Thigh Highs

by Katia Rose

  It wasn’t even that extreme, the thing that did it. She was out water skiing with some friends from her rafting job. They said it was a freak accident, that another boat came by, but I never cared to hear the details. It was supposedly instant and I hope that’s true. I couldn’t handle the thought that she knew she was about to lose the one thing she loved most: life.

  I had just been accepted to advertising school and I almost dropped out completely. I kind of lost it for awhile and delayed starting for a whole semester, spending days at a time just staring at my ceiling, wondering what the point of doing anything was.

  Tiff was the one who told me I’d be good at advertising, who encouraged me to apply to the college after my corporate photography work got me interested in business. She’d filled me with so much hope, so much belief in myself.

  I think deep down I always l knew I’d lose her, but I thought it would be because she chose to leave me, not because she was ripped away before either of us were ready to say goodbye. I could tell that giving up on new adventures to come back and see me was getting to be too hard for her. If she’d asked me to let her go I would have done whatever she needed to be happy, but she never even got the chance to do that.

  Realizing how fragile life really is, how little control you actually have over anything, makes it difficult to live your life the same way. I couldn’t be Aaron Penn anymore, not the way I was before, so I became someone else, someone who stayed in the shallow end of life and never went too deep. I kept my distance and played it safe and I thought I could learn to be okay with that.

  Then Christina proved me wrong.

  “So Tiff, as much as I enjoy visiting you, I have to admit I’m here for a particular reason today. It’s about a girl.” I let out a laugh. “That’s weird, isn’t it? Me telling you about another girl? I guess me telling you anything at all is kind of weird. You’re really not that great at giving advice these days, Tiffster.”

  Again, my laughter starts to sound like more of a sob. I give up on my burrito and return it to the bag.

  “So, I met this girl at school. Her name’s Christina. You’d like her. She kind of reminds me of you in some ways. She’s a lot more uptight and I can’t really picture her going base jumping or doing any of that other crazy shit like you, but she doesn’t take no for an answer and she’s always pushing herself, always testing her limits. I really admire her.”

  I pull up a few more blades of grass and start twisting them together.

  “It’s more than admiration, though,” I continue. “I like her. I like like her. I didn’t think I could feel that way about anyone else, not after you. I didn’t let myself feel that way about anyone else, but I couldn’t stop it when it came to her. She makes me feel like there’s a way out of this mess I’m in, a way to really fix things and not just cover them up. I still love you though, Tiff. I don’t want to have to forget you.”

  I stare at the letters of her name, carved into the marble. She would have hated this headstone, with its stupid built-in flower vases.

  “After I lost you, Tiff, people told me I shouldn’t be locking myself up in my room. They said that’s not what you would have wanted. That’s bullshit, isn’t it? You wouldn’t have wanted to leave in the first place. You wouldn’t have wanted any of this, and you sure as fuck don’t want anything now, because you’re fucking dead.”

  I’m shouting now, ripping up clumps of grass at a time as my body shakes from the effort to hold back the sobs. I dig my fingers into the ground until the urge to knock the goddamn slab of marble over subsides.

  “You’re dead, Tiff,” I say, as my vision starts to go blurry with tears I can’t fight anymore. “I’m talking to a dead girl.”

  It’s too much. I can’t hold this in anymore, can’t keep it locked inside, but letting it out is going to break me. This isn’t the kind of pain I can handle on my own. I need someone to take some of it away, and as I sit here in a cemetery, losing my grip on everything, I finally realize who that someone is.

  There’s only one person in the world I know who would take every ache I’ve ever felt and make it her own if she could, and I’ve been trying to stop her from helping me for way too long.

  I get my phone out and she answers on the second ring.

  “Mom?” I choke out.

  “Aaron?”

  All I can do is grit my teeth and try to hold myself together enough not to break down on the phone.

  “Aaron, baby, what’s wrong?” she asks, panic pitching her voice higher.

  “I want to talk. I want to talk about it. About her,” I blurt out in an almost undecipherable rush. I draw in a shaky breath. “I want to talk about Tiff.”

  “You know I loved her too, right? We all loved that girl. Tiffany was part of this family.”

  I’m on the couch at my parents’ house. I made the hour and a half drive to get here as soon as I got off the phone. My mom and I are both crying, one of her hands braced on my shoulder as she sits beside me on the crocheted blanket she made.

  I did it. I owned up to all my feelings, admitted to how much damage losing Tiff did, how it’s been eating me from the inside and keeping me from letting anyone into my life. It felt like throwing up, finally letting it all out, and it left me just as raw and weak afterward. It’s true what they say, though: better out than in. I’d gotten so used to carrying everything inside me I didn’t realize how heavy it all was.

  “You don’t have to be all alone.” My mom’s voice is so soft and gentle it almost makes me start crying again, but I’m done with the tears. I came here to start getting better.

  “I know. It was stupid of me.”

  “Not stupid, Aaron. You were hurting. You are hurting. Pain isn’t the best at making judgements.”

  “I just wanted it all to go away. I didn’t want to have to deal with this.” I gesture at her tear-streaked face, at my own, which I’m sure looks pretty much the same. “But it didn’t go away.”

  She pats my arms and then gets up from the couch for a moment, rummaging around a storage unit before returning with a pamphlet.

  “I never gave this to you before, because I knew you would have just thrown it out. You probably still won’t be too crazy about the idea, but here.”

  I take the folded blue sheet of paper and see it’s an information booklet for grief counselling.

  “Mom—” I start to say.

  “Listen,” she urges, cutting me off, “I know it seems a little out there, talking to a complete stranger about something like this. I thought so too, but I started going to some sessions a few months after she passed, and it helped, Aaron. It really did.”

  I lift my eyes from the booklet to meet hers. They’re a warm brown, nowhere close to the blue ones I share with my father. Hers are filled with hope right now, with longing for me to agree to this.

  I’m shocked to hear she was affected by Tiff’s death enough to look into counselling. It was selfish of me, but I never really stopped to consider how she’d feel about losing Tiff at all.

  “I’ll think about it,” I say, and it’s not even a lie.

  My mom’s right; the idea doesn’t exactly thrill me, but none of my own strategies for dealing with this seemed to have been particularly helpful choices, and I’ve opened up enough to realize I don’t know how to do this on my own.

  I already lost Tiff. I don’t want the pain of that to make me lose anyone else.

  “Mom, there’s something else I have to tell you” I admit. “The whole reason I’m here, the reason I realized I needed to talk about this, is because I met someone.”

  “Met someone?” she repeats, tilting her head to the side.

  “A girl,” I clarify, “that I like.”

  “Well Aaron,” she says, swatting me on the arm, “that’s wonderful!”

  “Yeah.” I break out into a tentative smile as the mood lightens a bit. “She is. Only isn’t it kind of...insulting, to Tiff’s memory, for me to want to be with someone else? It’s only bee
n a year.”

  She gives me a stern stare. “Aaron, this isn’t the Victorian era. You’re not expected to dress in black and avoid joy like it’s the plague. If Tiffany were here—”

  “Don’t!” I snap, shifting away from her touch. “Don’t say that. I hate when people say that. If she were here, if she could have what she ‘would have wanted,’ we wouldn’t be having this conversation at all.”

  She looks hurt at the force in my tone and I instantly regret it.

  “Sorry.” I force the word out. “I just hate that so much.”

  “You’re right,” she replies, shaking her head. “It’s a stupid thing to say. I’m sorry. I guess what I mean is...you can’t go along acting as if your entire future died with Tiffany. You have to realize that your happiness matters, Aaron. Tiffany always wanted the best for you. She was always pushing you to go after the things you dreamed about. Continuing to do that now that she’s gone doesn’t insult her memory; it honors it.”

  I sit completely still for a moment, feeling her words sink into me, ringing out with truth as I repeat them in my head. She’s right. I know she’s right. I nod my head and take her hand in mine, squeezing hard before I let go.

  “So,” I say, clearing my throat to get rid of the lump that’s sitting there, “did they teach you that at grief counselling? After you held hands and sang ‘Kumbaya’?”

  I look at her and see the smirk on my face mirrored in hers. We may not share the same eyes, but I learned the art of sarcasm straight from her.

  “It was lesson five,” she says. “And we sang ‘Lean On Me’ not ‘Kumbayah.’”

  “God, if it actually involves singing I’m walking out the door.”

  She pulls my beanie off my head and tosses it across the room.

  “Hey!” I shout in protest.

  “You know I hate those things,” she teases, getting up from the couch. “Plus, dinner is almost ready and you also know I don’t allow hats at the table.”

  I leave my beanie where it is and follow her into the kitchen, getting the table set up as she checks on the casserole in the oven. My dad will be home from work soon, and I make sure to set out wine glasses for us all, knowing he likes to make dramatic toasts to the ‘return of his prodigal children’ whenever me or my sister comes home.

  Sarcasm kind of runs in the whole family.

  “So tell me about the girl,” my mom demands, as she pulls on a pair of oven mitts. “Is she from school?”

  “Yeah, we worked on a project together for this showcase thing and it did really well. She used to hate me. I mean, I kind of made her hate me.”

  I already told my mom about what a douche I let myself turn into. I give her a quick recap of the showcase project and modelling ordeal. She knew I started keeping my photography as secret after Tiff passed away, and I can tell she’s surprised to hear I let Christina in on it.

  “We got really close,” I conclude, “but the closer we got the more nervous I became, until I fucked the whole thing up.”

  “Language!” chides my mom.

  “Messed up,” I correct. “I messed it up. I should have told her about Tiff before I told her how much I liked her, but I didn’t and then she found all these photos of Tiff and I just...I couldn’t talk about it, not on the spot like that, after hiding it from everyone for so long. She assumed Tiff was just some ex I wasn’t over. She doesn’t want to talk to me anymore.”

  “Did you tell her the truth yet?”

  “I’ve called a few times, but that’s not really something you bring up in a phone message.”

  “No,” Mom agrees, “I guess it’s not.”

  She sets the casserole dish down on the counter and my mouth waters. I can make about five very basic meals; the only I get to eat decent home-cooked food anymore is when I’m here.

  “So what do I do?” I ask. “She clearly doesn’t want to talk, and I don’t even know what to say. I don’t know what words will convince her to at least let me tell her the truth.”

  “Maybe words aren’t your best option.”

  She gives me a mysterious smile and carries the casserole out to the table.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I demand.

  “There’s something you’re better at, something that’s worth a thousand words.” She winks at me and I catch on.

  Pictures. I can say way more with a photo than I can with words.

  17

  A Right Divine Mission

  I watch the sheets of photo paper inch their way out of the printer. I’m at the print shop I’ve visited so many times they know me by name.

  “More advertisements?” asks Raymond, the shop’s grey-haired owner, who can be found manning the front desk more often than not.

  “Nope,” I answer. “This time it’s personal stuff.”

  “Glad to hear you’re back at it,” he says. “It had been ages since we’d seen you, when you came in to print those ads.”

  “Yeah,” I reply, as I watch Christina’s mane of hair edge its way out of the printer. “It’s good to be shooting again.”

  Raymond leaves me to it, and a quarter of an hour later I’ve got a folder filled with a half dozen shots of Christina taken during our lingerie session. I walk out of the store and get in my car, punching Christina’s address into my phone and following the directions to get there.

  I spent the night at my parents’ place after talking to my mom, and most of the next day working on the photos. It took me several hours just to decide on which ones to use. I needed to find shots that showed not only the truth of who Christina is, but of how I feel about her. I needed pictures that would make anyone who looked at them feel breathless at the sight of her smile, feel their chests tighten with awe, feel a need to touch her so strong they’d have to reach out and press their fingertips to the page.

  I know that’s how I felt when I took them. I just hope she’ll see it too.

  The buzzer inside her building’s front door rings for so long I’m about to turn and walk away. I knew there was only a slim chance she’d be here in the middle of the day anyways, but I still feel disappointment start to weigh me down.

  I go to take my finger off the buzzer when the line crackles and a muffled voice starts to issue from the speaker.

  “Olá?”

  “Uh, Olá,” I answer. “Is Christina there?”

  “No, she— Stop it, Nicholas!” There’s some giggling and then the voice continues. “Chrissy is at the airport now.” The giggling starts again.

  “The airport?” I repeat. “Where’s she going?”

  “To Portugal! Oh, sim!”

  There’s some overtly sexual moaning and then the buzzer cuts off.

  Shit.

  I don’t know why, but the fact that I probably won’t catch her in time fuels me with the need to do just that. I sprint back to my car and slam the door shut, having to remind myself to stay within non-life-threatening proximity of the speed limit as I take off towards the highway and then out of the city in the direction of the airport.

  She never mentioned going to Portugal. I wonder if it was planned already or if this is a last minute thing. If she got the job with P&T she wouldn’t be heading off on vacation right away. I feel an almost physical discomfort at being in the dark about so much of what’s going on with her right now.

  The airport parking lot is so full I have to leave my car what feels like miles away from the building. I jog the whole way to the entrance and burst through the doors, half expecting her to be standing right there.

  She’s not. I spot a huge board displaying all the upcoming flights and walk closer, scanning for anything going to Portugal. My knowledge of Portuguese city names is limited, but as far as I can tell there’s only one. The board says it leaves for Lisbon in just under an hour. That means she must already be through security, assuming she’s got a direct flight and isn’t leaving on some connection first.

  Just to be sure, I rush over to the railing that gives me a view of t
he lower level, where people line up to get access to the gates. A trail of passengers weaves through maze-like barricades up to the doors that will lead them to the metal detectors. I can make out enough of their features to be pretty sure Christina isn’t there, but I call out her name just to check. Several heads whip around at the sound of my shout, but none of them are hers.

  This is the point where a sane person would give up. I could head back to the car and wait for her to get back from her trip. At most she’ll be gone for a few weeks; I know she’s got summer courses coming up.

  Then again, I thought she’d be working for P&T right now. I have no actual idea what’s going on with her. For all I know, she could have decided to take a semester off and be gone for months. She could have dropped out completely. The thought of her giving up on school is ridiculous, but I tell myself it’s not impossible. This could be my last chance.

  I turn around and march up to one of the check-in desks, grateful that there’s no line at the moment.

  “The flight to Lisbon,” I say, “is it fully booked?”

  I just need something to get me through the gates, but I figure if I miss her before boarding, it can’t hurt to have a ticket that will get me onto the plane.

  “Hoping for an extra last minute deal?” jokes the woman behind the desk. I just nod, rocking on the balls of my feet. “Hmm, I’ll pull it up. Let’s see...There’s three seats left in economy. We had a cancellation.”

  “Great. I’ll take one,” I blurt out before she’s even finished speaking.

  She gives me a once over. “No baggage?”

  “Spontaneous decision,” I tell her. “My girlfriend is on that flight, and I’ve decided I want to go with her.”

  My girlfriend?

  The phrase slipped out without me even thinking about it, but I guess it does make me seem like less of a threat to airport security. The check-in lady probably has backup on the way already, given how suspicious my lack of bags and sudden burning need for a last minute ticket are.