by BB Easton
At the same time.
Ken opened the back door for me, and the crisp night air stung my cheeks. I flipped the hood on my Phantom Limb sweatshirt up over my head and pulled the drawstrings tight. It was almost coat weather.
I loathed coat weather.
Ken took a deep breath and exhaled. “I fucking love fall. It smells like football season.”
I inhaled the scent of burning leaves and smiled. Every October, when the forest Atlanta is carved out of sheds its crinkly, rust-colored fruit, people have to either bag it or burn it to keep from being buried alive under it. And since Southerners love to burn shit, the whole region smells amazing for a while.
“You love something?” I teased. I set my beer down on the railing and held my cigarette over the edge to keep the smoke away.
“I love stuff,” Ken retorted, taking a seat in one of Jason’s patio chairs. He rested an ankle on his knee and draped his plastic-bottle holding hand over the armrest, casually waiting for me to reply.
I’d never seen somebody so comfortable just sitting. I always had to be doing something. Smoking, drinking, talking, gesticulating with my hands, playing with my hair, but not Ken. He just sat still. And looked at me when I spoke. And listened. And then, when it was his turn to talk, he would say some smart-ass shit that made me question whether or not he was an asshole.
I’d never met anyone like him.
“Oh, really?” I said, taking the bait. “What do you love?”
“Football.”
“Okay.” I rolled my eyes.
“And baseball,” he added.
“And let me guess…basketball.”
Ken grimaced. “Nah. Fuck basketball. They score too often. It gets boring.”
“Did you play sports in high school? You look…athletic.”
And also, you wear running pants like they’re regular pants.
“Yeah. I played pretty much everything, but football was my favorite. I played until my senior year. Then I quit.”
I coughed in surprise. “You quit? You just…quit? During your senior year? You could have gotten a scholarship and shit.”
Ken shrugged. “I didn’t want to do it anymore. I was sick of getting up at five in the morning and staying late after school every day and having coaches scream in my face. So one day I just…quit going.”
“Wow. Were your parents pissed?”
“Fuck yeah. Everybody was pissed,” Ken said with a smile. A wicked, middle-finger-up kind of smile that made me see him in a whole new light.
Pajama Guy had a defiant streak.
“So, what I hear you saying is that you don’t actually love football. See? You love nothing. I told you so.”
Ken laughed in defeat. He had a nice smile. I felt weird, noticing his nice smile, so I busied myself by pulling my phone out of my pocket to check the time.
“Oh shit!” I cried. “It’s eleven eleven!” I held the illuminated screen out for him to see. “That’s my lucky number! Make a wish!”
Ken lifted an eyebrow and glared at me as if I’d just asked him whether or not Santa Claus was real.
“Don’t tell me you don’t make wishes either.” I held up my left hand and dramatically counted off Ken’s don’ts on my fingers. “You don’t drink. You don’t smoke. You don’t gamble. You don’t make wishes. What about when you blow out your birthday candles? You have to make a wish then.”
“I don’t celebrate my birthday. Or holidays.”
“What? Why?” I gasped and covered my mouth. “Oh shit. Are you a Jehovah’s Witness?”
Ken laughed again. More pretty white teeth.
“Fuck no.” He chuckled. “I’m an atheist.”
“Then why do you hate all things good and wonderful?”
Ken stood up and crossed the balcony, leaning on the railing next to me. He was wearing a plain gray hoodie and smelled like he had just pulled his entire comfy wardrobe out of the dryer. “I don’t believe in blindly buying things just because of a number on a calendar. Like Valentine’s Day. Who says we all have to uniformly buy heart-shaped bullshit just because it’s February 14? Hallmark made that shit up. It’s corporate brainwashing.”
I laughed as I exhaled, causing my stream of smoke to come out more like a dotted line. “How does your girlfriend feel about that?”
Ken stared out into the parking lot and lifted an impassive shoulder. “Never had one.”
I held up a hand. “So, let me get this straight. You don’t drink, you don’t smoke, you don’t gamble, and you don’t believe in holidays, religion, or evidently, commitment. Next, you’re gonna tell me you don’t eat chocolate.”
“Actually…” Ken peeked at me out of the corner of his eye.
“Oh my God!” I squealed. “No way! You really are the enemy of fun! What about caffeine?”
“Nope.”
“Sex?”
My eyes went wide as soon as I heard my own question.
Shut up, BB! What the fuck?
I was just about to apologize when Ken turned to face me, wearing a smirk that said he was anything but offended.
“I’m a fan.”
“Oh, you’re a fan.” I smirked back, arching a brow.
Lifting my almost-empty beer bottle in a toast, I said, “Well then, to sex and cursing, the only two things we have in common.”
Ken smiled and lifted his Gatorade bottle. “Cheers.” The plastic container met my glass bottle with an unsatisfying thud.
As we drank the last swallows of our beverages—mine piss-colored, his purple—I watched Ken’s mouth and wondered who he was having sex with.
Not that it mattered.
Nope. Not at all. I was totally not into Pajama Guy. And besides, I had a boyfriend. Who lived with me, most of the time. And he was going to be home from Nashville any minute.
“Well, I gotta go. I have school in the morning.”
Ken polished off his sports drink and screwed the cap back on. Sticking it in his pocket, he said, “I should go too. I’ll walk you out.”
He opened the door for me and slid my empty beer bottle out of my hand as I passed. When I looked over my shoulder at him in confusion, Ken explained, “Jason doesn’t recycle.”
I snorted as I grabbed my purse off the couch and waved goodbye to the Alexanders and Allen, whose eyes were glued to a buxom blonde giving a blow job on Jason’s big screen.
Ugh! Do all guys fucking watch porn together?
Jason was standing—or I should say, swaying—in front of the television, transfixed.
“I gotta go, man. Thanks for having me,” I said, giving him an awkward side hug.
Jason brought his arm down around my shoulders and slurred, “Look it. This is the most expensive porno ever made. Jenna Jameson’s in space. Fuckin’ final frontier, man.”
“Please tell me it’s called Fucking in the Final Frontier. Because if not, that was a missed opportunity.” I giggled, struggling to get out from under Jason’s arm, but he had pretty much shifted all of his weight onto my shoulders, turning me into a human crutch.
“C’mon, man,” Ken said, pulling him off me. “Here we go.” He helped Jason into his armchair where he passed out pretty much on contact.
“It must get pretty fucking old, hanging out with drunk people all the time when you don’t drink,” I said as we descended the four flights of stairs to the parking lot.
Ken shrugged. “It’s cheap entertainment.”
“Technically, it’s free entertainment.”
“Even better,” Ken snapped his fingers and pointed at me in one fluid motion.
I chuckled as we reached the parking lot and followed Ken to a burgundy Mitsubishi Eclipse convertible parked in front of Jason’s building.
“Is this your car?”
“Yep.” Ken pushed a button on his keychain, causing the headlights to blink.
“Looks awfully fun for somebody who hates everything.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, turning to face me. “I drive it really
, really slow.”
I cracked up. Ken didn’t laugh with me, but he smiled as I doubled over at his expense.
“I guess you’d better leave now if you wanna get home by sunrise, old man,” I teased, standing up and sucking in a breath.
Ken didn’t reply. He just stood there, watching me.
“What?” I asked, my hysterics dying down.
“Nothing. I’m just gonna wait to leave until you get home safe.”
“Oh, I just live over there,” I said, pointing to the shittier two-story building across the parking lot.
“I know.”
“Oh. Okay. Well…maybe I’ll see you next week?”
“Maybe.” The corner of Ken’s mouth pulled up slightly as he folded his arms across his chest.
With that awkward salutation, I took a few hesitant steps away from Ken and his shiny little convertible, then turned and headed for the home that didn’t feel like home yet.
Pajama Guy didn’t even hug me goodbye. All my friends hug me goodbye. Are we not friends? I wondered, my feet carrying me closer and closer to my empty new apartment. I knew without even scanning the cars parked out front that Hans wasn’t there. Hans was never there. But I was trying real hard not to think about that.
Just before I reached my front door, I remembered the way Ken had fought his buddies off like an unaffectionate ninja the first night we met.
Ha! I totally forgot! I snickered as I shoved my key in the lock. Ken hates hugs, too! That motherfucker really does hate everything!
I turned and waved across the parking lot at my non-hugging new friend.
Ken replied by nodding once.
I snorted as I stepped into my pitch-black apartment. He even hates waving! What an asshole!
“Hans?” I called out even though it was obvious he wasn’t home yet.
His car wasn’t even in the parking lot. I flipped on the lights at the bottom of the stairs and headed up, pulling my phone out of my pocket. No missed calls.
I dialed his number, and he picked up on the last ring.
“Hey, baby!” Hans yelled into the phone. Wherever he was, it was definitely not Baker’s van.
“Hey!” I yelled back, hoping he would hear me over the riot of joyous noise in the background. I dropped my purse on the table next to the couch and switched on the lamp next to it. “Where are you?”
Hans laughed. “I don’t even know. Hey, where are we?” His voice sounded muffled for a minute, then came back full-volume. “We’re at the Hard Rock.”
“In Atlanta?”
“No, in Nashville.”
My heart sank. Another night by myself.
Han’s voice got muffled again as he shushed somebody and told them he was on the phone. “Baby? You still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here.” I walked into the kitchen, flipping on every light in my path. Opening the cabinet next to the stove, I pulled out what was left of the last bottle of Jack Daniel’s Baker had bought for me. “I thought you guys were coming home tonight. You know we have class in the morning.”
I took a long pull straight from the bottle, then carried it with me back through the living room, around the corner, and into the bathroom.
“What?” Hans yelled in my ear.
“Nothing,” I sighed, reaching into the shower and pulling the lever all the way to H.
“Sorry. It’s so fucking loud in here!”
“I can tell,” I muttered, taking another swig. It burned like hell. I put the phone down long enough to take off my hoodie, shirt, and bra.
When I picked it back up all I heard was, “And he said that we got it! Can you fucking believe it?”
I held the phone between my shoulder and ear as I shimmied out of my boots and jeans and underwear. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you. You got what?”
“We got it! We’re opening for Love Like Winter’s spring tour! Can you fucking believe it? He said we might even get to do the European leg if it goes well!”
Something crashed to the floor in the background, and the already-raucous crowd exploded in cheers.
Meanwhile, I stood paralyzed, naked and alone, staring at the gaunt girl trapped in my mirror.
Somebody should help her, I thought. She looks lost.
“Baby?”
“That’s amazing,” I said, watching the lost girl’s mouth move at the same time as mine. “I’m so happy for you. That’s incredible.”
More words came out, but I didn’t hear them. All I heard was Hans telling me that he had to go. That he loved me. That he’d see me tomorrow. I don’t even know if I pressed the End button on my phone before I set it down on the counter, picked up the bottle of whiskey, carried it into the shower, and cried in a ball on the floor until the water ran cold.
November 2000
“You okay?”
“Huh?” Ken’s words pulled me out of whatever death spiral of negative thoughts I’d been traveling down and back into the present. I blinked at Jason’s big screen, watching the game come back into focus, then turned and faced Pajama Guy.
“Sorry. I’m fine. I just…I’m stressing out over this test I have tomorrow. I should really be home studying right now, but instead I’m here”—I swept my hand in the direction of the TV like Vanna White revealing a new prize on Wheel of Fortune—“pretending to watch football.”
“So why’d you come?” Ken draped his elbow casually over the back of the couch and turned to face me. Waiting. Listening.
“Because Jason’s bossy ass literally came and pulled me out of my apartment. He says I’m the Falcons good-luck charm, and I’m not allowed to miss a game until they win the Super Bowl.”
Ken chuckled. “Well, I have good news for you. There’s no way they’re even gonna make it to the playoffs.”
I gave him a half-assed smile, then turned my fake attention back toward the big screen.
“Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t you get your stuff and study over here?” Ken asked the back of my head.
I turned and blinked at him for what felt like five minutes.
Why didn’t I think of that?
Who the fuck is this guy?
Why is he so…smart?
And observant?
And cold?
“You’re a goddamn genius,” I finally said.
Ken didn’t acknowledge my compliment. “What’s your test over?”
“Ancient Egyptian art history. It’s horrible. It’s a master’s level class. All these assholes have been to Giza and can read hieroglyphs and shit. I have no idea what I’m even doing in there.”
Ken’s face lit up as if I’d just told him that the Falcons were going to the playoffs, and they wanted him to be their backup tight end. “I fucking love ancient Egyptian art history.”
“Liar,” I said with a smirk. “You love nothing.”
It turned out, Ken really did love the shit out of ancient Egyptian art history. And early eastern renaissance art history. And traveling. While he quizzed me, using the ten-pound stack of homemade flash cards I’d retrieved from my apartment, Ken regaled me with stories about the museums he’d visited while touring Europe after high school. The Sistine Chapel, the Mona Lisa, Winged Victory, the crown jewels, he’d seen them all.
Egypt was next on his list, he said.
I told him to take me with him.
He said I’d need three grand and a passport.
I told him to send me a postcard.
That made him smile his big smile again. The one that had me questioning my stance on jocks. And guys without visible tattoos. And guys who don’t drink or smoke or hug or gamble or eat chocolate or celebrate holidays or birthdays.
“So, are you an art major?” he asked.
“No.” I pouted, stacking my cards up after finally getting all four hundred eighty-seven of them correct during Ken’s relentless quizzing. “I probably would have been if my parents were rich and I didn’t have to worry about things like rent and utilities. But they’re not, so I’m a psychology major
instead. I just take art and film classes as my electives.”
“Film classes, huh?”
“Mmhmm,” I mumbled, tapping the cards on Jason’s kitchen island until the corners lined up just right.
“You know I manage a movie theater, right?”
I stared at him with my mouth hanging open. “No way. Really?”
Ken rolled his eyes. “Go ahead. You can ask.”
“Ask what?”
“What everybody asks when they find out I run a movie theater.”
I blushed at his insinuation, then decided to go for it. “Can you get me in for free—”
“Nope,” Ken cut me off with a smirk.
I laughed and threw a handful of flash cards at him. “Asshole.”
“Now I’m really not letting you in.”
“I take it back! I’m sorry!”
“Nope. It’s too late now. You blew it.” Ken gave me a wicked look. Then he stood up and grabbed his keys and empty Gatorade bottle off the island. “Look. It’s your lucky number.” Ken pointed to the blue 11:11 on Jason’s sleek digital microwave clock.
“You gonna make a wish?” I asked, standing with him. “Come on. You know you want to.”
Ken’s aqua irises softened. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t give me some smart-ass quip. Instead, he pushed my barstool back under the island, handed me my flash cards, and said, “You can have mine.”
“You can have mine.”
That statement lingered in my ears as we said our goodbyes, as I walked through the door that Ken held open for me, as our footfalls echoed in the stairwell on the way down to the parking lot.
How could somebody be kind of an asshole and a total gentleman at the same time? Pajama Guy made no damn sense.
“Thanks for helping me study tonight,” I said as Ken headed toward his little burgundy Eclipse. “I feel so much better. You have no idea.”
Ken stopped next to his driver’s-side door and hit the unlock button on his key fob. “And the Falcons won, so I guess Jason was right.” He turned to face me. “It’s a good thing you stayed.”
“Oh, so you don’t believe in religion or holidays or commitment, but you believe in good-luck charms?” I teased.