with lots of tools and general man-stuff.”
“Amazing. I’d like to see the inside sometime.” There’s true wonder in his voice.
“Sure. You can stop by this weekend if you want. Dad will be home Saturday. He can give you the grand tour. Jezebel needs an oil change, so he’ll be out here supervising me.”
He stops me. “Jezebel?”
“Yeah, my car, that’s her name. Doesn’t everyone name their car?”
“Umm … no.”
“Well, they should.”
“Give me some time to think about that one, I’m still on the fence. Did you say your dad will be supervising you? As in, you change your own oil?”
“Yeah. Who else is going to do it?”
“Why does that not surprise me?” He’s shaking his head and chuckling.
“We better get inside and eat or we’ll be late for study hall.” I open my door and run for the back door of the house.
The rain has let up a little. We step into the small kitchen and take our wet shoes off. I turn to look at him and find myself laughing again. He’s wet from he
ad to toe. “You look pitiful.” I remove his glasses carefully. “You really need to get out of that wet shirt.” The words fall out as I pull, what I endearingly refer to as, a “Piper.”
He smirks playfully. “Ronnie, you are speaking aloud. And we have established that I am indeed not deaf, which means I hear you loud and clear. So, I urge you not to hold back on any aggressively forward comments or requests you may wish to share. That’s merely a selfish, selfish suggestion, not a steadfast rule. In the end it’s up to you.” He’s enjoying this.
I blush instantly. “God, you do have a great memory. Let me put your shirt in the dryer.”
“You want my trousers, too? They’re pretty wet,” he adds quickly.
“Just the shirt.”
“Remember, it’s not a rule. Don’t hold back …”
I focus on his mouth because I can no longer look him in the eye. His lips are the color of deep pink roses, the bottom slightly fuller than the top. They look so soft and smooth and they’re wet from the rain. I wonder what they taste like. Just as I’m starting to feel dizzy, something happens that makes me forget his perfect lips for the moment. He pulls his shirt up slowly to reveal the tips of his hip bones and the little indention just inside them … then his stomach … and finally his chest. He’s all lean muscle. His skin is golden-brown from a summer in the sun. I fight the urge to touch it. Holy shit, his body is epic. He pulls the shirt over his head and hands it to me, clearly pleased with the apparent look of awe on my face. I see one corner of his mouth pull up, but I can’t take my eyes off his flawless body.
He leans forward and whispers in my ear, “You, too, look pitiful. You really need to get out of that wet shirt.” I close my eyes and feel his warm breath on my ear and neck and faintly smell his cologne. My knees feel weak.
“I … I need to go change.” I turn and run down the stairs, taking two at a time. I can hear him laughing above in the kitchen. This is way too much fun for him. He’s driving me crazy and he knows it. I’ve been around guys my whole life; I should be able to control myself a little better. The problem is he’s unlike any other guy I’ve ever known. I get wild butterflies in my stomach when I think about him, when I look at him, when I hear him speak, even when I smell him. I grab the first shirt I see in my closet and change. “Much better,” I say to myself. I stand there and take a few deep breaths before stopping in the laundry room to put both our shirts in the dryer.
When I arrive back upstairs, I make sure that I appear completely under control. He’s sitting at the kitchen table waiting patiently.
I make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and we eat in silence. I feel his eyes on me from across the table. His gaze is heavy and increasingly intimate, but I flip through the newspaper casually. It probably doesn’t appear casual though. I’m sure I look like a tense, inexperienced, naïve fool who has an enormous crush on the cute, cool guy sitting across the table from her. I don’t dare look up. My eyes may literally jump out of their sockets if I look at him again, and I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.
After putting our dirty dishes in the dishwasher, I retrieve our shirts from the dryer. He’s bent over tying his shoes when I return. He stands up slowly and I don’t resist staring this time.
“It’s not quite dry, but it’s a lot better than it was,” I say apologetically. Hallelujah, I think. This time it sounded natural.
He takes his glasses off and sets them on the counter. I look into his eyes. They’re shining, bright, and deep gray. They’re breathtaking and they’re the only thing prying me away from ogling his still shirtless torso. Again, it’s as if everything is moving in slow motion, like a dream. He puts his shirt on, combs his almost-dry, envy-worthy hair back into place with his fingers and put his glasses back on. Perfect. He looks perfect. And it’s not even work for him. He’s some sort of phenomenon in the beauty department. It shouldn’t be that easy to look that good.
“Thank you, Ronnie,” he whispers.
I’m whispering too, and I’m not sure why. “You’re welcome. Though my parents would kill me if they knew I’d just spent my lunch hour dining with a half-naked guy in their house.”
He laughs and says, “They might surprise you.” He pauses and winks. “They’re going to love me, wait and see.” He sounds confident, and it’s hard to doubt him.
We return to school and the rest of the day is uneventful compared to lunch. I daydream about it all afternoon.
Life is sometimes … wet (and beautiful).
Chapter 3
Unannounced
And so very welcome
The moans and excruciating cries of pain are relentless and carried in on stretchers. There are so many of them and so few of us. I scan the room. It’s full of battered and broken young men in fatigues. A wave of panic overtakes me. Which one do I help first? I look at the other two nurses rushing from one bed to the next doing everything they can to comfort, to make a difference.
“Veronica, we need you over here!” One of the nurses calls to me, extreme urgency in her voice.
I respond instantly, somehow suddenly focused. I hurry across the room to her side.
“What can I do?” I ask in a strained voice. She’s walking toward the company’s medic that has just helped carry one of the stretchers in.
The young medic looks at me with tired eyes full of concern. He speaks quietly. “We need more morphine. These boys are in bad shape.”
I race to the other room, which is little more than a closet. There are vials and bottles and medical equipment. I scan the shelves, calling them, willing them to me, muttering, “Morphine, morphine, morphine … ” Then I find what I’m looking for—a dozen or so glass vials neatly lined up on a narrow shelf. I hold out my skirt with one hand and frantically clear the shelf with my other forearm, letting the bottles spill into it. I hurry back to the medic.
“This is all we have left.” I say looking helplessly at the meager supply enveloped in my skirt.
The young medic is in his early twenties, but his eyes look tired and aged. “Some won’t make it. Our platoon was hit hard. The town was supposed to be clear. They told us the Nazis moved north.” Tears begin to swell in his green eyes. “There was one sniper and then two. They picked us off one by one.” He bites his lip.
As much as this kills me to watch, I’ve seen it before many times and I know what I need to do. I read the name on his uniform and lock his gaze with mine. My words flow calmly and quietly. “Private Mason, these boys need you right now. You got them here. Please help me. Let’s focus on those that can be saved, okay?”
He shakes his head, wipes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He looks at me apologetically. “Of course, ma’am. Let’s go.”
We move down the line of beds one by one, helping those we can and comforting those we can’t. I’ve lost all track of time, but I realize that the room is much quieter now.
“Private Mason, these last three appear to have minor wounds. I can attend to them. You need to go outside and get some fresh air.”
He looks at the floor, pauses, and then looks up at me slowly. “Yes, ma’am.” He turns and walks out into the moonlit night.
I scan the room from one end to the other. Other nurses are already treating two of the final three injured men. The third sits in a chair at the other end of the room. I’m exhausted, but I walk quickly toward him. He’s sitting patiently in the chair holding his right arm, which is wrapped in dirty makeshift bandages. I can see that they are blood-soaked, but the look on his face doesn’t reveal a hint of pain. He is young and handsome. I kneel down in front of him and take his forearm gently in my hands. When I glance up his gray eyes pierce me from behind his glasses, but as he smiles his whole face softens.
“Hi, my name’s Veronica.”
“Hi, I’m Dimitri.” His voice is quiet, but confident.
Blaring music jolts me awake. I reach across my nightstand, fumbling to find a button—any button—that will shut off the alarm. The music abruptly stops
. I open my eyes and blink a few times. The dream was so real I half expect a Nazi soldier to walk through my bedroom door. I close my eyes and can still see Dimitri’s face. I lay there for a few minutes concentrating on that face. That beautiful face.
Unfortunately, the day won’t wait. It’s Saturday and I have a long to-do list.
I drag myself out of bed, shower, dress, and trudge upstairs to get something to eat while my hair dries. My dad is sitting at the dining room table eating breakfast and reading the newspaper.
“Hey, Ronnie, what’s happening?”
I give him a kiss and a hug. “Morning, Dad. Not much.”
Mom must have been up early this morning. The aroma of cinnamon rolls fills the kitchen. The pan is on table in front of my dad and all but two are gone. I slide the pan over and, not bothering with a fork, dive right in with my fingers. Some foods are more satisfying when eaten with your hands. The rolls are still warm, each bite is flaky dough infused with cinnamon and vanilla, topped with sticky, sugary, cream cheese frosting. There’s a reason they call this type of deliciousness comfort food. It’s bliss. Have I mentioned how much I love my mom?
Dad folds the newspaper in half and tosses it to the other side of the table. “So, how was the first week of school?”
“Good, really good. Looks like calculus isn’t going to be as hard as I’d imagined, at least not yet. Besides, John’s in my class so I know where I can get a good tutor if I need one.”
My dad smiles. “That John’s a pretty smart kid, but I bet you’ll do just fine on your own. You’ll probably be tutoring him by the end of the semester.”
“John is a genius, Dad. I, on the other hand, apply myself to the best of my abilities. I don’t mean to burst your bubble, but that’s a fairly distinct and far-reaching difference. His brain is epic. Mine is functional.”
“Functional and funny,” he teases.
I laugh. “Aha, and there’s the rub.” I’m quiet while I take a few more bites of the heavenly cinnamon rolls. “So, how was your week? Mom said you ended up in Chicago?”